Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance

by Anthony Ergo

  "Where to, guvnor?" he asks in a mock London taxi-driver accent.

  Zara slips into the passenger side, none too pleased to see Aaron in the driving seat, as Dad and I belt up in the back.

  "Let's go to the place where Jack Ketch did his work," says Dad. "Take us to Tyburn."

  Chapter 17

  Wednesday 18 September 6:50am

  London gradually starts to wake to a new day as Aaron drives us through the heart of the metropolis. We pass along Victorian terraced streets, hidden within the modern skyline where new tower blocks and skyscrapers compete for dominance. The heart of London is rebuilding following the devastation of D-Day's plane crashes, traffic accidents and explosions. Maybe the government thinks that if the heart continues to beat, the rest of the country will recover.

  The morning dew settles like sweat over the newly built domed forehead of St Paul's Cathedral. It survived the Blitz during World War Two but fell victim to a raging fire on Dystopia Day. Further on, the low sun shimmers over the mirrored façade of the building known as the Gherkin. It rained glass when it was struck by a malfunctioning crane during the blackout.

  My attention turns to the activity inside the car. Zara types furiously onto the screen of her smart phone, scouring the Internet for intelligence on Jack Ketch and Tyburn.

  "I'm hungry," moans Aaron. "Any chance we can stop for some breakfast?"

  Zara ignores his request and starts to read out the information from her mobile.

  "Jack Ketch was appointed public hangman of London in 1663 by King Charles II. He became infamous for the brutal way he performed his duties."

  "Sounds nice," I mutter under my breath, feeling sick at the thought of what we're dealing with.

  "I'm not hungry anymore," says Aaron grumpily.

  "That's what makes this ghost so dangerous," says Dad. "Ghosts are bound by the rules of their Earth lives. It just so happens that Jack Ketch's Earth life involved executing people. "

  "He's taken more lives than any serial killer," adds Zara. "This makes him more dangerous than the Ghost of the Ripper that you banished last year."

  I stare at Dad in amazement.

  "The ghost of Jack the Ripper, the serial killer?"

  "Long story," he says, avoiding the subject as usual. "One for another time."

  It's always "another time" with Dad. I stare out the window, stewing in my own silence.

  "So why are we heading to Tyburn?" asks Aaron.

  I'm grateful for the change in subject: the mere thought of Jack Ketch makes me nauseous. Zara relates more information from her mobile.

  "It says here that Tyburn was the primary location for the execution of London criminals. Eighteen-foot-high gallows — known as the Tyburn Tree — hung up to twenty-four people at a time. Over fifty thousand people met their death at Tyburn during the time it was used."

  On reflection, the change in subject does nothing for my nerves.

  "So it was a one-way destination for murderers and thieves," says Aaron.

  "Not only dangerous criminals," adds Zara. "Several children were executed in its time."

  It's hard to imagine that so many people, including children, lost their lives in such a dreadful way. I'm not exactly looking forward to visiting Tyburn. After all, we're searching for the ghost of Jack Ketch — the original perpetrator of death and misery. I'm not sure whether I feel like the hunter or the hunted.

  Zara continues to tap away onto her mobile phone, pulling information from the virtual world. Ever since Dystopia Day, restrictions have been put on what you can access online. Historical material is one of the few areas least affected. The past is considered "safe", unless you happen to be dealing with a ghost.

  "It says here that the site of the gallows lies at the junction of Oxford Street and Edgeware Road."

  "That's west London." Dad knows the city of London inside out thanks to his commitment never to drive. "It's close to Marble Arch."

  "Got it," says Aaron, slipping through some traffic lights as they turn red and taking a corner way too fast. "Scream if you wanna go faster!"

  He laughs, and it irritates me that I like the sound of his laughter. Boys are such odd creatures sometimes.

  + + +

  We edge through the rush-hour traffic, the squat white structure of Marble Arch gazing down at the cars swarming around its base. Giant cranes stalk the London skyline like steel dinosaurs. The physical rebuilding of London may only take a few years, but the psychological rebuilding could take generations.

