Writing for Fun
March 2016
Rock Bottom - Pete Norman
The Nadir Deep Rover rolled slowly out on its tracks into the bright sunlight; on deck the entire crew had assembled to watch the launch. Graham and Terry scaled the side ladder and dropped awkwardly through the hatchway into the huge Plexiglas sphere. Two smiling faces and four thumbs were aimed at Jill who was operating the Poseidon's video camera and then the hatch was securely bolted down. Once the cockpit checks had been completed Graham flicked the toggle switch on the dashboard.
'We're good to go, Poseidon.'
'Roger, Nadir. Prepare for launch.'
Shackles were attached to the roof mounts and the chains creaked as the crane took up the slack. Inch by inch, the Nadir rose up from the deck and then swung out over open water. The submersible was bobbing gently with only the top above the surface while the divers released the shackles. The radio crackled on again.
'Good luck, Nadir. Permission to dive to 300 metres.'
'Acknowledged, Poseidon. 300 metres.' With a soft hiss the ballast air vented through the top ports and the craft began to sink. The sunlight faded fast and Graham flicked on the lighting arrays; the water around them suddenly came alive with colour: the gunmetal grey of the Poseidon's hull growing smaller by the second above them, the indigo water of the Pacific Ocean disappearing into the gloom beyond the surreal glow of the lights and the myriad of fish shoaling at a safe distance from this strange and invasive leviathan.
Terry pulled the monitor screen close to his lap, it showed views from the seven remotely operated cameras, which gave 360 degree coverage around the craft as well as into the yawning depths beneath. Graham and Terry had crewed together for years so conversation was unnecessary as each concentrated on his allotted tasks.
On the depth gauge the numbers were rolling inexorably around: 100 metres, 200, 300.
Terry glanced up from his monitor and saw 345 metres on the display.
'Hey, Graham, you are keeping an eye on the clock, aren't you?'
'No worries, buddy, I've cleared it with Francis. There's something I want to show you. It won't take long.'
'But Sheila only gave you clearance to 300 metres.'
Graham shrugged. 'Yeah, I know; most likely Francis didn't mention it to her.'
Terry looked puzzled, but he did not question further. They had been best mates since they were eleven and he trusted Graham implicitly, he was the best pilot in the business. He turned his concentration back to the cameras, but his eyes did keep flicking back to the dials. Protocol dictated that the Poseidon had to be notified as soon as their authorised depth was reached and they were now passing 400 metres without a single word from Graham to the Mother ship.
Graham caught his worried look. 'Don't worry, buddy, we're nearly there.'
A few minutes later a dim shadow appeared on the monitor. Terry looked through the Plexiglas and saw light coloured sand creeping upwards towards them. With a soft thump the submersible settled onto the bottom. Terry scanned all around them, but there was nothing here, the whole area was barren and lifeless.
'Are you certain we're in the right place?'
Graham nodded; he was staring out at the watery desert.
'We've been best mates for more years than I care to remember, haven't we?'
'Yes . . .'
'Went to school together?'
Terry looked a little confused.
'Met the girls on the same night, at the same dance?'
Now Terry was beginning to feel uncomfortable; he knew exactly where this was going.
'Did you ever think you made a mistake marrying Susan?'
If Graham had ever expected an answer then he would have been disappointed.
'Did you ever think you'd married the wrong one out of the two of them?'
Icy fingers crawled up Terry's back. 'No, of course not, Graham. I love Susan, you know that.'
'That's something only you would know, buddy . . . but what I believe is that it was Carol you really wanted right from the start.'
Terry burst out laughing, but the mirth was paper thin. 'Of course not, you daft bugger. Whatever gave you that idea?'
Graham did not respond, he was still staring out into the void.
'Is that what this is all about? Eh? Go on, Graham, what have I got to say to convince you you're wrong?'
Graham's response was almost inaudible, but the acoustics within the sphere threw the words into Terry's ears like shards of ice. 'When did you start screwing around with Carol?'
'What the bloody hell are you on about, Graham? You can't be serious?'
Graham reached down and patted the back of his trousers. 'You have a birthmark down here – on your right cheek.'
Terry's mouth gaped open.
'The size of a ten pence piece.'
Terry spluttered, 'Yes, of course I do, you must have seen that many times before . . . when we've been swimming . . .?'
