The White Road Page 3

  ‘Uh, uh, uh.’ There was no doubt about it. Trapped. I was trapped. The panic came then, hot and quick. ‘Ed! Ed! Ed! I’m stuck!’

  ‘Relax, lad,’ his voice floated back to me. ‘You can get through it. Panic is the enemy.’ He sounded calm, almost caring. As unlike Ed as I could have possibly imagined. It helped.

  Breathe, breathe, breathe.

  There’s always a moment on any challenging climb when you reach a tipping point–a no going back moment. To deal with these, my old outreach climbing instructor, Kenton, an ex-Special Forces guy with zero sense of humour and the ability to put the fear of God into us without raising his voice, told us to empty our minds and focus. Panic and hesitation weren’t an option–not if you wanted to survive. No one could get me out of this but me. I could give in to the terror, or I could fight.

  I let myself go limp. Breathed in again. Forced myself to empty my mind, lose the image of the crushing weight above and around me.

  My left ankle and toes protesting, I pushed. Nothing. Don’t panic. You can do this. Take it slow. Pushed again. And this time I moved an inch. Keep going. Another push, another inch. Then, slowly, incrementally, I was able to twist my body around and free myself from the band of rock imprisoning my ribcage. Now able to wiggle my left arm through, I could use both hands to help my poor toes do the work. Body half free, I dug with my elbows, wriggling like a snake until my gut and legs followed. Thank fuck. I took five, huffing like a steam train, waiting for my galloping pulse rate to slow. But another seemingly endless body-hugging squeeze lay ahead, smothering the relief at my narrow escape.

  Once more I propelled myself along using my toes and fingers. The floor was far damper than what I’d experienced so far, and I spat out a mouthful of gritty mud which scraped against my teeth. I couldn’t shake the sense that I was dragging myself through the smuggy intestine of a huge animal. The hollow sound of water pulsed below us. Ahead of me, Ed turned on his side to slip through yet another of those limited cracks. Thankfully, I was able to lug myself through it with relative ease. It opened into a conduit that would allow me to use my elbows to propel me along.

  ‘This is where those lads died,’ Ed shouted above the water’s gurgle. ‘Two were found here, one tried to get further.’

  Thanks for that, arsehole. Panic gnawed again as I inched along, once more imagining getting stuck, the air running out, the caves flooding, racing against time to escape. They’ll never be able to dig you out of here, Simon. Stuck. You’ll be stuck forever.

  Finally we came to a kink in the bowel, a space high enough to sit up in.

  ‘Turn around, lad.’ The roar of the water was louder and he had to yell to be heard. ‘Don’t want to go down here head-first.’

  I did as he instructed and, wriggling along feet first on my bum, followed him to the end of the tunnel, which dropped down into the stream. Legs shaking from adrenalin and exertion, I flopped down into it. The water, which now reached over my knees, immediately flooded the boots. That vicious shock of cold made me gasp again, but it soothed my aching calf muscles.

  ‘That’s it, right, Ed? We’re done with the Rat Run?’

  ‘What?’

  I repeated the question, raising my voice.

  ‘Ay. Wasn’t too bad, was it?’

  Ed stopped dead and gestured to an outcropping on our left. ‘Got to go up now, lad. They’re up there.’

  ‘The bodies?’

  ‘Ay.’

  It was what I was down here for, but the haul through the Rat Run had sapped my strength, and my leg and arm muscles were throbbing like sore teeth. I longed to be back in the relative warmth of the car, and en route home for a pint and a bacon sandwich. You’re here now. Just do it. The worst is over. Fortunately there was an overhang two thirds of the way up that provided enough leverage for me to heave my bulk up to the crack at the top. The opening meant another one of those body-contorting squeezes, but it was a piece of piss compared to what I’d just been through. A hands-and-knees scuffle along a lumpy tunnel led into an oblong chamber the size of a box room, only one section of the curved ceiling high enough to sit up in. Blood-warmed water sloshed around the bottom of my boots. I considered tipping it out, decided not to bother. I paused to catch my breath, and let the light drift around the space.