  We pass along the northeast edge of Hyde Park, near Speaker's Corner, and park up on a side road on double-yellow lines. Getting a parking ticket is the least of our concerns right now. According to Zara's instructions, a stone marking the spot of the gallows is located on a nearby traffic island.

  Oxford Street still has the familiar feel of traditional London and what you'd expect of the busiest shopping street in Europe. It was the scene of mass hysteria on Dystopia Day; people trapped on tube trains and trampling on each other to get out of department stores. It was typical of what happened in every major city around the world that day. People seem to fall into two types in a moment of crisis: those who help others, and those who help themselves. Wherever my mother was that day, I am sure she would have tried to help those around her, probably at her own expense.

  I can taste the pollution hanging densely in the air. We fight through the crowds of tourists and commuters and dodge cars and buses to reach the cobbled paved area opposite a cinema. Two workmen appear from a nearby tent-like shelter, removing their hard hats and lighting cigarettes as they cross the road toward a coffee shop. Left alone on the traffic island, we examine the cobbled ground more closely. As described, the spot is marked with an unassuming circular stone. Brushing away leaves and cigarette butts reveals the words "The Site of Tyburn Tree" around its inner circumference. The four of us stand solemnly, looking down at the small stone.

  "Is this where the gallows stood?" asks Zara.

  "We should check," suggests Dad. "Aaron, would you mind using your Empath skills to verify that this is the correct location?"

  Aaron nods and drops to one knee, resting his palms on the small circular stone. He closes his eyes and bows his head. A few seconds pass, then Aaron pulls his hands back suddenly like he's been scalded.

  "What's wrong?" I ask him.

  "So many lost souls calling out. This is where Jack Ketch did his work. Ugh, I feel sick."

  I can see he is troubled by the emotion in his face and my fingers itch to hug him in comfort.

  "It makes sense that this area is his residency," says Dad.

  "What happens now?" I ask.

  "Check the hangman game?" suggests Zara.

  I unfold the crinkled paper as the others huddle around and peer down over my shoulder. A new message is written across the top.

  "Looks like we're playing a different game," says Zara.

  As I stare at the words, something familiar takes me back to my childhood.

  "Hey, I know this one. Dad and I used to play this when I was a little girl. Dad would hide something and I'd have to find it while he gave me clues."

  I move away from the stone marker, holding the paper out in front of me. As I near the edge of the traffic island the second of the two words morph from "warmer" to "colder".

  "Let's be rational for a moment," says Dad, although "rational" is the last word I'd use to describe this ghostly game of hide-and-seek. "We should treat this like any other paranormal investigation."

  "Step one: Reconnaissance. Assess the site."

  Aaron's response is delivered in military style.

  "Very good, Hart."

  Dad seems impressed and Aaron smiles proudly but Zara simply scoffs.

  "Spot the field rookie," she teases.

  Aaron's smile fades, clearly a little hurt by her comment.

  "I might be new in the field, but I know what I'm doing."

  Aaron has started to intrigue me. Maybe I judged h
im too quickly? On the surface he's all muscle and arrogance, but underneath the good looks and bravado is a sensitive young man. Maybe it's because he's an Empath and is so tuned in to other people's emotions that he feels the need to mask his own.

  "Come on, let's focus," says Dad, enjoying the role of team leader. "So what have we got around here?"

  I do a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree rotation, scanning the area, but failing to identify anything of significance. Zara fixes her eyes on an old church a few hundred yards away.

  "What about Tyburn convent? It must be the oldest surviving building around here."

  "Good idea," says Dad. "Religious buildings are always a likely location for afterlife activity."

  "Hart and I will go and check it out," says Zara.

  Aaron stares longingly at a fast-food restaurant across the road until Zara drags him off by the forearm.

  "Come on, Hart, breakfast can wait. Watch and learn."

  I watch their backs as they walk away and convince myself that I am not jealous of their time alone together.

