After a hiatus from #SampleSunday, I’m back again.

This is a chapter from my current, as yet untitled, work-in-progress. It might be called “Buried”, but it might not. This is from the first draft of the novel, so there may be some elements which will change (hopefully, for the better) in the final version.

If you enjoy this small piece, I hope you’ll consider my two collections of short stories and flash fiction. They’re only 71p (UK) or 99c (US).

For Kindle in the UK:
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For Kindle in the US:
.: BMT 1 :. and .: BMT 2 :.

On Smashwords:
.: BMT 1 :. and .: BMT 2 :.

And in print:
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Anyway, here’s this week’s #SampleSunday:

Chapter 10

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Sean looked at his watch. He knew that he was a couple of minutes late, but that didn’t excuse the outburst from Henri Jarvinen.

“We tried to call you from your dormitory. You weren’t there.”

Sean shrugged his shoulders, unsure of what to say.

“Take a look out there.”

Sean moved to the large windows overlooking the site, and saw what he imagined the aftermath of armageddon might look like. There were around a dozen ambulances, stationary near to the mine entrance, lights flashing in the early morning gloom. He could also see several mine safety trucks too. People were running around with pieces of equipment.

“Jesus Christ, what happened?”

“We don’t really know, except there was some sort of collapse in one of the tunnels in the early hours of this morning. We got one guy out, but …”

Sean turned, and started running for the door to the mine entrance.

“There’s no point – let the emergency crews do their work,” Jarvinen called, but Sean was already out of the door.

Sean approached the mine shaft at a run, and approached one of the safety crew, Bill Crane, who he knew from the induction sessions they’d shared.

“Bill, do we know what happened?”

Crane shook his head. “Not really, Sean. At about one-thirty this morning, some of the guys in the dormitories felt a shudder. They wondered whether it might have been an earthquake.”

“Is that possible?”

“No. Some of the geology guys have been onto a seismological centre in Stockholm, and although they registered something in this area, it definitely wasn’t an earthquake or even an earth tremor. The next thing they knew, the alarm was sounding, and we were on the scene about five minutes later. I was here a bit before that – I felt the vibrations, too, so I was on my way over to make sure everything was all right.”

“I presume you’ve got a team down there?”

“Yes. We’ve got the off-duty team coming in too. It doesn’t look good.”

“A collapse?”

“Yes. And a bad one at that.”

Sean looked around. “Jarvinen said you got one guy out?”

Crane nodded his head in the direction of one of the ambulances. “He’s a bit shaken up, but he’ll be all right. He’d been taking a break up top, and had just arrived back down at the bottom of the shaft when all hell broke loose. I don’t hold out much hope for the rest of them,” he said.

Sean walked over to the ambulance, and saw the mine worker sitting on the step, the ambulance doors open. Sean didn’t know him, but he thought he was Turkish or something. Poor bastard.

He looked up as Sean approached. Sean sat down next to him.

“Do you know what happened?”

For a moment, the man kept shaking his head. “Terrible,” he said, eventually.

“Looks bad?” Sean asked.

Still, the man shook his head.

Sean carefully tried again. “You had just arrived back down?” he said, in slow English.
The man looked at him. “I come for break. Up top. You know. Coffee. Cigarette. Just ten minutes.”

Sean nodded. “Then you went back down.”

“Yes. I go back down. Then …”

He turned his head down, tears rolling down his dirt-stained face.

“Were they blasting last night?”

The man didn’t answer. Sean touched his arm, and the man reacted as though jolted by an electric shock.

“Yes, blasting. I was here. I heard blast. I put out cigarette, and go down. Much work.”

Sean knew. In particularly difficult sections of the rock, they needed to blast it to create fissures and crevices, so that the drilling and boring machines could get in and do their work. But he knew that before they could do that, there was a lot of clearing away of blasted rock to do, to keep the floor area clear for the heavy machinery.

“So I go back down. I arrive at the bottom. I hear the machines, so I get on buggy to drive to face. Then it happened.”

