I slid my way through the small hole in the rubble once more with the aid of Constable Davies. As I brushed the filth of my dress (a Sisyphyan endeavor if ever there was) it seemed Mr. Davies could no longer contain his curiosity for he blurted out, "Were you able to find anything?" before I had even the chance to acknowledge his assistance.

"I believe I was able to find the site of the explosion, though the actual place where it occurred is entirely buried. I did notice some interesting graffiti on the wall - does this symbol hold any meaning to you?" I asked, producing a piece of paper upon which I had copied the ominous symbol.

The Constable took the sheet and held it close to his his, tilting it this was and that as if hoping another angle would suddenly reveal its meaning to him. "Well, the words at the top aren't Welsh, I can tell you that for nothing."

"No, I didn't think so. I'm not completely certain, but they appear to be Latin."

"Well, I can't help you there! I wouldn't know Latin from Greek."Finally, he returned the paper to me, "Can't say I've ever seen it before, but if the writing is Latin, as you say, it's probably one of them Catholic boys, there's one of their churches only five miles down the way."

"Yes, I saw it from the coach when I came in."

"Probably something about his sweetheart, we have a fair number of girls these parts named Agnus - that means lamb to my recollection and it would fit with the "A" and the sheep, the other two letters must be the rest of her monogram. The poor girl! I hope her sweetheart wasn't in the tunnel when it went up."

"That could be it," but I doubted it. He had not seen the image as it was on the wall. Though my rendering was a fair likeness there was an intensity I could not capture, something which informed me this was not simply a besotted lover's tribute - but nameless such sensations were lost on the Constable who could not bear witness to the original. And perhaps he was correct and it had only been a trick of the light, the searing stench of burnt horseflesh and human hair, of hot blood spilled only the cold damp walls and floors - the scent of iron mingled with the indescribable smell of coal - of limbs never to be united with their owners, that led me to ascribe malice to the picture. But there was still the greater strangeness of time of the explosion: why during shift change of all times? I had never known a miner to work beyond the whistle. As an acquaintance of mine who had assisted me in the corruption case I had investigated regarding a coal mine just south of Lancashire last year had said, "Why should I trouble myself? The rock's not goin' anywhere." This was not even considering the strange matter of the German. I desperately needed to clear my head, but that was not a luxury I would yet be afforded. I squinted as we emerged into the bright light of the midday sun.

"Constable Davis!" a young man hailed us from below the lip of mine. "Is that Miss Moore with you?"

"It is, Joe." the Constable answered as we half slid, half walked down the loose stone of the entry. "Miss Moore this is the mine's foreman, Joe Evans."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Evans."

"The pleasure is mine, though I wish it were under more felicitous circumstances." Mr. Evans pressed my hand in his own. He was a man of his mid-forties with the broadshouldered muscular build of one who has spent his career swinging a pickax in the mines. Still, his features were handsome for his age, if common and slightly irregular from injury. I noticed he was missing a canine tooth on the upper left of his jaw, at least, it had appeared to be the canine, perhaps the second incisor...? This missing feature arrested my attention far more than his eyes which should have held my gaze, but I only just noted they were of a sparkling azure shade before my gaze returned to his mouth waiting for it to open once more that I might be certain which tooth it was that he lacked. "I've just received a letter from Officer Brady," It was his second incisor that was missing, his teeth were just so offset as to be initially deceptive. "It seems the young Mr. Brady has taken a bad turn and his father requests your presence at once."

"Oh dear. I do apologize Constable, would you be able to spare me for a few hours?" I knew the answer without asking, the question was a mere formality. Concern for the young man was written all over the lawman's face.

"Of course."

"Thank you. Please excuse me." I dipped my head and followed Mr. Evans down the hill to where a coach awaited.

"What happened?" I demanded as the elder Mr. Brady greeted me at the door, sparing not a moment for formalities he shepherded me into the house and down the hall.

"One of the servants left a newspaper lying about."

"Oh hell's bells and buckets of blood!" I cursed quietly as we turned a corner. "Where is he?"

"The dining room." his father answered, though I needn't have asked for I could hear the grunts as loud as any scream. His mother stood outside the door wringing a handkerchief in her knobby hands. Her eyes staring helplessly at the closed door. Mr. Brady threw the door open before me.