  ‘There’s nothing …’ And then I saw them: a jumble of shapes that I’d mistakenly taken to be rocks at the far end of the chamber. They weren’t at all what I’d been expecting–I’d been harbouring a mental picture of perfectly preserved bodies like those dug up from peat bogs. Two of the skulls were face to face as if they were kissing. One had a shaggy look to it, as if the flesh had grown fur, the other was covered in delicate strands of dried skin as if it had been encased in a pair of ripped stockings. Again there was no smell. Tentatively, I waddled closer and let the headlamp dance over the rest. They hadn’t been placed with much care: an ulna nestled against the brown curve of a pelvis, and what had to be a partially collapsed ribcage sheathed in rotting fabric. Other limbs were clad in the tatty remnants of what looked to be wet-suit material, and desiccated finger bones were scattered around like pebbles. A lone helmet lay, upended like a turtle shell, in the rocky corner behind the bone mound. The water’s grumble was ceaseless: the sound they must have heard before they died; the sound they’d hear forever. And I thought, this isn’t horrible or gross, it’s sad. I also thought: Thierry is going to fucking love this. I turned off the camera, half hoping that the footage wouldn’t be useable. All I knew about the victims was that they were students, part of an ad hoc caving club from the University of Warwick. They’d hitched out here for a laugh, a touch of adventure, never dreaming that thanks to the weather, fate, whatever, they’d end up like this, forever stuck in a cave with some arsehole crawling into their mausoleum so that he could film them and put them on the Internet. I gave myself a mental shake. I was being morbid. Philosophising about the randomness of death and the ethics of what I was doing wouldn’t do these guys any good.

  I jumped as a splash of brighter light heralded Ed’s appearance at the chamber’s mouth. He was shaking his head, sending the light in wide arcs. His face was drawn, the light once again scoring those thick black lines around his mouth. I prepared myself for one of his tirades–or worse. He said something that was swallowed up by the watery backdrop.

  ‘What?’

  ‘… trouble!’

  I shook my head, pantomiming that I couldn’t hear him.

  ‘We’re in trouble.’ And then it hit me: he wasn’t about to go off on one; he was scared.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Water’s rising. Weather must have broken.’

  ‘How bad is it?’

  He shook his head once more. Rivulets of water ran off his suit.

  ‘How bad, Ed?’

  ‘See for yourself.’ He backed up, giving me just enough space to slip past him. I scrambled along the tunnel, thunking my hip on an outcropping, and stuck my head through the gap. The roar of the water was almost deafening, and my face was hit with rogue spatters. Jesus. It looked as if the maelstrom had almost reached the Rat Run’s exit. How was it possible that it had risen so fast? But I knew it was possible: of course I did. I’d just been looking at the evidence of what it could do.

  What I did next was inexcusable. I slipped my legs feet first through the crack, feeling around for the ledge, intending to climb down to get a better look and a shot of the raging water. I was cocky after how well I’d navigated the other tricky sections–typical of me–but I missed my step and then I was sliding, out of control. The shock of cold as I hit the water feet first was heart-stopping, so icy that my brain first registered it as boiling hot. There was a detonation of pain as my ankle hit rock, I lost my balance and the force of the water–which now reached above my chest–pushed against me, sweeping my legs out from under me. Fingers of freezing water found their way past the collar of the exposure suit, and I involuntarily took a breath, choking as water scoured my lungs. I flailed for the nearest rock, scrabbling for purchase, but the churning water forced me under again. Then, something tugged roughly at my waist, heaving me backwards. Panic muddying my mind, I fought against it, until it hit me that it was Ed hauling on the waist belt. I coughed up a gout of water; my throat, already raw from Ed’s attack, was now on fire, and I could do little to help him fight the torrent that was beating against us.

  Ed gave an almighty tug on the belt, and pressed me against the face that led up to the lads’ chamber. ‘Get back up there!’

  I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs and the route up was as slippery as glass. I tried twice to get purchase, but kept slipping back. Then I felt Ed boosting me up, his hands under my left foot. I pulled myself through the opening, threw myself along the tunnel, and collapsed when I reached the mausoleum. Still coughing and struggling for breath, I scrunched across to the pocket where the ceiling was roomier. I didn’t give a thought to Ed right then–I barely registered him arriving behind me.

  Finally I was able to find my voice.

  ‘How long until it subsides?’ Again I had to shout above the crash of the water, a challenge as it hurt to speak and my teeth were chattering.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How long until we can get out of here?’

