The Underground Man (27 page)

Slumped down at my dressing table, where all the towels and instruments were laid out. The mirror which usually sits on the mantel I had placed flat on the table top. I tilted the middle of the dressing table's triptych of mirrors forward, at an angle of some forty-five degrees, and leaned my head between them both, which was a little like inserting one's head into a lion's open mouth. With a slight adjustment to the upper mirror the top of my head swung into view. The brandy bottle was close at hand in case I needed another swig.

I remember tapping the top of my skull with a finger before I started. The flesh was pliant and warm. Then I picked up the scalpel and made the first incision – about two inches
in length – from back to front. I pressed down until I felt the blade scrape against bone. It made a grinding sound in my ears. Almost immediately blood welled up from the neat little line; a single black-red bead rolling forward and another one rolling back. I made a second incision, roughly the same length, which perfectly bisected the first, so that I now had a cross – a bleeding cross at that – on the crown of my head.

There was pain, certainly, but it was distant and somewhat blurred. I took a couple of gulps from the brandy bottle, and waited for the alcohol to find its way into my veins. Then I positioned myself between the mirrors again, reached up with both hands and carefully peeled back the four pointed flaps of skin. It was as if I was opening out an envelope, the flesh dragging a little as each fold reluctantly came away. There was pain, as I say, but it was secondary to a curious coolness and was dulled by my fascination. When I had done, the effect was quite fetching – like four petals on an exotic plant.

I mopped at my head with a towel (which went up white and came back very red) and succeeded in soaking up enough of the small pool of blood to reveal a startling flash of bone.

I fixed Bannister's trepan together. I had practised holding it several times. For all its finely-worked woods and metals and the plush upholstery of its case the implement is essentially little more than a corkscrew, the significant difference being the tiny-toothed circular bit which I now fitted to the end.

I had chosen one with a diameter of three-quarters of an inch, with a depth of about an inch and a half. I considered taking another swig of brandy but decided more alcohol might affect the steadiness of my hand. So, with the aid of my mirrors, I inserted the trepan in the very eye of that bloody blossom and slowly began to turn. The sound of the bit scraping out its circle made a terrible groaning sound – like a
chair dragged across a bare floor – which resonated right through me, especially through my jaw and teeth.

One's skull, I discovered, is surprisingly hardy. More like teak than the shell of an egg. After three or four minutes both my arms were completely drained and I had to bring them down and rest them a while. When I paused that first time I removed the trepan and could clearly see the ring it had cut in my skull. I recommenced a few minutes later, having oiled the bit with the tiny brush, and found it fitted easily back into the groove.

The next time I rested I found I could actually leave the tool in my skull (or, rather, that it would not easily come out). So I sat there at the dressing table for a minute and took another swig of brandy, with that corkscrew poking out of my head. In all, I think I must have stopped and rested my arms about half a dozen times in this way, the whole operation lasting somewhere in the region of half an hour. Certainly, the deeper I drilled down into me, the harder each turn became. The operation also produced a rather acrid smell, which I did my best to ignore.

As time went by I became quite exhausted and began to wonder if I would ever finish the job. Once or twice a nauseous wave swept through me and I had to hold on to the dressing table until it passed. The trepan became very sticky with blood and I think I had paused to wipe my hands when I heard a tiny hissing sound.

I pushed on with the infernal winding – my head fairly throbbing now – until I felt the tool lurch a little to one side. I continued to carefully wind the apparatus – slowly now – and, by jiggling it a little, managed to extract the instrument from my head. In the end of the trepan I found a circular piece of bloody bone. I was through! I had uncorked myself! Had finally managed to break down that wall between myself and the outside world.

I sat back in the chair. A little dizziness, perhaps, but vision surprisingly steady. An assortment of wheezes and sucking sounds emanated from my head. I could feel tiny pockets of air creeping under my skull and at one point watched as a bloody bubble slowly inflated itself, right over the hole, before disappearing with a pop.

I can only describe the overall sensation as being somehow similar to the tide coming in.

Once I had restored some sort of equilibrium I raised a tentative hand to my head and very gently inserted a finger into the hole. It was quite deep and wet, like an inkwell. My finger went down until it eventually touched something moist and warm. Was that really my little box of tricks? Was that the terrible fruit?

Bandaged myself up, went into the bathroom and vomited several times. Dozed in an armchair for an hour or two. Woke and recorded this entry. Have applied a little ointment to the wound. Am about to pack myself off to bed.

I hear voices. Beautiful voices. Voices all around. Last night, as I sat by the fire putting a fresh bandage on my head, I picked out the distant voice of a young woman reading a bedtime story to her child – a tale of a boy and a girl who get lost in a wood. The mother's voice was pure amber. It shone across the night. I saw her perched on the edge of her child's bed, wearing a dress of many pinks and blues. Pictured her perfectly in her cottage, all those miles away.

Sounds which had previously hid from my ears now shyly make themselves known. This morning I heard a young boy
whistling as he strolled along a lane. The song danced among the hedgerows before winging its way to me.

I hear a maid down in the laundry, asking how much starch she should add to the water. Hear a young girl knocking on a neighbour's door and asking if her friend may come out to play.

But what came creeping in a little later and what most uplifts me are all the natural sounds. The heaving of the daffodil bulbs, unravelling beneath the thawing soil. The mighty heartbeat of every oak.

The seasons sweep about me. ‘Prepare' is whispered down every root and vine. The great conspiracy of spring is almost on us. The buds have all been primed.

I must have fallen asleep in the flower beds. I remember my creeping out in the night. I believe I was listening for something. Perhaps I was being a sentry. My only recollection is my lying down on the cold, hard earth and looking up at the ocean of stars. The pruned stems of the roses pointed out the stars for me and were like branches of tiny trees. I remember imagining I was a very big fellow on the floor of a stark, empty wood.

