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Mine

The man awoke to sublime darkness and felt the wetness of the rock beneath his body. Some foul miasma filled his nostrils and the only sound was the wheezing chaos of his own breathing; like a dull blade upon grindstone. Something was clamouring in his lungs, something dustlike and unwelcome, protesting against the oxygen that he struggled to inhale. After a few moment he began to calm, though the close, damp air was suffocating and he had not the least idea where he was. Suddenly there came a sound from the blackness. It sounded to him like a muffled laugh. An eerie, mirthless giggle through, perhaps, some thick rag. There was a deafening pause. Again the sound came. Another pause followed by a blinding light as a match, somewhere close by, blinked into being.

He remembered a walk in the countryside with her. A detour. An adventure. Where was she now? Was she safe?

When the matchlight faded some he saw the figure in front of him and could not cry out. He struggled to get up, to move away, to roll to one side, but every ounce of energy left his body in that vital instant. The mask, the tattered garments, the glint of the pickaxe in the muted glow of the flame. The figure knelt and at its feet lay several dusty sticks of dynamite. Its left hand was littered with potholes and scabs. Its right hand was an image of perfection, as if preserved for some saintly or diabolical purpose. He closed his eyes to shut out the image and heard the laugh again. And he heard stifled words spoken inside the mask. “Dnff hmmfff fffsst wmmff”.

He remembered champagne, a cave, the ring. He remembered a figure lurking in the darkness. An explosion.

He asked, calmly, where he was. How he came to be here. If he could leave.

Darkness. Another match. The figure knelt motionless and its breathing could be heard, rising deeply and falling fast; rasping in its chest.

It stood up straight and rested on its pickaxe, looking almost respectable, gentlemanly. And then came that terrible chuckle from within, demolishing hope. It moved its scarred hand up to its mask and pulled it away. The man saw its face and found his voice but did not recognise the strange, animal sounds he produced. The tiny flame faltered but he could still see the wretched visage in noxious, neon tones inside his eyelids. As the light dissolved he saw, some distance into the cave, what resembled a large heap of human clothing. He begged it to put the mask on again. It laughed. Heartily and with feeling. He could hear the shuffled and dull clunk of fabric and rubber: it was obliging his request.

And, as it did so, the man thought he heard it speak; a strange, serene whisper.

And he thought it said: “You’ll stay here now.”

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