The Three Day Rule

by Emlyn Rees

  They followed the track towards the engine house, then stopped. If the cottages were like the remains of a castle’s walls, then this was its keep. It had been built to house a steam-powered pumping engine which would have allowed the proposed undersea tunnelling at the bottom of the shaft to be carried out in safety. Solid and square, the tower stretched up above them and Michael felt sick with vertigo as he stared up and watched the clouds scud past above.

  ‘I thought we were going down the mine,’ Simon said, kicking the damp but solid brickwork with which the front entrance of the engine house had been sealed. ‘I can’t see how. What are we meant to do? Should we try and climb up? Can we climb up and then, if we do, can we climb down the inside and get in that way? Because it’s a long way and we don’t have a rope, do we? And even if we did it would have to be incredibly long and we’d probably have to throw it like a lasso, just to get it over the wall. Maybe we could tie a rock to the end of it, because that way –’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Taylor said, smoothing his hair. ‘We don’t have a rope, but that doesn’t matter. The front door’s not the only way in. Come on,’ she said. ‘We’ll show you – but remember,’ she warned him, ‘this is our secret. You’re never to tell anyone we’ve been here.’

  That day last summer, when Michael and Taylor had gone looking for a way down to the beach – that was when they’d first discovered it, the path leading down from the back of the mine. However, it hadn’t been a path to the beach, as they’d then hoped. It had led instead to an escape tunnel, half a mile away from the main shaft.

  They hurried along the side of the engine house now and joined a muddy sheep track at the back that led off into a thicket.

  ‘I’m freezing,’ Simon grumbled, as he and Michael followed Taylor like soldiers into the camouflage of the brambles and trees. ‘I mean, really, really, cold. Like I might freeze to death and –’

  ‘We’ll get you home soon,’ Michael promised, glancing up at the sky, which was darker than even a few minutes ago.

  The bushes seemed to close in around them as they walked on. He didn’t like it here. They were too far from other people. They were too alone. The air became chilled, musty and sickly sweet. From everywhere came the sound of running water, dripping off plants, trickling in rivulets around the pebbles on the path, and deeper, too, underground, running through unseen channels, out towards the sea. The further they walked, the more it felt to Michael that the whole island was nothing but a giant sponge.

  The path wound downwards, away from the mine. The ground grew soft, a rotting mattress of pine needles and decaying beech leaves, each one coloured like a bruise – but still, it was easier to follow than the first time Michael and Taylor had come down here. Much of the summer flora had died away, and it wasn’t long before Taylor stopped in front of an ancient oak tree which blocked their way.

  Michael could hear the sea – the percussion of waves – but could no longer see it. They were in a steep valley, a fold in the hillside. Rocky ground rose up sharply on either side. Above them, somewhere to the right, perhaps a hundred and fifty feet up now, but obscured from view by the trees and the folds in the hill, was the Wilson shaft engine house.

  ‘I think it’s here,’ Taylor said, forcing her way through some brambles at the left of the path, to where the hill rose up steeply, back towards the mine. ‘Fuck,’ she called back. ‘Watch out for the thorns.’

  Protecting himself with his jacket sleeves, Michael drew back a curtain of brambles and ushered Simon through.

  Then, there it was: the entrance to the escape tunnel which led out of the mine.

  It was like a giant had punched his fist clean into the side of the hill. Just as Michael remembered it, the tunnel entrance was roughly oval in shape, reaching up ten foot high from the ground. It was covered by a rusted metal grille, the wires of which crisscrossed like the strings of a tennis racket.

  Even on second inspection, it looked like a cave, but as Michael stepped in close and peered into the gloom, he saw once more how it stretched back into the darkness, like a throat.

  ‘Do it,’ Taylor said.

  He’d rather they left right then, but he wanted to please her too.

  The grille had been bolted to the rock on its left side by several hinged metal brackets. To the right, it was attached to a further central bracket, and bound to it by a padlock. Michael tried ramming the crowbar in under this bracket, to allow him to prise it free.

  ‘Again,’ she told him, as he failed to dig it in.

  She was standing so close now that he could smell the conditioner she used in her hair, sweet, like flowers in the summertime. His cock twitched involuntarily in his pants and he focused back on the lock. He tried again, but again the tip of the crowbar slipped, skidding across the bracket. A third attempt brought the same result, only this time, when the bar slipped, it hit with such force that the padlock, rusted and ancient as it was, snapped clean in half and fell with a clatter to the stony ground.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Taylor exclaimed.

  She scratched at her knee where she’d snagged her tights on the brambles. A line of pale skin showed through like a scar. She put her arm around him and squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘Ready?’ she asked.

  He could have stayed standing there with her for ever, but he saw a defiance in her eyes which he knew could easily turn to scorn.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re chickening out,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not.’ He was scared, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. The truth was that he wished they’d never found this way in. Whenever he’d thought of him and Taylor together, he pictured them on beaches, laughing, lying next to each other in the sun – never in there, in the dark and the cold.

  ‘You’re positive?’

  He knew it was too late to turn back now. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The torches.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘We didn’t bring any.’

  It was all he could do not to sigh out loud with relief. ‘You mean you forgot.’

