Extinction Event (1) The Hole - A Novella They were up at the Park again, just another Saturday afternoon with a leaky football and heaped jackets for goal posts. They could play for hours out there, getting muddier and colder as the winter sun fell behind the oak copse and the wind grew a keen edge through their shirts. A raggle-taggle bunch of nineteen boys of all ages, the teams uneven, the rules negotiable and the pitch a weary oval of muddy turf where it wasn't unusual to skid through dog turds or trip over used needles. Here at least, there was peace from nagging parents, from sarcastic school teachers and imperative bells. The boys played football in the one place that was theirs and they never imagined that life would be different. Ray noticed it first, that cold Saturday in November. Man United had gone top of the Premiership again, Christmas was still weeks away and the weather was generous enough, like today, to offer sun from time to time. For Ray, all was right with his world. Except that he was marooned at the top of the field in goal again. The boys in his team were doing well this weekend, which was cool, but it also meant that he had spent the majority of the afternoon hopping between the heaped coats, clapping his hands together and rubbing at his knees, his nose turning red, then blue and developing a permanent drip as the ball was kept busy at the far end of the pitch. Then Rocky Dixon, Roger to his parents, kicked a fluky one from midfield, the baggy black and white ball curling up into the air in Ray's general direction but eventually passing him wide of the goal, to disappear into the long grass beyond the top end of their muddy pitch. It seemed to want to roll back with the natural slope of the hill but then it stopped, rocking a little as though it had hit a root or a stone. "Go On Ray!" The boys yelled, breathy clouds afloat around their hot heads. Ray bounced on his toes twice and then ran after the ball, his feet so cold inside his Adidas boots he could hardly feel them and it felt as though he was running on sponge rather than firm ground. The ball was still moving as he got to it, but strangely, sort of squirming on the ground like a badger taking a shit. It was freaky. He bent over it slowly, reaching out, and snatched it away expecting to see a hedgehog or maybe even a rat wriggling around underneath. There was nothing there. Ray frowned, ignoring the chorus of yells that rang in his ears.... 'Chuck it here Ray, Hey, come on, kick it back, whatyadoin' Ray....playing with yerself?' Laughter. He bent over to look more closely at the ground. There was nothing, yet.... he could hear something, a hissing sound like pressurised air escaping through a tiny hole. He scratched at the ground with the toe of his boot but there was nothing to see. Ray shrugged, glancing back at the gang of mismatched boys, wondering whether there was anything here to tell. The daylight was fading, street lamps beyond the park glowing orange in the gloom. The shouts and catcalls were getting more impatient with curses reaching his ears. Ray spun and ran back down the hill, booting the ball high into the air in front of him as he went. Within a second the game was back on and the boys played until the light was so dim they could no longer see each others faces in the dark. On Tuesday Jane Shankhill's Jack Russell dog, Bluey, chased a squirrel off the pavement running along the fence outside the park, through the railings and across the pitch. The squirrel, its tail high, leapt and bounded just feet ahead of the terrier's snapping jaws. It's home was a small hole in one of the oak trees in the copse and it was certain it could make it. As it flew across the muddy pitch and up into the long grass beyond, however, it disappeared completely and so suddenly that the dog overran the spot and had to turn back to investigate the sudden disappearance. There was a small hole in the ground, perhaps the size of a golf ball. The dog hovered there, uncertain, working its nose and its tail in unison. It could smell where the squirrel had been, but there was no trace of it now, no warm waft of its musk drifting up from the hole in the grass, no distant scuttle of claws against earth, no steady rat-a-tat of heartbeat from inside the hole. Instead there was a slow and suspicious hiss of air escaping which made the dog distinctly nervous. It whined in its throat, backing nervously away, its tail stilled. As it stood there, earth and roots around the edge of the hole seemed to be slipping inside, slowly trickling down the edge and disappearing into the black centre. The dog whimpered nervously, sensing inconsistency in the ground beneath its feet and then it turned and ran, nose to the ground. There were other squirrels... By Saturday, Ray had forgotten completely about the strange way the ball had stuck on the ground by the copse for two reasons. Firstly, it had been his birthday during the week and he had been given a brand-new, Premiership quality football. It was this the boys were kicking the next Saturday. Secondly, because of the kudos gained from ownership of such a ball, Ray was not stranded in goal but playing on the wing, a position which far better suited his skills. Mickey Edwards, slow but steady, fifty pounds overweight but able to fill a goal mouth adequately, was the man on guard at the top end of the pitch today. The teams were more evenly matched this time, many of the little kids absent, and both goalies were kept busy as the ball flew from one end of the pitch to the other and shouts rang out in the damp air. A whistling strike by Willie Middleton, the littlest of the three Middleton boys but a kid with a killer left foot, missed Fat Mickey's four-coat right goal post by inches and sailed away towards the trees travelling at speed. It spun into the grass and rolled, slowing as it went, and all but Mickey, who was occupied with lumbering after it, watched it go. Something tweaked at Ray's memory as he saw the ball hesitate in its forward motion and then stick, once again, as though