Hell Pit

by WR Armstrong

  “This is not a game,” Carrington snapped back. “I’d appreciate it if you would give our work the respect it deserves. We could be talking about a most important archaeological find.”

  “And how do you intend compensating commuters for the inevitable inconvenience your self- indulgence will undoubtedly cause them,” McGrath asked, unable to hide his contempt.

  Carrington saw fit to ignore the comment and quickly brought the meeting to a close.

  Outside the chamber McGrath, already hot under the collar, suddenly found himself embroiled in a terse exchange with Kate Marshall as to the wisdom of allowing a dig to take place in the underground in the first place. Kate, although apologetic for the fact that the reconstruction program had been put back, nevertheless made it clear to McGrath that he and his team were expected to cooperate fully with her own people, regardless of their own personal feelings on the matter.

  “That’s as maybe,” McGrath conceded, “but for the record, I think this decision will come back to haunt us.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion,” Kate replied evenly. “Hopefully, the disruption should be pretty minimal, for the short time that it lasts.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” McGrath said, “For both our sakes.”

  They left the building and found themselves heading off in the same direction, towards Oxford Street. McGrath, calmer now that he’d had time to reflect, offered to buy Kate lunch as a peace gesture, an offer she politely declined.

  “I have to get back to the office,” she explained, “Some other time, maybe.”

  They arrived at an intersection where they paused uncertainly, each waiting for the other to speak.

  In the end it was Kate who took the initiative. “Nice meeting you;” she said, appearing to mean it, “No doubt we’ll bump into each other again.”

  She made to walk off, but something caused her to hesitate. “Tell me something, Mr McGrath.”

  “It’s Paul,” McGrath advised.

  “Is it true,” Kate continued, “that certain individuals claim to have heard voices coming from the damaged tunnel roof?”

  McGrath nodded. “Why do you ask?”

  At first Kate failed to answer, and McGrath was forced to prompt her.

  “I’ve heard of the phenomenon happening before,” she admitted finally, “A plague pit was discovered in southern France just after the Second World War. Individuals involved in the resulting dig complained of being tormented by voices of the dead.”

  “And...” McGrath asked, sensing there was more.

  But if there was, Kate wasn’t saying. “As I said, I’ll be in touch,” she replied and started to turn.

  McGrath opened his mouth to speak, but she was already walking away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Dempster Foundation headquarters was an elevated three-story building standing at the end of a long gravel drive. Originally a private boarding school before its conversion, the three acres of land in which it stood and which was once divided into rugby and soccer pitches with a running track at its perimeter, was now sectioned into a car park and landscaped gardens. The building housed the specialised environmental experimentation department, which was developed by Benjamin C. Dempster, an eminent professor of the late sixties who had ultimately won the Nobel Prize for Chemistry. His life’s dream had been to set up an establishment purposely built for specialised testing and experimentation. Its main job was to monitor industrial and agricultural methods, keep checks on the use of insecticides and chemical compounds used by multi-national corporations, and evaluate the extent of their effect on the environment, then report those findings to the appropriate body, that being the Department of the Environment.

  The Foundation also carried out its own experimentation programs on toxic prevention, microbiology, parasitology and epidemiology. Recently it had opened a new unit, which dealt with research into vaccines and antibiotics. Over the years it had grown from being one man’s dream into a reality that now played an integral part in safeguarding the environment.

  The place was also situated in relatively close proximity to Northwalk Underground Station, which made it an ideal headquarters for the Archaeological Society during excavation of the underground tunnel. Rooms on the second floor had been donated by the Foundation for the duration of the dig. Carrington was to spearhead the operation aided by a group of archaeology students and handpicked volunteers from the general public, together with a small administrative team headed by Kate Marshall. Besides PR work it was also Kate’s responsibility to help chronicle the finds discovered in the burial pit. The washing, cleaning and eventual packing work would be delegated to students and volunteers working under her.

  She felt privileged to work for someone as eminent in his field as Carrington. She hoped to learn a huge amount from the man. The past few months had seen her accompany him on field trips around England. Next year there was the promise of a trip to Egypt should the Archaeological Society receive the necessary funding. She had visited the country before and was spellbound by its culture and natural beauty. She had witnessed the majesty of the mortuary temple of Queen Hatshepset, framed as it was by a backdrop of desert cliffs that formed a natural rock pyramid above the temple. Had marvelled also at the mysterious Great Sphinx near the pyramids of Giza and entered tombs where Pharaohs had been put to rest. Egyptology was the love of her life, always had been. She was in awe of the Egyptians. Everything about them was larger than life. Their kings were wealthier and more powerful than other rulers of the time; their religion was magical and dramatic. They worshipped countless gods and goddesses. Their artists and craftsmen produced some of the largest and most impressive buildings the world has ever known. They were excellent farmers and they had an incredible and strange insight into death, believing that the pyramids acted as some kind of cosmic axis to the heavens, blessed with the ability to immortalise. But there was far more to archaeology than Egyptology, as Kate well knew. She was therefore determined to make the most of the opportunity Carrington had handed to her. All she had to do was concentrate on her job, ensure she didn’t slip up and a rosy future was in the offing. The great pity was she had no one to share it with.

