Authors: H Ryder
“A community had come here to work the mine.” Liza continues, now with a puzzled look on her face, “and a discovery was made right here.” She brushes a strand of hair off her face, “when a shaft for the rail road was tunnelled.” She turns the old browned mottled pages, wrinkly at the edges with age, thick paper. She pauses to turn the page again, “they discovered another passageway as they dug through the rock.” And narrating the exact text as it’s written on the paper, “a narrow shaft that led to a steep tunnel heading down into the earth.” She looks around the room, Liza likes a story.
“None of the miners had ever seen anything like it,” she’s giving us the abridged version now as indicated by her hand swirling in the air to indicate a passing of considerable time in the documented passage. “A deeply religious community, blah blah blah, some prayed or crossed themselves fearing the steep decline,” she pauses for effect, “would take them to hell itself.” She flips the pages of her own leather bound notebook.
The tied bodies stir, the reek of them starting to permeate, to stain the air with their presence. They listen to every word, they mumble under their breaths to each other, nodding and whispering. Bingo, I think, we’ve stumbled onto something, this needs explaining, investigating, like all crime drama fans, we love a good puzzle to solve.
“A few men went down hoping to discover more riches without having to mine,” the lazy way out, Liza explains. “But they never returned, thus feeding the delusion.” Obvious really. Pausing for breath, her excitement clearly taking all the energy from her. “The mine was closed shortly after, and they set an explosion deliberately at the mouth of the tunnel, shut it off for good.”
“That may seem like an overreaction.” Says Nigel coming in from the library, “but remember these people were deeply religious.” He pushes his glasses back up his nose, “and as the story became legend, this place,” he says pointing to the ground, “where this house is situated became known as ‘Polo del Diabolos', or Devils' Pit.” I think there's a club in Soho with that name? Anyway? He looks around the room at each of us in turn for a reaction, but we remain silent, taking it all in.
“That doesn’t sound like a fairground does it?” Adds Kurt.
The three prisoners all look up at Nigel’s finale, and I fancy I see the defiance bleed away draining colour from their faces, and fear replace it. Of course, they are Catholic too. This is nothing to do with the idol, I decide, whatever we’re looking for it’s down in a mine called Devils Pit, why does it have to be down?
“Pure fantasy.” Spits our Spanish big man, straining the buttons down his shirt further as he expands his chest in an attempt to appear powerful.
“Shhh, Dad,” hisses Steffi in anger, she’s in charge now. He shoots her a shut-up glare, or is she?
“It doesn’t exist,” he sprays saliva as he talks, trying to hold back his anger. “My family” he has to pause, his heart is racing and he’s almost out of breath, “have been looking here for hundreds of years,” he strains at his bonds, unsuccessful in loosening them. We did a good job there, not sure why that’s important right now, a practical solution to a temporary problem? My brain, it likes practical matters.
It likes tea too, let’s get the kettle on again.
He continues, though nobody has encouraged it, “it isn’t here, the legend is a lie.” He’s clearly exhausted himself and his words come as a forced whisper, “now give me something to drink.” The big man gasps spit into the air, drained by his final outburst his body collapses as if physically drained, clearly he doesn’t get enough exercise.
Note to self, have horses my entire life, exercise is good for you, laziness is not…the Wombles? Bloody brain.
I offer water to our tied captives from a bottle, it’s boiled, I want to save the good stuff for ourselves, and they drink thirstily in turn. “Now,” asks Stan to the big man pulling up a stool and sitting close to him, casually intimidating, “who are you, and what has happened here?” He crouches down to get closer to them. “I won’t ask you again, from one military man to another,” he sees it too. “I think you know what I mean.” Stan is different, still and very calm, the big man is slouched and spent, He doesn’t have the energy for defiance. He nods at Stan, eyes lifted in defeat, he's been testing the strength of his bonds until there's no energy left in him. Swallowing a large gulp of water, choking and spitting the last gulp, and nodding involuntary compliance, dribbling down his chin from gulping too hard at the bottle. He nods, and draws a great breath into his lungs. An internal struggle at an end, a decision made.
We wait, because there’s nothing else we can do. 'Click' the kettle's boiled.
