Sleepwalker (2 page)

Peter had been watching from the top of the trench. The English January had been mild, even here in York. The Northeast had not enjoyed such a mild winter in forty years, and the work on the dig had gone so well that Peter had loved every minute of it, even the mud and the rain.

And he had been enjoying the soft gray Yorkshire sky when the men were buried.

He slammed one hand over the top rung of the ladder, and plunged into the muck and water at the bottom, more than four meters down. He seized a mattock and hacked at the seethe of mud and stone.

Then he worked his arm in as far as it would go, his team around him, clawing mud. He dug with his bare hands. The mud was cold, and at first he was not sure he had gripped a shoe. His grip had slipped off at once, but he found it again, and this time he held on. His hand was going numb, but he squeezed as hard as he could. “I've got one!” he cried.

Strong hands joined him. A leg appeared, then two legs. An entire body spasmed and hunched out of the earth, and a big man, made even more huge with mud, sprawled at their feet.

Quick and precise work with a mattock, eager hands, and another man was dragged free. Earth seemed to hang on at the last moment, and the man, who looked like a featureless figure of muck, was inert, as though he had never been alive.

“Get a bucket of water down here,” said Peter. He smoothed mud from first one face and then the other. Neither man spoke, and only the big man was even barely moving. Peter ran his hands over earth-coated clothing. He could not feel breath in either body. It was too late.

A black plastic bucket of water slopped down beside him. Jane knelt, a sponge in her hand, and tugged the helmet from the burly figure. The man grunted, a noise like a walrus coming up for air. A grin cracked the mask of mud. “I'm all right, Janey,” croaked Skip's voice.

Peter emptied the bucket of water over the other man. Oliver, a much leaner man, still lay without a sound, and without so much as a tremor. Water flowed over his face, and his features began to appear. He was very pale beneath the mud. His rust red hair was clotted with earth. Peter put his hands on Oliver's neck, searching for a pulse. Jane fumbled for the buttons of the mud-clumsy shirt.

Peter pried open Oliver's mouth. He found the warm, quaking tongue with his finger, and made sure the throat passage was clear. Peter would be happy to save the life of any of his men. But Oliver, the cheerful and foul-mouthed Scot, was a man he especially liked. These were his two best men. It was brutal that these two, of all the men, should suffer this near disaster.

Peter had seen it coming. He had warned the office here in York, and he had warned London. But people never paid any attention to what Peter said. He had a reputation. Never mind Peter, people said. He goes on and on, always complaining, always in a foul temper. Nothing you can do for a man like Peter.

There had been a time, people said, when Peter had been not entirely right in the head.

Oliver coughed. He gagged, and tried to speak. Peter turned Oliver's head, thinking that he needed to vomit. “What happened?” gasped Oliver.

“What happened,” said Skip, climbing to his feet, a giant figure of earth, bearded and stout, “what happened was that the bank gave way, that's what happened.”

Oliver crawled slowly to his feet, assisted by Jane. “I thought a building had fallen on me.”

“Can you walk?” Peter asked both men.

“If you call this walking, I can walk,” grunted Skip.

Dr. Hall at York District Hospital reported both men to be fine. “No evidence of anything but a minor concussion in the case of Mr. Stoughton. Quite lucky, actually.”

“Lucky indeed,” said Peter, grimly.

“What happened, exactly?” asked the doctor, a slim man with a spray of freckles across his face.

“Nobody believed me when I told them we had a problem.”

Dr. Hall had no expression.

Nobody ever believes me, Peter nearly said. He said, “We had cheap scaffolding.”

“Not the wisest way to save money,” said the doctor.

Peter made the thinnest possible smile, and agreed.

Peter Chambers's Austin Minor sloshed through puddles up Wigginton Road, and he swerved to avoid a man on a bicycle on Gillygate. “Gate” was an old Norse word for street; many streets in York were called “Something-gate.” Peter usually found this aspect of York charming, but nothing charmed him now.

Gravel spattered as he swung into the car park. He wrenched open the big wooden door and took the steps three at a time.