  The day had been a particularly hectic one. The roller coaster ride had started that morning when Carrington contacted her at home. The discovery of the bones had reached the Press. She was instructed therefore to keep the news hounds informed of any progress. A press release had already been e-mailed to Reuter’s news agency, giving brief details of the finds made to date, Carrington said, adding that she was to expect calls from the media, as her contact numbers were also included in the bulletin. He went on to brief her on the amount of information she should release, advising discretion should be used in case it all came to nothing.

  She revelled in the responsibility. As anticipated, the calls from the media came in thick and fast. The first was from a reporter freelancing for the Evening Standard, who threw a couple of tricky questions at her regarding the accident involving the construction worker, Marcos Powell. She explained the incident had nothing to do with the archaeological excavation and any questions of that nature should be directed to London Transport. There had been a series of calls from the media and then the BBC had phoned, asking similar questions concerning the accident involving the repair worker. She learned quickly that liaising with the Press was no picnic, and that she would have to choose her words carefully when speaking to journalists.

  Later in the day she’d visited the underground to update herself on the situation, before driving over to The Dempster Foundation where she concentrated on logging and researching finds in between taking more calls from the Press. A news crew wanted to conduct an interview for an independent station and a local radio station requested a similar commitment that afternoon. It was full on and she had loved every moment the day had to offer.

  The sun was setting as she entered the archaeological department. The main room was furnished with sturdy metal shel
ving and a series of long wooden benches covered by sheeting, upon which lay bones of varying descriptions. Kate felt a rush of excitement, imagining the discoveries yet to be made in the underground roof. If, by chance, the bomb explosion had inadvertently uncovered a hitherto unknown burial site of major importance, the episode might be far reaching in its influence and even receive worldwide attention.

  Just then Chrichton entered the room.

  “Good afternoon Kate,” he said.

  She smiled and returned the greeting. “Any new developments?” she asked, referring to the possible discovery of any historical data connected to the burial pit.

  Chrichton shook his head. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything,” he said. He came closer. “You look well Kate,” he added gazing intently at her. “All the excitement must agree with you.” He smiled. “Why, you look positively radiant.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Kate said, moving away on the pretext of studying an artefact. It wasn’t that she disliked Chrichton; he had been nothing other than charming in his dealings with her. Perhaps that was the problem. He was just too darned pleasant. Kate sensed there was an ulterior motive underlying his behaviour towards her. It was pretty obvious he found her desirable, he had hinted as much on more than one occasion. Not that there was anything wrong with that, it was common knowledge that he was available, yet Kate would rather the man kept his distance. He simply made her feel uncomfortable. Maybe it was in part the way he looked at her, and his manner when engaging in conversation with her.

  Chrichton was just about to say something else when he was distracted by the sound of his mobile phone ringing.

  “Excuse me Kate,” he said as he answered it.

  Kate took the opportunity to disengage completely by moving to the other side of the room where she approached a young male student archaeologist, one of maybe half a dozen who was busily dusting artefacts on the main table, which included a selection of mysterious crucifix shaped objects recently found in the ruined remains of the underground roof. Their existence had been kept quiet for the moment for their origin and purpose was unknown. She picked one up and briefly studied it. It was small but surprisingly weighty with a sharp pointed end. She placed it back on the table and passed the time of day with the student, who bore a passing resemblance to the man she might have once married, were it not for his infidelity. The episode had confused her, and put her off romantic involvement. She was no longer sure what she wanted in a man. Integrity maybe, the ability to be there for her, to understand her needs and desires—she supposed plain old dependability was all she craved when it came right down to it.

  “These are weird,” said the student, studying one of the crucifix/daggers with uneasy interest. “The blade is really quite sharp.”

  Kate thought his use of the word “blade” was interesting. It seemed he subconsciously thought of the crucifix in the context of a weapon, rather than a religious instrument. About four inches in length, one end was blunt while the other tapered to a sharp point. Its purpose was a mystery. She turned her attention to another long bench, this one containing an impressive selection of bones unearthed in the tunnel. Amongst them was a skull, mounted on a pedestal, the first to be discovered relatively intact, the subject appearing nevertheless to have died from head injuries. She gazed at the skull trying to imagine what the person would have looked like when alive. It was of course impossible.

  There was talk of using computer-enhanced imagery to form a precise picture of how those buried in the mass grave might have looked, in addition to employing the services of a forensic artist.

  Her mobile phone suddenly rang. She answered the call to find herself speaking to yet another reporter interested to know what was going on in the underground tunnel. She explained briefly what they were attempting to accomplish below surface and their objective in obtaining approval from the Home Office to excavate above ground. She gave the reporter enough information to whet the appetite, but was careful to leave out the fact that artefacts as well as bones had been found. The reporter asked if there were plans to exhibit the finds. Kate said there weren’t.

