Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

When all the withered and desiccated old shoes have been cleared from the floor of the cupboard, and the coats taken from the hooks where they have always hung to leave dark flutings of dust on the walls behind, it is obvious that the hole at the back, at floor level, is not just the gap left by a a fall of plaster but an original feature of the building: an eighteen inch square opening framed by wooden beading that is painted the same fake woodgrain brown as the dado and the skirting board.

     Someone stoops to shine a flashlight into it; but the beam, after illuminating a few disturbed and circling motes, evaporates into the darkness.

     Someone says that Middleton knows all about this. It was his suggestion to try it; and he is on his way.

     Someone thinks a soft mewling can be heard from far away down the tunnel, a kitten perhaps. Everyone listens, but no-one can hear anything. There is little air movement. The atmosphere seems unbreathed.

     Someone says, ‘Does that thing open out farther in? It’s going to be no joke trying to get any distance along a passageway eighteen inches square. You’d have to adopt a commando crawl; but even at that...’

     Someone pokes a walking stick into the opening and probes around with it.

     ‘It seems to widen out a bit, but not much. Feels quite uneven.’ When he withdraws the stick, the end is seen to be clotted with a pale, soft substance the texture of poultice.

     ‘Middleton’s reckoned to know, anyhow. Been through it on more than one occasion, if rumour’s to be believed. Seems he’s known about it all along. Or so they say.’

     Somehow this tunnel entrance, discovered in a long-familiar cupboard, makes everyone uneasy. It’s as if the dead air were softly stirring. Or perhaps as if it were a softly pulsing digestive tract.

     Like people waiting for a hearse that is unaccountably delayed, or people unsure whether or not the All Clear has sounded and it is safe to leave the shelter, we stand around in the corridor outside the open door, among the scattered shoes, all in our shiny-backed waistcoats; and we wait for Middleton.