This was all years ago.
The field lay behind the railway, on the outskirts of town. You could see it from the train, but to reach it, you had to make a special trip; through an underpass at the station and then along a rough track. In spite of its out-of-the-way location, it was surrounded with a fence decorated with barbed wire and signs that said simply ‘keep out—danger of death’.
In the middle of the field stood a small, squat concrete building that might have dated from the war. No more than a hut really. It had an iron door and a tiny grille set high up on one wall. Sometimes, muffled machinery noise could be heard coming from inside. In that last year of school, when our teachers had given up on us, we often made the excursion, and pondered the meaning of life in general and on the purpose of the hut in particular.
“It’s a shaft down to the Hell,” Nick said one day when we were supposed to be in a History class. We were smoking the Red Leb his brother had given him. In the distance we could hear the rattle and whine of the trains on the railway. “Maybe they opened up a portal accidentally—like in that film.”
“Yeah? Don’t you think they might have made it a bit more secure?” I said. “Wouldn’t they have someone guarding it?”
“Not necessarily,” Nick said (although he always pronounced it as ‘nessacelery’). “I believe they call it ‘hiding in plain sight’.”
“It’s a bore hole, for drinking-water. That’s why they don’t want people going in and dicking about with it,” I said. “You could poison the water table if you wanted to from there.”
“How do you know?”
“Dad said.”
“Oh, Dad said. It must be right then. You know your trouble, Kenneth?”
“No, what’s my trouble, Nick?”
“You’re too trusting of authority figures.”
“Is that right? So my dad, who’s an actual council engineer, is wrong?”
“You can’t take anything for granted these days. You know they lied about the Falklands War—nothing to do with territorial disputes.” He lowered his voice and checked that no one was watching us from the station. “Huge deposit of Uranium under Port Stanley. That’s why they had to send the troops. You don’t think they really gave a shit about the Falkland Islanders, do you?”
“Whatever you say, Nick, but I bet you any money you like that it’s a bore hole.”
“Twenty quid and you’re on.”
“What?” Nick very rarely thought about anything he was going to say before he said it. “You’re willing to bet that it’s a gateway to Hell rather than a common or garden bore hole?”
“All right, all right. Perhaps not an actual gateway to Hell, but something dodgy—something very secret. And hiding in plain sight—that’s for sure.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“So, put your money where your mouth is then.” He sat up completely now and held out his hand to shake on the deal.
“I don’t have twenty quid.”
“Neither do I. Tell you what; you bet your bike and I’ll bet my fishing gear.”
“I don’t like fishing,” I said. “What would I do with fishing gear?”
“Sell it—you’ll get at least twenty quid.”
Nick didn’t have a bike and I hardly ever used mine so I said, “All right. But you’ll regret it.” We shook. Nick rolled another joint.
***
The next couple of weeks were filled with exams and bollockings from the teachers and our parents, so it wasn’t until the beginning of the summer holidays that we actually managed to get back to the field.
“I’ve decided to join the Junior Leaders,” Nick said as he inspected the wire fence for a suitable place to enter. “They don’t care if you’ve got ‘O’ Levels or not. My dad thinks it’s a good idea.”
“My parents think that getting a job with the County Council would be a good idea,” I said. “Dad says he knows someone who can get me in.”
“Tell you what, why not go on the dole and join Junior Leaders with me?” Nick said, as though it was a revelation of biblical proportions.
I could imagine the look on my parents’ faces when I told them that I was on the dole. No one in our family had ever applied for a ‘handout’, as my Dad called them.
“I don’t think that would work out,” I said.
Nick had found a spot where the fence looked loose. He crouched down and pulled up the sagging wire and I crawled under then did the same for him. “I’m going to repaint your bike when I get it,” he said. “I’ll probably turn it into a fixie too.”
“You’re confident then?” I said.
“Yes I am.”
After one last look towards the station, we went ran across the field to the hut and crouched down by the door.
“I don’t believe it,” Nick said. “It’s open.”
A wedge of dark appeared and we ducked inside. Nick closed the door behind us.
“Careful!” I said and held Nick back by his jacket.
Before us, a darker patch of black crystallised out of the gloom. A large hole with an iron ladder running down inside took up most of the floor space—we’d nearly walked into it.
“See. I told you,” Nick said.
“I’m sorry, mate. That couldn’t look more like a bore hole if it tried. Where do you recommend I sell your fishing gear?”
“Hold on. Obviously we have to climb down. Just because it’s a hole doesn’t mean it’s a bore hole.”
We both peered over the edge into the darkness.
“Did you bring a torch?” I asked.