  ‘Could be a day. Could be a week.’

  ‘A week?’ My first reaction was, ridiculously: I’ve only taken one day off work.

  I tried not to look at the bones, but something made me take off my gloves, reach over and touch them. Now they felt alive, clammy and warm. I was shaking violently. I could actually feel the cold worming its way deep into my core.

  ‘Get out of those clothes, lad.’ He was already stripping off his suit.

  He was right. Keeping the wet cloth
es next to my skin was a one-way ticket to hypothermia. I kicked off my boots–a mistake as water gushed onto the already damp floor–and wriggled out of the PVC suit and sodden fleece under-suit. My socks and boxer shorts clung clammily to my flesh; I stripped those off too. The cave’s crumbled floor biting into my buttocks, I scrunched my knees up to my chest.

  The light dimmed, and it took me a second to realise that Ed had turned off his headlamp. He reached over and tapped mine.

  ‘Turn it off. Need to conserve the batteries.’

  ‘No!’ It was an instinctive response, every inch of me balking at the thought of being left in the dark.

  ‘Do it.’ It wasn’t a threat exactly, but I doubted he would take no for an answer. And he was right: of course we had to conserve the batteries. I took off the helmet, flicked the switch, and pure, liquid blackness engulfed us. There was nothing for my eyes to focus on, and for a few minutes they played tricks on me, forming shapes out of nothing, creating bright circles of light that couldn’t exist. The lack of visual stimulation was disorientating, faintly nauseating and seemed to amplify the chatter of the water.

  I jumped as I felt Ed’s cold body sliding in behind me, his thighs either side of mine, his arms curling around my ribcage. Oh God. I kept absolutely still as his breath tickled my neck, the cold squish of what had to be his genitals pressing against the base of my spine. ‘I’m not sure you should do that, Ed.’ He didn’t respond–maybe he didn’t hear me above the clatter of the water below. It had been years since I’d done a first-aid course, and I was fairly sure that two hypothermic people this close together would make things worse. But the chill inside me hurt, a solid insistent ache, and I couldn’t see how it could get any worse. He started rubbing at my arms and legs, as if he was an impatient parent towelling a child after a bath. The friction helped, and the squeamishness at being so close to him faded as the cold became a manageable ache: deeply uncomfortable, but no longer painful. As the violent shivering subsided, my brain turned its attention to the massive fucking pickle I was in.

  Okay. Don’t panic. Thierry knows where you are. The directions Ed sent are on the laptop. He’s not stupid, he knows how dangerous the caves are, one of the reasons he didn’t come with you. If you’re not back by midnight, tomorrow morning at the latest, he’ll sound the alarm.

  A weight on my shoulder as Ed rested his scratchy chin on it as if we were lovers. The situation would be hilarious if it wasn’t so deadly. I was no longer scared of him; he’d saved my life, and in any case, the horror of our situation made his psychotic breaks or whatever they were pale into insignificance.

  ‘Does anyone know you’re down here, Ed?’ My throat protested as I raised my voice above the water’s clamour.

  ‘No, lad.’

  ‘My mate’s expecting me back around nine tonight. Reckon he’ll call in the cavalry then.’ I was trying to sound optimistic, but there was a thread of panic in my voice. ‘Could rescuers get down to us?’ I had to repeat the question twice.

  ‘No. Not even the divers would make it through the Rat Run. Too narrow, see.’

  ‘Can’t they come in through the other side? You said it was an hour to get out from here.’

  ‘Current’s too strong. You felt it, lad.’ His grip relaxed as he let loose a wracking, lung-searing cough.

  ‘You okay, Ed?’

  ‘Ay.’ He cleared his throat and coughed again, his ribcage thrumming behind me.

  ‘You saved my life.’

  No response.

  ‘I said, you saved my life.’

  One of his grunts. Another cough. I prayed I was imagining the fine spatter of fluid on my shoulder.

  And then it hit me: Fuck. The bodies. ‘The water can’t get up here, can it?’

  ‘Oh ay. Fills the whole system when it goes.’

  ‘Shit.’

  That was why the remains were such a random mess and weren’t preserved by the pure air down here; over the years water must have licked and nudged at them. Drowning hurt. Everyone said it didn’t, that it was peaceful, but that was bollocks. The CIA used waterboarding as a torture tool, didn’t they? And I could still feel the razor-blade burn caused by water going down the wrong way.

