By the time he had ascended the stairs, he had forgotten about it.
* * *
‘Where are we going?’ It was pouring with rain and freezing cold. Cindy’s hair was plastered to her head, her jeans were stuck to her legs, and she was frozen to the marrow and utterly miserable. The last thing she wanted was to be helping Tamar lever off a manhole cover in the middle of the night. She had a feeling that this was likely to lead to being cold, wet, miserable and smelly.
‘Down there,’ said Tamar, confirming Cindy’s worst fears.
‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘I want to see something.’
‘In the sewer?’
The manhole cover came off with a clang. ‘Come on, at least we’ll be out of the rain.’ Tamar started to climb down the rusty iron ladder.
Cindy gave a sigh and a shrug and followed her down. She had long ago given up any pretence at being in control of this situation in the face of Tamar’s overwhelming personality.
She made heavy weather of the descent and arrived at the bottom panting, which is difficult to do when you are trying to hold your breath. Tamar sniffed the air. Unbelievable, thought Cindy, trying not to smell the air, that was the trick here, surely?
‘This way,’ Tamar decided and set off, with Cindy stumbling beside her.
After they had walked about 20 yards, Tamar stopped and shone her torch at her feet. Cindy looked. To her surprise, there seemed to be another type of cover here, made of wooden slats, which led further down. Tamar levered it up and peered down. ‘I think this is it,’ she said.
Down this hole there was no proper ladder, just a series of footholds driven randomly into the sides of the hole. Bits of rock and wood distributed unevenly and not always very securely. Tamar shinned down easily, and waited patiently for Cindy to slip, stumble and slide down after her.
The stench hit them as they reached the bottom; it was a foul rank smell, a revolting miasma that rose up, as if from the depths of charnel house. It bypassed the nostrils and immediately started to melt the brain. It was the smell of rotting flesh and old blood.
The smell in the upper level now seemed almost refreshing by comparison. One missed the beguiling nosegay of human refuse.
On the higher level, Cindy had wrinkled her nose and tried not to breathe too deeply. Down here, she gasped and retched. She wondered what the hell she was doing here.
Tamar was down here because of a particularly strong memory that kept coming back to her. ‘I have to see if it’s real,’ she said. ‘Hecaté told me that the answer lies within myself. I want to see if she was right.’
Up ahead there were faint lights moving about. These turned out to be people. Tamar sighed; she had been hoping that she had been wrong.
These people looked curiously at her and Cindy as they approached. Apart from the fact that they were living under the sewers, most of them seemed like ordinary people. There were even a few children running about. Cindy was shocked beyond the capacity for rational thought. These families had built themselves little homes, well rude shelters, divisions between each dwelling, shored up with bits of planking and the odd sheet of corrugated roofing. Across the row of residences, which really did rather crudely resemble a street, were retractable metal gates, which the people now pulled across their homes closing themselves in. It looked to Cindy rather like a row of prison cells.
‘What are they doing down here?’ she hissed to Tamar.
Tamar shrugged. ‘They live here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they don’t have anywhere else to live.’
‘How can they stand it?’
‘They’re used to it I suppose. Lots of people live worse lives. They say a body can get used to anything, even being hanged.’
‘Why have they locked themselves in like that? Are they afraid of us?’
Tamar hesitated before answering. ‘No. Not us, I don’t think.’
‘What is that terrible smell?’
‘Sssh.’
They rounded a corner into complete darkness; even Tamar was moving cautiously now. Then something loomed up before them, something truly horrible. It had a leprous look about it. Vaguely human shaped, but of such exceeding thinness that it seemed to have been grown in a lighter atmosphere. The face was white and the eyes were red. Its hair and clothes were matted with the filth of innumerable years. It had not seen them.
Tamar never hesitated for a second, without missing a beat she grabbed Cindy, dragged her into a recess, and put her hand over her mouth.
The creature seemed to be able to smell them; at least it stopped and sniffed the air waving its head about, like the light from a searchlight, as it did so.
‘What the hell is that?’ Cindy wondered.
But Tamar knew. ‘Vampire,’ she hissed. ‘Feral, not like ordinary ones, they’re more like animals. They live down here, and they are extremely vicious, although not too bright. Don’t move.’
‘Ordinary ones?’ Cindy thought incredulously. ‘Ordinary vampires? Oh my God, I’m going insane, that actually sounded like it made sense.’ She shook her head in disbelief.
The feral vampire moved off, and Tamar and Cindy breathed again. Only not too deeply.
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Cindy.
‘Good question,’ thought Tamar. ‘How the hell do I know all this?’ She decided that it would be better if she stopped asking herself that question.
‘There are demons down here too,’ she said instead of answering. ‘It didn’t use to be too bad, but now they’re overrunning the place. God only knows where they’re all coming from. Those people we saw, it’s not safe for them down here anymore, but where else are they going to go?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this before we came down here?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ snapped Tamar. ‘I didn’t know it until I came down here.’
