The lift that Kramer now stood in front of was an old fashioned service elevator that might have been seen in a warehouse or factory. The shaft was free-standing. The cables and counter-weights were covered with thick, black, shiny grease and swung gently in the half light like the pendulum of a large clock, ticking away Kramer's life.
He pressed a button situated just to the right of the of the doors and waited. The button flashed an indeterminate colour and showed a range of arrows pointing in all directions. The cables moved, the counterweight fell away and the lift appeared from the depths below, stopping suddenly just short of the level. The double outer doors were that familiar, trellis type, criss-cross pattern and opened easily. The inside was different. It had no solid floor, just an iron mesh which gave slightly as Kramer stepped down and in. But he felt secure which surprised him for below he could see the entire depth of the shaft, a journey to the centre of the earth. Eat your heart out Jules Verne, thought Kramer and pressed the button.
The lift fell like a stone. Mick Jagger sang Ventilator Blues from a small speaker perched high in one corner of the cage. Down and down they went, metal against metal. That screeching noise a train makes when taking a bend slowly.
Hear my train a comin' . .
Kramer felt the wind whistling in his hair. Free fall. Down, down, deeper and down. But then it stopped, suddenly and without warning. To the side, double doors could be seen in the blackness. Kramer hit the button again the lift lurched sideways, banging through the doors like some demonic ghost train, throwing him to the floor.
Now the lift was full and Kramer had to struggle to regain his feet and squeeze himself into the corner below the speaker. "My guitar wants to kill your momma, my guitar wants to burn your dad," it shouted. Heavy rock guitar chords blasted out and the other passengers sang along.
The cage was now at full speed. Kramer caught glimpses of other shafts going off at right angles, left and right. Passengers vanished as quickly as they had appeared, waving goodbye with that well-known two-fingered salute. Galleries could be seen cut into solid rock and manned by rows of miners picking away in time to the large metronome now standing in the centre of the floor. Kramer reached for the button, but couldn't move. His arms and legs seemed paralysed, rooted to the spot. Every movement became a major effort. Kramer was moving in treacle and the remaining passengers laughed. Gaping, grotesque mouths, showing chipped and broken yellow teeth.
HA! HA! HA! The speaker joined in with a loud guffaw as Kramer made one final effort to reach the button. Each leg felt like a ton, each arm felt numb as though he had been sleeping on it, each step was in slow motion.
But Kramer was nearly there . . .
third and inches . . .
reach you bastard . . .
red light, green light, speeding through the dark night . . .
one more inch . . .
press . . . press . . .
there's no place like home . . . there's no place like home . .
darkness . . . swirling sounds . . . strobe lights . . . more doors.
No time to stop, I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date.
Another set of doors opened and the lift went through.
