Figure It Out for Yourself

into my face. I fought it off, but it left me sweating and cold and as limp as a length of boiled string.

I got out my cigarettes, split half of them before I could get my ringers round one of them. I got it alight, and lay back against the wall, drawing in smoke, and blowing it out again while I stared at the white light of the torch that stood between me and the darkness.

I had no idea how long I was going to be down here. The battery wouldn’t last much longer than a couple of hours of continuous burning. I’d have to conserve it, even if it did mean sitting in the dark.

I counted my cigarettes. I had seventeen. Even that little red spark could be comforting, and while I smoked the torch would have to go out.

So I put it out.

Back came the choking, heavy darkness so thick I could feel it, and with it came my panic, nudging my elbow, making me sweat again.

I sat there in that awful dank darkness for what seemed an hour, smoking the cigarette, watching the glowing end, con-centrating on it and trying to forget the black walls that pressed in on me.

When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I switched on the torch. I had sweated right through my clothes, and my watch told me I’d been sitting in the darkness for eight minutes.

I began to get worried then: really worried. If I was ready to walk up a wall after eight minutes of darkness, what would I be like in an hour, a day or even two days?

I put the torch on the floor by my side and laid hold of the chain again. I pulled and jerked at it in a mounting frenzy, until I heard myself yelling curses at it. I stopped that, and sat down again. I felt as if I’d run ten miles; even the muscles in my legs were fluttering. Then I heard something.

Up to now the only sound in this old shaft, a hundred feet below ground, had been my breathing, the thump- thump- thump of my heart and the fainter tick of my watch. But now a new sound made me turn my head and look into the darkness.

I listened, holding my breath, my mouth half open, my heart hammering. Nothing. Slowly I reached for the torch, sent the beam down the long tunnel. Still nothing. I turned off the light and waited. Minutes ticked by. Then it came again: a gentle rustle, something moving cautiously, a pebble dislodged: sharp, violent sounds in the silence; sounds that wouldn’t have been heard except for the quiet of this shaft where a feather settling on the ground would have been a disturbance.

I touched the button on the torch. The beam cut into the darkness like a razor cutting into flesh.

For a split second I saw something that looked like two glow-ing sparks: something that could have been the eyes of some animal; then they vanished, and I was struggling up on my knees, leaning forward, peering, trying to see.

You’ll find I’m good at paying off old scores. I gave him full marks. Those few seconds were, up to now, about the worst seconds I have ever lived through, and the thought that it wasn’t over gave me a sick feeling in my belly. I lit another cigarette, and kept the light on. I decided I’d keep it on until it went out, then I’d make the best of it, but so long as the light was on, I felt pretty sure whatever it was out there in the darkness would keep its distance.

I sat there smoking, listening to the thud of my heart and trying to think how to get the staple out. But my brain felt as if it was wrapped up in cotton wool. My thoughts kept darting into the darkness; useless and frightened.

Then I saw the red embers again; just out of reach of the light of the torch. I didn’t move, but kept my eyes on the two fiery beads that hung in the darkness, watching me.

More minutes ticked by. I couldn’t make up my mind if they were coming closer or I was imagining it. So I waited, cold, stiff, scared, holding my breath for as long as I could, breathing silently through my open mouth when I had to.

They were coming closer: very cautiously and silently, and something was beginning to take shape. I could make out a ferret-shaped head and the outline of a sleek, round back. Still I didn’t move. One of my legs had gone to sleep, but I scarcely noticed it. I wanted to see what I was up against. I hadn’t long to wait. Into the beam of the torch moved a rat. Not an ordinary rat, but a monster: a nightmare of a rat, almost as big as a full-grown cat, measuring at a guess over two feet from nose to tail.

It came forward into the light, less cautiously now, looking towards me, its sleek, brown fur glistening in the hard light of the torch.

Close by my hand was a fair-sized stone. My fingers reached for it. The rat stopped moving. I snapped up the stone and threw it in one movement.

There was a rustle, a streak of brown, and the rat was gone, long before the stone hit the spot where it had been.

Well, I knew now. I knew what had turned Ferris into a heap of rags and bones. I knew too when that brute got hungry it wouldn’t run away.

I looked around for more stones, and began making a little pile of them within easy reach. I examined the ground near me. Under dust and pebbles I discovered a short length of wood. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was something. If I had to tackle this one rat, chained as I was, I felt I could lick it, but the back of my mind I was beginning to wonder if there was more than one, and if so, how many. Again my eyes strayed to the heap of rags. A lot more than one rat had done that.

I held the club in my right hand, the torch in my left and leaned my back against the wall. I waited; and somewhere in the darkness, not far away, the rat waited too.

IV

The luminous hands of my wrist watch pointed to twenty minutes past four. I had been in the shaft a little over two hours. I had five cigarettes left, and the light of the torch was turning orange. I had been switching it on and off every five minutes for the past half-hour while I waited and listened, trying to make it last as long as possible.

I had heard no sound nor seen anything. The stale, dank air was making me feel sleepy. It was only by smoking and concentrating hard on the glowing tip of the cigarette that I managed to keep awake. I had tied my handkerchief round my throat to offer some resistance if the rat went for me. It gave me an optimistic feeling of safety.

I had got over my panic—or, rather, I had worn it out. There’s a limit to fear, and after the first hour I had got on top of it. But I had given up all hope of getting out of this jam. My one thought was to kill the rat before it killed me. Beyond that I had no thoughts.

The two hours had dragged by like two months. There was nothing to do except smoke and watch and listen, and think of the rat. The hands of my watch crawled on.

Then the rustling sound began again. The sound of the hard rings around the rat’s tail rubbing along the floor. I threw a stone in the direction of the sound and heard a little scurry. Well, he wasn’t hungry yet. I threw another stone to drive him farther away.

The dying light of the torch worried me. I turned it off, sitting now in the darkness, breathing gently and listening. I sat there for perhaps ten minutes with my eyes closed, and I must have dozed off. Then something happened that drove the blood out of my heart and brought me wide awake: something touched my foot and moved along my leg.

I snapped on the torch, a cold prickle shooting up my spine, my left hand grabbing at the club. For one horrible moment I saw the rat within inches of me, creeping towards me, pressed flat on the ground, its red eyes gleaming viciously. As the yellowing beam of the torch hit it, it swerved away and was gone, moving like lightning, and leaving me gulping in the close air, petrified and sweating.

Then out of the darkness, beyond the feeble light, four pairs of red sparks suddenly appeared, spaced about a foot apart and in a semicircle before me. Four now, not one.

I yelled at them: my voice harsh and off-key, but they didn’t move. I grabbed a handful of stones and threw them. The red eyes vanished, but reappeared almost immediately, a little closer, if anything. I yelled again.

‘Vic!’