by Ali Sparkes
Intrigued, they knelt back and stared at it. Then Ben gave an exclamation and rubbed quickly at the metal surface five centimetres from the column. Under his fingers Rachel could see the earth catching. The metal was raised here, in relief. A curve around the base of the column tapered to a triangular point.
‘It’s an arrow!’ gasped Ben. ‘An arrow!’
‘What does that mean?’
Ben was looking at her with gleaming eyes and an excited grin. ‘It’s an arrow! Like you get on taps or bottle lids. It’s telling us which way to turn the wheel!’
Rachel stared at the wheel and the arrow.
‘Don’t you get it?’ demanded Ben, in a voice which was squeakier than usual. ‘It opens! There’s something down there—and it opens!’
In the large shed that had been built on to the side of the old Victorian house they found spades and forks and trowels. They each took what they could carry in one arm and slid awkwardly down the soaked bank.
Back at their excavation site they dug around the wheel and its metal base, dragging the earth, roots, stones, and affronted creepy crawlies off its surface. The flat base was, in fact, very slightly curved, like a dome.
‘What do you think it is?’ gasped Rachel, her cheeks crimson with effort under the streaks of mud.
‘I dunno,’ Ben gasped back, equally florid and muddy. ‘Maybe some kind of fuel tank. We’d better be careful not to light a match near it when we open it.’
‘We haven’t got any matches!’ pointed out his sister.
‘Well—just don’t make a spark then.’
Rachel gave him a look. ‘I’ll try not to. It’ll be hard though.’
They laughed while they dug on.
‘Hey!’ Rachel knelt up and yanked Ben’s arm. ‘Look!’
The edge of the dome could now clearly be seen. They could see that the whole thing must be about a metre across and perfectly round. It took half an hour to reveal the complete, raised circle of metal and the beginning of another level, about ten centimetres beneath it. At length, they stood back, resting on their shovels and measuring the circle with their eyes. For several seconds, both were silent, before slowly turning to look at each other.
‘You know what I think …?’ murmured Ben in wonder. ‘I think it’s a manhole.’
Rachel felt suddenly frightened. ‘It might be,’ she said, with a gulp. ‘But we don’t know that it’s actually for men.’
‘What are you on about?’
She looked slightly embarrassed, but also stubborn. ‘It might not be for men!’ she repeated. ‘Haven’t you ever heard about this sort of thing? It might be,’ she dropped her voice low, ‘an alien spacecraft!’
Ben stared at her and then burst out laughing. ‘What? With these markings from a distant galaxy?’ he snorted, pointing to the furthest edge of metal he’d been clearing. On it were the letters ‘H J E’ followed by a ‘1’ and a ‘9’. The rest, if there was any more, was still covered in soil.
Rachel laughed shakily. ‘Well, I read a book once,’ she began, but Ben wasn’t listening. He was again trying to turn the wheel. Now that its shaft and the circular cover were revealed, it was obvious that it was meant to turn, and he meant to turn it. He leant his chest across it and grasped it hard with both hands, pushing and pulling in the direction the arrow suggested. Nothing happened and he grunted with frustration. ‘Come on! Help me!’ he shouted at Rachel, and she grabbed the wheel too, pulling and pulling in the same direction, anchoring the heels of her mud-caked welling-tons at the foot of the column and leaning her whole body weight round.
Still it did not move. They both flopped down on the metal base angrily and as they did so, they felt, rather than really heard it. The metal sang a low, subterranean note, which spoke of empty space below. They stared at each other and then dropped their eyes to the cover, almost fearfully. Ben stood up. ‘Oil!’ he said. ‘That column is caked with dirt. We need poky things—kitchen knives or something—to dig it out. Maybe some hot soapy water and brushes. Then we need oil to rub into the moving parts.’
They raced back across the wood, splashed across the stream and waded over the lower lawn, where tips of grass were gradually emerging as the flood began to ebb away. Back at the house they stopped only to pull their extremely muddy wellingtons off at the door before running down the hallway in socks and straight into the kitchen.