She remembered now, though. She and Denny had come down here a few times. She could not quite remember why. And there was something else too; now that she was down here, she was certain they had discovered something else down here, something of vast importance, but what it was she simply couldn’t remember. But it might have something to do with why the world had changed. She had followed her errant memories in obedience to Hecaté’s instruction, in the hope that she would begin to find out the truth about herself, and it had led her here. But what the hell did it all mean?
She was pondering these matters when the vampires attacked. A pack of six. Tamar immediately understood. The vampire that they had seen had been a scout, she remembered now. She also remembered how to fight.
Just as she had back at the house against the burglars, she acted on instinct, if she let herself think about what she was doing, it would all fall apart.
If she closed down the rational, thinking part of her brain and just let her subconscious take over, it would be okay. That part of her knew how to fight vampires, but the rational part of her brain would try to tell her that she could not do it. She allowed her subconscious instincts to take over, and they thoroughly enjoyed themselves. And the more she fought, the more she remembered. This was why they had been here, to fight. Denny too; to help the people who lived down here. But she still, even when the last vampire fell, could not remember what it was that they had discovered down here that was so damned important.
* * *
Captain Stiles was having the most amazing dream that he had ever had. It featured the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and yet she was haranguing him like a fishwife. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘you are not listening to me. You never do listen to me.’ Jack inclined his head to indicate that he was listening. She made a face at him. ‘Do not give me that look Jack Stiles,’ she said, ‘I know that look. You seek to humour me, well! I have had enough of this.’ She paused, as if to let this sink in.
Stiles manufactured a look of alert interest and put it on his face.
‘Yes dear,’ he said automatically. It was a pres
cribed response, but in this case, he did not know where it had come from. He pulled himself together. ‘That was totally inappropriate,’ he thought. Yet it had come out quite naturally.
‘Denny Sanger has not gone AWOL,’ she told him. ‘Ah, I thought that might get your attention.’ Stiles stared at her in bewilderment. ‘Wha …?
‘Look Jack, will you get it through your thick head once and for all. I am not a dream. I am trying to help you – I want you back,’ she added quietly and to Stiles complete mystification. ‘You said that Sanger …?’ he prompted.
‘He has been taken prisoner by enemy forces. You must go after him. You should go alone,’
‘Go AWOL, you mean?’ Stiles sounded unsure.
‘Yes, by the time you can get anyone to believe you, it will be too late.’
‘That should get him moving,’ she thought.
She vanished.
She reappeared. ‘You know Jack,’ she said, ‘I wish you would take better care of yourself. You need to eat properly. A man your age needs to take care of his heart. You need the four basic food groups.’ She vanished again.
‘I’ve got your four basic food groups,’ said Stiles with an air of chagrin. He counted off on his fingers to the empty air. ‘Beans, bacon, whisky and lard.’
* * *
Denny was lurking in the corner of a dark inn, of a kind that is only still found in rural France, in his current incarnation as a French labourer. The inn was in Calais, quite near to the coast, a favourable tactical position for the American forces headed for England. This being the case, the room was full of American soldiers having a good time and waiting for their sailing orders. He felt like the Scarlet Pimpernel. ‘Well, they certainly are seeking me here and there,’ he thought in some amusement.
Denny’s target was sitting alone at the bar. He was perfect, already drinking heavily and not a bad match for build, perhaps a little taller than Denny, but not too much, it would be okay. If he tucked his pants into his boots, no one would notice. And best of all, as mentioned before – he was alone. Denny just hoped that the soldier’s French was no better than his own. He waited until the soldier had ordered another drink; then he made his move.
He tapped the soldier on the shoulder then moved swiftly to the other side of him so that by the time the soldier had located him, he was feeling disoriented.
Denny slid into the seat next to him. ‘Ah bonjour Monsieur,’ he began, with an inane grin on his face.
The soldier swore at him.
‘Ah, Ah non, non, Monsieur,’ said Denny wagging a rebuking finger at the soldier. At this point, his high school French gave out, but it looked as if it really would not matter. The soldier was not in any condition to notice if Denny had talked to him in Greek.
‘So,’ he said plastering a look of weasely cunning onto his face. ‘The night is dark for those who walk alone, Heh?’ This was a sufficiently strange comment for the soldier to turn and stare at Denny who was mugging furiously at him, twitching his head and winking broadly. Through the fug of alcohol, the soldier seemed to dimly understand what Denny was getting at. ‘One of those flamin’ traitors eh?’ he slurred.
‘Please Monsieur, I facilitate. I am, how you say, liaison between our two peoples, I help you, and you help me, everybody have a nicer war, eh? I was told you would be interested in what I have to say.’
‘You got some information?’
Denny inclined his head and put a finger to his lips. ‘I may have,’
‘What is it then?’ said the soldier sceptically.
Denny shook his head. ‘Not here,’ he said, looking about him with exaggerated caution. ‘I need to ask you for the countersign. All must be done properly, Monsieur. So silly, but it is the way these things are done eh? All cloaks and daggers heh?’
There was a silence. Eventually the soldier said. ‘Countersign?’
