Berserk

shoulders and gut touched the walls. He would be filthy when he came back up, but the cool, damp darkness below was irresistible.

'What's down there?' Jo called. She was standing aside from the doorway, allowing as much light as possible to enter.

'Spiders,' Tom called. 'Big ones. Huge. Unnaturally huge! Oh my God!'

'What?'

Tom chuckled and the sound carried up and down. Above, it elicited a muttered curse from Jo; below, it echoed for a second, overlapping itself and turning into a groan. Tom took out his car keys and pressed the button on the tiny torch that hung on the keyring. Its makers' claims that it could be seen from a mile away were instantly vapourised when the beam barely managed to fight back the dark more than a couple of feet.

Thick dark, Tom thought, like it hasn't been disturbed for ages.

At the bottom of the narrow stairs he found himself in a tiny room with a low ceiling and bare stone walls. The walls had been whitewashed at some time in the distant past, but moisture had bled through and shed the paint onto the floor. His torch lit the room just enough for him to see that there was nothing down there, other than a few shelves and a damp floor that looked prone to flooding. No sign of an electric light, and no indication that the room had been used for decades.

It was cold. Bitterly cold. He wondered if everywhere underground was like this.

'Anything?' Jo called. Her voice was muffled, even though the staircase only took a half-turn.

'It's horrible!' Tom called back, putting on his best horror movie voice.

'Well, retreat from the horror and help me in the bedroom.'

'That's an offer I can't refuse.'

Jo laughed. 'Maybe after dinner if you're lucky.'

'If you're lucky!'

He started up the staircase, knees straining from the unnatural angle at which he had to climb. He thought of the people who had actually used this place to store their meat and perishables, wondered how they had lived, whether they had shared the same banter as he and Jo. Perhaps the cottage was haunted. At least a ghost tickling his foot in the night would take his mind off Steven, and that map, and the fact that Nathan King for some reason wanted him to find the grave.

Or did he? Maybe the red cross was a red herring. Perhaps King was just a cruel man, taking pleasure in Tom's desperation and loss.

'You're filthy!' Jo said. 'Oh for God's sake, you and your bloody exploring.'

'Want to wash me off in the bath?'

'Stop being a frisky old sod and carry our suitcase upstairs, will you?' She smiled at him, one side of her mouth rising in a look that spoke of years of love and familiarity. Sometimes Tom thought they knew each other too well—that Steven's death had left an irreparable hole in their lives that they tried to fill with more of themselves— but he found endless comfort in their strong relationship. Many people turned to God, but he had to look no farther than his wife.

Upstairs, Tom and Jo unpacked their suitcase, hung their clothes, pulled back the bedclothes to let them air, and all the while Tom was aware of the map in his back pocket. It felt heavier than a piece of paper. He kept touching the pocket, slipping his finger inside to make sure it was still there. If Jo found it he had no idea what he would tell her. Not the truth, for sure: Jo, I think this is where Steven is really buried. Oh no. That way lay madness. But lying to his wife was not something that came naturally, and he was sure that whatever happened, she would see through his lie to the terrible truth beneath.

'What shall we do for dinner?' Jo asked. Tom looked at her blankly for a few seconds, trying to haul his thoughts back from their buried son. 'Dinner?' 'You eat it,' she said. 'Here, or in the local pub?' 'Oh, er …' Tom shook his head. 'The pub, I think.' 'You sure? I could cook the steak we brought.' There'll be people in the pub, he thought. Noise, bustle, spaces I can stare into without Jo wondering why. 'Let's have that tomorrow,' he said. 'Come on, it'll be nice to eat out our first night here.'

'Alright, but you're not allowed to choose steak. That chance has gone, mister.' She pecked him on the cheek and went into the bathroom.

Tom clunked downstairs, making a noise so that Jo did not think he was sneaking around. He snorted, shook his head and sat on the flowery settee in the living room. Damn it, I'm not sneaking about all fucking weekend! But he took the map from his pocket, coughing as he opened it to mask the sound of paper crinkling, and spread it on his knee. There was little to reveal its location on the Plain other than the coordinates, and for that he would have to buy a larger scale OS map. There were no villages, farms or settlements, no major roads, and no names that he could see to identify any particular area. All the map displayed were the contour lines of gentle hills, a couple of stone mounds, and a meandering stream at the bottom edge. That and the red cross. How dare they bury my Steven in no place at all, he thought, the sentiment raw and sore in his eyes. He wiped away the first tears, sniffed, stood and walked to the kitchen. In one of the food boxes he had packed a bottle of Jameson's, and he spun the top off and took a long, luxurious swig from the bottle.

Jo said he drank too much. But then she barely drank at all, so she did not understand the pleasure he derived from it. That was his excuse, anyway, and his stock answer when she brought it up, though sometimes he thought his drinking had more to do with drowning pain than promoting pleasure.

He took another swig, put the top back on, and closed his eyes as the whiskey burned its way into his stomach. Upstairs he heard the toilet flush and the tap turned on, the water hammer in the pipes actually seeming to set the house shaking on its foundations.

'Tom!' Jo called.

'Okay, I hear it!' he shouted. 'Probably the ghost trying to get out of the pipes.'

Jo was silent. Tom knew he could take this ghost thing too far; she claimed not to believe in them, yet they terrified her. Perhaps the mention of ghosts only brought Steven to mind.

The local pub was surprisingly accommodating to visitors. It had a smattering of locals—they gathered at one end of the bar, playing darts or sitting protectively around their pints of local brew—but there was still an honest welcome from the staff, and a friendliness that put Tom immediately at ease. The landlady recommended a pint of local beer for him, and she let him try a half before he committed to buying some, which he did. She gave Jo her first glass of wine on the house, and when Tom said they'd like to eat she showed them to a comfortable, private table in an alcove close to the front door. Its window looked out onto the village street, and past the houses opposite they could make out the rolling hills of Salisbury Plain in the dusk. Tom glanced that way, saw Jo do the same, and then they both concentrated on the inside of the pub.

Tom had left the map back at the cottage, hidden in the book he had brought to read this weekend. His pocket felt empty without it, as if he had left purpose behind.

They ordered food, and while waiting they indulged in one of their own private games; spotting peculiar- looking people, giving them a name, then building a background around them. The old farmer at the end of the bar, sporting sideburns the size of small rabbits, became Major Crisis of the Indian Expeditionary Force, here on leave and making the most of British beer brewing. Whenever he spoke he spat at those around him, and Tom had to bury his face in his hands when Jo muttered, 'Machine gun effect.'

There was a huge open fireplace but the fire remained unlit. Tom imagined it would be very cosy here in the winter, with flames roaring in the hearth and hail pummeling the windows. Perhaps they would have a lock-in after eleven o'clock, allowing the locals to remain here lest the wind blow them away. The landlady would cook them bacon sandwiches throughout the night, and if any beer barrel needed changing one of the regulars would volunteer, sparse payment for their use of the pub as a shelter against the elements.

And maybe Steven had drunk here once.

Tom sighed and took a drink. Jo spotted his instant mood change but ignored it. He thanked her silently, smiled, and made a joke about the young family that had just come in. They had a daughter and son, both under five, and the parents looked hassled and strained. The children stared around the pub wide-eyed, marking places for forthcoming expeditions and items to investigate as soon as their parents turned their backs.

He might have grandchildren that age, if Steven hadn't been killed.

Tom tipped his beer, and as he was looking into the bottom of the glass King's face came back at him, pale and haunted by what he had seen. He had obviously wanted to tell Tom everything, and yet from that first moment in the pub he had seemed reticent about speaking. He had let out a few details, but everything he said inspired a