For a moment my ears were filled with the unintelligible gruntings with no clear sight of whom the were emanating. Then I caught sight of him: his tall spare form sat, rocking slightly back and forth, squeezed in the corner formed by the wall and a china cabinet. His hands were smashed against his ears causing his short, bright red hair to stand askance around the digits - not that such a measure would have any effect in the slightest. The fingers were dug so deep I could see crescents of blood forming on his scalp.

"Paul!" I cried uselessly, rushing to his side. "Paul!" I pried his hands from his ears.

"It's eyes! It's eyes! They're bleeding!" he cried, attempting to force his hands, balled into tight fists, back to his head. "Jeremy! Jeremy! He's got the dynamite! What's going on? It's all gone wrong! Run Paul! Run! What is it Jeremy? Run!" I lost hold of one and before I could regain control of it watched in horror as he began to pummel himself about the head.

"Paul! It's me! It's Mina!" I fought his arms down.

He stared at me with vacant eyes, body suddenly still, in a voice not his own he proclaimed, "Ecce sanguinem agni!" Then he started to scream. His arms broke from my grasp and began to beat at his skull as if to dash it to bits.

"Paul!" I cried. I threw my arms around him in a tight embrace. I could feel his limbs struggling against my body. "Paul. Paul. Come back to me." I whispered, stroking his flaming red hair. I kissed his forehead, "Come back to me, Paul." Finally, I felt his body slacken, his arms slid around my form, gripping my body like a lifeline. We remained in that manner for almost ten minutes before his arms slid down to his sides.

"Mina?" he asked. I nodded my head. In a flash his arms were thrown tightly around me in a wild embrace.

I gently extricated myself from him, "Come now, my fiance will be jealous if you keep this up." I teased the boy with a smile he nodded his head as if he understood though I knew he did not. I took a piece of paper and pen from my bag.

Were you back in the mine again? I wrote. I turned the notebook to him so he could read it, he nodded his head. What did you see? What eyes? You mentioned them once before. Suddenly Paul's eyes grew distant again. He grab the pen and paper and hurled himself at the dining room table where he leaned his entire upper body against the edge, it seemed he did battle an unseen and internal foe so great a force he used to push each line into being. Finally, he slid back to the floor spent, pen still in hand, paper on the surface of the table. I raised myself from the floor to take a look but he grabbed my arm, his eyes pleading, "Be careful Mina."

"I will," I assured him, nodding my head. He released by arm and I raised myself to peer at the drawing. On the paper a sheep with strangely menacing eyes stared at me from the center of a large "A" contained in a circle. It was the same as the symbol in the mine but for the small K and M! I tore the copy I had made from my bag to be absolutely sure - there could be no mistaking it. I tore the sheet from my notebook and began to write, Paul,where did you see this symbol?

"In the mine, in Russia. It was on the wall the day... well the day it all went."

And you never saw it before that day?

"No."

Are you absolutely certain? I wrote.

"Yes." he nodded his head. "I'd remember something like that."

Did Bond see it as well?

Paul shrugged. I took another tack, Do you know who painted it there?

"No." Paul answered.

Might I take it with me?

"Take it or burn it, either way I'd just as soon never see it again." Paul answered with a slight smirk on his wan, heavily freckled face; he had finally returned somewhat to himself again. Or at least the version I was familiar with. I found myself wondering what he must have been like before the explosion, all accounts of him painted him as a boy eager for adventure. So eager in fact it was only after he had shipped out that his parents had found the note upon his pillow explaining that he had enlisted in the royal navy at the age of seventeen rather than follow in his father's footsteps.