Graham smiled, but the effect was unpleasant in the extreme. 'When I first started to suspect there was something going on I installed a CCTV camera on top of the wardrobe – it was easy enough to do, there's always been so much clutter up there . . .
His voice dropped to a dreamy whisper.
'You went there the day before we flew out . . . while I was in London meeting with Francis . . .'
Terry looked around him in terror. The Nadir was equipped to hold three people at a pinch, so with a crew of two it allowed for a bit more space, but the claustrophobic Plexiglas walls were now closing in around him, suffocating him. He was terrified of what Graham might be capable of doing; of the reason he must have had to bring them right down here. He cast his eyes upwards, towards the surface, towards the real world, towards safety . . . but the sight that lay above him nearly stopped his heart. A steady stream of bubbles was pouring from the top vents.
'What are you doing, Graham? That's our air supply. What in hell's name are you doing, you idiot?'
Terry reached out for the stopcock but Graham grabbed his hand and held it firm.
'I have lost everything I hold dear, Terry. I have lost my wife. I have lost my best friend.'
'No. No! You haven't lost your wife, mate. She's all yours, she always has been. It was just a stupid moment of weakness. It will never happen again. I promise you.'
The silence dragged on.
'I promise you . . .'
'Too late . . . much too late my good friend. You see . . . I showed her the video . . . she went ape . . . she stormed upstairs . . . we had a fight on the landing . . . she hit me and I pushed her away . . .' His eyes began to fill with tears and his voice dropped to a soft croak.
'The look on her face as she fell was just like yours is now, Terry. It was just like yours – complete and utter disbelief. She hit the stairs like a rag doll. She rolled over and over and over . . . it all happened in slow motion. At the bottom her eyes were still open, but she was not looking at me anymore . . . she was staring straight into hell.'
Terry's mouth was open but his throat was dry, he had no words to say.
'I have reached rock bottom, Terry, absolute rock bottom. I've lost my wife, I've lost my best mate and when the police find her body they will never believe for one moment that it was an accident, so then I guess I'll lose my freedom . . . and I'll lose the job that I love . . .
'I have reached rock bottom and I have nowhere else to go except down.' He turned to face Terry. 'And I wanted to share all of this with my best buddy.' He smiled. 'To show him exactly-how-it-feels!'
Terry roughly shoved him away and grabbed the stopcock. It was fully open. Above him the stream of air had slowed to a few sporadic bubbles. The tank was dry. There was no air left to inflate the buoyancy tanks. Slowly the horror of the situation began to dawn on him . . . not only was there no air for the buoyancy tanks, there was no air for the life support system either. The glass around them was slowly beginning to mist. He had no way of telling how long they could survive without a fresh supply of air, but he guessed that it could not be for long.
There was only one other possibility . . .
'Graham, look, you've made your point. I'm scared . . . I'm scared shitless, ok? You can do whatever you want to me when we get back, but this can't end up here.' He grabbed Graham by the shoulders and shook him violently. 'I'm going to try and fly us out of here.'
Graham did not respond, it seemed as if he had retreated so far into the inner nightmare of his mind that there was no way back for him now.
Terry powered up the engines and as the propellers began to spin a dense cloud enveloped them. He eased the joystick back and the Nadir shuddered; he could hear the whine of the props as they dug into the soft sand. For a moment he thought that it was all hopeless, but then, suddenly the sub broke free and they lurched upwards. Terry let out a whoop of joy – he still had no idea whether there was any chance of flying the Nadir back to the surface without buoyancy, but he was sure going to give it his best shot – they could sort all of this other shit out when they were back safe on dry land.
He could hardly see now, the glass was misting so much he had to continuously wipe an area clear in front of him. The sweat was running down his face, his lungs were in pain, he was panting fast, the toxic air no longer sustaining him. He could feel nausea sweeping through him. He wanted so much to retch, but he fought hard to resist the feeling, that truly would be the end. He felt lightheaded, his mind wandering incoherently and he knew that delirium would take him all too soon; he just had to hope against hope that they had the time . . . Out of the corner of his eye he caught a sudden movement.
The engines cut off.
He spun around.
From beneath the dashboard hung a loose tangle of wiring.
The craft began to sink.
Graham settled back into his seat, rocking gently, his eyes closed, his muttered mantra barely audible:
'Rock bottom . . . Rock bottom . . . . . . Rock bottom . . . . . . . . .'