rosanicus

No 5: "My panic's at the ceiling, but I'm face down on the carpet."

Quivering | Dream Journal | Phobia

Gimlet whump! Come get your Gimlet whump! This is set post-Gets the Answer, and is basically a snippet about Gimlet responding poorly to his own trauma responses. He doesn't have time for this, guys.

The problem didn't become apparent for some time after their return from Cyprus. Copper and Trapper were back to their occasional business of running a petrol station - ludicrous to imagine as ever - while Cub accompanied Gimlet on a fishing holiday at Strathcarglas, mostly in silence, before going back to his flat in London.

And so Gimlet was alone once more, and happy enough with his lot. There were plenty of things to tidy up around the estate in Scotland, and then - thanks to a helping hand from Bertie Lissie - a reasonably short flight down to Devon to check in with Lorrington. After the heat and closeness of the Cypriot air, Gimlet relished the opportunity to wander across the moors of a cool August evening. There was much to recommend it.

The land surrounding Lorrington rose and fell gently, nestled in the shadow of ancient tors and with a pastoral tinge that gave one the impression of a painting by John Constable. Gimlet had never been overly fond of it, but it served its purpose as a place to be from, and he enjoyed the responsibilities that it afforded him.

Being on the moor, of course, there were some treacherous areas nearby. Gimlet dimly recalled a childhood fall into a half-filled pit, and a few horror stories from a tutor about mine ponies drowning in bogs. He avoided the derelict tin mines on his walks, an abundance of caution, and thought little of the slight catch in his breath when he thought of the totality of darkness within.

He ate alone, slept alone, and walked alone. It was a relief after the stress of a mission, of having to keep account of three men who — for all that he held them in highest regard — were prone to taking initiative. The familiar surroundings of his bedroom, which he had chosen after leaving the nursery and never seen fit to change, were a balm to nerves which even he could admit were a little unsettled.

The tunnels had been very dark. After Cub and Copper had dug him out, he had never been alone in them again. There had been a period of time he could not accurately measure, when the light was gone and the only sound was the scrape of stone against stone. He had gone back in, of course, to find the gang and the hidden artefacts, but that had been so soon afterwards. He had still had dust in the turn-ups of his trousers and underneath his fingernails.

On his first night at Lorrington, he woke in the small hours to the closed curtains of his bed and the shivers that overtook him lasted for some inexact time, the hours of night that one cannot measure. It was dark and close, and even with the softness of the pillow beneath his head he felt stone scraping at his fingertips.

The next night, he left the curtains open.

On his next walk across the moor, he paused at the sight of an engine house, half collapsed. There would be a mineshaft near it. He had not felt like this after being thrown down the shaft near Strathcarglas, and he had no idea why the one should leave him in this state when the other had only given him a lingering headache.

It ought to be different, really. In Cyprus it had been a cave system, a freak of nature. There was nothing malicious about the rocks that had collapsed around him.

He had wandered to the wheal. It was overgrown, of course. The tin had been mined out decades before. Through the rough gorse he could just make out the swallowing darkness of the pit. If he were to fall, no one would know where to find him.

Gimlet stepped back. His heart hammered in his chest.

It was a long walk back to Lorrington Hall. His boots sank into the soft earth as he went, letting his eyes skip over the scenery. He felt odd and shaky, and resented himself for it. There was little point in feeling this way.

Unfortunately, he knew from long experience that a man could not stop himself from feeling entirely.