  “How about a private viewing?” he pressed.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible at the present time,” she told him. The reporter was persistent; intimating there might be a backhand in it for Kate if she cooperated. She recalled Carrington issuing a stern warning to the team that anyone found indulging in “cheque book journalism” would face instant dismissal. She politely rejected the thinly disguised bribe. Reluctantly, the reporter gave up.

  She left the artefacts room to get a drink from the dispenser and suddenly remembered she was supposed to contact McGrath with important news. She tried his mobile number only to find his phone was switched off. She had failed to get his home number and it was now proving to be a grave oversight. Maybe she would be able to reach him at City Hall? It was after six: she doubted the place would still be open. She decided to give it a try anyway. A man from security answered. The place was shut, he informed her abruptly. Everyone had finished for the day. No, he wasn’t allowed to give out private phone numbers: council policy. Kate asked if he would be good enough to pass on a message. Sorry, no can do, came the reply. She hung up, inwardly lambasting the man for his unhelpful attitude. Grabbing the phone directory she began searching under the name McGrath. Initial “P”. There were about twenty. She proceeded to call each in turn. If she failed to reach McGrath tonight there would be major ructions tomorrow. She continued to scan the phone book but none of the listed phone numbers belonged to Paul McGrath. Not the Paul McGrath she sought anyway. His number, she finally decided, must be silent.

  She sighed miserably, wondering how to salvage the situation.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The skinhead was convinced the voices he’d been hearing since the tube accident belonged to the spirits of his long dead Nazi idols. He was also of the mind that he wasn’t the only one to be contacted in this way. The bearded dude had taken a hit as well. The skinhead had known from the look in the man’s eyes.

  It was raining heavily on the afternoon he arrived back at his squat with a soiled sports bag slung over one shoulder. He entered the shed in the back yard, dumping the bag on the floor, and fumbled to undo the zipper with hands made bloodied from his exploits down by the canal.

  He grinned as he retrieved the bag’s contents, the reward for his labours. It had taken the best part of two hours to nail the little bleeder with his catapult, but it was going to be worth it, just to see if the voices were right.

  He grabbed the cross he’d earlier banged together using two pieces of wood and some rusty nails, feeling privileged to have been chosen. The voices proclaimed the cross was the giver of life. It made sense to the skinhead, who read that the Swastika used by the Nazi party was an ancient cross signifying invincibility. What he was about to do certainly beat attending National Front demos or threatening innocent women on tube trains. This was the real business. He reached for the box of nails, pinched from a hardware store, and the hammer, similarly acquired, and set to work.

  The rat he’d catapulted to death lay face up, four short legs sticking up in final submission. The skinhead placed it on the homemade cross and rubbed his hands together, grinning darkly. Taking a long thick masonry nail from the box, he held it to the rodent’s exposed throat, before hammering it down hard. The nail went through cleanly, causing a thin sliver of blood to flow from the ruptured throat. He stood the cross with its crucified victim against the wall, standing back to admire his handiwork, wondering if the rat really would return to life. He waited, whilst thinking about his friend, Neil Henderson. Neil hadn’t been so lucky in the tube crash, becoming one of the fatalities. The skinhead hadn’t bothered to attend his friend’s funeral—too much of a hassle. But he thought about Neil a lot. They’d had some good laughs together, marching on demos, beating up on the black bastards that were ruining their beloved country; chasing trouble down at Stamfo
rd Bridge with the Head Hunters. Shame he wasn’t around anymore. Then again, if the voices were right—

  The rat was a test. If this little experiment worked, the possibilities were endless. The skinhead took to reciting strange sounding words that entered his head as if by magic and felt suddenly empowered. It seemed he was about to witness a miracle. He waited—and waited, maintaining the vigil until dark, but nothing happened. And then, just when he had decided the voices were full of crap, and more or less accepted that the rat was history, it happened.

  Shadows darker than the night seeped through the shed walls and into the rat’s prone form, like liquid through paper, causing blue sparks of static electricity to fly. The skin heard the voices again, outside his head now, squabbling like children, fighting over the late, unlamented creature.

  The rat twitched and gave the appearance of drawing breath. The skinhead watched transfixed, at first unable to believe what he was witnessing. It appeared that the voices told the truth and here was the “living” proof. That which he had shot smack through the side of the head and secured firmly to the cross by way of a nail through its scrawny throat had, to all intents and purposes, returned to life.

  Slowly the creature’s eyes opened and focused. The youth stepped back involuntarily, trying to avoid its unwavering stare. And then, quite suddenly, his head was filled with the sound of its voice as it screamed the words, “Body no good!!!!” over and over again.

  Realisation hit the skinhead like a thunderbolt. Whatever controlled the rat was dissatisfied with its new physical form and demanded a replacement body. All of a sudden the enormity of what he’d done hit home. The notion prompted him to take refuge in the semi-derelict house he called home. From here he was able to keep vigil over the back yard, whilst wondering if the creature would emerge from the shed. He wasn’t so much afraid of what the rat-thing could do to him; rather he was terrified of the entity that controlled it. It had somehow got inside his head and was already driving him to distraction with its crazy demands.