The Pit-Yakker
                                     by Brian Lumley


              Born in Harden, Durham on December 2, 1937, Brian Lumley began selling
      short fiction in the late 1960s, and throughout the 1970s he was chiefly known for
      a series of books based on the Cthulhu Mythos of H.P. Lovecraft: The Caller of the
      Black, The Burrowers Beneath, Beneath the Moors, The Transition of Titus Crow,
      and others. While Lumley still likes to muck about with the Cthulhu Mythos, during
      the 1980s he concentrated on massive novels of contemporary horror, most
      notably his Psychomech and Necroscope sagas. Lumley's latest novels include The
      House of Doors and Necroscope IV: Deadspeak. He has just completed the fifth
      and final Necroscope novel, Deadspawn, and is now putting together two
      collections of his short stories, "to be titled Fruiting Bodies & Other Fungi, and
      (some other silly title)." Tor Books will be bringing out Psychomech I and II as a
      single volume, to be followed by Psychamok.

              Retired from the army after twenty-two years, Brian Lumley now lives with
      his wife, Dorothy, in Devon. Like "Fruiting Bodies" in last year's Year's Best
      Horror, "The Pit-Yakker" makes strong and effective use of the sort of English
      locales that won't be included in your tour package.



       When I was sixteen, my father used to say to me: "Watch what you're doing
with the girls; you're an idiot to smoke, for it's expensive and unhealthy; stay away
from Raymond Maddison!" My mother had died two years earlier, so he'd taken
over her share of the nagging, too.
       The girls? Watch what I was doing? At sixteen I barely knew what I was
doing! I knew what I wanted to do, but the how of it was a different matter entirely.
Cigarettes? I enjoyed them; at the five-a-day stage, they still gave me that
occasionally sweet taste and made my head spin. Raymond Maddison? I had gone
to school with him, and because he lived so close to us we'd used to walk home
together. But his mother was a little weak-minded, his older brother had been put
away for molesting or something, and Raymond himself was thick as two short
planks, hulking and unlovely, and a very shadowy character in general. Or at least he
gave that impression.
        Girls didn't like him: he smelled of bread and dripping and didn't clean his
teeth too well, and for two years now he'd been wearing the same jacket and
trousers, which had grown pretty tight on him. His short hair and little piggy eyes
made him look bristly, and there was that looseness about his lips, which you find in
certain idiots. If you were told that ladies' underwear was disappearing from the
washing-lines, you'd perhaps think of Raymond. If someone was jumping out on
small girls at dusk and shouting boo!, he was the one who'd spring to mind. If the
little-boy-up-the-road's kitten got strangled...
       Not that that sort of thing happened a lot in Harden, for it didn't. Up there on
the northeast coast in those days, the Bobbies on the beat were still Bobbies,
unhampered by modern "ethics" and other humane restrictions. Catch a kid drawing
red, hairy, diamond-shaped designs on the school wall, and wallop!, he'd get a clout
round the earhole, dragged off home to his parents, and doubtless another wallop.
Also, in the schools, the cane was still in force. Young people were still being
"brought up," were made or at least encouraged to grow up straight and strong, and
not allowed to bolt and run wild. Most of them, anyway. But it wasn't easy, not in
that environment.
       Harden lay well outside the fringes of "Geordie-land" -- Newcastle and
environs -- but real outsiders termed us all Geordies anyway. It was the way we
spoke; our near-Geordie accents leaped between soft and harsh as readily as the
Welsh tongue soars up and down the scales; a dialect which at once identified us as
"pit-yakkers," grimy-black shambling colliers, coal-miners. The fact that my father
was a Harden green-grocer made no difference: I came from the colliery and so was
a pit-yakker. I was an apprentice woodcutting machinist in Hartlepool? -- so what?
My collar was grimy, wasn't it? With coal dust? And no matter how much I tried to
disguise it I had that accent, didn't I? Pit-yakker!
        But at sixteen I was escaping from the image. One must, or sex remains
forever a mystery. The girls -- the better girls, anyway -- in the big towns, even in
Harden, Easingham, Blackhill and the other colliery villages, weren't much impressed
by or interested in pit-yakkers. Which must have left Raymond Maddison in an
entirely hopeless position. Everything about him literally shrieked of his origin, made
worse by the fact that his father, a miner, was already grooming Raymond for the
mine, too. You think I have a down on them, the colliers? No, for they were the salt
of the earth. They still are. I merely give you the background.
       As for my own opinion of Raymond: I thought I knew him and didn't for a
moment consider him a bad sort. He loved John Wayne like I did, and liked to think
of himself as a tough egg, as I did. But Nature and the world in general hadn't been
so kind to him, and being a bit of a dunce didn't help much either. He was like a big
scruffy dog who sits at the corner of the street grinning at everyone going by and
wagging his tail, whom nobody ever pats for fear of fleas or mange or whatever, and
who you're sure pees on the front wheel of your car every time you park it there. He
probably doesn't, but somebody has to take the blame. That was how I saw
Raymond.
