Grave

1 . . . caught like an animal in a leg-hold trap Basically, I'm a loner. My name is Tom and I'm small for my age, which is thirteen and three-quarters. My mother left me crawling in Toys on the fifth floor of Lewis's department store when I was a baby and never came back for me. It was downtown Liverpool, Christmas, 1961. She probably kissed me on the cheek and told me, "Be a good boy," before she took off, but that's guesswork because how would I know that? Maybe she wished me a Merry Christmas. Anyway I never saw her again. They found a note pinned to me that said "Tommy." That was it, just "Tommy," no birth date, no second name, nothing. I don't even know whether she was sad or glad to be rid of me, but whenever I think of her I always imagine her saying, "Be a good boy, Tommy," and then taking the elevator down to the main floor and pushing her way through the revolving doors and running down Renshaw Street with her coat flapping. I've been a loner ever since. I still live in Liverpool, a few miles from Lewis's downtown, in a suburb called Old Swan, and I've got a story to tell. I'll be surprised if anyone believes it because sometimes I don't even believe it myself. But I've got to tell it. It all started when I fell into the black hole. Or was dragged, more like. It wasn't one of those black holes way out in space, the kind that's supposed to suck up asteroids and space debris like a vacuum cleaner--no; this black hole was just a deep pit on a construction site, hidden behind a corrugated steel fence in the school yard. Men and machines had been working behind the high fence for a whole year, building the new school, though the actual building hadn't started yet because they were still working on the excavation. Why a whole year just to dig a hole? Nobody knew the answer. Rumors of all kinds were flying around: the delay was caused by the important discovery of ancient Roman ruins and the government had sent experts to check it out; or the workmen had uncovered the grisly remains of a singer, famous for her blond boldness and unconventional music, who disappeared a year ago and was now found murdered, chopped into pieces with a butcher knife; or the construction crew had discovered a hoard of buried treasure dating back to the Spanish Armada; or they had found a secret tunnel to Australia. Everyone laughed at the rumors but soon stopped when they saw fresh rolls of razor wire and a uniformed guard put on to patrol the fence perimeter twenty-four hours a day. For several days I'd felt a powerful impulse to explore behind the fence, like there was something, or somebody, commanding me; like my very life depended on it. It was nothing but my overactive imagination, I told myself, the exciting idea of exploring Roman ruins more than a thousand years old, or of seeing Spanish gold, or of being the first through the tunnel to Australia. I thought about it so hard I couldn't sleep. When I slipped out of bed Brian heard me getting up and thought I was running out on him, so I ended up having to take him with me. We crept out under the cover of moony darkness. Don't think I wasn't scared, because I was. I was scared out of my mind if you really want to know the truth. But I just had to see what was behind the fence, no matter what. The moon was almost full, but dodgy with thin cloud. The urge was stronger the closer I got, like there was a magnet dragging me. We got to Snozzy's school yard--Snozzy's is what all the kids call St. Oswald's--and hid in the bushes near the church. Brian was scared, too. "I don't like this place, Tom," he whined. "Could we go back now?" "You can go back, but I've got to see what's behind the fence." Brian said, "Wha?" I should mention that Brian's bread isn't baked all the way through. "Or youHeneghan, James is the author of 'Grave' with ISBN 9780440229483 and ISBN 0440229480.