Reginald Hill: Under World

‘Another fine mess you’ve got me into,’ said Detective-Superintendent Andrew Dalziel.

In his mind’s eye, Peter Pascoe could see his superior’s broad slab of a face twisted into a mock exasperation intended to be reassuring. The picture had to be mental because he’d lost his torch in the roof fall which held him pinned helpless from the waist down, and Dalziel only used his light fitfully as he dug at the debris with his bare hands.

Mental or not, the picture was not to Pascoe’s liking. In sick-bed terms, comfort from Andy Dalziel was like seeing the doctor edged aside by the priest. He tried to move again and felt pain run up his legs like fire up a fuse, exploding him to full consciousness.

‘Jesus!’ he gasped.

‘Hurting? That’s a good sign.’

‘That’s your expert fucking opinion, is it?’ grated Pascoe. ‘Where’d you pick up that priceless gem? Bart’s, was it? Or the interview room?’

‘Watch it, lad,’ warned Dalziel. ‘I’ll make allowances for delirium but I’ll not stand insubordination. Any more of that and I’ll …’

He hesitated.

‘You’ll what?’ demanded Pascoe. ‘Get me posted to traffic? Don’t bother. I’ll volunteer.’

‘No,’ said Dalziel. ‘What I was going to say was, any more of that and I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.’

There was a silence between the two men for a moment, and the moment was long enough to remind them that in this place there was no such thing as silence. Water dripped, earth dribbled, pebbles clinked, and from time to time there were creaks and groans as a hundred thousand tons of ancient rock tried to close this wound savagely ripped along its guts.

Then a new sound joined the others, almost but not quite the rattle of pain.

‘Like a ton of bricks,’ moaned Pascoe. ‘Oh Christ, don’t make me laugh.’

‘Ton of bricks!’ said Dalziel beginning to splutter. ‘Ton of …’

He let out a bellow of laughter which ricocheted off the pile of rubble under which Pascoe lay and rolled down the old roadway behind them.

‘Don’t,’ pleaded Pascoe. ‘Please don’t …’

But it was too late. The contagion of laughter was upon him and for a good half-minute the two policemen gave themselves over to hoots of merriment all the stronger because of the pain and fear they so inadequately masked.

Finally the merriment faded. Pascoe tried to keep it going a little time after it was completely dead. The alternative tenant of his imagination was a mouse voice squeaking that he was trapped in a dark confined space with no hope of rescue. It was, to misuse a phrase, a dream come true, his dream of the worst fate that could befall him. He closed his eyes, though in that place there was no need, and tried to win his way back to unconsciousness. He must have half succeeded, for he heard a distant voice gently calling his name and when his eyes opened, he was dazzled by a disc of white light which he tried desperately to confuse with the moon riding high above the lime tree in his garden on one of those rare nights when work and weather conspired to permit an al fresco supper and he and Ellie sat, wine-languid, in the summer-soft, flower-sweet, velvet-dark air.

It was a vain effort, a lie which never came close to being a delusion. The voice was Dalziel’s, the light his torch.

‘What?’ he demanded.

‘Nowt. Just thought there weren’t much point ruining me fingernails digging if you’d snuffed it,’ said Dalziel. ‘How are the legs? Still hurting?’

‘The pain seems to be getting further away,’ whispered Pascoe. ‘Or perhaps it’s just the legs that are getting further away.’

‘Jokes, is it? What are you after, lad? The fucking Police Medal?’

‘No joke, sir. More like despair.’

‘That’s all right, then. One thing I can’t stomach’s a bloody hero.’

Dalziel belched as though in illustration and added reflectively, ‘I could stomach one of Jack’s meat pies from the Black Bull, though.’

‘Food,’ said Pascoe.

‘You peckish too? That’s hopeful.’

‘Another good sign?’ whispered Pascoe. ‘No. I meant there wasn’t any. Back at the White Rock. Did you see any?’

‘Likely he’d not unpacked it. Well, he wouldn’t have time, would he?’

‘Perhaps not … there was someone in there, you know …’

‘In where? The White Rock? In a cave, or what?’

‘Back there … the side gallery … someone, something … I can’t remember …’

‘In there, you mean? Of course there was. Young bloody Farr was in there, which is why we’re in here, up to our necks! Well, back to work.’

It wasn’t the answer or at least only part of it, but his mind seemed to be refusing to register much since they had so foolishly left that marvellous world of air and trees and space and stars. He gave up the attempt at recall and lay still, listening to the fat man’s rat-like scrabblings. Was it really worth it? he wondered. He didn’t realize he’d spoken his thought, but Dalziel was replying.

‘Likely not. They’re probably out there already with their shovels and drills and blankets and hot soup and television lights and gormless interviewers practising their daft bloody questions. Nay, I’m just doing this to keep warm. Sensible thing would be to lie back and wait patiently, as the very old bishop said to the actress.’

‘How will they know where we are?’

‘You don’t think them other buggers got stuck like us? Pair of moles, them two. Born with hands like shovels and teeth like picks, these miners. I can’t wait to get my hands on that young bastard, Farr. This is all down to him, running off down here. Bloody Farr. He’ll wish he were far enough when I next see him.’

Pascoe smiled sadly at the fat man’s attempted cheeriness. He didn’t believe that he and Colin Farr would ever meet again. His mind burrowed into the huge pile of earth and rock which held him trapped and his heart showed him Colin Farr trapped there too. Or worse. And if worse, how to explain it to Ellie in the unlikely event he ever got the chance? Any explanation must sound like justification. He would, of course, deny any imperatives other than duty and the law. Up there you had to keep things simple. There was no other way to survive.

But down here survival was too far beneath hope to make a motive, and the darkness was fetid with doubt and accusation. Time for the bottom line, as the Yanks put it. Place for a bottom line too. And the bottom line read like this.

Colin Farr. Trapped by the pit he hated. Driven into that trap by a man who hated him.

Colin Farr.

‘… the paddy broke down and we had to walk nearly the full length of the return to pit bottom and there was a hell of a crowd there already and tempers were getting frayed. They usually do if you’re kept waiting to ride the pit, especially when other buggers push into the Cage ahead of you because they’ve got priority. It’s not so bad when it’s the wet-ride — that’s men who’ve been working in water — though even then there’s a lot of complaining and the lads yell things like, “Call that wet? I think tha’s just pissed on tha boots!” But worst of all is when a bunch of deputies get to ride ahead of you which is what happened to us, and the sight of all those clean faces, grinning like they were getting into a lift in a knocking shop, really got our goat. As the last one got in, someone yelled, “That’s right, lad, hurry on home to your missus. But you’ll not get to ride there before the day-shift!” The deputy’s face were white before, but now it got even whiter and he set off back out of the Cage like he was going to grab whoever it was that called out and start a rumpus, but some of the other officials got hold of him and the grille clanged shut and the Cage went up. Mebbe it shouldn’t have been said, but first thing you learn down pit is not to bite when someone tries to rile you, and it certainly cheered up most of the poor sods still left waiting.