       So I was sixteen and some months, and Raymond Maddison about the same,
and it was a Saturday in July. Normally when we met we'd pass the time of day. Just
a few words: what was on at the cinema (in Harden there were two of them, the Ritz
and the Empress -- for this was before Bingo closed most of them down), when was
the next dance at the Old Victoria Hall, how many pints we'd downed last Friday at
the British Legion. Dancing, drinking, smoking, and girls: it was a time of
experimentation. Life had many flavors other than those that wafted out from the pit
and the coke-ovens. On this Saturday, however, he was the last person I wanted to
see, and the very last I wanted to be seen with.
        I was waiting for Moira, sitting on the recreation ground wall where the stumps
of the old iron railings showed through, which they'd taken away thirteen years earlier
for the war effort and never replaced. I had been a baby then but it was one of the
memories I had: of the men in the helmets with the glass faceplates cutting down all
the iron things to melt for the war. It had left only the low wall, which was ideal to sit
on. In the summer the flat-capped miners would sit there to watch the kids flying
kites in the recreation ground or playing on the swings, or just to sit and talk. There
was a group of old-timers there that Saturday, too, all looking out across the dark,
fuming colliery toward the sea; so when I saw Raymond hunching my way with his
hands in his pockets, I turned and looked in the same direction, hoping he wouldn't
notice me. But he already had.
       "Hi, Joshua!" he said in his mumbling fashion, touching my arm. I don't know
why I was christened Joshua: I wasn't Jewish or a Catholic or anything. I do know
why; my father told me his father had been called Joshua, so that was it. Usually they
called me Josh, which I liked because it sounded like a wild-western name. I could
imagine John Wayne being called Josh. But Raymond occasionally forgot and called
me Joshua.
       "Hello, Raymond!" I said. I usually called him Ray, but if he noticed the
difference he didn't say anything.
      "Game of snooker?" It was an invitation.
      "No," I shook my head. "I'm, er, waiting for someone."
      "Who?"
      "Mind your own business."
      "Girl?" he said. "Moira? Saw you with her at the Ritz. Back row."
      "Look, Ray, I -- "
      "It's OK," he said, sitting down beside me on the wall. "We're jus' talking. I
can go any time."
      I groaned inside. He was bound to follow us. He did stupid things like that. I
decided to make the best of it, glanced at him. "So, what are you doing? Have you
found a job yet?"
      He pulled a face. "Naw."
      "Are you going to?"
      "Pit. Next spring. My dad says."
     "Uh-huh," I nodded. "Plenty of work there." I looked along the wall past the
groundkeeper's house. That's the way Moira would come.
      "Hey, look!" said Raymond. He took out a brand new Swiss Army penknife
and handed it over for my inspection. As my eyes widened he beamed. "Beauty,
eh?"
       And it was. "Where'd you get it?" I asked him, opening it up. It was fitted with
every sort of blade and attachment you could imagine. Three or four years earlier I
would have loved a knife like that. But right now I couldn't see why I'd need it. OK
for woodcarving or the Boy Scouts, or even the Boys' Brigade, but I'd left all that
stuff behind. And anyway, the machines I was learning to use in my trade paled this
thing to insignificance and made it look like a very primitive toy. Like a rasp beside a
circular saw. I couldn't see why Raymond would want it either.
     "Saved up for it," he said. "See, a saw. Two saws! One for metal, one for
wood. Knives -- careful! -- sharp. Gouge -- "
     "That's an auger," I said, "not a gouge. But... this one's a gouge, right enough.
Look," and I eased the tool from its housing to show him.
      "Corkscrew," he went on. "Scissors, file, hook..."
      "Hook?"
      "For hooking things. Magnetic. You can pick up screws."
      "It's a good knife," I told him, giving it back. "How do you use it?"
      "I haven't," he said, " -- yet."
       I was getting desperate. "Ray, do me a favor. Look, I have to stay here and
wait for her. And I'm short of cigs." I forked out a florin. "Bring me a packet, will
you? Twenty? And I'll give you a few."
      He took the coin. "You'll be here?"
       I nodded, lying without saying anything. I had an unopened packet of twenty
in my pocket. He said no more but loped off across the road, disappearing into one
of the back streets leading to Harden's main road and shopping area. I let him get out
of sight, then set off briskly past the groundskeeper’s house, heading north.
      Now, I know I've stated that in my opinion he was OK; but even so, still I
knew he wasn't to be trusted. He just might follow us, if he could -- out of curiosity,
perversity, don't ask me. You just couldn't be sure what he was thinking, that's all.
And I didn't want him peeping on us.
       It dawns on me now that in his "innocence" Raymond was anything but
innocent. There are two sides to each of us, and in someone like him, a little lacking
in basic understanding... well, who is to say that the dark side shouldn't on occasion
be just a shade darker? For illustration, there'd been that time when we were, oh, nine
or ten years old? I had two white mice who lived in their box in the garden shed.