Denny immediately back-pedalled. ‘Ah Monsieur, I think we have been talking at cross-purposes, but it is no matter. I shall now leave you in peace to finish Monsieur Gilbert’s excellent wine. So sorry, so sorry…’ he was backing away nervously, looking about him with the look of a man who has been trapped into saying more than he intended and was now very worried about it. Now he just had to hope that the soldier was brighter than he looked. But not too bright, obviously.
The soldier caught up with events just in time and grabbed Denny’s arm. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Just hold on a minute. Whatever it is you have to say, you can tell me. I’m an American officer.’
‘I?’ said Denny with overdone innocence. ‘I, Monsieur? I assure you, I have nothing to tell. Nothing at all.’ He allowed his eyes to dart about the room like a trapped animal seeking a way out. ‘And now, Monsieur, I really must be …’
‘Oh no you don’t,’ said the soldier, narrowing his eyes. ‘You tell me what it’s all about, see. I can pay you, if that’s what’s bothering you.’
‘Please Monsieur. I just come in here for quiet drink, nothing more.’ He managed to slip away and headed for the door. Now the soldier was, as Denny had intended, almost frantic to know what Denny was concealing.
Denny was lounging against a handy tree. By the light of the upstairs window of the inn, he watched the soldier approach with a greedy look on his face. He was thinking, no doubt, of promotion.
Denny grinned to himself. ‘Gotcha!’ he thought
* * *
Denny had managed, by dint of some cunning talk, some stolen papers and his purloined uniform, to join up with the 2064th heading for the grim shores of old Blighty. Now it was time to go on the run again. He had deserted now from so many regiments by now that it was a wonder he had not been court martialed by every army on the globe. ‘Join the armies, see the world,’ he thought with grim irony. So, he was in Dover, only seventy odd miles to go. Considering how far he had already come, it should be a piece of cake. But this part, he knew, was going to be the hardest stretch of all.
He was sneaking out of the camp when he heard a sound that made his heart sink. ‘Hi, who goes there?’
Denny turned and saw the Private on sentry duty pointing his rifle straight at him. He was clearly headed out of camp; there was no way out of it.
‘Second Lieutenant Chip Bentley,’ he said. ‘Just going for a walk, Private.’
The private came up to him and peered closely at his face. ‘Sir?’ he said. ‘Sorry sir, I didn’t recognise you. I’m sorry sir, but I can’t let you leave the camp. The colonel would have my guts for garters, sir. Against regulations see?’
Denny unslung his rifle and hesitated. He was not sure it was in him to kill a man who was not actively trying to kill him. And yet, he thought. Technically any armed American soldier was trying to kill him, wasn’t he? Weren’t his side at war with this lot? And wasn’t it supposed to be his job to kill American soldiers?
‘Sod this,’ he thought. What had this man ever done to him?
The Private was looking at him perplexedly. ‘Sir?’
‘Over there,’ Denny pointed with his rifle behind the man, who turned to look.
Denny brought the rifle down on the man’s head, just behind the ear, as the Cap had taught him (a man who had a surprising repertoire of dirty fight moves for such a peace lover). The soldier went down like a sack of potatoes.
‘Thanks Cap,’ breathed Denny under his breath.
He then had the most unexpected good fortune. Right there completely unguarded at the edge of the compound was one army jeep – regulation – fully fuelled – escapees for the use of.
Denny hopped in. As he drove away, he was singing in his peculiarly melodious voice – “California Dreaming”.
* * *
‘All the leaves are brown … And the sky is Gra-a-ay,’ warbled SL Jamie Adams mournfully and tunelessly. He had passed homesickness three stops ago and was now at that point where he was making everybody around him feel sick as well, although not necessarily home sick, just sick of him.
‘I’d be safe and warm – if I was in
E-E-L. A-A-A-A. Ca-a-a-alifornia Dreeemin…’
Who can say what subtle influences are brought to bear on the new owner of a relic that was once an integral part of another’s life. What indefinable, tenuous connections might be brought about by the possession of said relic, between the new owner and the old?
It was not that Jamie hated the army. But he had joined up to defend his county not to push civilians around. Where was the honour and glory in that? And what had the Limeys ever done to threaten America anyway? Part of him – the career soldier part – knew that it was not his job to reason why. Soldiers took orders; that was it. But the human part of him tended to want to know the reasons and even had a treacherous habit of sometimes, in his secret heart, questioning the wisdom of the orders, although he had never been known to go as far as actual disobedience – yet.
* * *
Next, Tamar wanted to go back to her flat in London, just to pick up a few things, she said, but Cindy was not falling for that one again. Over the last few days, Tamar had wanted to go to various places “just to have a look”, or “just to see something”, or even “just to do a bit of shopping”. Even though, to be honest, she could not see the danger of going to an empty flat, or the point of it to be frank, nevertheless, she decided to put her foot down. She was not going anywhere without an explanation this time.
Tamar sighed; one of her more serious shortcomings was her lack of patience with intellects less sharp than her own.
‘Isn’t it obvious what I’m doing?’ she said.
‘No, not really.’
The Day Before Tomorrow Page 5