tion>The Clamour of Silence
by
Valerie Pybus
Copyright © Valerie Pybus
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.
Publisher: Valerie Pybus
Sydney
Australia
First Published: July 2012
The Clamour of Silence
ISBN: 978-0-646-57971-9
Also by Valerie Pybus:
Pause a Moment
A Score and More.
Dedication.
This book is dedicated to five special people.
Ann, Stuart, Martin, Jillian and Stan.
Their love and support never doubted
this story would be written.
This was love at first sight, love everlasting:
a feeling unknown, unhoped for, unexpected –
in so far as it could be a matter of conscious awareness;
it took entire possession of him, and he understood,
with joyous amazement, that this was for life.
Thomas Mann
Prologue
Outside the mine the sun shone brilliantly. The white collar workers, a group of four men, stood chatting and exchanging handshakes. With the easy familiarity of a poke in the gut, came the retort, “Getting a bit soft mate, need to do a shift or two!”
Stepping into the cage the men became businesslike, adjusting their hard hats which never seemed to fit properly, clipboards at the ready. The air was always stale the moment one entered the box-like contraption and neck ties were loosened as they moved steadily downwards.
Charles was the first one out of the cage and walked briskly in front of the others. As a Chief inspector of the Company he was aware of several aspects he wanted to check. He planned to start with the first-aid area where the men took their short breaks. He was a few steps away from the others when he felt a rolling motion under his feet. He’d felt it before when standing on the pontoon as he boarded his boat. This was different, an uncoiling of a subterranean monster awakening. The ground beneath him rising and pitching him off balance, he clutched at the wall for support but the wall was bending, the concrete was buckling, cracking.
The thin beam from his helmet torch swung madly as he tried to stand upright, the walls were disintegrating, huge chunks of concrete and earth falling all around him. He heard the other men screaming, and then their voices were lost in the noise made by the earth itself. It groaned as if in agony, its bowels tearing apart as a woman giving birth. A blast so powerful, an express train of sound and fury lifted him up, as a matchstick swept down a storm water drain. He heard splintering of metal and timbers, remembered rocks and debris hitting his head, wondered for a moment where his protective hat was?
Was that him screaming? Was this what it was like to be hurtling around in space? The earth was savage as if toying with the mortals who had dared to cut deep into its belly. He was being bowled over and over, helpless with the noise bouncing in his head, agonizing pain in his ears. His head hit something so hard that he felt his teeth snap together and then mercifully nothing.
Much later he opened his eyes, everything was black, impenetrable. He tried to move but he was pinned to the ground. Every part of his body hurt, he could barely turn his head enough to spit out tooth fragments which threatened to go down his throat. But it was the stillness that was the most frightening. Choking fetid air, he tried to call out; he could feel his mouth and tongue working but he couldn’t hear his voice. He wriggled desperately trying to free himself to no avail. He could feel tears run out of his eyes and reasoned sternly. I might need that fluid in my body, calm down man.
They will come looking, they know we are down here; he started to cough, he badly needed some water.
Funny he could not hear himself coughing either; must have concussion?
He felt as if he was lying in a tomb, the stillness and the awful blackness bearing down on his face and chest. He thought of his six-year-old son Ryan, what a story he would have to tell him when he got back home. He had to be strong for Ryan; he was the sole emotional support for the boy. That bitch, his hard-faced wife, was too self absorbed to look after the child.
He tried to remain still, picturing Ryan’s face and the way his eyes widened with wonder when Charles read to him. He couldn’t move his arms to feel how much space was around him, how much air was available. His stomach contracted, he had always hated confined spaces. Would he be found?
The hard ground was cold and it felt as if scores of pieces of rock were embedded into his body, he couldn’t move to alleviate their pressure. Keep calm! Keep calm, he repeatedly told himself.
It was Company policy to keep looking for survivors after an explosion. They will come, you must hang on.
He didn’t know if it was hours or days before he saw a pinprick of light, a blessed wavering beam in the blackness. He called but his voice just seemed to rasp in his throat. He wanted to sob with relief but he was not master of his body anymore he couldn’t take a deep breath. Was it hours or days before he felt the debris being carefully removed from his body? He tried to sit up but was pushed down firmly to lie still. He kept asking about the others but nobody answered him. A pair of kind hands gently cleaned his face with something wet. A soft rubber nozzle moistened his lips and mouth; although he was trying to talk an oxygen mask was placed over his nose and mouth.
His rescuer illuminated his own face, and Charles saw his mouth moving, but he couldn’t hear anything. A warm hand patted the back of his fingers and he felt a prick in his arm as his world began spiralling, carrying him down into a deep black void.
Again he saw his rescuer’s lips moving but still could not hear his voice. Charles was never again to hear a human voice, or any other sound.
Chapter 1
The iron band inside Ryan’s head tightened like a medieval torture device. He had to escape from his desk, from the office, from the building. It was Monday, but he didn’t feel rested. He had taken work home at the weekend, working non-stop bent over his computer, eating snacks accompanied by too much coffee and wine. When he’d shaved that morning the face that stared back at him was drawn.
He felt confined in his office adjoining a maze of cubicles separated by glass partitions that gave no protection whatever from the maniacal hubbub of frenetic stock brokers. The machine gun staccato of their loud voices all trying to be heard at once was overwhelming.
Ryan left the building, stepping into