They had their own swimming pool, too, made out of an old baking tray just two
and a half inches deep. I'd trained them to swim to a floating tin lid for bits of bacon
rind.
       One day, playing with Raymond and the mice in the garden, I'd been called
indoors about something or other. I was only inside a moment or two, but when I
came back out he'd gone. Looking over the garden wall and down the street, I'd seen
him tip-toeing off into the distance! A great hulk like him, slinking off like a cartoon
cat!
       Then I'd shrugged and returned to my game -- and just in time. The tin lid raft
was upside-down, with Peter and Pan trapped underneath, paddling for all they were
worth to keep their snouts up in the air trapped under there with them. It was only a
small thing, I suppose, but it had given me bad dreams for a long time. So... instead
of the hard nut I considered myself, maybe I was just a big softy after all. In some
things.
       But... did Raymond do it deliberately or was it an accident? And if the latter,
then why was he slinking off like that? If he had tried to drown them, why? Jealousy?
Something I had which he didn't have? Or sheer, downright nastiness? When I'd later
tackled him about it, he'd just said: "Eh? Eh?" and looked dumb. That's the way it
was with him. I could never figure out what went on in there.
       Moira lived down by the high colliery wall, beyond which stood vast cones of
coal, piled there, waiting to fuel the coke ovens. And as a backdrop to these black
foothills, the wheelhouse towers rising like sooty sentinels, coming into view as I
hurried through the grimy sunlit streets; a colliery in the summer seems strangely
opposed to itself. In one of the towers a massive spoked wheel was spinning even
now, raising or lowering a cage in its claustrophobic shaft. Miners, some still in their
"pit black," even wearing their helmets and lamps, drew deep on cigarettes as they
came away from the place. My father would have said: "As if their lungs aren't
suffering enough already!"
       I knew the exact route Moira would take from her gritty colliery street house
to the recreation ground, but at each junction in its turn I scanned the streets this way
and that, making sure I didn't miss her. By now Raymond would have brought the
cigarettes and be on his way back to the wall.
       "Hello, Josh!" she said, breathlessly surprised -- almost as if she hadn't
expected to see me today -- appearing like a ray of extra bright sunlight from behind
the freshly creosoted fencing of garden allotments. She stood back and looked me
up and down. "So, you're all impatient to see me, eh? Or... maybe I was late?" She
looked at me anxiously.
      I had been hurrying and so was breathing heavily. I smiled, wiped my
forehead, said: "It's... just that there was someone I knew back there, at the
recreation ground, and -- "
       " -- You didn't want to be seen with me?" She frowned. She was mocking me,
but I didn't know it.
      "No, not that," I hurriedly denied it, "but -- "
       And then she laughed and I knew she'd been teasing. "It's all right, Josh," she
said. "I understand." She linked my arm. "Where are we going?"
       "Walking," I said, turning her into the maze of allotments, trying to control my
breathing, my heartbeat.
      "I know that]" she said. "But where?"
      "Down to the beach, and up again in Blackhill?"
       "The beach is very dirty. Not very kind to good clothes." She was wearing a
short blue skirt, white blouse, and a smart white jacket across her arm.
      "The beach banks, then," I gulped. "And along the cliff paths to Easingham."
        "You only want to get me where it's lonely," she said, but with a smile. "All
right, then." And a moment later, "May I have a cigarette?"
       I brought out my fresh pack and started to open it, but looking nervously
around she said: "Not just yet. When we're farther into the allotments." She was six
months my junior and lived close by; if someone saw her smoking it was likely to be
reported to her father. But a few minutes later we shared a cigarette and she kissed
me, blowing smoke into my mouth. I wondered where she'd learned to do that. Also,
it took me by surprise -- the kiss, I mean. She was impulsive like that.
        In retrospect, I suppose Moira was my first love. And they say you never
forget the first one. Well, they mean you never forget the first time -- but I think your
first love is the same, even if there's nothing physical. But she was the first one
who'd kept me awake at night thinking of her, the first one who made me ache.
       She was maybe five feet six or seven, had a heart-shaped face, huge dark
come-to-bed eyes which I suspected and hoped hadn't yet kept their promise, a
mouth maybe a fraction too wide, so that her face seemed to break open when she
laughed, and hair that bounced on her shoulders entirely of its own accord. They
didn't have stuff to make it bounce in those days.
       Her figure was fully formed and she looked wonderful in a bathing costume,
and her legs were long and tapering. Also, I had a thing about teeth, and Moira's
were perfect and very, very white. Since meeting her the first time I'd scrubbed the
inside of my mouth and my gums raw trying to match the whiteness of her teeth.
      Since meeting her...