“My name is Devyn,” he gasps finally. Anger not far from the surface but suitably subdued by fatigue, “I, I knew your father.” He lets his words dwell in the air, trying to find their mark, to settle on the ears of the boys. He looks with distaste at Daniel.
Daniel is now listening, not just hearing, he sits forward in his chair so he doesn’t miss anything. Kurt at his shoulder, in support of each other.
“Mr Pearce… Graham and I were friends.” He lets the words sink in, giving him time to catch his breath back. “We discover some of the legend you tell of in your book.” He swallows, clipped short language, clearly English isn’t his first choice dialect. “Old woman in the village, died, her eulogy tells of the place she and her Brother played when they were children.” This is clearly a story that’s been told over and over, “how there is a way underground.” Steffi and Emilio exchange looks, angry their father is talking to us. But they can do nothing except sit and listen, and bare their obvious discomfort from being forced to remain unmoving on the hard floor, well, serves them bloody right.
Perhaps we could make them watch ‘Cliffhanger?' That’ll make them talk!
“Incredible” offers Daniel, “you knew my father? When?” Daniel has to sit back in his chair, letting the story sink in, those few words have drained the colour from his face, he’s assuming they’re true of course, I’m not so sure. But I recall, all the best lies have threads of truth in them.
“We tried to find it, me, your Dad,” he looks around at our rapt faces, “what we found was a few piles of gold, nothing more.” He looks up at us all trying to decide whether we believe his yarn or not. Not convinced, he adds a further note, “the old miners left gold, in their haste to escape the wretched place.” He’s out of breath, a smoker? He has withdrawal, that's why he's nervous, it's the craving.
“And my Dad, what happened to him?” Asks Kurt softly, so as not to spook the nervous creature.
He shakes his head in mock sorrow, “shortly after, your Dad went missing,” he looks from one Pearce face to another, “we never saw him again.” He smiles a brown stained toothy wretched smile, trying to ingratiate. “You both look like him.”
That snaps Daniel out of his funk and striding over slaps the man so hard across the face he sends him sideways across the tile, in a dynamic spray of blood and saliva. So hot.
“You were military.” From Stan, totally calm, not a question, pulling him back into a sitting position on the floor, back next to Steffi.
He tries to pull himself up to look more commanding thrusting his chest out, and it tires him, but he answers, “
Yes, long ago.” Yes?
“And the gold? Tell us about that.” He asks.
“Gold reached very high price, very pure.” He has to take a breath, “we lived very good life.” Is that guilt I see flitting across his face? Or have I imagined it. Blood trickles down his chin from a cut on his lip, he licks it away as best he can. “The wealth, it didn’t last, so... I came back to get more.” He looks at each of our faces one by one, still attempting pathetic intimidation. He has to stop and drink some more, he is almost completely spent, “that’s when I found it.”
I offer him another drink and he gulps with such force he chokes himself, such anger his face reddens in an instant, “bitch! You, try to kill me!” He jerks forward in his ropes as far as he can it makes me jump, but he can't really move, he’s tied too tight for that. “Wait until I get my hands on you!” Venomous and frightened, this animal is displaying all the signs of breaking, but these are his final words before he collapses with exhaustion, finally he is silent.
“Found what?” Daniel asks.
“The mine.” And he closes shop. “You!” This is to me, “stop watching me.” Then he is still and silent. “You won’t be going anywhere near her,” explains Daniel calmly and steadily as he faces the man inches from his face, angry but controlled. Then he stands walks slowly toward me, looking directly at me, smiles and says “then what happened?” Over his shoulder. I begin to feel a hot liquid trail begin a journey through my body, Daniel is in control, His mask is on. My temperature elevates, my insides churn a beautiful sensation begins to build. Daniel knows the effect he is having on me, his pupils fill his iris, dark and smouldering, just for me. I shudder, if only I could get my hands on him right now.
Oh, tea's brewed, that'll do for now.
Later in chapter thirty-four, Monday
:
4thnovember2013 night-time
The sky is growing paler in colour and darker in tone, slury blurry whips of pink and orange appear high up. What did Grandma say about a red sky at night? Shepherd’s warning? Is that right? But what kind of weather don’t sheep like? I could never decide.
We plan to stay in the house until the next morning.