“No. I thought you might bring one. I don’t have one. I’ve got matches.”
“Thrown one down will you? I want to see how far we have to climb.”
He fished the matches from his pocket and struck one. It guttered out as soon as he dropped it.
“Let it burn for a bit,” I said. “Here, light this paper.” I handed him the Methodist Youth Club flyer I had in my pocket.
He did so, and when the flyer was burning he let it fall into the black.
It must have burned for about fifty feet before it went out, but I was still able to see the glowing embers as they carried on fluttering down.
“Deep enough,” I said.
“I know, I’ll throw this down.” He had produced a rusty tin he’d found on the floor.
“No, don’t,” I said, but he’d already dropped it. “You idiot.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, just that you’re an idiot. Have you never read Lord of the Rings?”
For at least ten seconds we heard nothing, then a faint clang as the tin bounced off the concrete wall, followed by a hollow splash.
“There; a bore hole,” I said. “What else is it going to be with water at the bottom? I hope that paint’s not going to poison the water supply.”
“Oh,” he said, crestfallen. “I never liked fishing much anyway.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “Keep your stuff—I hate fishing.”
“Thanks, mate.”
That was when we heard a sound drifting up from the darkness below us. It was a sort of meaty grunting as though someone were in the process of undertaking a rhythmical task like digging.
We both looked back over the rim of the hole into the depths. The noises, though a long way down, reached up to us with utmost clarity.
“What the hell is that?” Nick whispered.
Although I couldn’t see his face very well, I imagined I could discern his staring, horrified eyes in the dark.
“Don’t know, but let’s go.”
We scrambled for the door but, although getting in had been simplicity itself, getting out proved more difficult. When he had closed the door Nick must have dislodged the mechanism, because now it appeared to be locked.
“Shit. What do we do?” Nick said.
“Don’t panic. It’s not locked—it can’t be. It would be locked from the outside if anything. There must be a lever.”
I bent down to try and see the lock and its mechanism but it was too dark and the only light came from the small, grilled window near the ceiling.
And all the time, the wet, rhythmical grunting was becoming louder. It was then I realised it was something heavy, methodically climbing the metal ladder.
“Whadowedo, whadowedo?” moaned Nick.
“Help me,” I said. We both pushed on the door as hard as we could, but it wouldn’t budge and I began to look for alternatives.
In one corner of the tiny room stood a wooden pallet leaning up against the wall. It wasn’t much, but it was better than standing in the open.
“Quick,” I said. “Let’s get behind this.”
We squeezed in behind the pallet and crouched down waiting for the noise to stop, or go back down, or for clammy hands to take hold of us and rip us into quivering, bloody chunks of meat.
For about a minute, the noises stopped but then started up again. They were close now. Maybe only twenty feet below the rim of the hole. The pallet blocked our view and so we could only wait. I wondered how my parents would take it. Not well, I thought. I saw my mother and father fixing posters around the area with my school photo on them.
Have you seen this disappointing child? it might say.
Soon enough it was in the room with us. It rasping breath came in short gasps. Nick had started saying his catechism, mumbling and holding the small gold cross he always wore around his neck. I, an atheist, could only hope that my death would be quick and painless.
The creature must have heard him. It stopped breathing and was quiet, listening; a savage hunter sniffing out its prey.
All at once, the pallet was dashed aside and thrown across the room. A bright light shone into our faces.
“What the bloody hell are you two idiots doing here?” Dad said, he was still wheezing from the climb.
“Oh, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus,” Nick said and fell forward on his hands and knees.
“We had a bet. Nick lost,” I said.
“Was it you threw down that tin? Nearly brained me. I could have you both arrested you know? Sabotaging the water supply. Maybe I should.”
“We couldn’t get out. The door’s locked.”
“My arse, it’s locked,” Dad said. He went over and pulled the door open and the afternoon light rushed in. “Go on, bugger off. Kenneth, I’m disappointed in you. Nicholas, I’ll be speaking to your father about this.”
Dad opened the gate so we didn’t have to scoot under the fence again.
He was a good bloke, my dad. I remember him standing there in his overalls and his hard hat tutting and shaking his head. He never mentioned it again, not even to Mum, and he certainly didn’t speak to Nick’s dad.
Our exam results weren’t as bad as everybody thought they were going to be.
The last time I saw Nick was 2003. He was a Major in the Paras by that time. When they told me he’d been killed by an IED in Basra, I went back to some of the places we used to hang out for old time’s sake.
The hut’s still there, but they’ve put a new fence up, much higher with a hefty padlock on the gate.
I wonder what they’re trying to hide.
END