The Camden Tales

62 - A Ringing Bell

-=₪ December 1932 ₪=-

The Mansion / Margate / 5.24am

The darkness was pierced only by the dim flickering light of the hanging lanterns suspended along the small and seemingly endless tunnel. He laid still, encased in the earth, the air in his lungs thin and on the brink of surrender. It didn't matter if he died here, interred in the dirt he was buried in. He was dead already.

Pick... Pick... Pick

Mud masked his face, hands, and uniform. His eyes, wide and unblinking, bore into the furthest reaches of the tunnel, six feet under and miles deep. He was lost in a snaking abyss of interminable darkness. At the dead end of nothingness, there was no going back, no going on; there was no escape.

Pick... Pick... Pick

"Let them come," the dead man thought. "I welcome it. I can't fight anymore." Nearby, he spotted a spike-shaped weapon, a bayonet embedded in the wet earth. His gaze shifted again to the tunnel ahead, with the inky void promising only madness. Emptiness, stillness with nothing living within, and yet... there was a beating rhythm.

Pick... Pick... Pick

The persistent chipping against the wall grew louder. It was the sound of something certain, the sound of inevitability.

Pick... Pick... Pick

"Das hört sich dünn an." *That sounds thin.

Pick... Pick...

A sudden deluge of falling earth brought an intrusion as a figure exploded into view, his incoherent yells reverberating with a pickaxe swinging wildly. The dead man scrabbled for the buried blade; his cobalt eyes riveted on the invader as the swinging pickaxe caught on the wall. A swift, retaliatory kick sent the intruder to the ground, falling onto the dead man. A vicious struggle ensued with thumbs in each other's eyes as their bodies thrashed in the mud. One grabbed a boot knife, the other for the bayonet, their animosity embodied in their bared teeth and seething glares. With a surge of strength, the dead man drove the spike into the intruder's side, eliciting a piercing scream. The intruder's desperate aria of anguish echoed along the tunnel, seeking to break the unforgiving silence. A final twist of the bayonet muted the screams, giving way to blessed silence. He lay beneath the dead weight of the intruder, savouring the quiet as he sunk further into the mud. The lanterns extinguished one by one, surrendering the dead once more to unending nothingness.

Breath wrenched from his lungs as the oppressive weight drove him deeper into the waves of mud. Now freefalling, down, down, deeper and deeper, sweat streaming until, with a sudden jolt, he gasped for air as his eyes snapped open. Bolting upright, Tommy found himself staring at the geometric patterns of the wallpaper above the fireplace. Flickering shadows danced across the room, cast by the oil lamp's flame on Malka's nightstand. The room was silent. The house was still.

Glancing sideways, he noted Malka lying beside him, back turned, and her long hair cascading like a river of black silk. It wouldn't have surprised him if she was feigning sleep. He threw back the damp sheets and sat on the edge of the bed, struggling to calm his nerves. A framed photograph of Alfie on the nightstand drew Tommy's attention. Alfie was in uniform, nonchalantly perched on heavy artillery, with reins to a muscular black horse looped around his hand.

Quietly leaving the master bedroom, Tommy retreated to his chambers to dress and freshen before heading to the drawing room. The stale air reeked of smoke, prompting him to draw back the plush, weighty drapes and open the balcony doors. A frigid sea breeze quickly sliced through the old room, dispelling the stench.