Mrs. Webster gazed at him over her tea and scone. She parted her lips, but did not have the opportunity to speak.

Peter slammed the door so violently that a page of the
Independent
on Langton's desk lifted and took a long moment to fall back. Langton looked up over his half-glasses. His plastic spoon was poised, laden with what looked like lemon yogurt.

“I heard about the trouble in Trench Five,” said Langton.

“Did you.”

“Good work on your part, from what I hear.”

Peter could not stand still. He paced to the window. York Minster was a slightly different shade of gray every time Peter saw it. Just now it was cigar-ash gray in the mist.

“I warned you about it,” snapped Peter.

“We're proud to have a man on the spot like you, Peter.”

This meant, Peter knew, that they had reservations about him, but that, for the moment, he was the best man they had.

“For some reason—the reason, I suppose, was money—the Foundation decided to rent equipment from the cheapest business in the North. Don't interrupt, please, Mr. Langton. Two of my men were nearly killed. To save a pound or two. Pipe bent up like pipe cleaners. I complain, and all I hear is reassurance of the most empty sort. ‘Carry on, old son.' A wave of the hand. It's a wonder you give us helmets to wear.”

The Northeast Archaeological Foundation was a recently privatized institute, overseen by a committee of distinguished scientists and bankers in London. Langton was one of the less distinguished administrators. This is why, Peter supposed, he was here in York, working with the actual men and women doing the grimy labor, and not in London gazing at ledger sheets.

“But,” Langton was saying, “they were wearing their helmets?”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad to hear that. We must have our people wearing their helmets. May have saved a life or two today, unless I'm terribly mistaken.” Langton was not eating yogurt, after all. It was Sainsbury's Gooseberry Fool.

Peter strode to the desk and struck it with his fist. A spot of fool sprang from the spoon to a photograph of Princess Anne. Peter could not speak. It was impossible. The room flickered in his vision. He was beginning to feel the way he had felt during his bad years as a very young man, when his temper had been so terrible. Everyone remembered those bad times. They were on his record. They all wanted him to slip so they could find someone else to do his job.

Langton remembered. It was in his eyes, in his too careful smile. “You've done such good work, Peter. Really fine work.”

Peter still could not speak.

“But it's all been a bit much, hasn't it? You've learned to master that temper of yours, and I admire that, actually. A man who can improve himself. Very admirable. But the pressure is getting to you, Peter, don't you think?”

It was really impossible. Peter was a professional, widely published—a scientist. And here he was a puppet, manipulated by bureaucrats. Worse than that. Stupid bureaucrats.

“I was going to have a good long chat with you, sooner or later, so we may as well have it now.” Langton seemed more than unruffled. He seemed cheered.

Peter fell into a chair. He could not bear to look at Langton.

“Good. A little chat,” said Langton. “The finds department has been lagging a good bit, hasn't it?”

“I'm working twenty hours a day—”

“Exactly. That's it. Overworked, and all in a good cause, and we do appreciate it. You've been the best man for the job, Peter. The best.”

Through his anger, Peter could sense that he should pay close attention to what Langton was about to say. He clasped his hands together.

“I've just had a word with Dr. Higg,” Langton continued. “Or, rather, he's had a word with me. He rang me from London. He was especially concerned when he heard of this business with the mud.”

Peter closed his eyes. The near disaster which had nearly killed two men would be forever trivialized in Langton's mind as “this business with the mud.” And, eventually, “that muddy business we had at one point.” Higg, though, was an important man, and Peter had respect for him. He was a former barrister turned archaeologist, an adviser to several governments. His list of honors was a long train of abbreviations after his name, and just three months before he had been made a papal knight. Higg was the sole bureaucrat who had any knowledge of what it was like to wield a mattock.

“He was so concerned, and so proud of you, Peter. So very proud. ‘That Chambers is a quick thinker,' is what he said when I told him what had happened. And I certainly second that. But he said, and I quite agree, that it's about time you had some help here in York. With the finds, with the paperwork, all the nasty bits, while you get on with the business in the field.”