Sean frowned. “Are you sure? Could it have been another blast? Something else?”

The man looked at him, staring into Sean’s eyes, trying to find some answers to unasked questions. “You know. After blast, you clear. Then drill.”

“And you went back down as soon as you heard the blast? You didn’t wait? Or go down before?”

The man leaned away, shocked. “What you say? I am a lier? I told you. You know. I heard blast. I put out cigarette, and go down. Five minutes.”

Sean knew the personnel lift took a little under five minutes to descend from the head of the shaft down to the mine floor. So what could have caused the collapse? Could they have set another charge? Not in five minutes. He had to believe this man, they had no other information to go on.

Sean patted the man on the shoulder. “You should go to hospital. Get checked out.”

The man shook his head. “No. I stay here. No hospital. I wait my friends.”

Sean nodded. He would do the same – had done the same, some years ago. That time, most of his colleagues got out all right. He had the feeling that it wouldn’t be the same this time.

© Gerald Hornsby 2011

It’s back to #SampleSunday for me after a couple of weeks off. I hope you enjoy them. If you do, please consider my two collections of short stories, from which they are taken. They’re only 71p (UK) or 99c (US).

For Kindle in the UK:
.: BMT 1 :. and .: BMT 2 :.

For Kindle in the US:
.: BMT 1 :. and .: BMT 2 :.

On Smashwords:
.: BMT 1 :. and .: BMT 2 :.

And in print:
.: BMT :.

DREAMS OF CHILDREN

Pauline insisted. “I know we’re going to have a child. It was like a premonition.”

Roger sighed. He’d heard this most mornings for the past month now. “Pauline, you know that’s impossible.”

“But Roger. The dreams, they’re so real! I can feel it inside me already. I absolutely know I’m pregnant. You know I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Pauline, its one thing wanting a baby. It’s another thing…”

“You men, you’re always like this. You just can’t believe we have these feelings, and that they’re so real.”

“Look. Maybe you should see the doctor. He’ll be able to tell you better than I can.”

“Roger. When you go out at lunchtime today, I want you to get a pregnancy test kit. I’m going to prove to you that we’re expecting our first child.”

“I really don’t think …”

“Just do it, Roger!” she screamed.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go out at lunchtime, and get the test kit.”

“Thank you. And then you’ll see.”

Roger smiled, and left the room, locking it behind him. “All right, Roge?” His colleague, Staff Nurse Wallasey, enquired.

Roger shook his head. “She’s still adamant she’s pregnant. Every day, she’s like this.”

“Shall I have a word? Maybe she needs some stronger meds?”

“Nah. I don’t think so. She’s fairly harmless.”

“Whatever you say, Roge.” He stared at Roger for a moment. “Just one thing – you haven’t, you know, actually…?”

“Jesus, Peter. What do you take me for? Put everything at risk for that?”

Wallasey smiled. “Sorry, Roger. I had to ask.” And he wandered off down the corridor, not able to see the worried expression on the Roger’s face.

DAMNED

I am sitting on a low, dilapidated brick wall, before an inconspicuous, two-up, two-down terraced house. I am deep in thought, but I know what’s going to happen.

I go inside the house, and try once more for a reconciliation, which fails. As it always has done before. Despite my pleading, and putting on my best tortured soul expression, Daniella doesn’t want to know. She jabs an accusing finger at me, individually listing the occasions I had promised fidelity, starting with our marriage eight years ago. She then lists the occasions, equal in number, I had failed to keep those promises.

So I skulk out, head down, oblivious to the world around me. I walk into the street, straight in front of the large juggernaut being driven by a man talking on his mobile phone. There’s no time for the horn to sound, and the squeal of breaks and screech of tyres makes we wince. It’s not a pretty sight, parts of me splattered across the front of his cab and smeared across the road.
I watch as the images fade to black. My eyes adjust to the new picture, and I understand what damned for all eternity means.

I am sitting on a low, dilapidated brick wall, before an inconspicuous, two-up, two-down terraced house.