I could still see in my mind's eye the skeletal form of the young man as the ship's crew carried him from the boat, his thin frame lashed to a makeshift litter, his almost translucent pale skin only setting apart further the bright shock of red hair. I had received a telegram from Roger requesting I meet the ship to help escort a friend of his home. I had not comprehended the meaning of the missive at the time - it had been short, terse, with no details of relevance beyond the man's name, the ship he would arrive on, and place of residence - it was the first news we had heard of Roger in almost half a year's time, our first word of communication since we had sent the wedding invitation (though that date had come and go with no such affair occurring - instead we were once more consigned to delay the day, that I might care for my father during his prolonged illness). He might have done us the favor of a simple word of salutation at the very least! Only that he had business in Mayfair and could not accompany his companion for the remainder of the journey. Still, it was some proof he still lived and Quentin, Dinah, and I had rejoiced at the receipt of it. When the boy awakened (when had the age of nineteen become a "boy" in my mind?) I came to discover why the sailors had tied him to the litter. He was stone deaf and half mad! He moaned endlessly in a state of near wakefulness on the coach ride to his house. From the smell I guessed the sailors had chosen to quiet him with liberal application of rum. And how I wished I had a snifter of that particular libation on the coach ride to Tongwynlais! About thirty minutes into the journey the young man began to moan, his head lolling from side to side as his groans grew louder and more distinct until I could almost distinguish words though they held no true meaning for me to aid in their translation into proper English. They had sounded like names to my ears. I leaned in closer until I was almost nose to nose with the ailing man.

"...aero...me... aero...me...mool...mule...pol... th' guards... Aerome! Jeremy!" his eyes flew open, staring directly into mine yet I could tell it was not I that those terror filled orbs saw. "Paul!" he screamed in a voice that did not seem his own, "It's all gone wrong! Run Paul!" "Jeremy!" he answered himself in his own higher tones, his head jerked about mechanically as if he were searching for something, "Jeremy where are you?" "I'm right behind you, now run!" the deeper voice answered. "Run Paul!" The cabin was filled with hysterical screaming. Paul stared ahead, wild eyed, his mouth frozen open and emitting the most ghastly shrieks. I shook the man by the shoulders. Suddenly a force yank Paul from from hands. Instinctively I grasped at him, wrapping my arms tightly about his shoulders. In an instant I found myself on the ground with the still shrieking banshee, the sudden burst of sunlight forcing me to squint at the burly figure, holding a whip, staring menacingly at me.

"Shut him up! He's scarin' the horses." the coachman demanded. From behind him I could see the pair of horses straining at the reins the man held fast in his right hand. One of the creatures caught sight of Paul and reared, releasing a loud whistle of fright. The coachman jerked at the reins hard, bringing the terrified beast down. I stared at the coachman helplessly. "Then you'll both have ta' go," he said, mounting the coach with ease and letting the horses run as fast as they pleased from the site whence Paul and I still sat, his screams now reaching a fever pitch.

"Paul!" I had cried, striking the man across the face. "Paul!"

"The eyes! The eyes! They're bleeding!" Paul's arms rose hesitantly, as though he were trying to fight them. "They're bleeding!" His spindly fingers flew at his face, tearing at the flesh as an otherworldly maniacal laugh escaped his gaping mouth, "They're bleeding!" I threw my body around him in a merciless embrace, pinning his arms to his sides, my cheek pressed against his, I could feel his long fingers still working, trying desperately to return once more to his face. A nail tore across the side of my throat. Without looking I could tell he had drawn blood. I turned my face so I now stared into his forest colored eyes, so close the tips of our noses grazed each other. Suddenly, almost imperceptibly, the focus of his eyes drew back into themselves. His struggling form slackened. His head tilted, regarding me curiously. I slackened my grip and drew back from him slightly. I watched as his eyes searched out the details of my dress and form, so intense was his examination of me that I quickly became self-conscious.

"Paul-" I began.

"You're a woman," he observed wonderingly.

"Yes, clearly. But Paul, I need to know-"

"You're a woman." he interrupted again.

"Yes, I believe we have quite establish this fact."

"Are you an Englishwoman? Or Russian?" In awe he reached out a hand to touch a lock of my hair shaken loose by the ordeal. I pushed his hand away. What a strange question for him to ask considering I was speaking English to him at the moment.

"I'm English," I answered almost irritably.

"I'm sorry. Could you repeat that louder?" His voice was a reflection of his request. I resisted the urge to cover my ears.

"I'm an English Woman!" I practically shouted. He stared at me, befuddled. Something dawned on me, I put my fingers on either side of his ears and began snapping.