When I came to the night had been swept from the sky and the stars had been moved along, but they had left their twinkling in a fine frost which had fastened itself to the bare roses and the fellow who lay below.

Getting to my feet took me several minutes. Bones extremely stiff. My trousers had a boardlike consistency but, once I had plucked myself from the roses, I felt altogether quite healthy and fit. Sneaked back up to my bedroom. Slept until almost four.

Mrs Pledger found some discarded bandages this morning and left a message asking what was up. I explained down the pipe that I had had a minor accident. She asked if I needed a doctor. I replied that I did not.

I have in my hand a chalky coin. A small disk from my very own skull. I scrubbed and scrubbed away at it until it came up white.

Question—How many coins make up a man? How much is your average man worth?

This coin bought me my freedom. (There's a thought.) I just opened up my purse and took it out. In so doing I managed finally to heave back the door which opens on to the world. And now parts of the world come through to me which had previously been out of reach. In return, my thoughts go out into the world. It is a fair exchange.

I am doing so much wondering these days. Wondering full-time. This morning I wondered what I should do with my coin. Pickle it, perhaps? Or have it framed? Give it to someone as a gift, maybe? Who then? Clement? Mellor? A child? I decided the best thing would be to bury it. Put it deeply in the ground. There are Roman coins down there, I hear. I shall simply add one of my own.

The wound is healing up very well. Some pain, but it goes out of me and does not hang around, although I sometimes see its shadow. I have put some lint on the wound and a bandage, which goes round and round, under my jaw and over my head. It stops me talking (except through my teeth, like a bad dog) which is no great sacrifice. I now converse
with the world in other ways and, I might add, with a good deal more success.

I have decided not to let my staff see me. I think they would be alarmed. Perhaps later, when things have settled down. Meanwhile, I have asked for my meals to be left outside my door. I wrote a note to Clement. One day, the whole world will send notes to one another. Our pockets will overflow with them.

Clement brought some stew, just now. I felt him approaching, one warm footfall over the other. Heard him thinking at the door. Eventually he came to a decision and crept away like a bear. I have not touched the stew.

Dawn was but an inkling as I tiptoed from the house. My first time out in many days. I wore a woollen bonnet.

Is it milder? I think it is milder, although my wound still aches somewhat. If it is not yet milder, there is the prospect of mildness. Mildness is at hand.

Strange, but when I gauged myself at the edge of the Wilderness I found hardly a trace of fear. An ounce of apprehension, maybe, but nothing more. Nothing flighty.

Clambered through the creaking fence and eased myself into the foliage. Crept forward. Stealthily, just like a fox. Winter still insisted; an old darkness lingered among the bushes and the trees. The ground surrendered beneath my boots – like walking on an old damp mattress. But such richness all a-brimming. Such leafy promise everywhere.

Made my way deeper into the wood. Not a single bird sang. Took the trowel from my coat pocket, knelt and
plunged it in. The soil was like black pudding. Very moist and many worms. Dug up a dozen trowelfuls, then brought out my handkerchief. Carefully unfolded the four corners and removed my bit of bone.

Placed it into the cold hole. I remember holding it there a while. I believe I may have said a few words. The occasion would have called for them. I replaced the earth over the bone-coin then gently patted it down.

Wandered for a while, touching fern and branch, then rested on a stone. Found a twig to scrape the soil from under my fingernails. Warmed a smudge of earth between finger and thumb.

‘Are you alive?' I said.

As I rose, the stone seemed to shift under me. I looked down at the thing. With a little effort I managed to haul it over and found myself staring into what looked very much like a well. Had no matches with me but stared long enough into it to make out a raggedy flight of stone steps. So, not a well at all but some sort of shaft. And it slowly came upon me how it was the place where the old monks' tunnel emerged. The modest passage which is the great-great-ancestor to my own subterranean lanes.

Had I a lamp I might have taken a step or two down it but resolved instead to come at it from the other end. Returned to my rooms without being spotted. Cantered much of the way.

Left a note for Clement …

Slipped it under the door into the corridor and within half an hour felt Clement heading this way. Heard him gently unfolding the note and in my mind's eye saw his face – at first puzzled, then slowly crumpling. After a minute a rough piece of paper appeared under my door with,
Is Your Grace
ill?
scribbled on it in pencil.

‘Not at all,' I whispered at the door.

Another note.

Then why does Your Grace hide away
?

There was no satisfactory way of answering this last question, so I let the tight, round silence speak for itself and after a minute or two he left me alone.

I have my voices to be getting along with. I find that if I come within twenty yards of another mortal their thoughts tend to interfere with my own. Yesterday I heard a farmer in Derbyshire complaining about his dinner. ‘This meat is too tough,' he said.

Blew down the tube around ten o'clock tonight and Clement came puffing up the stairs. I had posted a note requesting a lit lantern and, five minutes later, he deposited one outside my door, with a note of his own suggesting I wrap up warm. Took the stairwell through the door by my fireplace and went down, down, darkly down.

The chains to the monks' tunnel lay neatly coiled on the ground. I raised my lamp and headed in. The tunnel is a very
long and narrow affair, apparently hacked right out of the earth. Its floor is littered with many mounds of crusted dirt where the roof has come away. Halfway along, where it dips a little, there is a huge patch of flowering mould, about fifteen foot long in total and the same colour as crême caramel. After a while I began to feel cold and tired, so to pass the time I imagined myself as a monk, tramping down that same tunnel several centuries before, in sandals with open toes. Composed a sort of madrigal. My lamp pumped out its meagre light and the darkness comprehendeth it not. It was as if I advanced in my own box of light, with darkness fore and aft. It slowly receded before me and came along behind.