It was an old man. He had very thin arms—Ryan could see the struts and ribs of bone, the knobs and knuckles of his elbows and fingers beneath the rags he wore. His muscles, though—they were sinewy and strong. He had a stoop, and a long beard, just like Chowdhury had said, matted and tangled with wild gray hair. He pulled himself out of the service hatch and stayed in a crouch while he shifted the lid back. He had a shoulder bag which he shrugged free, and from it, he pulled what looked like some sort of flashlight and headed for the cliff edge, one arm sheltering his eyes against the wind and rain.
Shade was stock-still and silent, standing in the way a man does when he’s holding his breath. He shifted position, cupped his hands tighter to block out the fluorescents, and squinted into the ink, watching the bony figure in rags at the edge of the compound, battered by the wind. He had a familiar look.
He was holding up his flashlight and pointing its beam out across the gray foam-topped breakers. He was signaling. Was there someone else out there? A boat riding the mad black water? Or had the poor guy been sending out that hopeless sequence forever?
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ryan whispered.
He lost track of time just watching. He didn’t know how long the man was out there. But as the long minutes went by, the flashlight faded and eventually the guy gave up.
Ryan twitched nervously. Something made him want to hide. If the guy turned, he couldn’t help but see three unmistakable silhouettes thrown into relief by the bloodred generator lights. Sure enough, as the old man began picking his way back to the dark circle of the trapdoor, he caught sight of the figures watching him.
The man didn’t seem shocked. He stood stock-still, ignoring the swirl of the rain. It was hard to see what expression that deeply lined face wore, but it wasn’t anger, Ryan figured, or surprise. Mostly, he guessed, it was a kind of weary sadness.
Shade put his hand across his mouth and seemed to splutter. He looked close to crying.
“Mister,” said Chowdhury. “You okay?” The nightwarden managed a nod in response. “Robinson Crusoe,” Chowdhury said with a grin. “I told you. It’s Robinson Crusoe.”
Shade put his forehead against the glass. His breath made an inverted moon. “It’s not Robinson Crusoe,” he said. “It’s my brother.”
Out in the darkness on the other side of the glass, Robinson Crusoe raised a hand and held it up, open in greeting.
Shade did the same, uncertain at first, then with a grim determination. He splayed his palm against the glass, making a web in the mist of his breath, pressing hard, holding it there.
For a second or two, nobody moved.
Then, the other man lifted the lid of the hatch and dropped back down into his prison.
Manchester, Darkly
Lifers is set in a place called Dark Manchester—a kind of spooked-out cousin of real Manchester. The two cities share similarities. For instance, if you happen to live in Dark Manchester, you can still walk from the Beetham Tower to the Cathedral in a long straight line. You can still watch the footy in the Moon Under Water or borrow a book from the Central Library on St. Peter’s Square. You can still get lost in the Northern Quarter trying to find that bootleg burger bar that turns out to have been burned down the fortnight before.
Such are the similarities, in fact, that residents of Dark Manchester actually think they live in real Manchester. Only you and I know differently. Because there are differences: Dark Manchester is a city of cranes, and—as Elliot Mason points out—new buildings and towers net spare squares of sky every day, which makes it a good place for urban explorers. There are more alleys in Dark Manchester, a whole tangle of cunning corner-cutting passageways and hideaways. And in Dark Manchester, very weird stuff happens at night.
Smaller stuff is different too. In Dark Manchester, you can cycle between the Civil Justice Center and St. Ann’s Square using only backstreets. The roof of the convention center is made of glass so that Preston Faulkner can look up through it to the storm clouds above. Buses run at different times and cops work different shifts—almost as if they’re conjured up to serve the purposes of a plot.
I point all this out in case residents of real Manchester take issue with the positions, directions, aspects, or characteristics of any streets, squares, parks, gardens, or tower blocks in this story.
Or in case some of the braver ones find Back Half Moon Street and follow it into the dark, looking for a left-hand turn.
I owe a debt of gratitude to so many people who helped me during the writing of this book. First, to Imogen Cooper. A lesser editor might have despaired as I found more and more intricate ways to mess up the middle of this story. Imogen didn’t. Her patience and intelligence are superhuman. Golden Egg Academy members—you have yourself a 24-carat legend. To Barry Cunningham, who somehow seemed to know it would come out right in the end and whose encouragement, insight, and calm advice was invaluable. To Kesia Lupo, who knew instinctively and precisely which scenes were destined for the cutting-room floor, and Laura Myers for her expertise, feedback, and support. A round of raucous applause for everyone at Chicken House. Thanks to Ben for his thoughtful guidance, energy, and cheerful good humor. And of course to Jo, for everything.
M. A. Griffin studied English literature at the University of Manchester. His first novel, The Poison Boy, was written under the name Fletcher Moss and won the 2012 Times/Chicken House Children’s Fiction Competition in the United Kingdom. He lives in Manchester, England.
Copyright © 2017 by Martin Griffin
All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, CHICKEN HOUSE, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
ISBN 978-1-338-06553-4
First edition, February 2017
Jacket art and design by studiohelen.co.uk with Yaffa Jaskoll
e-ISBN 978-1-338-06554-1
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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