SAILING

The wind gusted and howled as Tom strode confidently down the wide, serrated-metal gangplank. He sniffed the salt-laden air, and an involuntary smile creased his pale face.

It was normally quiet this time on a Saturday, but the marina seemed almost deserted. Nylon halyards slapped and clanged against aluminium masts like some high frequency Lutine bell, whilst blue plastic tarpaulins whipped and cracked. Passing other moored boats, he greeted cabin-bound sailors, shouting “morning” as he went.

The single-cylinder diesel engine started easily, Tom following the written instructions more carefully this time. After reminding himself which rope pulled up which sail, he moved slowly away from the berth.

Tom breathed deeply, relaxing, motoring up the empty channel towards the open sea. A couple of boats came the other way, their captains’ greetings and hails lost in the stiff breeze. One of them shouted something like “weather” and “VHF radio”. Tom didn’t know what he meant, so he ignored it. He was going to get a radio next week.

Tom was pleased. With so few boats out, he’d be able to sail without looking a complete novice.

He remembered what Maria had said earlier. “You should wait until Andy can come with you. At least, until you’ve got a bit more experience.”

What did Maria know? Despite her concerns, he knew the decision to sail today had been a good one.
© Gerald Hornsby 2011

Something a bit different this week. Less dour than most of the other stories in my collections, it has elements of humour in it. Which is a bit unusual for me. It deals with faded celebrity, but with a slightly uplifting tone. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please consider my two collections of short stories, from which this piece is taken. They’re only 71p (UK) or 99c (US).

For Kindle in the UK:
.: BMT 1 :.
.: BMT 2 :.

For Kindle in the US:
.: BMT 1 :.
.: BMT 2 :.

On Smashwords:
.: BMT 1 :.
.: BMT 2 :.

And in print:
.: BMT :.

JUST ONE MORE TOUR

I guess you could say music was my first love. Way before I got interested in girls, drugs and drink, I could sing along with those crap tunes which came out of the dodgy radio my mom and dad owned. They’d sing along with me in the parlour, encouraging me to do my little dances. I suppose I would have been around three or four. I’d stand there, short trousers even when the inside of the windows were frosted with a thin layer of ice. Central heating had yet to come to the Stevens household. I can see myself now, jerking erratically, la-la-ing to Frank Ifield, the Bachelors, Val Doonican – all the greatest. My mom said: “Our little Jackie’s going to be one of them pop singers when he grows up.” My dad stopped puffing on his pipe for a moment. “Aye, I reckon tha’s right.” Oh joy.

Many thousands of hours later, Celia was practically begging me to go to the doctor. I used to say: “As long as I can stand to take the applause, and lift either of my arms to my mouth, I’m okay.” Celia had other ideas. I ignored her for as long as I could, but when she got the record company involved, and they started hinting at loss of revenue and increased insurance premiums, I saw the doctor they’d brought to my hotel room.

He took blood and a bucket-full of other fluids, and sent them off for tests. But I asked him straight. And he told me straight. And I wished he hadn’t. A couple of weeks later, his straight-talking summary was confirmed. My liver was shot to hell. “Barely functioning,” he said. Actually, he said a load of other crap, with bits of Latin wedged in. The bottom line – it could fail at any time. Either I did something to help my liver, or I didn’t. The latter sounded more fun, if only I could get the thought of dying out of my head.

Celia didn’t know. The record company certainly didn’t know. They did everything by the board, but I wouldn’t give them permission to approach the doctor. “Doctor – patient privilege,” I quoted. The sideways glances were the start of the rethink. How much did they really need Screamin’ Stevie Jack cluttering up their books and languishing in their back catalogues?

When they called me in to the meeting, I knew what was coming. I think Celia did too, because she was very quiet in the cab on the way over. The driver recognised me – most of them do, and I did the obligatory signature thing. “Not for me, you understand, it’s for me missus. She’s got all your records. Plays ’em all the time.” To Deirdre Cabdriver, keep this and sell it on Ebay in a year or so’s time – maybe less if I’m unlucky. It’ll be worth a fortune then.