      That had been, oh, maybe three months ago. I mean, I'd always known her, or
known of her. You can't live all your life in a small colliery village and not know
everyone, at least by sight. But when she'd left school and got her first job at a salon
in Hartlepool, and we'd started catching the same bus in the morning, that had
opened it up for us.
      After that there'd been a lot of talk, then the cinema, eventually the beach at
Seaton, which the debris from the pits hadn't ruined yet, and now we were "going
together." It hadn't meant much to me before, that phrase, "going together," but now
I understood it. We went places together, and we went well together. I thought so,
anyway.
        The garden allotments started properly at the end of the colliery wall and
sprawled over many acres along the coast road on the northern extreme of the
village. The access paths, which divided them, were dusty, mazy, meandering. But
behind the fences people were at work, and they came to and fro along the paths, so
that it wasn't really private there. I had returned Moira's kiss, and in several quieter
places had tried to draw her closer once or twice.
       Invariably she held me at arm's length, saying: "Not here!" And her
nervousness made me nervous, too, so that I'd look here and there all about, to
make sure we were unobserved. And it was at such a time, glancing back the way
we'd come, that I thought I saw a face hastily snatched back around the corner of a
fence. The thought didn't occur to me that it might be Raymond. By now I'd quite
forgotten about him.
        Where the allotments ended the open fields began, gradually declining to a
dene and a stream that ran down to the sea. A second cigarette had been smoked
down to its tip and discarded by the time we crossed the fields along a hedgerow,
and we'd fallen silent where we strolled through the long summer grass. But I was
aware of my arm, linked with hers, and hugged close against her right breast. And
that was a thought which made me dizzy, for through a heady half-hour I had
actually held that breast in my hand, had known how warm it was, with its little hard
tip that felt rough against the parent softness.
       Oh, the back row love-seats in the local cinema were worthy of an award;
whoever designed them deserves an accolade from all the world's lovers. Two
people on a single, softly upholstered seat, thigh-to-thigh and hip-to-hip, with no
ghastly armrest divider, no obstruction to the slow, breathless, tender and timid first
invasion.
       In the dark with only the cinema's wall behind us, and the smoky beam from
the projector turning all else to pitch, I was sure she wasn't aware of my progress
with the top button of her blouse, and I considered myself incredibly fortunate to be
able to disguise my fumblings with the second of those small obstacles. But after a
while, when for all my efforts it appeared I'd get no further and my frustration was
mounting as the tingling seconds ticked by, then she'd gently taken my hand away
and effortlessly completed the job for me. She had known -- which, while it took
something of the edge off my triumph, nevertheless increased the frisson to new and
previously unexplored heights.
      Was I innocent? I don't know. Others, younger by a year, had said they knew
everything there was to know. Everything! That was a thought.
        But in opening that button and making way for my hand, Moira had invited me
in, as it were; cuddled up together there in the back row, my hand had molded itself
to the shape of her breast and learned every contour better than any actor ever
memorized his lines. Even now, a week later, I could form my hand into a cup and
feel her flesh filling it again. And desired to feel her filling it again.
       Where the hedgerow met a fence at right-angles, we crossed a stile; I was
across first and helped Moira down. While I held one hand to steady her, she
hitched her short skirt a little to step down from the stile's high platform. It was
funny, but I found Moira's legs more fascinating in that skirt than in her bathing
costume. And I'd started to notice the heat of my ears -- that they were hot quite
apart from the heat of the sun, with a sort of internal burning -- as we more nearly
approached our destination. My destination, anyway, where if her feelings matched
mine she'd succumb a little more to my seductions.
        As we left the stile to take the path down into the dene and toward the sea
cliffs, I glanced back the way we'd come. I don't know why. It was just that I had a
feeling. And back there, across the fields, but hurrying, I thought... a figure.
Raymond? If it was, and if he were to bother us today of all days... I promised
myself he'd pay for it with a bloody nose. But on the other hand it could be
anybody. Saying nothing of it to Moira, I hurried her through the dene. Cool under
the trees, where the sunlight dappled the rough cobbled path, she said:
      "What on earth's the hurry, Josh? Are you that eager?"
      The way I took her up in my arms and kissed her till I reeled must have
answered her question for me; but there were voices here and there along the path,
and the place echoed like a tunnel. No, I knew where I wanted to take her.
      Toward the bottom of the dene, where it narrowed to a bottleneck of woods
and water scooped through the beach banks and tunneled toward the sea, we turned
north across an old wooden bridge over the scummy stream and began climbing
toward the cliff paths, open fields, and sand holes that lay between us and
Easingham Colliery. Up there, in the long grasses of those summer fields, we could
be quite alone and Moira would let me make love to her, I hoped. She'd hinted as
much, anyway, the last time I walked her home.
       Toiling steeply up an earth track, where white sand spilled down from sand
holes up ahead, we looked down on the beach -- or what had been a beach before
the pit-yakkers came -- and remembered a time when it was almost completely white
from the banks and cliffs to the sea. On a palmy summer day like this the sea should
be blue, but it was gray. Its waves broke in a gray froth of scum on a black shore
that looked ravaged by cancer -- the cancer of the pits.