  ‘No. Yes. I had the bag with them in over my shoulder, but then Dad asked me to give him a hand moving the Christmas tree. I must have left the bag in the hall.’

  ‘I guess we’ll just have to turn back then,’ Michael said.

  ‘No way,’ she said. ‘Let’s go in as far as we can. To check it’s not just a cave.’

  Michael’s mind raced, searching for a response that would get him out of here with his honour intact. Now that he was standing in front of this gaping black hole again, he remembered why it had scared him the first time. This was an escape tunnel. It had been built to provide a way out in case the main tunnels inside the mine caved in. It was here to lead people out of danger, not to lead them in. He didn’t want to go in there, and certainly not without a torch.

  However, Taylor wasn’t waiting for an answer. She slid her fingers through the grille, and pulled at the door. It shuddered open, inch by inch, dragging on the ground. Then there was a gap, less than a foot wide, and Simon slipped through.

  ‘Wait,’ Michael said.

  It was too late. Simon was already inside.

  Michael and Taylor yanked the door open wider and they followed Simon into the crepuscular light. There was something otherworldly about it. It made Michael think of the cinema, of that moment between when the lights go down and the screen bursts into life, that moment of hushed and awed anticipation of what is to come.

  ‘Boo,’ Simon shouted.

  His normally high-pitched voice boomed out at them like a cannon, then echoed into silence. He cackled at the effect. Michael peered through the gloom. The tunnel was wide enough for the three of them to stand side by side. Water dripped pliplipliplip from its roof. A drop landed on the nape of Michael’s neck and trickled down his spine. Ahead of them the light faded into inky darkness. Fear spiked Michael, as if he was five or six years old again and had
just woken from a nightmare in a blackened bedroom, alone. But here there was no bedside light, and no adult to call out to in the room next door.

  Taylor took a step forward. ‘I’m so pissed off at myself about the torches,’ she said.

  ‘We should be careful,’ Michael said. ‘There could be holes in the ground.’

  Taylor took another two steps, then stopped, and toed the dark ground before her like a horse.

  Michael would have run if he’d been on his own. He’d seen too many horror films not to get freaked out. He thought of The Ring, The Grudge, My Little Eye – all those sick moments of victims being stalked . . .

  He listened to the sound of their breathing. His eyes strained to filter sense out of the blackness, but all he got was the peripheral light coming from behind. Someone . . . something . . . could be here, now, only feet in front of him, and he wouldn’t know, until . . . The breathing he heard might be someone . . . something else’s, and he wouldn’t realise until it was too late.

  He wanted out. Now.

  ‘We should go,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right,’ Taylor agreed. ‘I can’t see a fucking thing.’

  ‘Taylor!’ Simon sniggered behind them. ‘Stop saying fuck.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ she told him, making him shriek with laughter. ‘I can do anything I fucking want.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Simon shouted. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

  Michael took Simon by the shoulder and steered him back into the light. He heard Taylor’s footsteps behind him. She was following, thank God. They could go home now. He could walk back home with Taylor and she’d still think he was as brave and as fearless as she was.

  They reached the exit, stepped outside, and stood there blinking in the light. Simon ran off up the path which led back to the mine and Taylor watched him go. Michael was crushed by what she said next.

  ‘We’ll come back tomorrow. With the torches. Then we’ll see how far we can get.’

  She laughed and that’s when he felt it – there, on his neck, another tiny pin prick, but this time different from the creepy sensation he’d felt inside the tunnel. This was more like an electrostatic shock. Then came another and another.

  Michael looked up. A snowflake landed on his lips. He saw another, and another. Then he saw them all, hundreds, thousands, drifting down through the treetops. Simon laughed and Taylor started spinning with her arms outstretched, catching the snowflakes in her hands.

  He smiled at her. He couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Isn’t it amazing?’ she shouted.

  And it was. Amazing that it had started to snow and amazing that he was standing here with her. Watching her spin, he knew she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  She stopped and stared up at the swirling white sky. She opened her mouth.

  ‘Got one,’ she shouted, laughing and sticking her tongue out at him. ‘And another. And another. I love it here,’ she told him. ‘It’s all ours. There’s no one here to tell us what to do. You will come back with me tomorrow, won’t you, Michael? Promise me that you will.’

  ‘But it’ll be Christmas Day. Don’t you think we should just –’

  ‘Just promise,’ she said.

  He thought again of The Deer Hunter and pictured the moment when the wild deer was plumb in the middle of the gun’s telescopic sights. All the books Michael had studied and all the films he’d watched were full of such life-defining moments. Would the hunter pull the trigger or not? To which course would you commit? What kind of man would you become?

  ‘All right,’ he told Taylor. ‘You can count me in.’

  Chapter 6

  The journey from Fleet Town had been a bumpy but exhilarating ride. What with the noise of the wind and the engine it had been impossible to speak, but now the boat was slowing and Ben turned to Kellie.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ he asked.

  She couldn’t. Snow had started to fall. It came in soft flakes from the light grey blanket of sky above them. There was something calming about it, as it threw a soft focus filter on to the view.

