Scorpio's Lot (65 page)

‘Yes, but with the absence of
three consecutive years.’

‘Oh, why’s that?’ I questioned.

‘I believe fire was responsible.
It destroyed the papers dated 1924 through to 1926,’ informed the reporter.

‘What sort of condition are the
early records in?’ Arthur seemed especially interested in that period.

‘Let me explain,’ said Collins. ‘Our
archive records are held in two formats, one being newspapers and the other
microfiche. As you can appreciate, a number of the earlier editions are
micro-photographed in order to preserve them. These prints have deteriorated
over the years, and as a result are stored off-limits to the general public.
Microfiche has been used progressively through the years, but it does exclude
certain periods. The system is somewhat outdated by today’s standards, but it
serves the purpose. I should add, though, that it hasn’t been so much the
public damaging the newspapers but rather our own people flicking over pages
for some past event or lost story.’

‘So no computer records?’

‘Good god, no. We’re only a
regional publisher. You’d need to go to the city for a digital archive system.
We’re not big enough to justify that sort of expense. The city tabloids are
also accessible via a website, but these sources have limitations, unlike the
comprehensive material kept in their archive vaults.’

‘Getting back to the reason for
our visit, do you know if there were many articles written on the subterranean
passageways?’ I prompted, to get Collins back on track.

‘I don’t know the exact number
but it would be heaps, perhaps somewhere between thirty and fifty editorials. I’ve
only ever read a handful of them,’ Collins confessed.

‘Of those you’ve read, what’s
been the general trend of the articles?’

‘Throughout the years it’s always
been the policy of the
Advertiser
to treat this subject with a degree of
scepticism, but also with enough information to tantalise the reader into
believing there may be a hint of fact. As I said, many articles have been
written and to the best of my knowledge no one has come forth with any proof.’

‘Can we commence with our
research?’ At this rate we would never get to archives.

‘Sure, but what makes you believe
there could be some truth behind all this?’ The reporter gestured for us to
follow him through to the rear building.

‘We never stated that at all. We’re
just here to satisfy a curiosity, or as someone once said, resolve and put to
bed.’

‘Then why would you go to all
this trouble if you believe otherwise?’

‘You are the curious one. First
let’s see what we can uncover and if there’s any worthwhile discovery, we’ll
let you know,’ I offered to counteract the reporter’s barrage of questions.

Collins led us into a chamber of
around fifteen metres square. It was, a fairly depressing room, with four
unpainted concrete walls, a row of high windows running down one side and a
single metal door located at the far end corner. The air was cold and there
didn’t appear to be any heating facility to make our research conditions a tad
more comfortable. Numerous boxes labelled with their respective year were
placed five high along one wall and I could see that at least the dates ran in
some sequential order. A central, long table complete with adequate lighting
and what appeared to be a couple of weird-looking computer terminals were
conveniently placed at either end.

Ashley Collins then gave us a
quick rundown of the facility. ‘This room we stand in contains archives dating
back to the year 1950. A second area of similar size is located through the
corner door, where you’ll find material predating these immediate records. I
encourage you to conduct your research by way of the microfiche readers, the
third unit being in the back room. Try to avoid handling the newspapers
wherever possible,’ he instructed.

‘Any chance of some heating? I’m
going to end up with pneumonia at this rate,’ Arthur said.

At eighty-five years old, I knew
Arthur probably felt every goose-bump in his aging body.

‘I’ll fetch a couple of bar
heaters for you shortly.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Are you familiar with microfiche
cards?’ asked Collins.

Both Hamish and I instantaneously
responded with a quick no, but Arthur informed the reporter he had used the
system once before in a city museum.

‘Will this little runt you call a
micro fish take long to learn?’ Hamish was a bit confused with the word.

‘About five to ten minutes, so I’ll
give you a quick lesson.’ Collins reached for a sample card and switched on the
reader. ‘Microfiche are plastic cards on which photographic images are placed.
Depending on the size of the newspaper, which the
Advertiser
downsized
around forty years ago, each card will hold from one hundred to one hundred and
thirty pages of text. We then place the card into the microfiche reader, which
magnifies the image back to its original size and projects this onto the
screen.’

‘Seems easy enough, even for an
ignoramus like me,’ declared Hamish with a short laugh.

‘Every microfiche will feature
the full dates of each newspaper contained within its respective card, meaning
it will have a start and finish date, which is highlighted on a yellow strip
across the top. With the three of you looking, I suggest you each handle a
decade of time to speed up things.’

‘Thanks, Ashley,’ I said.

‘Okay, I must get back to work
now but I’ll drop in now and again to see how you’re progressing.’

With the reporter gone I
delegated Arthur to his much-loved earlier editions in the back room. Hamish
and I would commence with the fifties and sixties decades and work forever
forward in time. It was approaching 2.30 pm and we only had three hours to
complete the task.

