Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

The tattered Union Jack fluttered from the flagpole in the centre and Warton turned his head towards the sound.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Not as peculiar as I expected,” he said, a trifle amused.

He stopped and cocked his head. “I thought I saw something.”

“Don’t tease,” said Edith, “it won’t be working yet. And there’s no promise it will,” she added sternly.

“No, really,” he said. He turned blindly and pointed out across the veldt, past the Khungarrii siege workings and their scattered grave balls. “There,” he said.

Edith was glad he couldn’t see the disappointment on her face. “There’s nothing there,” she said gently.

A second later there was. A bolt of lightning struck up into the sky, followed a few seconds later by a soft, muted rumble.

“And there,” he said again, turning round and pointing elsewhere.

Moments later, another bolt struck skywards from the spot. Another muffled timpani roll.

Edith’s eyes widened and she clapped her hands. “Again!” she demanded gleefully.

Warton smiled, bowed theatrically, and then correctly predicted several more flashes.

It was working. Already, the petrol fruit liquor was allowing him to sense the lightning bolts before they happened.

With time and training, wondered Edith, what else might Warton and the other volunteers be able to see?

EVERSON STARED AT the find. It was a totem, the body of an urman lashed with vines to crossed posts in the form of an ‘X,’ a warning to bad spirits. The man had been dead for about a month, from the look of him, although there wasn’t much left after the jungle creatures had been at him. From what clothing remained, he seemed to be one of the Ruanach. The men stood around in solemn silence as it stared at them from empty sockets, its jaw hanging open in mockery of their slack-jawed surprise.

“Dear God,” said the Padre, making the sign of the cross.

“It is Garam,” said Tarak, reaching out to touch a scar on the arm. “He was Jeffries’ guide. He was supposed to guide the sky-being on the first leg of his journey to the Village of the Dead. Garam never returned. We thought he had gone on ahead with Jefferies.” Tarak’s face twisted with fury at the sight of his kinsman. “That he should be placed here, like this, it is jundurru , bad magic.”

It wasn’t crucifixion that killed him, however, but the bullet hole in the centre of the forehead. But the most marked thing about it was the British Army Officer’s cap that it wore, complete with a Pennine Fusilier cap badge. Someone was sending a message, and they’d hung it round Garam’s neck to make sure it was received, scrawled on a flattened piece of bark; “Everson, the Underworld is mine; the rest is yours – for the moment. Do not attempt to follow me – Jeffries.”

Everson gave a guilty start. How did Jeffries know he would find it? Almost on impulse, he reached up to the tunic pocket where he kept the fetish of Jeffries’ button, but thought better of it and let his hand drop.

“Looks like we’re on the right track, then,” said Pot Shot.

“So it would appear,” Everson took no joy in the fact, but at least now he had his proof. Jeffries had descended into the underworld to free his demon.

Everson knew what he must do. They should go after him. They had suffered the worst that War-torn Europe and this place could throw at them; how could this be any worse?

“And if indeed Jeffries has gone into the underworld, then that’s where we’re going. To Hell.”

He was surprise by how certain he sounded. Still, that’s what officer training was for. He summoned the signallers.

“Riley, I want you to see if you can send a message back to the canyon. Let them know what we’re doing.”

Riley nodded and went to collect the kitbag that contained the Signals equipment.

“Tonkins, stop stuffing your face. We’ve got work to do!”

Tonkins, who hadn’t gone to view the grisly find, hastily finished chewing, wiped the grease from his mouth with his cuff and followed Riley out towards the Strip.

AT THE CANYON, nobody was eager to go back up to the wall after it had lit up like a star shell, least of all Buckley, and certainly not Sergeant Dixon, but the lightning flashes and the thunderous booms were receding, and somebody had to do it.

Sergeant Dixon pushed out his chest and looked at Buckley with the curdling contempt that only an NCO could muster. “You will go up that scree slope and set up your Iddy Umpty equipment again. I don’t care what might happen. So you can either have a thousand volts up your arse, or my boot; which is it to be?” he bawled, warm, thick spittle speckling Buckley’s face.

Buckley grunted and heaved as he hauled the kit bag of equipment up the rocky slope to the base of the metal wall. Below, he heard the work party, building a defensive breastwork around the camp, break out into song in sympathy, relieved it wasn’t them. “Send out me muvver, me sister and me bruvver, but for gawd’s sake don’t send meeee!”

At the top, Buckley touched the metal tentatively. It was warm, but then it always had been. There was no sign of melting or burning. It looked just as it always had, despite the lightning that had erupted from it.

With a sense of relief, he began setting up the telegraph again. At least he knew now that he’d get a few seconds warning if anything were to happen again, and to be honest being up here it was no worse, or more dangerous, than being in a listening sap out beyond the front lines. At least Sergeant Dixon wouldn’t be looking over his shoulder every five minutes.

He put the earphones over his head and began listening.

He had been up there a few hours when the clicking began. He hastily scrawled out the message on a scrap of paper with a stub of blunt pencil.

He stumbled down the scree side, calling for Sergeant Dixon as he went.

He found Sergeant Dixon waiting for him as he reached the bottom. The NCO waited impatiently while he took a moment to catch his breath.

“Message, Sarn’t,” said Buckley handing the scrap of paper over. “From Lieutenant Everson, Sarn’t.”

Dixon studied the paper and fixed Buckley with a steely glare. “Is this your idea of a joke, Buckley? ‘Go to hell’?”

Buckley looked alarmed. “What? No, Sarn’t. No. It reads, ‘Gone to hell.’”

ATKINS AND THE rest of his men got ready to move out. Atkins found himself both scared and elated. This was everything he’d been wanting for the past five months. At last, they were hard on Jeffries’ heels, and perhaps a way home. It was a desperate hope.

“Mathers said this would happen,” said Pot Shot, casually.

“Are you bringing that up again?” said Mercy.

“He did, listen,” Pot Shot put on a solemn face, as if he were about to give a church reading. “‘Other Ones will travel with the breath of GarSuleth, the Kreothe made not tamed’ ,” he said. “Well that’s them chatt balloons isn’t it? ‘Then shall Skarra with open mandibles welcome the dark scentirrii.’ Well, Werner said our Black Hand Gang were like Dark Scentirrii to them chatts. And Skarra welcomes us. These Nazarrii knew we were going into the underworld centuries ago. Don’t you find that just a little bit spooky?”

“Blood and sand, Pot Shot. Will you shut up about that? Just for once, just once, I’d like to think that something I did on this hell of a world wasn’t ‘fated’.” Atkins threw down his knapsack and stormed off.

“I was joking!” protested Pot Shot. “Only! It’s just a bloody cave!”

If they really were going into Hell, or Tartarus, or whatever, then perhaps Nellie was right; he needed to talk to someone.