wedged upon a root or over a rabbit burrow. This time, though, the strange squirming of the ball was visible to all. Mickey reached the spot and just stood there, the grass up to his calves, his hands limp at his sides. Some of the others yelled at him but Ray, suddenly worried about his ball, ran across and several of the other lads followed shouting abuse at Mickey who still stood, eyes glued to the ground, with his hands by his sides. He had made no move to retrieve the ball and when Ray reached him he could see that Mickey's eyes were as wide as his mouth which was pretty fucking wide. "Whassup Mick? Belly get in the way?" Ray joked, but his heart was doing a stuttery, trapped-bird impression in his chest as he looked at his ball and realised that it wasn't just wriggling, it was rotating slowly as though caught in the outflow of a bath. Ray, turning white, snatched his ball up immediately and it came off the ground with some resistance as though it had been stuck down with Velcro. He tucked it firmly under his shirt, his eyes widening. There was a perfectly circular and distinct hole in the ground where the ball had been sitting, not a very big hole, perhaps the size of a cricket ball, but as they watched, and there were four or five boys now standing wordless in a loose ring, they could see that the edges of the hole were slipping into the darkness, the movement irregular, circular, like a Mexican wave at a cup final Hughie Chipman, mud spattered with his shirt half torn, was the eldest there and the first to comment. "Whas' that then?" He muttered in Ray's general direction. Ray didn't answer, his eyes, like the rest of them, were fixed on that strange little hole where the grass and pebbles on its edge were spiralling blade by blade and clod by clod down into blackness out of sight. Mark Luteen got a rock, half a house brick in fact, and lobbed it gently over the hole. The rock sat square across it for a second and then the end began to writhe and the stone began to turn, very slowly, as though someone was screwing it down with an invisible driver. "Man, fuck this for a laugh!" Said Billy Kelligan quietly and he turned and ran. Ray didn't remember seeing him at the park after that. Hughie, who could see the brick turning, just like the rest of them, chose to say nothing. It took the youngest of them to make a suggestion as to what it was they were looking at. "It's a landslip, that's what it is?" Piped up Willie Middleton, "Look, there must be some old drains here. Something's collapsed, that's all. We should tell the park-keeper. The whole wood could go." There was a high excitement in his voice and his cheeks were bright pink. He sounded so serious, so earnest, and so adult right then that the other boys were left speechless. Then fat Mickey turned and punched him fraternally on the shoulder, but hard enough to make the little kid rock on his feet and drag tears to his eyes. "Yeah, right. Come on. Its a fucking rat hole that's all. Thought we were playin' footer?" The ribald comments rang out on the still air and suddenly they were all chasing Willie, who was faster than any of them, and the group of boys ran back to their game, the hole forgotten. Only Ray stood there for a second longer, looking at the spot where soil had been the week before, a vague unease in his chest, the new football hugged to his belly. He watched the brick turning slowly, sinking all the time as the hole pulled it in. That was how it was - the brick wasn't falling, it was being pulled in. Ray cocked his head on one side, his eyes still fixed, but his name was being called and, realising that he was holding up proceedings, he backed away from the hole. Finally he turned and ran back to the game, but the fun was gone from his day after that. On Sunday morning, he went back up to the Park on his own, tapping the football ahead of him across the pitch, not going anywhere really, but actually...... Most of his mates would still be in bed, or down at the town ground watching their non-League team play. Ray was off to see his heroes, Man U, play Leeds at home that afternoon. His Dad had a season ticket and Ray got to go to most of the Sunday games but they weren't leaving until twelve. Too restless to stay indoors, too preoccupied to go up to the town ground with his mates, he had wandered until his feet had brought him to the Park gates at which point he had stopped to wonder what the hell he thought he was doing up here. He walked on through the gates, at least half of him reluctant. He dropped the ball on the grass and tapped it with his foot, following it slowly. Picking it up on his instep he started a slow jog, nudging the ball ahead of him with his feet turned out. He circled with it, dribbling toward an imaginary penalty box, hearing the roar of the crowd in his head and dreaming of a team around him in red shirts with a hundred thousand fans cheering him on. He worked his way up the pitch, dodging Newcastle defenders, hurdling a fallen team-mate, crossing the ball in towards Rooney, who..... Scooooooorrress! Ray ran to retrieve the ball and the winter trees loomed dark above his head. He was at the edge of the copse and he stopped for a second, listening. He could hear it from there, that strange dry hiss like a punctured tyre. It was louder now. He walked across the straggly grass, dodging piles of dog turds as he went. He could see the edge of the hole from five feet away. It was grapefruit sized and the brick was gone. The edges formed a smooth cone down into the ground with a perfectly round centre right in the middle. He peered over, keeping his feet well back from the edge. A landslip, that'd be right. There were rubbish dumps and old drain workings everywhere around here. The whole estate had been built on flattened factories, who knew what was underneath? Willie was right, the whole wood might disappear, but that still seemed a dramatic consequence of this small hole. Still, you never knew.... Ray found a small stone, the size of a Brussels sprout. He leaned over the hole again and