thought.
Behind him, there came a sound. The creak of a pulley . . .
5
YOU’RE AT HOME IN THE PIT, AFTER ALL
“I t’s not so very much to ask, Vicar,” Bosky insisted. “All I’m asking is that you baptize my bullets!” He lifted up the 30.06 hunting rifle his father had left him and shook it emphatically at the vicar. “I’ve got two boxes of bullets in my coat pocket.”
The vicar was sitting on a chair in the darkest corner of the room, his head bowed, lank dirty-blond hair drooping over his pale, long-nosed face. Bosky supposed he was praying, but after a moment it was clear he was quietly sobbing.
The sitting room of the vicar’s cottage was dimly lit, everything bathed in the dull blue light of the cavern that had swallowed the village. Inky shadows pooling around the furniture, their shapes defined in ghostly blue, and a man weeping in the corner.
“It’s no use, Boswell,” Vicar Tombridge said, using Bosky’s real first name (Bosky’s mother, an English teacher, had done her thesis on James Boswell while she was pregnant). “Baptisms are no good in Hell, nor blessings of any sort.”
“Bloody . . .” Bosky choked off the epithet. “Not you too, Vicar! You ever hear of anyone going to Hell the way we came here? You see any flames?”
“But the demons—I have seen those! Their grasping hands! They got my neighbor, Mr. Prakesh! There was no harm in him, poor man . . . The hands of Satan will come for me soon, for I’m the true sinner here! Boswell, listen to me—run from thoughts of lust! Perhaps God will give you a second chance and let you out of here, you innocent child!”
Innocent? Run from lust? Not likely on either score. Bosky thought about Marianne LaSalle, the exchange student he’d shagged in the churchyard of St. Leonard’s. Good times. They’d been stoned, and forgot the condom. What a relief when she said she’d gotten her period.
The vicar was babbling on, “Men in the sickness of their souls taking advantage of artless young girls . . .”
Marianne had been two years older than him, nineteen, and the whole thing had been her idea. Not that he’d resisted. He’d been sorry to see her return to Paris.
“You cannot hope to throw down the powers of darkness, boy, with a bullet dipped in holy water. Come here, sit by me and we’ll pray together for forgiveness, for release from this circle of Hades.”
Bosky’s granddad Garth came to stand in the doorway then, listening.
“I intend to get out of this death trap, Vicar,” Bosky said, “and not with prayer! We can find our way back up, through the caves round about here. But first we’ve got to shoot the things you call demons! Maybe they’re demons, but that don’t mean they’re like demons in Hell. Maybe you can kill the buggers. Me and me bruvs, we saw some magical-like . . . things, stuck in the ground, out on the edge of town. Marking off the boundary, like. D’you get it? Someone’s done this to us! If it was God who sent us down here, he wouldn’t need to use magical gimmicks! He’d wave his hand and down we’d go!”
Tombridge only groaned. “Don’t deceive yourself!” But Bosky waited stubbornly, looking steadily at him, arms crossed, and at last Tombridge gave a long sigh of resignation. “If you want to go into the chapel, it’s open. There’s a baptistery with blessed water in it still. Fortunately Becky Withers was away for the day with her husband and baby when we were taken. I baptized the child and they went from the chapel to see her mother in Plymouth, so perhaps she was spared. But the rest of us . . . are damned.”
“Probably wasting your time, boy,” said Garth, coming in. “But I’ll waste mine too, if you like.” He raised a flashlight. “Even brought us an electric torch. And in my pocket, a little food—what hasn’t spoiled. Sausages and cheese and bread gone all cardboard. Come on.”
They left the vicar to his weeping and went outside, both of them glancing up
Behind him, there came a sound. The creak of a pulley . . .
5
YOU’RE AT HOME IN THE PIT, AFTER ALL
“I t’s not so very much to ask, Vicar,” Bosky insisted. “All I’m asking is that you baptize my bullets!” He lifted up the 30.06 hunting rifle his father had left him and shook it emphatically at the vicar. “I’ve got two boxes of bullets in my coat pocket.”
The vicar was sitting on a chair in the darkest corner of the room, his head bowed, lank dirty-blond hair drooping over his pale, long-nosed face. Bosky supposed he was praying, but after a moment it was clear he was quietly sobbing.
The sitting room of the vicar’s cottage was dimly lit, everything bathed in the dull blue light of the cavern that had swallowed the village. Inky shadows pooling around the furniture, their shapes defined in ghostly blue, and a man weeping in the corner.
“It’s no use, Boswell,” Vicar Tombridge said, using Bosky’s real first name (Bosky’s mother, an English teacher, had done her thesis on James Boswell while she was pregnant). “Baptisms are no good in Hell, nor blessings of any sort.”
“Bloody . . .” Bosky choked off the epithet. “Not you too, Vicar! You ever hear of anyone going to Hell the way we came here? You see any flames?”
“But the demons—I have seen those! Their grasping hands! They got my neighbor, Mr. Prakesh! There was no harm in him, poor man . . . The hands of Satan will come for me soon, for I’m the true sinner here! Boswell, listen to me—run from thoughts of lust! Perhaps God will give you a second chance and let you out of here, you innocent child!”
Innocent? Run from lust? Not likely on either score. Bosky thought about Marianne LaSalle, the exchange student he’d shagged in the churchyard of St. Leonard’s. Good times. They’d been stoned, and forgot the condom. What a relief when she said she’d gotten her period.
The vicar was babbling on, “Men in the sickness of their souls taking advantage of artless young girls . . .”
Marianne had been two years older than him, nineteen, and the whole thing had been her idea. Not that he’d resisted. He’d been sorry to see her return to Paris.
“You cannot hope to throw down the powers of darkness, boy, with a bullet dipped in holy water. Come here, sit by me and we’ll pray together for forgiveness, for release from this circle of Hades.”
Bosky’s granddad Garth came to stand in the doorway then, listening.
“I intend to get out of this death trap, Vicar,” Bosky said, “and not with prayer! We can find our way back up, through the caves round about here. But first we’ve got to shoot the things you call demons! Maybe they’re demons, but that don’t mean they’re like demons in Hell. Maybe you can kill the buggers. Me and me bruvs, we saw some magical-like . . . things, stuck in the ground, out on the edge of town. Marking off the boundary, like. D’you get it? Someone’s done this to us! If it was God who sent us down here, he wouldn’t need to use magical gimmicks! He’d wave his hand and down we’d go!”
Tombridge only groaned. “Don’t deceive yourself!” But Bosky waited stubbornly, looking steadily at him, arms crossed, and at last Tombridge gave a long sigh of resignation. “If you want to go into the chapel, it’s open. There’s a baptistery with blessed water in it still. Fortunately Becky Withers was away for the day with her husband and baby when we were taken. I baptized the child and they went from the chapel to see her mother in Plymouth, so perhaps she was spared. But the rest of us . . . are damned.”
“Probably wasting your time, boy,” said Garth, coming in. “But I’ll waste mine too, if you like.” He raised a flashlight. “Even brought us an electric torch. And in my pocket, a little food—what hasn’t spoiled. Sausages and cheese and bread gone all cardboard. Come on.”
They left the vicar to his weeping and went outside, both of them glancing up
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