  As Zara and Aaron head toward the convent, I begin to walk in a slow circle, playing the frustrating game of "colder-warmer" with Jack Ketch via the old yellowed paper. I hop over the gaps between the pavestones out of habit; it's bad luck to step on a crack. Dad stands silently with a hand gripped to his forehead and a world-weary expression etched on his face.

  "We're missing something. I sense we're in the right area, but I can't feel anything."

  "What do you mean, Dad?"

  I'm desperate to know more about the sixth sense that he and I may share, yet only he understands.

  "It's hard to describe, Sash. It feels like we're on a plane, flying over the area we're looking for, but we're high above it."

  What's that supposed to mean? I kick a stone in frustration, which rolls over the cobbles and toward the small workman's tent. I wander over idly, annoyed that I can't win the game I always won as a child. As I approach the work-tent the words on the paper change.

  I duck underneath the plastic red and white barriers, too curious for my own good. As I peel back the tent sheeting it reveals an exposed manhole, its circular iron lid pushed back far enough to grant access. Dad joins me at the tent and when he sets his eyes on the manhole it's a Eureka moment.

  "Of course! This modern road wasn't here hundreds of years ago. We need to go further down." He juts his chin torward the open manhole. "And that's how we get there."

  It's amazing how you can be surrounded by people, yet nobody seems to notice you. London has that ability to provide human camouflage; anonymity within a sea of heads. It's rush hour on London's busiest street yet Dad and I duck inside the small workman's tent without as much as a cursory glance from a passer-by. It's times like this that I'm happy to be small and plain-looking, not one to draw attention.

  Dad's eyes widen as he slides the iron cover further back and stares into the dark abyss below the manhole shaft. The yawning hole is pitch-black and smells bad.

  "This is it, Sasha. I can feel the energy pulling me down."

  I re-fold the paper and slip it back into my pocket, satisfied that I'm winning the game but hesitant about climbing into the manhole. As I stare down into the darkness I imagine damp, slimy walls and scuttling creatures.

  "Maybe we should wait for Zara and Aaron?"

  I'm stalling and Dad sees right through me.

  "Those workmen may be back at any moment and I don't want to lose this lead. Why don't you wait up here for Gordon and Hart?"

  "No way! I've already lost Mum, I'm not going to lose you too." Dad drops his head and I regret having mentioned her. "Besides … I'm the only one with a torch."

  I wave my mobile at him, its bright screen acting as a guiding light. Dad knows all too well that I won't budge when my mind is set. Whenever I hold my ground on things he sighs and mutters under his breath how I've inherited Mum's stubbornness. I wouldn't know: I can't remember much about her. I push those regretful thoughts out of my mind and focus on the task ahead.

  Dad drops a stone into the hole; it disappears into the darkness, then makes a shallow splash as it hits the floor of the tunnel below. I shine the mobile into the shaft to display a series of wide metal rungs built into its walls.

  "It's not too far down. I'll go first."

  As I lower myself into the shaft I feel a bit like Alice going down the rabbit hole. After everything that's happened so far, if I met a talking white rabbit it wouldn't surprise me. Dad follows me down and pulls the manhole cover across leaving only the smallest of gaps. If the workmen return, they should suspect nothing.

  Water seeps through the cracks in the stonework, dribbling down the walls and making the ladder treacherously slippery. As we descend deeper, the stench of rottenness and stagnant water intensifies and the temperature becomes colder. Before long I can make out the white wisps of my breath in the air. When my feet hit solid ground I release my grip from the last iron rung.

  Shining the mobile phone screen in a slow, circular movement, I inspect the subterranean surroundings. We're in the middle of a brick tunnel, about three metres in diameter, stretching off in either direction. A reeking, murky stream flows slowly down the centre of the tunnel floor. I pull my scarf over my nose so that I don't throw up. Dad produces a paper plan from his back pocket and unfolds it.