       The landscape down there could be that of an alien planet: the black beach
scarred by streamlets of dully glinting slurry gurgling seaward; concentric tidemarks
of congealed froth, with the sick, wallowing sea seeming eager to escape from its
own vomit; a dozen sea-coal lorries scattered here and there like ticks on a carcass,
their crews shoveling pebble-sized nuggets of the wet, filthy black gold in through
open tail-gates, while other vehicles trundled like lice over the rotting black corpse of
a moonscape. Sucked up by the sun, gray mists wreathed the whole scene.
      "It's worse than I remembered it," I said. "And you were right: we couldn't
have walked down there, not even along the foot of the banks. It's just too filthy!
And to think: all of that was pure white sand just, oh -- "
      " -- Ten years ago?" she said. "Well, maybe not pure white, but it was still a
nice beach then, anyway. Yes, I remember. I've seen that beach full of people, the
sea bobbing with their heads. My father used to swim there, with me on his chest! I
remember it. I can remember things from all the way back to when I was a baby. It's
a shame they've done this to it."
       "It's actually unsafe," I told her. "There are places they've flagged, where
they've put up warning notices. Quicksands of slag and slop and slurry -- gritty
black sludge from the pits. And just look at that skyline!"
        South lay the colliery at Harden, the perimeter of its works coming close to
the banks where they rolled down to the sea, with half-a-dozen of its black spider
legs straddling out farther yet. These were the aerial trip-dumpers: conveyor-belts or
ski-lifts of slag, endlessly swaying to the rim and tripped there, to tip the refuse of
the coke-ovens down onto the smoking wasteland of foreshore; and these were,
directly, the culprits of all this desolation. Twenty-four hours a day for fifty years
they'd crawled on their high cables, between their spindly towers, great buckets of
muck depositing the pus of the earth to corrode a coast. And behind this lower
intestine of the works lay the greater pulsating mass of the spider itself: the pit, with
its wheel-towers and soaring black chimneys, its mastaba cooling towers and
mausoleum coke-ovens. Yellow smoke, gray and black smoke, belching
continuously into the blue sky -- or into a sky which looked blue but was in fact
polluted, as any rainy day would testify, when white washing on garden lines would
turn a streaky gray with the first patter of raindrops.
        On the southern horizon, Blackhill was a spiky smudge under a gray haze;
north, but closer, Easingham was the same. Viewed from this same position at night,
the glow of the coke-ovens, the flare-up and gouting orange steam when white hot
coke was hosed down, would turn the entire region into a scene straight from Hell!
Satanic mills? They have nothing on a nest of well-established coal mines by the
sea....
       We reached the top of the banks and passed warning notices telling how from
here on they rolled down to sheer cliffs. When I'd been a child, miners used to
clamber down the banks to the cliff-edge, hammer stakes into the earth and lower
themselves on ropes with baskets to collect gull eggs. Inland, however, the land was
flat, where deep grass pasture roved wild all the way from here to the coast road.
There were a few farms, but that was all.
        We walked half a mile along the cliff path until the fields began to be fenced;
where a hedgerow inside the fence, there split the first true field. I paused and turned
to Moira. We hadn't seen anyone, hadn't spoken for some time but I suppose her
heart, like mine, had been speeding up a little. Not from our efforts, for walking here
was easy.
       "We can climb the fence, cut along the hedgerow," I suggested, a little
breathlessly.
      "Why?" Her eyes were wide, naive and yet questioning.
        I shrugged. "A... shortcut to the main road?" But I'd made it a question, and I
knew I shouldn't leave the initiative to her. Gathering my courage, I added: "Also,
we'll -- "
      " -- Find a bit of privacy?" Her face was flushed.
      I climbed the rough three-bar fence; she followed my example and I helped
her down, and knew she'd seen where I could hardly help looking. But she didn't
seem to mind. We stayed close to the hedgerow, which was punctuated every
twenty-five paces or so with great oaks, and struck inland. It was only when we were
away from the fence that I remembered, just before jumping down, that I'd paused a
second to scan the land about -- and how for a moment I thought I'd seen someone
back along the path. Raymond, I wondered? But in any case, he should lose our trail
now.
         After some two hundred yards there was a lone elder tree growing in the field
a little way apart from the hedge, its branches shading the lush grass underneath. I
led Moira away from the hedge and into the shade of the elder, and she came
unresisting. And there I spread my jacket for her to sit on, and for a minute or two
we just sprawled. The grass hid us almost completely in our first private place.
Seated, we could just see the topmost twigs of the hedgerow, and of course the bole
and spreading canopy of the nearest oak.