He only regarded me strangely. "What are you doing?" he yelled. I slumped backward. Deaf. Stone deaf. And he didn't even know it. No small wonder the sailors could not control him. I took an old, yellowed letter from my bag and wrote on the back: My name is Miss Philomena Moore. I was sent to bring you home. "Why didn't you say so? Paul Brady!" he announced, extending a hand. He must have figured out the situation by now, merely he was refusing to accept it! I sighed heavily before once more taking up the pen: It seems something has affected your hearing, we'll have to have a doctor examine you. "Fine enough by me, haven't seen one of those in two years. Just so long as I get a proper meal first!" he laughed - the first few notes were expelled normally before the tones of mania encroached. I stood and offered him a hand up before writing: Come on now, we've got a bit of a walk ahead of us. "There's no walk too long with a pretty lady!" His words caused me to wince from their volume in such close proximity to my ear. I made no attempt at conversation, merely allowed the young man to prattle on, some of it was sensible, but much bordered on madness. It quickly became evident from his tale why Roger had chosen that I should be the one to meet the boy at port. "I haven't seen a woman in months, I'll tell you that for free. They said there used to be a few in the camp for the officers but I never saw 'em. And then there weren't any on the ship either. Caught a glimpse of some in Bombay... When I woke up I thought I was still in the camp - till I saw you that is." So Roger had known, at least to some extent, the boy's condition. Likely he had figured that were Paul to be greeted by the face of a man, or his own for that matter, he would believe himself to still be in the camp; and judging from the hysterics I had been greeted with when Paul regained consciousness, those were memories best not directly brought forth. He had wagered a female face would be the most likely to pull the youth out from his madness. He might have thought that worthy of writing!

I enjoyed the hospitality of the Brady family two months before returning home. Roger had sent a telegram to Inspector Brady explaining the situation a great deal better to him than myself. It seemed Paul had been kidnapped and taken to a labor camp where he had been forced to work in the mines. He had been involved in an explosion where he had been, apparently, the only survivor. He theorized that the result of such trauma had caused temporary madness in the youth but was optimistic that he would recover in time, however, he regretted to add, he feared Paul's hearing was lost forever.

The Brady house was large for the village it overlooked, not near to the scale of an estate, not even so large as my long estranged Uncle's former property in Sutton-at-Hone - but far more than a single servant could manage. It was a fine red brick affair, built by Mrs. Brady's father who had made a substantial living in trade and chose to leave the whole of his fortune to his only child, a spinster of no notable beauty not keen to shackle herself to any of the fortune hunters who sought her hand. It had been mere happenstance that had led to her acquaintance with the young Officer Brady who, at that time, was employed by the Police station in Cardiff. It seemed one morning while she was running an errand in the heart of town a young man had been so taken with admiration for her mount he decided to make off with it, roughly abusing the then middle aged woman in the process. As she tells it her screams brought the attention of a young, redheaded policeman and so handsome was he she quite forgot about the horse. There was a great wagging of tongues about town when they married, given the fifteen year age difference to a man of no fortune or name (of Irish blood at that!) it was impossible that some eyebrows would not be raised. Accusations of fortune hunting and various perverse inclinations were well whispered - even I had to question what might have possessed a man to take a woman so much his senior, or for a woman of means to surrender her freedom to a man for that matter. Paul, like his mother before, arrived the only child to doting parents. His mother claims him to look just as his father did though, given the stouter build of the senior Brady I would question that assessment.

I had hoped that once I had delivered Paul to his parents I might wash my hands of the whole incident, but it quickly became apparent they were not equal to the task of his care. Within hours of his arrival he fell into another fit and nearly knocked his father off his feet when the older man attempted to restrain him - he might have actually done injury to Officer Brady if not for my intervention. It seemed in his delirious state he could not distinguish his own father from the prison guards and his mother, nearly sixty years of age and frail, found the whole scene such a shock to her nerves I feared a doctor might have to be summoned. I wrote my mother claiming Mrs. Brady had requested I stay on as her companion for the coming months as hunting season was terrifically lonesome for an old woman; a request my mother was only too happy to grant. Thus I became Paul's nurse, as it were.