Here Ben collided head on with Uncle Jerome and both ended up on the terracotta tiled floor in a heap of mud and leaf litter, apple pie and orange juice. Uncle Jerome had been on one of his occasional forays to the fridge when his nephew had struck like a mud and flesh tornado. The man looked dazed for a moment, and then opened his mouth to bellow his annoyance.
‘Benedict!’ he roared, and Ben quailed and Rachel winced. Their uncle really could have been a huge hit in the opera. The volume, percussion, and resonance he could create from just one word was quite remarkable. It clanged against the kitchen walls and the pans that hung above the sink vibrated.
‘Sorry, Uncle J!’ gasped Ben, rubbing his elbow which had struck the floor hard. Uncle Jerome looked ready to unleash another terribly loud complaint, but a piece of sugary apple slid over his grey hair and fell into his eye, behind his spectacles, and this distracted him.
Getting to his feet, he began wiping his snack off his head, neck, and shoulders. Rachel quickly ran to the sink and wetted a tea towel and then began to sponge off the fruit, pastry, and sticky orange juice, while Uncle Jerome grunted in annoyance.
After a minute he noticed the state of his niece and nephew. ‘Have you been mining?’ he asked, aghast. They realized they must look pretty bad, because Uncle Jerome almost never noticed what they looked like, so distracted was he by his science projects, which he worked on ceaselessly in his attic laboratory.
Ben decided to be straight. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ve found something in the wood. We were trying to dig it up.’
‘Oh, I see,’ nodded Uncle Jerome. ‘Good. Better than watching television all day. Children should dig more. All children should dig.’
Ben and Rachel smiled and nodded. Uncle Jerome took off his spectacles, wiped them on the tea towel and put them back on his nose.
‘I’m sorry, you two,’ he said. They stared at him in surprise. ‘It’s not much fun, is it? Stuck out here all summer, with only an old scientist for company. I know it’s dull for you.’
‘Well,’ began Rachel, ‘it’s not that bad now the rain’s stopped.’ She was itching to get what they’d come for and get back to the wood. Uncle Jerome had picked the worst moment to come over all reflective and understanding.
‘It’s just that I’ve got to get this project finished— or at least to the next stage—by September, or I’ll lose my funding,’ said Uncle Jerome. They nodded sympathetically. Uncle Jerome was working on something for some government body. They had tried to understand what it was once, when he’d been in the mood to explain it to them. They hadn’t understood a word he’d said.
‘Perhaps you could have some friends to stay?’ he suggested. ‘Get some school chums over for a week.’
Ben and Rachel sighed. It’s not that they didn’t have school ‘chums’—it’s just that none of them much wanted to stay beyond a day in a leaky old house with no decent computer games. Mum and Dad had promised them a games console at the end of their summer tour, but until then, now that the telly was dead, the most hi-tech distraction they had was the toaster. They both had some little hand-held computer games, but those had run out of batteries days ago. There were computers—about three of them—in Uncle Jerome’s laboratory, but he had always made it quite clear that prodding even one button on one keyboard could lead to a cataclysmic disaster in the world of science beyond all measure. Likely to end in a death. Probably of the button prodder.
The house was on the outskirts of the town and quite remote. People didn’t just drop by, apart from the postman and Percy, an old man who occasionally toiled up the stony lane and leant on the g
ate, staring at the woods beyond Darkwood House. He always moved off before Ben or Rachel could talk to him, although they had heard him speak to Uncle Jerome once in a while.
‘Give it some thought! Let me know!’ said Uncle Jerome, retrieving more apple pie and orange juice from the fridge. Then he was gone, back upstairs, humming softly to himself as he went.
Ben and Rachel ran to the cupboard beneath the sink. Getting the hot soapy water in a bucket down the steep slopes and over the stream was very difficult, but they had at least half of it left by the time they reached their excavation site. Never had anyone been more excited about scrubbing brushes and floor cloths. They worked around the earth-choked ins and outs of the metal wheel on its shaft and soon streams of brown water were running across the gentle dome of the metal under their knees. When they had poked out all the mud from every channel with barbecue skewers and washed the whole wheel and column clean with a final upending of the bucket, they dried it all with the floor cloths and then Ben poked the 3-in-1 oil nozzle into the channel that ran around the column beneath the wheel.