  "I took this from the workman's tent." He examines it under the light of my mobile. "According to this plan, the Tyburn is an underground river. It stretches as far as Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace, flowing deep underneath its grounds within these brick tunnels. It looks like it's now used as a sewer."

  The thick, rancid odour drifts upward, lingering under my nostrils and leaving a disgusting aftertaste in my mouth.

  "Yeah, smells like that too."

  "The plan shows that this tunnel extends for several kilometres in either direction. I'm being pulled in the direction of the Palace."

  It feels like the tunnel belongs to a different world; invisible from the surface, as unnoticed as a heartbeat. We are in the bowels of London, literally; the pungent stench of human waste hangs in the air. It's bizarre to think that if we keep going far enough we'll be under the noses of the Buckingham Palace guards, and they'll never know. The tourists that flock to the home of the royal family will never see what we're going to see, even though it's only a few dozen metres below the home of the Queen.

  As we walk cautiously along the tunnel we discover several side channels; some no more than a short recess leading to a manhole shaft, some connecting to the side-street sewer lines, according to Dad's plan. The high walls are interspersed with sewer-pipe outlets, presumably linked to the buildings above the tunnel. Which makes me think: eventually, one of these outlets will lead from Buckingham Palace.

  "Hey Dad, if we keep going, do you think we'll come across any of the Queen's poo?"

  Dad laughs. "I wonder, Sash. It would certainly be a more personal side of royalty than most tourists get to see."

  As we continue, the passage opens up into a series of much larger galleries, like a honeycomb of vaulted caverns. Intricate brickwork curves upward into magnificent arches and high, slime-encrusted walls. The stream is little more than a trickle, carrying away the small channel of sewage down the centre of the dark tunnel.

  Deep underground, it feels so detached from everyday life; just Dad and I trudging along. This is probably the first time in as long as I can remember that we're actually spending some time together. How ironic that this time spent in a sewer is our quality time. I seize the moment and decide to probe Dad.

  "Zara seems pretty cool. Menzies Blake told me that she's a Precog and she can glimpse future events."

  Dad moves awkwardly and I'm not sure whether the tunnel or my conversation is to blame.

  "Yes, that's right," he says tentatively.

  "And Aaron is an Empath," I continue. "He can draw emotion based on touch." Dad nods. I can tell he is torn over how much information he wants to
share with me. "So what about your special powers?"

  He bites his bottom lip as though he's weighing up how much I can handle.

  "I'm what you might call a Clairist. Clair is from the French word for clear. I'm clairvoyant, meaning clear-seeing, and clairaudient, meaning clear-hearing. Basically, I can see and hear things that normal people can't."

  My mind flashes back to the night I followed him to work and watched through the window of the old house. His actions, which at the time seemed so strange, now make total sense to me. He was searching for the Hangman Ghost using his special abilities.

  "That's pretty cool."

  I draw in a breath for the question I really want to ask, trying to work out how to put such a ridiculous idea into words. I decide to just go for it.

  "So what about me; what's my special power?"

  "Sasha, not now."

  His rebuttal angers me and I feel my voice rise.

  "But surely it's now more than ever! If I can help, you need to tell me how."

  "It's complicated."

  There he goes with that tired old line again, but this time I'm not having it.

  "I already know about ghosts and The Agency. I know about everyone's special abilities, except my own. What harm can it do to tell me the rest? Dad, please, for once, talk to me."

  He drops his head and takes in a deep breath.

  "You've got your mother's stubbornness. You're just like her, Sasha."

  He smiles thoughtfully, then sets a hardened face once more. It's the first time he has mentioned her name in as long as I can remember. I only know I'm crying when he leans across to wipe my cheek.

  "But you have my ingenuity."

  "So I have some of your genes and some of Mum's; I understand genetics, Dad. But that doesn't answer my question, and I'm dying to know."

  The gravity of my statement lingers between the both of us and I can see the moment he concedes. He doesn't reply for what feels like a long time, like he's trying to find the right words. I get the distinct feeling he's about to break some news, and not necessarily good news.