         Now, I don't intend to go into details. Anyone who was ever young, alone
with his girl, will know the details anyway. Let it suffice to say that there were things
I wanted, some of which she was willing to give. And some she wasn't. "No," she
said. And more positively: "No!" when I persisted. But she panted and moaned a
little all the same, and her voice was almost desperate, suggesting: "But I can do it
for you this way, if you like." Ah, but her hands set me on fire! I burned for her, and
she felt the strength of the flame rising in me. "Josh, no!" she said again. "What if...
if..."
       She looked away from me, froze for a moment -- and her mouth fell open.
She drew air hissingly and expelled it in a gasp. "Josh!" And without pause she was
doing up buttons, scrambling to her feet, brushing away wisps of grass from her
skirt and blouse.
         "Eh?" I said, astonished. "What is it?"
       "He saw us!" she gasped. "He saw you -- me -- like that!" Her voice shook
with a mixture of outrage and fear.
     "Who?" I said, mouth dry, looking this way and that and seeing no one.
"Where?"
     "By the oak tree," she said. "Half-way up it. A face, peering out from behind.
Someone was watching us."
      Someone? Only one someone it could possibly be! But be sure that when I
was done with him he'd never peep on anyone again! Flushed and furious I sprinted
through the grass for the oak tree. The hedge hid a rotting fence; I went over,
through it, came to a panting halt in fragments of brown, broken timber. No sign of
anyone. You could hide an army in that long grass. But the fence where it was nailed
to the oak bore the scuffmarks of booted feet, and the tree's bark was freshly
bruised some six feet up the bole.
     "You... dog!" I growled to myself. "God, but I'll get you, Raymond
Maddison!"
     "Josh!" I heard Moira on the other side of the "hedge. "Josh, I'm so --
ashamed!"
       "What?" I called out. "Of what? He won't dare say anything -- whoever he is.
There are laws against -- ". But she was no longer there. Forcing myself through soft
wooden jaws and freeing myself from the tangle of the hedge, I saw her hurrying
back the way we'd come. "Moira!" I called, but she was already halfway to the
three-bar fence. "Moira!" I called again, and then ran after her. By the time I reached
the fence she'd climbed it and was starting back along the path.
       I finally caught up with her, took her arm. "Moira, we can find some other
place. I mean, just because -- "
       She shook me off, turned on me. "Is that all you want, Josh Peters?" Her face
was angry now, eyes flashing. "Well if it is, there are plenty of other girls in Harden
who'll be more than happy to... to..."
         "Moira, I -- " I shook my head. It wasn't like that. We were going together.
         "I thought you liked me\" she snapped. "The real me!"
       My jaw fell open. Why was she talking to me like this? She knew I liked --
more than liked -- the real Moira. She was the real Moira! It was a tiff, brought on by
excitement, fear, frustration; we'd never before had to deal with anything like this,
and we didn't know how. Hers heightened my emotions, and now my pride took
over. I thrust my jaw out, turned on my heel and strode rapidly away from her.
       "If that's what you think of me," I called back, " -- if that's as much as you
think of me -- then maybe this is for the best..."
        "Josh?" I heard her small voice behind me. But I didn't answer, didn't look
back.
       Furious, I hurried, almost trotted back the way we'd come: along the cliff
path, scrambling steeply down through the grass-rimmed, crumbling sand pits to the
dene. But at the bottom I deliberately turned left and headed for the beach. Dirty?
Oh, the beach would be dirty -- sufficiently dirty so that she surely wouldn't follow
me. I didn't want her to. I wanted nothing of her. Oh, I did, I did! -- But I wouldn't
admit it, not even to myself, not then. But if she did try to follow me, it would
mean... it would mean...
      Moira, Moira! Did I love her? Possibly, but I couldn't handle the emotion. So
many emotions; and inside I was still on fire from what had nearly been, still aching
from the retention of fluids my young body had so desired to be rid of. Raymond?
Raymond Maddison? By God, but I'd bloody him! I'd let some of his damned fluids
out!
       "Josh!" I seemed to hear Moira's voice from a long way back, but I could
have been mistaken. In any case it didn't slow me down. Time and space flashed by
in a blur; I was down onto the beach; I walked south under the cliffs on sand that
was still sand, however blackened; I trekked grimy sand dunes up and down, kicking
at withered tufts of crabgrass which reminded me of the gray and yellow hairs
sprouting from the blemishes of old men. Until finally I had burned something of the
anger and frustration out of myself.
       Then I turned toward the sea, cut a path between the sickly dunes down to the
no-man's land of black slag and stinking slurry, and found a place to sit on a rock
etched by chemical reaction into an anomalous hump. It was one of a line of rocks I
remembered from my childhood, reaching out half a mile to the sea, from which the
men had crabbed and cast their lines. But none of that now. Beyond where I sat,
only the tips of the lifeless, once limpet- and mussel-festooned rocks stuck up above
the slurry; a leaning, blackened signpost warned:


                           DANGER! QUICKSAND!