Peter was expected to make some sort of response. He grunted, and looked away. He had to admit that he liked working with his hands. He enjoyed getting dirty in the name of archaeology, and did not especially like entering finds numbers into a computer, although he knew this was essential.

“We don't want this sort of thing to recur. Not that we blame you—”

“Me!”

“Not a bit. But to make the entire effort go more smoothly. London does provide the money, you know. York is a mere appendage, and we must bow to their wiser counsel.”

“Naturally,” said Peter, with some bitterness. He had calmed himself, however. Just stay quiet, he told himself. Don't talk, and you won't say anything you regret.

“And I think you'll like Dr. Higg's suggestion. He has put forward the name of a man I believe you know, a really gifted scientist, and an expert at finds. Quite an author, as well, of the more technical sort of book. An old colleague—Davis Lowry.”

Langton smiled expectantly.

Peter stood and paced. Davis was the last person in the world he could work with. He could not even stand to be in the same room with Davis.

Peter fell back into his chair and met Langton's gaze. Peter could not forgive Langton for this. Actually, it was Higg's responsibility. Langton was droning, smiling, nodding. “You'll make an outstanding team, really, I'm sure you'll agree.”

Archaeology was an international affair. Peter had been born in Leeds, but he had studied in London and Mexico City and had taught for three years in Los Angeles. He had worked, however briefly, on every continent. Word of marriages and divorces, successes and failures, traveled the globe, but the bureaucrats, even perceptive men like Higg in London, did not hear all the gossip. The bureaucrats had, in perfect ignorance, made the worst possible choice.

“I'm delighted,” said Peter with such sarcasm that anyone but a cretin like Langton would have gotten up and locked the door.

But Peter consoled himself. Davis was not a complete idiot. He was, in truth, quite bright. And he was a gifted specialist when it came to finds. Peter would be able to stay in the field with Jane. It was Jane that mattered now. Margaret was a part of the past. Jane was the future.

Peter did something that was, for him, rare. He decided to give someone a fresh start. Maybe it would be good to work with Davis. At least Davis was not a bureaucrat. Peter took a long, deep breath and let it go.

Peter stood and thrust forth his hand. “There's work to be done.”

“Always, always,” beamed Langton. “We're in such a busy business.”

Peter reassured himself again: at least Davis would not be like Langton.

Peter stopped by York District Hospital and sat beside Oliver's bed. The man had seemed asleep, but he opened his eyes. “They're making me fucking stay overnight,” he said.

“It's hardly a surprise, is it? You were buried alive today.”

“All in a day's work, Peter,” said Oliver cheerfully. “It's not the last strange thing we'll see.”

Peter smiled, but he did not understand.

“Look at you, like you haven't heard. Everyone talks about it.”

“About what?”

“Everybody knows. You mean you haven't heard?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You'll see some interesting things happen down on Skeldergate where we're digging.”

Peter inclined his head to say, Tell me more.

“And you don't know why?” Oliver's eyes were bright.

“I haven't a clue.”

“Because the site has a ghost.”

Peter laughed.

Oliver smiled cheerfully, but with a trace of cunning. “I didn't fucking believe in it, either, Peter. But I do now. Skip and I checked that scaffolding this morning, Peter. There was nothing wrong with it.”

Peter found himself smiling uncomfortably.

“There's nothing you can do about it, Peter. The place is haunted.”

Peter tortured the Austin's engine, driving the medieval streets at criminal speed, and squealed to a stop at the dig. The dozen or so workers were attending to their various tasks, and three men had begun the apparently hopeless task of clearing the mud from Trench Five, with Jane overseeing them.

One of the men was Alf, the most tattooed man on the site. Peter called to him, and Alf scrambled out of the trench and into the main Portakabin.

Alf had snakes on his arms, and a dragon peeking from under his shirt collar. He sat, caked with mud as he was, in a chair that had long ago ceased to be clean. His black hair was an arrangement of messy spikes. He offered Peter some cigarette tobacco from a tin of Golden Virginia, and Peter accepted with thanks.