~ * ~

I
had been scrolling through these endless pages for some fifteen minutes when
suddenly my first underground article appeared on screen. Titled ‘Subterranean
Passageways - Fact or Fiction?’ the paper was dated 17 October 1953 and I
confess my excited reaction was almost childlike. Much to my disappointment,
the column was overly biased in ridiculing the believers and offered no strong
argument. It was purely an attempt to discredit any possible truth. The headline
implied an impartial article, but it was nothing short of deplorable
journalism. I soldiered on with my scrolling, only to hear Hamish giggling from
the far end of the table. ‘What are you laughing about?’

‘Found a funny bit from a section
called “Odd Spot”. Listen to this,’ said Hamish. ‘ “A man whose wristwatch had
stopped was standing on the steps of Farrington Street Station. Worried he
might miss his train, he turned to a middle-aged woman beside him and asked, ‘Madam,
do you have the time?’ She slapped his face and replied, ‘Certainly not, I’m a
married woman!’ The man glared at her as if she was some nutcase.” ‘

I shared the laugh but
immediately got back to the business of finding further articles. More
scrolling and I was beginning to feel like a victim of RSI with this constant
card changing.

A report dated 4 April 1957
offered very little except to suggest that convict labour was brought to Pedley
early last century to help speed up the governor’s building programs, including
the erection of a prison house. A further article some twelve months later
headlined ‘Mass Graves - Turn of the Century’ made reference to a typhoid
plague whereby prisoners and free folk alike were buried together, the location
of which was kept from the public. This column was encouraging for it supported
Arthur’s claims from earlier discussions.

Again I could hear Hamish was up
to his old tricks as he sniggered away at some report which had tickled his
fancy.

‘What are you up to now?’ I said.

‘Here’s a juicy bit back in 1967.
“Hippies invade Pedley, offering free love to the locals in exchange for grog
and hot showers.” ‘

‘You’re bloody hopeless, Hamish.
For God’s sake, get your mind out of the gutter,’ I said, grinning at this mass
of ginger hair sitting at the far end of the table.

‘Tom, I can’t find anything on
the underground, only these dirty bits,’ he insisted.

‘I’ll see what Arthur’s up to,’ I
said, resigned to the fact that my Irish friend was more interested in finding
jokes and juicy bits.

By contrast Arthur appeared to be
a picture of concentration. The old-timer had written down some notes beside
his microfiche reader, which implied he had stumbled across something.

‘Found something, Arthur?’

‘Not much, Tom. I found an
article about someone claiming the network to be genuine, but it turned out to
be a hoax in a later edition. There was a further story about two people
finding some convict relics which were proven to be authentic, but
unfortunately the artifacts were verified in having been discovered elsewhere.
On the positive side I came across a crudely drawn map of Pedley dated
twenty-third of June 1915. There’s not much detail, but I would at least get
Ashley Collins to run us a copy.’

‘Better than nothing.’

‘What about you and Hamish?’

‘I came across two reports of
reasonable importance. One touched on the typhoid plague and an unknown mass
burial site and the other made reference to convict labour building a jail
somewhere in Pedley. Both accounts support your story.’

‘And Hamish?’

‘Only jokes and juicy bits,
nothing of substance,’ I replied, and Arthur raised his eyebrows.

‘Tom, you realise we won’t get
through all this today, there’s just so much to cover,’ he groaned.

‘I’m aware of that. We’ll arrange
for a further appointment later in the week. I better get back to my mad
Irishman now. Keep at it, Arthur, we’re bound to find something sooner or
later,’ I encouraged.

On my return Hamish appeared
heavily engrossed with some article he had stumbled across. Scrolling down the
reader screen, he continued to be thoroughly absorbed in its contents. Without
warning he let out a raucous laugh.

‘Well, if that doesn’t beat all!’

‘Okay, what have you found this
time?’

‘What a bloody idiot! This guy
has gone to the authorities claiming he’s located the entrance to the
underground network. When the site was checked out it was found to be only a
disused well. The man was fined for wasting everybody’s time and has since been
locked away for disturbing the peace,’ explained Hamish with an infectious smile.

I had now progressed to the
seventies in hope that something more tangible could be unearthed. With each
newspaper article came the disappointment of further unsupported claims. Two
separate columns depicting Pedley as the laughing stock of historians were
particularly annoying. This type of satirical reporting did nothing to inspire
the person genuinely interested in exploring the possibilities. Three more
articles emphasised the need to address current local issues and not dwell on
some mythical relic that was incapable of resurrecting itself. It was all
becoming so inequitably repetitive that I was beginning to think it was a waste
of time.

Suddenly from the back room came
the sound of Arthur’s excited voice.

‘I think I’ve found something!’
he called jubilantly.

‘Coming!’ I gestured to Hamish to
join us. Were our efforts over these past two hours finally going to be
rewarded?

Arthur had left the image on the
screen and we leaned forward to examine this breakthrough.

‘But it’s in a bloody foreign
language, Arthur!’ remonstrated Hamish.

‘How in the hell is this going to
help us?’ I said.