                        Do Not Proceed Beyond This Point.
      Quicksand? Quag, certainly, but not sand...
      I don't know how long I sat there. The sea was advancing and gray gulls
wheeled on high, crying on a rising breeze that blew their plaintive voices inland.
       Scummy waves broke in feathers of gray froth less than one hundred yards
down the beach. Down what had been a beach before the invasion of the
pit-yakkers. It was summer but down here there were no seasons. Steam curled up
from the slag and misted a pitted, alien landscape.
       I became lulled by the sound of the birds, the hissing throb of foamy waters,
and, strangely, from some little distance away, the periodic clatter of an aerial
dumper tilting its buckets and hurling more mineral debris down from on high,
creating a mound which the advancing ocean would spread out in a new layer to coat
and further contaminate the beach.
       I sat there glumly, with my chin like lead in my hands and all of these sounds
dull on the periphery of my consciousness, and thought nothing in particular and
certainly nothing of any importance. From time to time a gull's cry would sound like
Moira's voice, but too shrill, high, frightened, or desperate. She wasn't coming,
wouldn't come, and I had lost her. We had lost each other.
       I became aware of time trickling by, but again I state: I don't know how long I
sat there. An hour? Maybe.
        Then something broke through to me. Something other than the voices of the
gulls, the waves, the near-distant rain of stony rubble. A new sound? A presence? I
looked up, turned my head to scan north along the dead and rotting beach. And I
saw him -- though as yet he had not seen me.
       My eyes narrowed and I felt my brows come together in a frown. Raymond
Maddison. The pit-yakker himself. And this probably as good a place as any, maybe
better than most, to teach him a well-deserved lesson. I stood up, and keeping as
low a profile as possible made my way round the back of the tarry dunes to where
he was standing. In less than two minutes I was there, behind him, creeping up on
where he stood wind-blown and almost forlorn-seeming, staring out to sea. And
there I paused.
       It seemed his large, rounded shoulders were heaving. Was he crying?
Catching his breath? Gulping at the warm, reeking air? Had he been running?
Searching for me? Following me as earlier he'd followed us? My feelings hardened
against him. It was because he wasn't entirely all there that people tolerated him. But
I more than suspected he was all there. Not really a dummy, more a scummy.
        And I had him trapped. In front of him the rocks receding into pits of black
filth, where a second warning notice leaned like a scarecrow on a battlefield, and
behind him... only myself behind him. Me and my tightly clenched fists.
        Then, as I watched, he took something out of his pocket. His new knife, as I
saw now. He stared down at it for a moment, and then drew back his arm as if to
hurl it away from him, out into the black wilderness of quag. But he froze like that,
with the knife still in his hand, and I saw that his shoulders had stopped shuddering.
He became alert; I guessed that he'd sensed I was there, watching him.
       He turned his head and saw me, and his eyes opened wide in a pale, slack
face. I'd never seen him so pale. Then he fell to one knee, dipped his knife into the
slurry at his feet, and commenced wiping at it with a rag of a handkerchief. Caught
unawares he was childlike, tending to do meaningless things.
       "Raymond," I said, my voice grimmer than I'd intended. "Raymond, I want a
word with you!" And he looked for somewhere to run as I advanced on him. But
there was nowhere.
      "I didn't -- " he suddenly blurted. "I didn't -- "
      "But you did!" I was only a few paces away.
      "I... I..."
      "You followed us, peeped on us, and messed it all up."
      And again he seemed to freeze, while his brain turned over what I'd said to
him. Lines creased his brow, vanishing as quickly as they'd come. "What?"
      "What?!" I shouted, stepping closer still. "You bloody well know what! Now
Moira and me, we're finished. And it's your fault."
      He backed off into the black mire, which at once covered his boots and the
cuffs of his too-short trousers. And there he stood, lifting and lowering his feet,
which went glop, glop with each up and down movement. He reminded me of
nothing so much as a fly caught on the sticky paper they used at that time. And his
mouth kept opening and closing, stupidly, because he had nothing to say and
nowhere to run, and he knew I was angry.
      Finally he said: "I didn't mean to... follow you. But I -- " And he reached into
a pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. "Your cigarettes."
       I had known that would be his excuse. "Throw them to me, Ray," I said. For
I wasn't about to go stepping in there after him. He tossed me the packet but stayed
right where he was, "You may as well come on out," I told him, lighting up, "for you
know I'm going to settle with you."
      "Josh," he said, still mouthing like a fish. "Josh...."
     "Yes, Josh, Josh," I told him, nodding. "But you've really done it this time,
and we have to have it out."
      He still had his knife. He showed it to me, opened the main blade. He took a
pace forward out of the slurry and I took a pace back. There was a sick grin on his
face. Except... he wasn't threatening me. "For you," he said, snapping the blade
shut. "I don't... don't want it no more." He stepped from the quag onto a flat rock
and stood there facing me, not quite within arm's reach. He tossed the knife and I
automatically caught it. It weighed heavy in my hand where I clenched my knuckles
round it.
