Page 110 of The Other Side

“Amazing.”

“Do you know why it’s done?” she asked. “When did it start?”

Luckily, Drum had looked it up. “The first village to record wells being dressed was Tissington in 1758, but it almost definitely started before that and not necessarily in Tissington.”

A group of tourists began gathering around him. Shit. He hoped he knew enough to satisfy them. “There are various legends about why it started. The most popular one is the idea of locals celebrating their escape from the Black Death due to the purity of the water supply. That was in the fourteenth century.”

“I read it might have started as a pagan sacrifice to the god and goddesses of water as thanks for the well,” said a woman in the biggest straw hat Drum had ever seen.

“Quite possibly, then it was taken up by Christians to thank God,” Drum added. “The wells were also dressed when there was a drought to celebrate that the springs kept supplying water.”

Drum backed away as people began to chat. Well-dressing was big pull for tourism. It brought villagers together and the accompanying festivals raised money for charity. Drum wandered to the top of the street and then made his way back to his vehicle, trying not to think of Osian.

He drove from Hopewell to one of the limestone caverns that were open to the public and sorted out another parking issue. People got bent out of shape about so little.

It had been a long day, but Drum was glad about that. Maybe he’d sleep instead of lying awake worrying. He locked the garage, walked around to the front door and let himself in. He was locking it when a draught brushed his neck. The telltale shimmer of shattered glass in the French doors caught his eye and Drum reached for his radio. A shadow surged from the dark and Drum crashed face-first into the floor, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. An arm slammed into his spine, keeping him down as rough hands pushed underneath his chest, snatching his radio, sending it skittering across the floor. Had he managed to press the emergency button? He wasn’t sure.

“Get his phone as well,” a voice barked.

The sound sliced through Drum like a blade. Barney Cotton. Ashford’s enforcer. A man Drum had traded jokes with, worked beside, trusted. Drum’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs as he was hauled upright. They ripped his police phone from his pocket. Panic flared hot and wild. Did they know about the second phone? Or would they put a bullet in him before he ever got the chance to draw it?

He was hurled backward, slamming hard into the couch cushions. Three figures loomed over him, blotting out the light. In the centre stood Ahmed Hussain, the man who’d been Drum’s closest confidant right up until the exact moment Ashford discovered Drum was a cop. Drum had never seen the third man before.

One chance. That was all Drum would have. And it wouldn’t be much of a chance against three who probably had guns. The front door was locked. He’d have to go through the broken French door. He lunged for the lamp and flung it back. It exploded against one attacker’s shoulder and Drum charged for the door, only to be caught from behind. A fist smashed into his ribs and air burst from his lungs. Another punch landed across his cheek.

Drum staggered but stayed upright until a heavy object slammed into the side of his head. White light exploded across his vision but even as hands grabbed him, he still fought, throwing elbows, kicking out. He heard grunts as his blows landed, then something struck the back of his skull and the room tilted, stretching away as though he were falling through it.

Then there was nothing.

Cold droplets struck Drum’s face. One landed on his lips. His tongue slid out. Gritty water. Still alive, then. He didn’t move. Didn’t try to open his eyes. He knew he was somewhere dark. Didn’t feel like he was outside. There wasn’t the faintest hint of light behind his eyelids. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He lay absolutely still and listened. Were they still there? He wasn’t tied up. His fingers rested on rough stone. Rock.

Then came the pain. It rolled over him in relentless waves, stealing his breath yet making him gasp. No point pretending to be unconscious. Drum forced his eyes open and saw nothing. The darkness was absolute. Not the darkness of a room at night, but that of somewhere the sun had never reached. Oh God. A cellar? He drew in a cautious breath and almost cried out. That hurt. The air was cold and damp, thick with the smell of wet stone and old earth.

Where the hell am I?

“Hello?” His voice echoed as he whispered.

The only answer was another drip of water onto his face. He shifted his weight and a sharp, white-hot spike of pain shot through his chest, forcing a ragged gasp from his throat. So he’d broken ribs. They’d broken his ribs. He reached up to check there was room above his head, because if they’d put him in a box, a coffin, he’d… He struggled to a sitting position. Even through the pain, he felt relief. No broken arms or legs though his head hurt. He gingerly slid his fingers into his hair and felt a sticky patch of blood at the side of his skull. Then more pain.

Slowly and methodically, Drum searched the pitch-black space around him with his fingertips. Jagged limestone. A scatter of loose stones. A cave. Not a cellar. He looked up. They must have thrown him down but it was as black overhead as it was around him. Drum patted his pockets. Nothing. Had they found his phone? The answer hit him a heartbeat later. Yes. A sob caught in his throat. Panic threatened to swallow him whole.

Aside from the steady plop, plop of dripping water, another sound lingered beneath the silence—a low, distant sigh. Air? Did that mean there was an opening somewhere? He edged backwards until his shoulder met cold, damp rock. Leaning against it, he fought to steady his breathing while the world spun around him.

They hadn’t shot him. They’d thrown him down a mineshaft. His pulse hammered. Fuck. His death, assuming he was ever found, would look like an accident. Fucking Ashford.

Now he wished he’d never read about Derbyshire’s abandoned mines in his job details. The Peak District was riddled with more than twenty-five thousand forgotten lead workings. Around Eyam alone there were hundreds within a few miles. No one would ever find him. A lump rose in his throat. He was strangely relieved Osian hadn’t been there when he’d got home. Osian would have tried to save him. Then they’d both be dead or both be down here.

Osian wouldn’t even know what had happened. He’d come back and find Drum was missing. Drum bowed his head and let the tears come. Only for a little while. Feeling sorry for himself solved nothing. He had to get himself out of this mess.

Keeping one shoulder pressed to the wall, he swept his hand across the ground to the right, then the left. On the left, his fingers dropped into space. Every muscle locked. Very carefully, he groped for a loose stone and tossed it sideways into the darkness.

One second. Two. A hollow clack echoed from somewhere far below. Then there was a splash. Ice flooded his veins. He wasn’t just lying on the cave floor. He was lying beside a drop. One he could easily have fallen down. Oh Christ. He swallowed hard. He’d been lucky to land here. Lucky the fall hadn’t killed him outright.

One careless movement…

“Okay,” he whispered, his teeth beginning to chatter. “Don’t move. Think.”

He needed to understand the chamber. Keep one hand on the wall. Seek out that airflow. Don’t waste energy shouting. Not yet. He forced himself to breathe through the pain. Panic had nearly killed him before. Not this time.