Em was blackberry picking, with plans to make a blackberry and apple pie when she got back home. Our walk along the track was broken by short pauses to try and reach whatever blackberries she could find. I thought it was too early for blackberries, associating them more with October for some reason. Just past the radio transmitter (owned by Souther Water for some occult reason) there was a split in the path. I could see up the slight rise some kind of concrete structure, so suggested that we might stop here for blackberries and lunch.
The concrete structure turned out to be some kind of bunker, mostly hidden below the ground. The top of the bunker - a few foot high and easily mountable, was the area of a small garage - it's hard to describe the size of things in words. Em went blackberry picking around the corner while I ate my £1:00 cheese and red onion sandwiches from Sainisburys. As Em moved away from the bunker she said to me 'it's some kind of house, looks like someone's living there'. I hadn't noticed, but in one edge of the bunker was a black hole in the brickwork, the size of a small window. I put my camera to the hole, turned the flash on -I couldn't see anything in there- and took a few photographs. The photographs showed a large, surprisingly deep room. The floor of the room was covered with stuff - quilts and blankets, empty beer cans, industrial rubbish -iron poles and the like, and in the centre of the room a yellow lantern, like something that might once have been used by a railway worker. On the left hand side someone had, in dripping paint, written 'GADGE + REECE' Next to that, in smaller letters 'BLAZE'.
The place looked awful and diseased. I could not imagine anyone climbing through that hole in the wall and dropping down onto that filthy floor, never mind spending any time there. How would they ever get out again?
I climbed back onto the roof of the bunker and resumed reading 'Dreams of a Mannikin' by Thomas Ligotti. As I read, I noticed, by the side of the bunker, and covered by weeds, the rusted skeleton of an old car. God knows how many years it had been there. On the other side of the bunker, down the slope and on the path we would eventually take to lead us down to Rottingdean was an abandoned childs bike. It was leant against the grasses and bushes, as if it had only just been left. A bright pink thing, it must have only been recently left.
There was no sign of any children during the time we spent there.
It was a bright sunny day, warm with that end of summer warmth, but there was a cool breeze blowing. I could taste - and see - the sea, down the fields, and across the seemingly distant houses of Woodingdean, Hollingdean, Rottingdean. It felt like civilisation was an eternity away on the concrete bunker.
Em appeared from round the corner. She had found enough blackberries.
'Come on' she said 'lets leave. This place is creepy'.
I was glad to leave as well, it was an unsettling and troubling place albeit fascinating.
I think about it now, as I think about going to bed, a short pause in an afternoon, blackberry picking in haunted places.