      "A bribe?" I said. "So that I won't tell what you did? How many friends do
you have, Ray? And how many left if I tell what a dirty, sneaky, spying -- "
      But he was still grinning his sick, nervous grin. "You won't tell," he shook his
head. "Not what I seen."
       I made a lunging grab for him and the grin slipped from his face. He hopped
to a second rock farther out in the liquid slag, teetered there for a moment before
finding his balance. And he looked anxiously all about for more stepping-stones, in
case I should follow.
      There were two or three more rocks, all of them deeper into the coal dust
quicksand, but beyond them only a bubbly, oozy black surface streaked with oil and
yellow mineral swirls.
       Raymond's predicament was a bad one. Not because of me. I would only hit
him. Once or twice, depending how long it took to bloody him. But this stuff would
murder him. If he fell in. And the black slime was dripping from the bottoms of his
trousers, making the surface of his rock slippery. Raymond's balance wasn't much,
neither mentally nor physically. He began to slither this way and that, wind-milled his
arms in an effort to stay put.
      "Ray!" I was alarmed. "Come out of there!"
       He leaped, desperately, tried to find purchase on the next rock, slipped! His
feet shot up in the air and he came down on his back in the quag. The stuff quivered
like thick black porridge and put out slow-motion ripples. He flailed his arms,
yelping like a dog, as the lower part of his body started to sink. His trousers
ballooned with the air in them, but the stuff's suck was strong. Raymond was going
down.
       Before I could even start to think straight he was in chest deep, the filth
inching higher every second. But he'd stopped yelping and had started thinking.
Thinking desperate thoughts. "Josh... Josh!" he gasped.
       I stepped forward ankle-deep, got up onto the first rock. I made to jump to
the second rock but he stopped me. "No, Josh," he whispered. "Or we'll both go."
      "You're sinking," I said, for once as stupid as him.
       "Listen," he answered with a gasp. "Up between the dunes, some cable,
half-buried. I saw it on my way down here. Tough, 'lectric wire, in the muck. You
can pull me out with that."
       I remembered. I had seen it, too. Several lengths of discarded cable, buried in
the scummy dunes. All my limbs were trembling as I got back to solid ground,
setting out up the beach between the dunes. "Josh!" his voice reached out harshly
after me. "Hurry!" And a moment later: "The first bit of wire you see, that'll do it...."
      I hurried, ran, raced. But my heart was pounding, the air rasping like
sandpaper in my lungs. Fear. But... I couldn't find the cable. Then there was a tall
dune, a great heap of black-streaked, slag-crusted sand. A lookout place! I went up
it, my feet breaking through the crust, letting rivulets of sand cascade, thrusting
myself to the top. Now I could get directions, scan the area all about. Over there,
between low humps of diseased sand, I could see what might be a cable: a thin,
frozen black snake of the stuff.
      But beyond the cable I could see something else: colors, anomalous, strewn in
a clump of dead crabgrass.
       I tumbled down the side of the great dune, ran for the cable, and tore a length
free of the sand and muck. I had maybe fifteen, twenty feet of the stuff. Coiling it, I
looked back. Raymond was there in the quag, going down black and sticky. But in
the other direction -- just over there, no more than a dozen loping paces away,
hidden in the crabgrass and low humps of sand -- something blue and white and...
and red.
         Something about it made my skin prickle. Quickly, I went to see. And I saw...
         After a while I heard Raymond's voice over the crying of the gulls. "Josh!
Josh\"
       I walked back, the cable looped in my lifeless hands, made my way to where
he hung crucified in the quag; his arms formed the cross, palms pressing down on
the belching surface, his head thrown back and the slop ringing his throat. And I
stood looking at him. He saw me; saw the cable in my limp hands, looked into my
eyes. And he knew. He knew I wasn't going to let him have the cable.
      Instead I gave him back his terrible knife with all its terrible attachments --
which he'd been waiting to use, and which I'd seen no use for -- tossing it so that it
landed in front of him and splashed a blob of slime into his right eye.
       He pleaded with me for a little while then, but there was no excuse. I sat and
smoked, without even remembering lighting my fresh cigarette, until he began to
gurgle. The black filth flooded his mouth, nostrils, and the circles of his eyes. He
went down, his sputtering mouth forming a ring in the muck, which slowly filled in
when he was gone. Big shiny bubbles came bursting to the surface....
      When my cigarette went out I began to cry, and crying staggered back up the
beach between the dunes. To Moira.
      Moira. Something I'd had -- almost -- which he didn't have. Which he could
never have, except like this. Jealousy, or just sheer evil? And was I any better than
him, now? I didn't know then, and I don't know to this day. He was just a pit-yakker,
born for the pit. Him and roe both, I suppose, but I had been lucky enough to
escape it.
      And he hadn't....