Using my Brownie first aid badge skills I bandage Emilio’s shoulder. It's not serious but I bet it stings like hell, a chunk of flesh is missing and he's lost some blood, it remains congealed on his dirty denim shirt and cargo pants. But I fail to feel sorry for him, he was after all quite prepared to kill us wasn’t he? He glares at me and winces as I work, I am not gentle, l just get the job done, I bandage his shoulder as I would a horses hock, criss crossing over and around the bend in a practised manner, and horses are fidgety, but they smell much better don’t they? Hungry, yep that’s it, and desperate for a cuppa too, it’s my job to keep the troops fed and watered, and that’s exactly what I do.
I make us all a light snack for supper I fry the remains of the crusty loaf cut into thick doorsteps, in dark olive oil with wild sage added for a warm note. Then I grill huge tomatoes from the garden, smothered in cheese, I make a rough salsa with fresh tomato and finely chopped onion and oil and vinegar. I deep fry thick cut chips too and add some crushed garlic to a mayonnaise to dip the hand cut hot chips into. Delicious. Then I brew a massive pot of steaming dark tea.
While we eat, I send a text, not correct table manners I know, apologies to all those Mum's who are horrified, but needs must, anyone this behaviour offends, you know who you are, turn away now:
TC: “Hiya, howzit?” I’m down with the kids, and need to connect with my own people.
HC: “Hey Sis, fine here, did you speak to Mum yet?” Bloody hell, what now?
TC: “No, do I need to call her?” Please say no.
HC: “No Sis, she’s fine her new book is selling well, she’s celebrating” oh god.
TC: “Is there someone to drive her home afterward?” She does like a dry white wine.
HC: “I arranged a car for her, don’t worry” thank goodness.
TC: “Speak soon, love to Mum” that'll do for now.
I swipe my finger across the screen and end the message stream. I miss my Brother, he’s always away.
We sit around the living room enjoying our feast, chatting about our next move. I offer a plan, in which perhaps we should stay here a few days and figure out what happened to the occupant of this home in the middle of the desolate beyond. Before squatters rudely intruded on the serenity of this once home, daring to open a bottle of good Rioja too.
"What do we do with them?" Asks the professor pointing his fork at the three ripening captors tied on the floor behind us, "we can't just leave them here.” He's right about that, and he wrinkles his nose in displeasure, “besides they are starting to smell." He winces as if to add a impatience to his remark. “Badly.” It's putting us off our food for heaven’s sake!
"I’ll call local law enforcement, leave them with the local police." Says Liza, she’s good on the phone, and is brilliant at languages, she speaks fluent Spanish, French and Hindi, amongst other tongues, picking them up easily.
"Ha!!!" Devyn spits, suddenly animated, "I
am
the local law enforcement.” Of course this news doesn’t please us at all, “you won't get anywhere without me.” He coughs, his whole body vibrates with the exertion, “you'll just be inviting the friends to join, party." He says with a venom and a forced snarl, his teeth really need dental expertise, not sure why that’s important, I have never seen a man so angry, but he has been sitting on a hard floor for nearly fifteen hours. I’d be grumpy too. And he hasn't met my Mother.
That reminds me.
TC: “Hi Mum, hear your Lawrence book is getting the acclaim it deserves?” Throw a bone.
EC: “Hello dear, late night spk latr” still pissed?
TC: “You OK Mum?” Or is it wine flu?
EC: “Chardonnay” thought so.
TC: “Love you” perhaps I’ll take her back a bottle of duty free?
"How much did they give you to betray your friend?” Stan asks calmly once again on his stool, “kill him and take control of this mine?” A calm adversary can often force a frenzied one to make a mistake, it’s just human nature. “Obviously you still believe there's lots of gold down there to mine." Stan asks in a very steady but firm voice. Like a military man taking no crap from anyone, a steady gaze, shallow breathing. Devyn spits again on the terracotta at his feet, how rude, smearing it with his boot as if deciding to say something or keep quiet. Did I see a mop somewhere? I hate spitting, it’s disgusting. But guilty people always want to tell a story, spin the evidence in a way that they believe suits the ear of the listener, give them the chance, they’ll talk. All you have to do is give them the opportunity, and keep quiet and listen.