  We sat like that, wrapped together in silence for God knows how long. My thoughts were jumbled, mostly fluttering over and over rescue scenarios and desperate denials at what was happening to me. The darkness was so complete that I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or shut. The panic ebbed, leaving not acceptance but lethargy in its place.

  And then, voices, I could hear voices! And more than one–a chorus of people calling out to us. They were coming, Ed was wrong, they were coming! ‘Hey!’ I screamed, ignoring my tender throat. ‘Hey! We’re up here!’ I twisted my body out of Ed’s embrace, and lunged in what I hoped was the direction of the cave entrance, my elbow smacking into some part of his body. ‘We’re here!’

  Rough hands grabbed at me, fingers digging into my flesh.

  ‘Let go, Ed! Voices! I can hear voices!’

  I was hauled back, pinioned in a headlock, and his voice rasped in my ear: ‘Lad! Lad! It’s just the water. Listen.’

  I struggled against his grip, then my brain caught up with what he’d said. I listened. He was right. Of course he was right. Rescuers couldn’t have made it down here this quickly–if at all. Who’s the mad one now, Simon? What I’d thought was a chorus of voices, the chattering and chortle of five or six people, was simply the thundering of the water rushing beneath us. Yet despite this, for several minutes afterwards I was certain I could make out words hidden in the watery clamour; it was tantalising, like listening to a conversation through a wall. There was an isochronal rhythm to it too, haunting, cruel and mesmerising: We’re coming for you, Si. We’re coming for you, Si.

  Ed released me, and shifted back into position behind me, his furred limbs locking around me, and now I couldn’t shift the image of being in the clutches of a giant hairy spider. He started to rub at my limbs once again, yet this time, (although in hindsight I could have simply fallen foul to the lurking madness at the edge of my mind), there was something wrong about the way he was touching me. His fingers seemed to linger on my thighs and biceps. It wasn’t sexual, exactly, but intimate, as if he was massaging me for pleasure rather than warmth. And he was saying something to himself, mumbling. I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t care if I pissed him off.

  ‘Can you stop that, Ed?’

  I half-expected him to ignore me, or freak out again, but his fingers stilled immediately. I scrunched my knees up into my chest, and buried my face in them, tasting the salt of my skin.

  This is how you’re going to die, Si: drowning in freezing water with the dead, or starving to death embraced by a crazy ex-squaddie.

  No. I can’t die like this. Not before… not before what? I fulfilled my potential? What potential? Self-pity came dribbling in as I thought about Mum, imagining her hearing about my death. She was living in Australia, close to my sister Alison, and was happily re-married to an actuary. I hadn’t seen her or Alison for four years. I hadn’t spoken to her for six months. Would she miss me? Maybe she’d even be relieved. No more requests for loans; no more worrying about the black sheep of the family. This drifted into musings about my funeral, only there wouldn’t be a funeral as there wouldn’t be a body. You can’t bring bodies up from this deep underground, lad. Maybe Thierry would organise a wake or memorial service at Mission:Coffee, where we’d worked for the last two years, and where we’d met. Thierry. I couldn’t help but feel a pulse of anger at him–I wouldn’t be down here at all if it wasn’t for the website, which had been his idea. It had grown after he’d decided to post online the stupid banter we used to trade to keep ourselves sane during work, mostly silly ‘top five’ lists and pop junkie stuff: ‘the top five movie monsters you’d least like to shag’; ‘five of the most disappointing horror movie endings’. This was a few years before Buzzfeed made listicles ubiquitous, and before long we’d gathered a modest following. Then Thierry suggested that seeing as our grubby flat was situated in the heart of Whitechapel, we should film an ‘alternative virtual Jack the Ripper Tour’, taking the piss out of the Ripper industry in the area. It was a hit–especially with our US subscribers–and Journey to the Dark Side was born. The ‘top five’ material anchored the site and brought in a steady stream of hits, and every so often to boost circulation we’d take day trips to film graveyards and the haunts of notorious serial killers, overlaying the footage with satirical banter. It was while I was researching our next outing that I stumbled upon Cwm Pot; Thierry loved the idea of featuring it, but flatly refused to join me, citing his ‘fat nerd’ status as an excuse.