When we were journeying, searching, at least we had some momentum, a purpose, a goal, a quest. Now-now all we have is an increasingly desultory routine, with too little in it to fill the aching gaps of time in these days that aren't days and nights that aren't nights.
We hunt the lake for fish, catch two more blind bream. We consider the greenish fungus on the cave walls, and can't be sure if we dare eat it or not. Soon we'll have no choice.
Jeff T sees a rat skitter across the cavern floor and chases it, but it bolts into one of the narrows and is gone. "No," I shout as he makes to follow.
"But sir-"
"No, Jeff. It's dangerous in there."
He looks at me with a smirk playing round his lips, a smirk that says coward, weakling, but more, worse, nutter. And he was one of the good kids, respectful, obedient, yes sir no sir. Now it's a direct challenge, open insolence, and I have nothing to back me up, I daren't meet it. It could be the blow that shatters all discipline, all balance.
I look away. Jeff wanders off. He mutters something. There is muffled laughter in response. I look up, fists clenching. Jeff and a couple others smirk back at me. Jean takes my arm and draws me aside.
We catch two more bream in the lake. Have to take one of the boats out on it to find the second; only one's dumb enough to come close to shore. How many does the lake hold? And what will we do when they're all gone?
We cook and eat the fish. Hunger rumbles in us. Fish are low-calorie. We're getting weak, tireder quicker. At least it makes for an early night.
I sleep-
And am shaken awake. A boy, crying. "Sir! Sir!"
"Wh-" I sit up. Everyone's awake. "What? What?"
"It's Jeff, sir, Jeff and Mike."
Mike? Mike Rawlins, one of the smirkers. This was the other one-James? No. Jason. Jason Stanton.
Not so cocky now, I think. His face is grimy and cut and he's soaking wet. Tears have cut clean streaks down through the black coal dust on his face and his eyes are red.
"What about them? What happened?" I look around. No sign of the boys in question. Torches are lit, flashed around the cavern. "Where are they?" I demand.
For answer, Jason Stanton points a trembling hand towards the back of the cavern, and the black mouths of the narrows.
Jeff said I was crazy, apparently. A nutter, fruitcake, a screwball, a patient. And other things too. A stupid cunt, for one.
Kids, eh?
He reckoned we could catch rats for food. Not a bad plan. Good source of protein. Reckoned we could get lucky in the narrows. Asked for volunteers. Jason and Mike stepped up straight off the bat.
Jeff, of course, was the man with a plan. He had a ball of string; tied one end around a rocky outcropping near the mouth of the narrow they used. They took a torch and two of the "spears" we'd made lashing sharpened rocks to the hafts of oars. And they went a-hunting. Stupid, stupid kids.
But I can't deny a sneaking, ugly relief; the first challenger to my authority, to ours, that of the adults, is gone. The most capable. The one who sneered. Major challenge removed and an object lesson in daddy knows best. Adults are always right, because we say so. It's a lie and I've always known that, but right now I've never been so grateful for it.
The three of them went in, paying out the string as they went. They'd go a distance, wait. Listen. Switch off the torch at times. Listen. No sound. Any rats there were silent.
So they moved on. And paid out a little more string as they went.
Time passed. And in the end they started to get bored. And tired. And fed-up. And low on confidence.
See, Jeff? It's not so easy, is it, being in charge? Wait till you have the responsibility. Easy to criticise, from the sidelines. When it isn't you.
And yes, I realise, thinking that even to myself, how like the politicians I always most despised I sound.
Wait till you see what I've seen, then you'll know I'm right. Oh God. All the things happening to me that I can't bear. Is this the price of survival? How much of myself will I give up to stay alive, of what I was?
So they retraced their steps, following the string, and then they found-
The string was lying in the middle of a narrow, the tied end frayed and unravelled.
Shouted recriminations, near-panic, quelled by Jeff's fists-Jason has the split lip to prove it. Jeff taking charge. They headed back up the narrow. The string couldn't have trailed far. They can follow their tracks in the dust of the narrow's floor. Retrace their steps to the cavern. If they stay calm.
They follow the marks in the dust.
To a fork they don't remember.
And the dust of each branching narrow's floor is disturbed (by what?) and it's impossible to tell which is which, which they might have come down.
Panic in the air again; Jeff quells it. They go right. More narrows branching off.
Which way?
At last they hear the trickle of water. We go towards that, Jeff tells them. It'll be runoff from the cavern. See? We'll be okay. Forrester found his way out like that, didn't he?
Not quite, Jeff. But it was worth a try.
They keep going and they find the water, alright. But it's not the cavern. Oh, it's a cavern, yes. But not the one they were looking for. A small chamber, almost wall to wall water, running down from a narrow high up in the cavern wall.
Mike yelping, shouting that he saw something in the water. Big, white, moving. Not a fish. Jeff slaps him into silence, the crack of flesh on flesh ringing in the wet, trickling dark. He saw nothing. Imagining things, seeing things that aren't there. Like that puff Forrester did.
They climb the wall to the narrow the water's coming through, none of them admitting what they know; the torch's beam is starting to dim.
They follow the stream that trickles down the narrow's floor, praying for the cavern that's hearth and home in their mind's eye now.
And it opens out into another cavern. The floor awash to ankle or maybe even knee height with fresh water. They don't check the depth in this cavern. There are houses there.
("What?" "Houses?" "What're you-" "Sh. Go on, Jason.")
Not like houses you'd see up top, Jason says. Crude ones. Can't even call them huts. Just stacks of rocks, heaped up drystone, covered over with big heavy flat pieces, slabs. No windows, but a hole that might be a door. Jason reckons he counted about a dozen of them.
And the cave is not silent. Things are moving around. Inside the houses. Slithering and shifting, slumping and flopping around. And there are other noises too. Not noises a fish or even a very big fucking rat could make.
The boys start to go back the way they came, and then-more sounds, the same as from the houses, coming up the narrow, towards them. The dying torch shines: shadows flick across the wall.
They have to go round the edge of the water, past the houses, towards the only other narrow they can see. The noise from the houses grows louder; none of them look back at the sound of splashing in the water.
The torch goes out a few yards into the narrow.
Jason breaks and runs. He's screaming, but he thinks they aren't the only ones he hears.
He runs on-in the dark, cannoning into walls, scrabbling on, feeling ahead with his hands, terrified of what his fingers might touch.
But somehow-by pure, blind, lucky chance, it can only be-he finds himself crashing headlong into our own little lake. Screaming, splashing, blundering, and then he sees the dim distant glow of the fire, catches its gleam off the upturned hulls of boats, flounders and staggers to the shore and shakes me awake, all believing in Mr Forrester now, wanting answers, wanting someone to make it alright.
"This is why I warned everyone not to go into the narrows," I say. "As soon as you get out of sight of this cavern-they can start playing tricks with your head. It's very easy to get lost in there. We don't know where they all go."