“Things have moved on,” the suits started. “We’ve done the retro tours to death. There’s only so many times you can force-feed ancient history to the punters. They all realise now that nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.” Nice joke, music-man-in-a-suit.

“You’ve spoken to the doctor, haven’t you?”

“Why? Is there anything we should know, Stevie?”

Bastards had stitched me up like a kipper. Round our way, in the new money of Essex, they had a phrase for every eventuality. So they ditched me. The press release spewed some crap about me wanting to pursue other avenues. What they didn’t say was that this avenue was a dead-end street and I was already facing the graffiti-daubed brick wall with the disused railway sidings behind. End of the line, Jackie-boy.

I did one of those stupid newspaper interviews the other day. “What do you do when you get up in the morning?” “What car do you own, or would you like to own?” “Which was your favourite album?” That sort of crap. I can answer those questions, easy-peasy. I have a shit; I’d like another Ferrari; and “The Screamin’ Stevie Jack Band – Live!”

I remember when they recorded it. Our manager at the time, Tommy Marchiaro, waddled onto the stage, managed to quieten the boos enough to shout “We’re recording this gig live.” No exclamation mark needed – the crowd erupted with a roar, right on cue. We left his announcement in the recording. “We want you to make the biggest noise this place has ever seen.” Noise? Seen? He was an okay manager, but he was no Brain of Britain.

Well, they made a huge amount of noise (which was electronically enhanced in post-production, of course), and the band played out of their skins. The whole place was hyped up beyond belief, and we had it down on digital for all time. The final number, before the encores, still makes me cry. Every so often, I stick the CD on, and kneel down, miming to the final chorus. “I need you so much. I can’t live without you. You are my…” and the crowd roar “ONE”. Not a dry eye in the house, cue fans screaming, obligatory dash off stage, down half a bottle of JD, and straight into the encores. Fantastic times. Really fantastic.

Once Celia had left, I kicked around the palatial mansion, drinking, playing pool, swimming. Occasionally some of the old gang would come over – Tez, Jimbo, Kak, and we’d sit around, idling our time away, reliving the memories. Occasionally, we’d go out to the studio, fire the desk up, do a few bits and pieces. I told them I was in negotiation for a record deal, a sort of “Back From The Dead” album. They seemed to believe me.

After that, they’d all head home to their own places, leaving me to mix the tracks. They should have known the only mixing I did was out of a few bottles. Nothing could ever improve the mess on the tapes.

The tabloids got it nearly right. Drink and drugs hell of former rock star. Usual stuff. Photos of me faded down, sunken cheeks, and heading for The Priory. Celia came over, looking pretty. I told her so, and most of the other stuff too, expecting her to fling her arms round me, telling me we’d work together to beat it. In real life, and away from my pipedream, she turned and walked out. She does it so well. Practice, I suppose.

It was time to clean up my act. In the studio, I drank water for the first time ever. I wrote self-indulgent acoustic tracks called “Hold On For A Cure” and “This Ain’t The End (Baby).” Some weird independent label signed me for a three-album deal, gave me new management, and sent in a housekeeper a couple of times a week. I went out and about a bit more, generating headlines like “Return of Screamin’ Stevie?” and “Jack’s Back.” The lads weren’t interested in doing anything serious any more, so the management got a new band together – a bunch of young hopefuls, so desperate for success they’d put any old drunkard out front, if it got them noticed enough to get a proper deal.

We start the major tour next week. We’ve done a few local gigs up and down the country. I’ve got the all clear for three months, which they said was the best I could expect. “Just keep the Status Quo, Mister Stevens.” Even the doctor’s a comedian. It’s fine by me. The album’s “bubblin’ under”, according to one music magazine. It had been for many months, but that was fine too. All in all, everything’s fine. Celia’s shacked up with some minor celebrity in LA, but the boys behind me attract enough female attention, some of which is curious to know if the rumours about me are true. I just give them a knowing wink, and put the “Do not Disturb” sign on the door behind them. Just one more tour, please God, just one more.

© Gerald Hornsby 2010