dropped the stone dead into the middle. It disappeared through the hole in the ground without preamble, falling smoothly away into the darkness. Ray listened beneath the hiss of turning soil but no rattle of a landing came back to his ears. The hole was a deep one then. He leaned back and went to find a bigger stone. At least it would prove how fast the hole was growing. After a few minutes of hunting about in the copse he found a broken breeze-block which he lugged back to wedge over the hole. It sat there firmly and he stepped back, nodding. He would come and look again tomorrow and see if the stone was still there. If it wasn't, he would tell his Mum about the hole. If it was, he would forget about it and think about football instead. Satisfied and feeling the worry shifted from his shoulders he headed home. He let his thoughts become consumed by football and there was a smile on his face as he kicked his ball back the way he had come. Man United beat Leeds by five spectacular goals to one that afternoon and, floating on the euphoria of that high, Ray could talk of nothing else for the best part of three days. Coupled with the weekly visit to his Dad, the whole weekend became that Sunday afternoon and pretty much everything else got forgotten. It wasn't until Thursday morning, talking about vortexes in a science class, that Ray remembered the hole and a chill panic settled into his gut wiping out all his warm thoughts of playing in the Premier league. He hadn't been to check. It was a horrible thought. What if a kid fell in that hole and he had known about it and hadn't said? How would he explain that to everyone? Oh, sorry, well yeah I knew, I just forgot to tell anyone? Sure, that would go down well with his Mum! A sour voice piped up inside him, offering defence. He wasn't the only one who had seen the hole in the Park. Others had seen it too. None of them had said anything, so why was it down to him? Comforted a little he turned back to physics, or rather, dreams of soccer glory and, to placate his conscience, after school he took his best mate, Andrew Watland, up to the park to validate his find. Andy was a nerd. He had asthma and didn't play football. Andy had the best computer games out of anyone at school and their friendship had been cemented over joysticks. Ray had taught Andy how to play computer soccer. Andy had taught Ray how to do his homework. Of all the guys at school, Andy would know what to do about the hole. "So I told 'er, if she wants to move there, that's fine... I just aint goin' with 'er. I wanna stay 'ere with me Dad." They were discussing Ray's stormy home life. Ray didn't talk about it to anyone else. Andy always listened. "Phew!" He whistled through his teeth in reply, but it was his lungs which whistled the loudest. Ray heard the way the air was strangled as it tried to get in and out of Andy's weedy chest and felt sorry for the guy. It was tough enough living in this place, it didn't help to be a breathless weakling. Andy got beaten up roughly once a week. It didn't exactly allay his overall anxiousness. With Ray, at least, he felt safe. Ray played football for the school. He boxed in the local under 16's boys club and he was big enough to look after the both of them. Andy thought a lot of Ray and had never once questioned his story about a strange hole in the Park. "So what did she say to that?" He went on, awed by Ray's nerve in answering back like that. Ray's Mum was a formidable woman who had ousted Ray's dad after fourteen years of apparent wedded bliss. She had a job now and was good at it. She didn't have a lot of time for Ray these days. Ray winced and tapped his ball across the muddy grass. "She said we're going. She won't even wait 'til I'm sixteen! How am I gonna get selected by Man U if I'm in sodding Australia!" It was an outburst that didn't require an answer. Andy nodded understanding but secretly envied Ray his chance to escape the grey suburb where it never seemed to stop raining and nothing ever grew straight. Australia seemed a world away, full of sunshine and bronzed people with big smiles. Andy's parents worked in a local factory, had both done so since leaving school. He had no hope of escaping Hell. "How long you got before you have to leave?" Was what he said. Ray kicked the ball hard, his face screwed up and angry. "Dunno. She's already got the effin' job. They 'aven't told 'er when they want 'er to start yet. Might be soon. Bloody 'ell! Why couldn't she wait another year? I coulda stayed then, with my Dad!" There weren't any words beyond that. Ray fell into a morose silence and Andy began to notice that it was almost dark now. They were headed in the general direction of the oak copse and it was suddenly an unfriendly place full of shadows. "Where's this hole then? It's getting dark, Ray." Said Andy, trying not to sound like the baby he felt inside. He didn't like the dark. Bully's hid in the dark and jumped out at you, kicking and beating with hard fists and boots. You only had to be putting the rubbish out, or walking the dog last thing, or wandering in the park after dark... "Shuddup scaredy arse. You're all right. I'll take care of you." Ray's voice was only slightly mocking. Andy's fears, as he well knew, were real ones. "It's over here. Listen, if you're quiet, you can hear it." They walked a few more careful steps and then stopped, breath hushed, heads on one side like mime artists in a street show. Andy felt stupid for a second, not sure what he was supposed to be listening for. Above them the trees creaked in the unsteady wind and streetlights began to illuminate in the road behind them. Andy felt a chill run up his spine and imagined a snake in the grass nearby, could almost hear the steady hiss of its threat as it prepared to strike. Then he realised the hiss was the noise he was supposed to be listening for and now he noticed that it was actually quite a loud hiss, not missable at all. The hole sounded really close. "Shit!" Said Ray. "What?" Muttered Andy. "It's bigger." Said Ray.
Copyright © 2000 Carey Lenehan |