The first day was by far the worst. Despite the size of the house, Paul seemed unable to tolerate the enclosed space. His mind kept jumping between the present and the past. A fine beef roast dinner was rather spoilt by his detailed recollections of a Greek who had apparently been captured after a failed attempt to escape and his head mounted on a pike. Not that it mattered for Paul was unable to keep any of the food down and finally had to be served a thin chicken broth and bread which was even then almost too rich. His father, still overcome by the recovery of his son made the mistake of placing an arm around the young man's shoulders. He realized the severity of his mistake when Paul turned his wild eyes upon his elder, the incident resulting in the temporary requirement of a sling for the father. It seemed his son had taken him for a guard and had no desire to be forced back into the camp.

The coming dark of evening only further exacerbated his anxiety. As the sun set I found him sitting on a bench outside the garden staring, his head twitching slightly, at the slowly vanishing pink orb. I set myself beside him.

"I can't remember the last time I saw the sun set. I know I have hundreds of times, I'm certain I have watched a number of them - but I don't recall a single one. It seems so unfair that I'm the one who gets to see it. And here Jeremy and Mueller and Old Sean and Perce, even the Greeks - they'll never get to see one again. And why should I deserve such a thing over them?"

I shook my head in answer.

"It's alright, I know it. I'm deaf, aren't I?"

I nodded.

"I can still hear it though, I can still hear the screaming. The report of the rifles. I look to the west and I see the setting sun and the darkness coming above it and it looks like the world is on fire. And I am standing on the edge of the doorway of the barracks. We have a blanket hanging down over the door because the nights are still cold and it's better for some of us to go without than to let the chill in and I can feel the rough wool against my skin. When I breathe I can feel the nip of the cold in the air. And there's a man next to me so close I can feel him pressing against my shoulder to get a better look, taller than even I am, and I know it's Mueller. And he takes a look at the scene at the glow of the fire - it seems like it takes up most of the horizon - and he snorts and says something in German and turns around and goes back inside. I can feel someone else take his place, it's Jeremy. It's funny, whenever I think of Jeremy I remember him as taller, but I suppose he barely came up to my shoulder. And beside him is Perce. You would've liked Perce, he was my best mate, only a year older than me - came in a month before I did, showed me the ropes. He always told grand tales about his travels before: how he outwitted a tribe of cannibals in Fiji and rescued the rest of the crew from being boiled alive in one of their giant stew pots; or how he saved a fair young maiden from the clutches of the lecherous sheikh, or the one about the tribe of leopard men in Africa - that one was always my favorite. They were clearly complete rot and often changed multiple times even in the telling - but what fun they were to hear! He always said when he got out he was going to go back to Tahiti and never leave. He would have loved Mr. Bond but he never did get to meet him. One night, a month before we went to bed and I woke up the next morning and he just didn't. Don't know what took him. Died within days of Old Sean. But that was after. Right now I know Old Sean is behind me - a bear of an Irishman - and I can hear him cursing. But the rest of us are just standing there watching. And I can hear them screaming, hundreds of them being burned alive in their barracks. I can hear the crack of the guns like popcorn and I know they are shooting the ones who are trying to escape the fire. And I can't think at all, all I can do is watch the glow of the fire. And finally Jeremy pulls us back in and tells us we need get some sleep but who could sleep?! I'm staring up at the rafters and Perce is next to me, his eyes are closed but I know he's not asleep and all I can think is whether I would try to run or just lie down, breath in as much as the smoke as I could, and let my body burn to death and I don't know."

I rested my hand on his, he gripped it tightly.

"Then Old Sean got sick and we all knew, none of us said anything, but we all knew it would be us next. I saw the lumps and I felt like I was going to faint or be sick or both, he was barely able to stand he was so ill but he went with us into the mine anyway. I remember his face when he did it. There was a shaft where the ground had given way into a deep pit. He as we passed he just smiled, said "Goodbye and God be with you." and then he just sort of tipped over backwards and fell into the hole. He looked so at peace - I think because he knew he was doing it to save us. And I see it and I feel the brush of air from the fall against my arms and it's so slight that I almost don't notice it. We just stood there staring, in shock, until the guard demanded to know why we stopped and Perce just answered 'Old Sean Guire fell' - it didn't sound like him, he sounded a hundred miles away. The guard took a lantern and shone it down into the hole and you could see Old Sean's broken body at the bottom and the guard mumbled 'Well, no sense getting that one.' and we just kept staring so then the guard said 'I'll push all of you in if you don't get moving!' so we did. And all I want to do is go home. I dream of home! I dream of eating creamy chicken pies by the handful and kissing my mum and smelling her perfume and my bed! And sleeping in my own room with a down blanket all to myself instead of a greasy woolen one shared with three others. And here I am and I can't bear the thought of sleeping by myself. Would you...?"