‘Turning it should undo some kind of catch inside, and then I reckon it’ll tip up,’ said Ben, gnawing on his lower lip. They threw all the cleaning and oiling stuff in the bucket and put it to one side as they stared at the gleaming results of their work. The metal shone pale grey—there was no rust on it. The lettering at the base of the dome had been fully revealed now. HJE— 1955.
‘It’s been here more than fifty years,’ whispered Rachel, and a shiver ran through her, making the hairs stand up on her arms. ‘What could it be?’
Ben shrugged. ‘I dunno. Probably just some water workings or something. Anyway … let’s find out.’
They both took hold of the wheel and pulled in the direction of the arrow for half a minute, straining and gasping and screwing up their dirty faces with the effort. They stopped and stared at each other, frustrated. ‘It’s no good,’ panted Rachel. ‘It’s stuck.’
‘No,’ grunted Ben and narrowed his dark grey eyes. He was not going to give up on this—not if he was still here, tugging at this wheel, at midnight. ‘Come on—again!’
They bent to the wheel once more and hauled at it with aching hands, and maybe their previous efforts had helped, because, to their utter amazement, this time there was a gritty, grating sound, and the wheel actually began to turn. Ben shouted and Rachel squeaked with excitement. It was turning—faster and faster. It turned a full 180 degrees, with the brother and sister hanging off it and grinning at each other in delight, before it stopped. They stopped too and stood up and just as they were about to reach over and try to yank the hatch up in some way, there was a clunk and then a low metallic ring, deep in the earth beneath them. Then a sound like a metal chain being dragged across something. Three clicks and then a hiss. They stood, gasping, as the hatch dropped down and then slid sideways, smoothly, revealing a crescent of black emptiness which grew and grew until it was a full circle. With a final clunk, the movement stopped and the black circle gaped up at them—a replica of their own shocked mouths.
Rachel grabbed Ben’s arm and found that he was shaking as much as she was. They looked at each other, identical eyes wide with amazement and fear. A musty old smell rose from the black circle and Ben could feel the cold of it curling around his ankles.
‘I don’t know if I want to do this,’ said Rachel, sounding very young. Ben had been thinking the very same thing.
‘We’ll need torches,’ he gulped, his voice shaking. But just as he said this there was a click and a humming noise started up and then a pale orange light glowed up from the hole, revealing a metal ladder set into the side of a deep shaft. ‘Wow!’ breathed Ben and they leaned over, staring down.
‘How far does it go?’ Rachel leaned on his shoulder.
‘Not that far—about four metres maybe …?’ said Ben. And they could see where the ladder ended at a dull grey concrete floor. ‘There must be a corridor leading off it,’ breathed Ben, excitement fighting with fear inside him. What if Rachel was right? What if there were aliens or something?
‘Come on then!’ said Rachel, much to his surprise, and she was stepping down onto the first rung already.
‘No! Let me go first!’
‘Why? Because you’re a boy?’ she snapped. ‘Don’t be sexist.’
‘No—because I’m the eldest! And it might be dangerous. And Mum and Dad always say I have to look after you, so get off there and let me go first … we don’t even know if it’s OK to breathe down there, do we?’
Rachel looked mutinous so he added: ‘And I bet the spiders are huge.’ That did it. With a shudder she stepped back up again and let him go first. He did expect, in fact, to have to flap his way through a lot of cobwebs as he went down, and was surprised to find that there were actually hardly any. Maybe there was no point in a spider being down here. Not much in the way of flies would have been through for a very long time.
The ladder, as he tested it with a few sharp kicks, seemed perfectly sound. It was bolted securely into the shaft wall, which was circular, like the hatch, and made of smooth concrete. He realized that the lid of the shaft, which had slid away into the side, must be thirty centimetres thick. Whatever mechanism had made it move must be very strong. As he descended he saw a pull-lever switch, like the kind of thing you see on generators, which must work the hatch lid from the inside. Next to it was a bright yellow notice. Black lettering on it read: Check all sensors. Do not attempt exit before blue light. STOP. CHECK. Are you wearing your suit and breathing equipment?
