saw him.’
Ignoring Jack’s youthful impatience, the manager agreed. ‘Went downstairs to listen, he said. Up against the rock statue at the end of the passage. I don’t know what he was listening for. Do you?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Has he been here before? I mean recently?’
‘No. Not for months.’
‘If you see him again, could you ask him to call me? It’s really important.’
Jack wrote his name and telephone number and left it with the man, then on impulse asked, ‘Could I see downstairs again?’
‘I don’t see why not. I’ll have Shirley come with you, just in case … if you like …’
But Jack wanted to be on his own. ‘I’ll be OK. I just want two minutes.’
He went straight round the covered sanctuary to the small door that led to the claustrophobic tunnel. He’d forgotten that the narrow entrance would be locked against the public. But behind him, soft steps on the metal stairs announced that Shirley had been sent down anyway; she peered across the model below its glass case. ‘You all right?’
‘I feel fine. I wanted to see the rock statue. Do you have the key?’
The woman came over. She was very small, slightly built, probably only a few years older than Jack himself. Her small hands were heavy with rings, an engagement ring gleaming with blue-tinged diamond light. She opened the small locker by the door and gave Jack access to the passage, switching on the fluorescent light, which flickered several times, then glared. When he reached the far end, against the rough rock, the odd shape, the muscle shape in the stone, Jack pressed his ear to the cold surface, closed his eyes and listened.
Breathing!
He pulled back, alarmed by the deep and sonorous breath that he had felt being drawn. Then he slapped the stoneshoulder of what Garth claimed was a buried statue and listened again.
A
swirling pool, breath heaving and sucking from its centre
…
Again he was startled by the image that touched his senses. For a second he had felt sucked down, face blasted by an icy wind from the subterranean deep.
He went back for a third time, fingers spread on the rock, ignoring Shirley’s tentative call checking that he was safe and not frightened.
And for a moment he was in the sea, rising dizzyingly to the surface, twisting as the water flowed over him, reaching for the light above. Except that it wasn’t water; the light was coming closer, but he was struggling against drowning, and the world around him was heavy, black and stifling!
He threw himself away from the rock, choking and gasping for breath. He could hear the woman calling to the manager.
‘I’m all right! I’m coming back.’
He crawled along the narrow tunnel, banging his head, aware of the pink, anxious oval of the assistant’s face. She helped him brush the dust and dirt from his clothes, straightened the collar of his black leather jacket and locked the passage.
‘You’ve seen a ghost?’ she asked with a smile, and Jack laughed, remembering earlier words in a similar situation.
‘I don’t know. There’s something under the hill, though.’
‘Yes. A billion tons of sandstone! The shop’s closing, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Christmas came and went, the traditional orgy of television, attempts at games, visits from and to relatives, near-death by turkey, chocolate and cocktails, secretly consumed wherever his friends’ parents were less strict on such under-age abuse than his own.
He was a reluctant passenger in the back of the car on New Year’s Eve, as his parents drove southwest to the moors for fourdays of bracing, damp, treacherous walking. Angela had been invited to join them, but she had cousins visiting from Australia, two boys of her own age. And besides: she was working on a
paper,
an actual, formal piece of work which she intended to submit to
Nature
magazine.
Jack slumped and sulked. He was aware of his bad mood, aware that it wasn’t really like him, but damned if he’d do
Ignoring Jack’s youthful impatience, the manager agreed. ‘Went downstairs to listen, he said. Up against the rock statue at the end of the passage. I don’t know what he was listening for. Do you?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Has he been here before? I mean recently?’
‘No. Not for months.’
‘If you see him again, could you ask him to call me? It’s really important.’
Jack wrote his name and telephone number and left it with the man, then on impulse asked, ‘Could I see downstairs again?’
‘I don’t see why not. I’ll have Shirley come with you, just in case … if you like …’
But Jack wanted to be on his own. ‘I’ll be OK. I just want two minutes.’
He went straight round the covered sanctuary to the small door that led to the claustrophobic tunnel. He’d forgotten that the narrow entrance would be locked against the public. But behind him, soft steps on the metal stairs announced that Shirley had been sent down anyway; she peered across the model below its glass case. ‘You all right?’
‘I feel fine. I wanted to see the rock statue. Do you have the key?’
The woman came over. She was very small, slightly built, probably only a few years older than Jack himself. Her small hands were heavy with rings, an engagement ring gleaming with blue-tinged diamond light. She opened the small locker by the door and gave Jack access to the passage, switching on the fluorescent light, which flickered several times, then glared. When he reached the far end, against the rough rock, the odd shape, the muscle shape in the stone, Jack pressed his ear to the cold surface, closed his eyes and listened.
Breathing!
He pulled back, alarmed by the deep and sonorous breath that he had felt being drawn. Then he slapped the stoneshoulder of what Garth claimed was a buried statue and listened again.
A
swirling pool, breath heaving and sucking from its centre
…
Again he was startled by the image that touched his senses. For a second he had felt sucked down, face blasted by an icy wind from the subterranean deep.
He went back for a third time, fingers spread on the rock, ignoring Shirley’s tentative call checking that he was safe and not frightened.
And for a moment he was in the sea, rising dizzyingly to the surface, twisting as the water flowed over him, reaching for the light above. Except that it wasn’t water; the light was coming closer, but he was struggling against drowning, and the world around him was heavy, black and stifling!
He threw himself away from the rock, choking and gasping for breath. He could hear the woman calling to the manager.
‘I’m all right! I’m coming back.’
He crawled along the narrow tunnel, banging his head, aware of the pink, anxious oval of the assistant’s face. She helped him brush the dust and dirt from his clothes, straightened the collar of his black leather jacket and locked the passage.
‘You’ve seen a ghost?’ she asked with a smile, and Jack laughed, remembering earlier words in a similar situation.
‘I don’t know. There’s something under the hill, though.’
‘Yes. A billion tons of sandstone! The shop’s closing, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Christmas came and went, the traditional orgy of television, attempts at games, visits from and to relatives, near-death by turkey, chocolate and cocktails, secretly consumed wherever his friends’ parents were less strict on such under-age abuse than his own.
He was a reluctant passenger in the back of the car on New Year’s Eve, as his parents drove southwest to the moors for fourdays of bracing, damp, treacherous walking. Angela had been invited to join them, but she had cousins visiting from Australia, two boys of her own age. And besides: she was working on a
paper,
an actual, formal piece of work which she intended to submit to
Nature
magazine.
Jack slumped and sulked. He was aware of his bad mood, aware that it wasn’t really like him, but damned if he’d do
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