  ‘We should probably drop these supplies off sharpish, then get you back to St John’s, but there’s somewhere I want to show you first.’ Ben glanced up at the snow. ‘Shall we risk it?’

  ‘Will it be worth it?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Kellie smiled. ‘OK. You’re the boss,’ she said, clearing the damp strands of hair away from her face and looking out at the island.

  It was odd knowing that Elliot was somewhere on it. She wondered whether he was thinking of her and what he’d say if he could see her now. Would he be cross, she wondered, or just laugh, as he always did, about the fact she couldn’t help being so curious? So much for her sauna and massage back at the hotel.

  Despite what Elliot might or might not think, she was glad now that she’d made the decision to come and wasn’t sitting in the hotel driving herself crazy. Anyway, she could do with the company and Ben seemed like a decent guy. Ought she to feel guilty, she wondered, for being alone like this with a man? She glanced over at him. He was taller than he’d appeared at first, his chin was covered in stubble, but Elliot was much more her type. No, it was fine, she concluded. Ben seemed completely safe.

  ‘So what can I tell you about Brayner, ladies and gentlemen?’ he said, impersonating a tour guide. ‘The island has 101 inhabitants, one of whom is Timothy Lee, the local artist, who’s more famous for his flatulence than anything else. Another is Jim Peters, who likes dressing up as a woman, but then don’t we all?’ Kellie laughed. ‘Brayner is home to Savages flower farm, exporting quality flora to Covent Garden, although Richard, the elder brother, also has a sideline in very exotic plants shall we say . . .’

  Up on the headland sheep huddled together at the top of the fields. It was so beautiful and rugged and remote. Seagulls circled ahead of the boat, as it cut though the dark water.

  ‘What about that? What is it?’ she asked, pointing at a forbidding tower perched precariously on the cliffs up ahead. There was something prison-like about it, with its lack of windows. Far below it, spumes of white spray launched into the air as the waves hit the rocks.

  ‘It’s part of the old tin mine. They wanted to tunnel down through the cliffs, right under the sea, but they never did. It’s been deserted for years.’

  Even the thought of being that far underground made her shiver.

  Ben drove the boat slowly round the rocks which guarded the north shore of the island. Ahead of them white sandy coves stretched into the distance. As they drove in closer, Kellie saw that the nearby rocks were covered in a colony of seals.

  ‘Wow!’ she shouted out as the boat slowed again. ‘They’re amazing.’

  Ben drove in closer and she reached into her coat pocket for her camera. Above the salt of the sea, the air had a tinny, cold taste to it, but Kellie didn’t care. It was so long since she’d been somewhere so remote. They couldn’t be more than ten feet from the seals now, watching them slide over the rocks and slip into the water. Here, they were sheltered by the cliff and the snow seemed even softer.

  ‘Look at that one,’ she laughed, pointing to a huge seal who was peering at them down his whiskery nose. ‘I don’t think he approves of me taking photographs.’

  ‘How do you know it’s a he?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Because of its beer belly, of course.’

  ‘And that one over there,’ Ben said, pointing to another seal perched on the edge of a rock, which seemed to be staring at its reflection in the waves, ‘that must be a she, right, because she’s doing her make-up . . .’

  ‘No, that’s a teenager,’ Kellie said, ‘picking zits.’

  They came in closer still, Ben standing next to Kellie. It was sweet that he seemed so amazed by these creatures too, even though he must get to see them all the time.

  Suddenly, Kellie lurched forward, as the boat hit something. She grabbed on to the black handle on the side, and managed to regain h
er balance.

  ‘Shit,’ said Ben, scrambling from the wheel to the back of the boat. The outboard motor was screeching. Black smoke poured out.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, trying to keep her balance.

  The engine suddenly died. Ben tipped it up so that the propeller was out of the water and leant over to inspect it. ‘I wasn’t concentrating. I must have hit something in the water,’ he said. ‘A piece of wire, or something.’

  ‘Can you see what’s wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And?’

  He didn’t say anything, inspecting the propeller blades. Kellie buried her hands in her pockets and shivered. It was freezing out here. Thank God for her thick coat. She’d bought the Spiewak fleece from a designer shop in Notting Hill last year. The sales assistant said it had been imported from New York and was designed to be wearable in temperatures of minus thirty degrees. Kellie had bought it especially for a weekend trip to Reykjavik that Elliot had planned, but he’d called it off at the last moment when Isabelle had suddenly cancelled one of her business trips. So the coldest place the coat had been so far was the freezer aisle in Kellie’s local Marks & Spencer. Until now.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Ben said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, I think the technical marine engineering term for it is that it’s totallyfuckedup.’

  Kellie smiled. ‘Totallyfuckedup?’

  ‘Totally. Although,’ he said, glancing back over his shoulder, ‘it’s also possible that it could be utterlyfuckedup.’

  ‘Utterly? Is that worse or better?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell. Then again,’ he reflected, pulling a tool kit out from under one of the seats, ‘I could be wrong altogether and it might turn out that it’s only partially fucked up.’

  ‘In which case we’ve got nothing to worry about,’ she guessed.

  ‘See,’ he said, ‘I knew you knew more about boats than you were letting on.’