He also saw that there were lights, domed and covered in metal grilles, at intervals, alongside the ladder. The one next to the yellow sign looked blue, although it was not lit.
Ben felt scared. Very scared. He looked up at Rachel who was making urgent ‘get a move on’ gestures, ready to follow him down.
‘Look … let’s just go to the b-bottom and see what’s there. I don’t think we should go any further … not until we know a b-bit more about this …’ he said. It was no good. His stammer was starting up, so she would know he was scared.
‘OK, OK!’ she said. ‘But hurry up! I want to see.’
He descended then, steadily, determined not to look frightened, and Rachel swung her muddy welling-tons over the edge, dropping a small clod of earth on his head, and followed fast. The deeper they went the thicker the fug of mustiness. It swam into his nose and throat like gas and made him gulp rapidly. Rachel felt it too, but having given way over the spiders thing, she was equally determined not to look scared in front of her brother.
At last they stood at the bottom. They turned in one direction. The only direction they could turn. A concrete corridor led away, its grey walls lit with more orange lights, to a closed metal door about five metres away. The door had curved corners, like something from a submarine, and another one of those wheels to turn to get it open. They looked at each other as they reached it.
‘C-can we do this?’ asked Ben, no longer trying to look un-scared.
Rachel stared up at him, eyes huge with fright and excitement. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We can.’
They grabbed the wheel together and this time, without fifty years of mud and roots embedded in it, it turned quite easily. Finally it stopped turning and there was another hiss and clunk, like the first time, and the door seals abruptly snapped. It moved inwards slightly, propelled by the breaking of the seals, and a blackness stole around the edge, as it had done at the hatch. Ben reached out a shaking hand and poked at the door and it swung open into the next room a little more.
As it did so there was a sudden click and a zooming noise, like something powering up—orange light flickered and then glowed steadily through the gap they had made and then, to their utter amazement, they heard a voice.
Rachel shrieked. So did Ben. Then they hitched in their shocked gasps, holding their hands to their mouths, and listened with eyes wide and glassy.
‘YOU ARE ENTERING A SECURE ZONE,’ warned a stern male
voice. ‘IF YOU ARE CONTAMINATED TURN BACK NOW.’
They gasped and clutched at each other. Who could be down here? Who was this man?
‘YOU ARE ENTERING A SECURE ZONE,’ repeated the man. ‘IF YOU ARE CONTAMINATED, TURN BACK NOW.’
When he said it for the third time, Ben’s hammering heart at last began to slow down. ‘It’s OK,’ he whispered to Rachel. ‘It’s just a recording.’ And he reached out and pushed open the door, embarrassed that he’d been so scared. ‘It must have been triggered by the door unlocking. Come on!’ Now he pushed open the door and light flooded out. Inside was a chamber, about the size of their living room, stacked with floor to ceiling shelving, which was filled with all kinds of boxes and tins and bottles and packets. As the stern man continued to warn them off, Rachel stared around in a daze. She saw OMO and VIM and Brown & Polson, and other names which didn’t mean much to her, in old-fashioned writing. The floor was covered in a green swirly carpet and there was an old-fashioned leather sofa and two armchairs, grouped around a table—and between the sofa and armchair was the source of the voice. An old-fashioned reel to reel tape recorder was turning, a small pale cloud of dust rising from it.
Ben wandered across to the machine and pressed a clunky STOP button on its surface. At last the voice stopped, plunging them into an eerie silence, under which ran the soft hum of some kind of power generator, Ben guessed. He noticed that the air seemed a little fresher too—perhaps it was some kind of air conditioner.
‘Ben—look—it goes on,’ whispered Rachel, standing transfixed in the middle of the room, pointing to another door in the opposite wall. This one was an ordinary door, painted white, with an ordinary handle. Rachel was already opening it and Ben hurried across to stop her going through.