"No!" I cried pulling my hands away, scandalized. He was unable to hear my answer but my response was quite clear regardless.

His eyes fell the his hands, embarrassed, "I suppose it was a bit much to ask, but still, might you at least stay in the room? It would give me some piece to know you are there."

My heart softened toward the poor boy who had suffered so greatly, I suppose the sensation must have shown on my face for his eyes shined with a new hope as he searched my face. I nodded, reticently. Taking Roger's original telegram from my bag I wrote upon the back of it, But only if the door is left open and the lamps remain lit.

He smiled weakly, nodding as he said, "I should prefer it that way."

And in that manner I spent my nights for the first fortnight, watching as Paul drifted into fitful slumbers from a lowbacked armchair in the corner of his chamber. For the first few nights he often drifted from nightmare to nightmare. Soft grunts would quickly gain in urgency as his body, at first only the limbs twitching, contorted in the bed, throwing off the covers and twisting and turning in an alarming manner as he began screaming. At which point, as often as not, he would awaken himself with his cries, look over to my corner, and, upon finding me still keeping watch, would sink back under the covers and attempt to find sleep once more. My mind was occasionally drawn to memories of my own like plight, bedridden on the verge of hysteria under the watchful eyes of Roger Norbert. In that way I felt a certain kinship with the young man that, while it did not wholly obviate the lack of sleep I endured, it did lend some consolation for it. Though it was not uncommon for one of the staff to find me asleep in their diminutive library (if one might be so generous to call it such, as it was not much more than a dressing room with bookshelves and a wingback chair) at midday; a book, only just started, lying unattended in my lap. By the end of the week the nightmares had subsided considerably, or, at the very least, their intensity had lessened until he was able to sleep through the nights... most of the time, at least. By this time Quentin had arrived and took over my shift, Paul now rarely waking believing himself still in the camp and requiring the shock of my gender to snap him from the vision. He rarely spoke of his experience after that first day: what little I knew was gleaned from those nocturnal ramblings - names like Jeremy, Mueller, Old Sean, Perce, Mick O'Lally, Jim the Gimp, and Whittaker Smith had become as familiar to me as those of my own kin though they lacked any context or description. He never spoke again of what had occurred in the mine, if he had visions of it he kept them solely to himself until this day when they had once more come roaring to the surface.

I left the house that evening following a rather generous supper. They, of course, made offers and requests that I might spend the night with them, but I declined, citing my business in Cwtch was not yet finished promising to return the following day for, while I made no show of it and he made every attempt to conceal it (which he affected very poorly), I was terribly concerned by Paul's current state. This placated the young man enough that his twitchy scanning of his surroundings calmed somewhat. Within the hour I had returned to the Colliery where Constable Davies awaited me.

"How is Mr. Brady faring?"

"It was rather a bad fit, but I believe he is through the worst of it."

"Do you wish to return to the main building?"

"No, that will not be necessary. I have reached the conclusion of my investigation."

"You have?" cried Mr. Davies, quite astonished.

"Yes. A gas cap was ignited when a shot was fired in the Cwm Nedd district of the mine leading to the deaths of the thirty-nine miners."

"But they would never fire a shot while the shift was in the mine! It's against regulations! And what of the fortieth man?" Davies protested.

"There were only thirty nine men recovered." I glared at Constable Davies significantly, "A gas cap was ignited when a shot was fired in the Cwm Nedd district of the mine. We believe the mine may reopen as soon as it has been restored to a structurally sound state with precautions taken to avoid such incidents in the future. Those are the findings of the Secret Service investigation."

"Yes ma'am." Constable Davies said with a slight touch to his bowler brim. I was gratified to see he understood.

"Thank you Mr. Davies. If you should find you have need of anything else do not hesitate to call on us. We will be glad to assist."

"Thank you, Miss Moore."