So Below: The Trilogy

by Matt Whyman

“Run like the devil, friends! The flames are snapping at our heels!”

  Way down there, between the burning buildings, a desperate band of figures sprint through the lanes for their lives. They’re racing for the river, which will loom into view just as soon as they’ve cleared the next courtyard. Already, the Thames is said to be crammed with refugees on longboats, schooners and rafts, but it’s their only hope from here.

  The men among them wear bloodstained aprons around their waists. They’re fresh from the slaughterhouse, now lost to this great fire. When their wives had rushed in with smoke-blackened petticoat hems and an inferno looming behind them, they had simply downed tools and taken flight. These butchers are familiar with scenes of carnage, of course, but nothing could prepare them for this. The city is ablaze in every direction. Monstrous flames crackle and spit and billow in blankets, scorching the late evening sky. Screams and clattering carts can be heard all around, while stray dogs, chickens and pigeons, some with wings ablaze, add to the cacophony. The butchers and their womenfolk rush across the cobbled courtyard, the air here thick with smoke. At last they can see the river, just a glimpse through a narrow covered passage, only to pull up smartly when flames lick around the far end.

  “We’re too late!” cries one of the women. She’s clutching a piglet under each arm. Both creatures are wriggling and squealing to be set free. “The fire has overtaken us!”

  “We’re trapped like rats!” another woman wails, despite her husband’s embrace.

  The leader of this pack, a mutton-chopped man by the name of Samuel Jenks, wheels around in search of a way out. There’s no going back, though. One glimpse of the colossal firestorm makes that clear. Already smoke and flames can be seen through the windows overlooking this space, consuming these wooden buildings from the inside out.

  “I’ve done bad things in my time,” he mutters darkly, and wipes the sweat from his brow. “Looks like my past is catching up with me now.”

  “We robbed some graves!” This is the youngest of the slaughtermen, with waxy skin and yellow teeth. “All we did is snatch the jewellery. We agreed that’s all we’d take.” As he says this, the woman beside him clutches at the necklace around her throat. She turns to him in horror, but now is not the time for a showdown about where his gift had come from. “We didn’t steal no bodies,” he says, reasoning with his boss here. “We’re butchers, not bodysnatchers.

  “We disturbed the dead!” snaps Jenks, sounding both angry and panicked. “As soon as we uncovered that crypt I felt the shivers. We should’ve never gone down there in the first place. What lies beneath should be left in peace.” At this, something lifts his expression. A glimmer of hope, so it seems. The others can see it, but for the woman with the necklace who begins to sob uncontrollably. “There is still a way.” Jenks gestures towards the ditch that runs along the far side of the courtyard. It’s an open sewer, clogged as always with the waste from so many cramped houses. The sludge moves slowly, steaming in all this heat, but Jenks is not alone now in turning his attention to the point where it exits the courtyard. For the building beside the burning passage is squatting on stilts. All of them stare at the dark margin underneath, thinking the very same thing.

  “We can travel underground to the river,” says Jenks. “All the ditches and drains run off into it. If we stay low, and head as deep as we can, the flames won’t touch us.”

  “But there are rats down there!” cries the woman with the necklace. “And rats carry plague!”

  “If we don’t get away from here now then we’ll burn,” says Jenks plainly. “Whatever might be lurking down there, we have to take our chances. Hold your noses and follow me!”

  Even when he sinks up to his chest, this man refuses to betray any hint of disgust. He flattens his lips hard together, his nostrils flared despite the stink, and wades forward by a step. The passage is ablaze now, fuelled by the wind as it funnels into this contained space. A flurry of sparks blows over the courtyard, nesting ominously in the thatch. With the firestorm closing in all around them, the last of the women pull up their petticoats in vain and join this grim procession. Jenks is forced to dip low where the ditch runs under the building. Glancing over his shoulder, he takes one last look around and slips into the gloom. The others follow solemnly, steadily losing form and shape in the darkness under there. At the same time, a glow begins to build inside the building. Bottles can be heard popping one by one, as if perhaps a physician’s workshop is fast transforming into a furnace. From the darkness underneath it all comes a muffled cry. It could be one of joy or despair. There’s no way of finding out now. For the fire inside this house on stilts finds something in a bottle that’s so flammable the structure simply explodes.

  By the time the wind has swept away the soot and the ashes, there is nothing left but a splintered pile of timbers, burning in places still. And in the space left behind, an unrivalled view of a river whose course never changes. London might have been razed to the ground here, but it shall soon rise again around the banks of the Thames. The city of old will live on, of course, in stories passed down through the generations, and also in those artefacts, treasures and curiosities that are dug up over the centuries and revealed to the world once more. Every once in a while, in fact, something truly special is unearthed. A discovery so surprising that it changes the way we live our lives, but not always for the best. Indeed, those who make such finds are often left wishing the very same thought as old Jenks himself – that what exists under the surface is often best left alone.

  1

  LOOK TO THE SKIES!

  A city never sleeps, so they say. From New York to Nairobi, Sydney, Moscow and Kathmandu, there’s not a second in this day and age when the streets are entirely deserted. London is no exception. This living, breathing British capital doesn’t slow down when the moon and the stars shine bright. Indeed, a quarter at its very heart is beating to the rhythm of a celebration right now. For Chinatown tonight has lit up for this, the tail end of the Year of the Snake. And when midnight strikes in just a moment, the Year of the Horse will emerge.

  Here in the narrow streets of this oriental enclave, crowds of revellers have gathered to mark the Chinese New Year. A parade has reached its peak, with the last of the paper dragon troupes filing into the market square. Whistles and cymbals are sounding off, cameras flashing everywhere, and now the countdown begins.

  Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . .

  Stationed at strategic points across the quarter’s rooftops, several groups of marshals prepare to mark the hour. From their vantage point, they can see Big Ben just a mile south-west. There’s the great clock tower, presiding over the mist that has rolled in from the river. It’s a special sight, like so many aspects of this city, but now is not the time for the marshals to stand around. For each group is in charge of an arsenal of fireworks, and it’s time to light the touchpapers.

  five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .

  At the stroke of midnight, this city that never sleeps will be host to a wondrous sight. The crowds in Chinatown look up and gasp as the first volley of rockets spread into the sky. They explode in a cascade of light, just as a second round race higher, followed by another. Within seconds, all manner of dazzling blooms are lighting up the night sky. The spectacle is precisely what these revellers expected to see, and what a marvellous sight it is to behold.

  Through the eyes of a band of young street urchins, however, this moment is not one to admire. It’s a window of opportunity to work as a team on the take. You can see them now. They comb through a crowd in which every single head is tipped back to enjoy the show. With each flash and flicker of light, you can see nimble hands darting into pockets and handbags, picking out wallets and purses, slipping off rings, bracelets and watches. Only one of their number hangs back in the shadows of an alley, discreetly pressing his finger into one lughole. He might’ve gone unnoticed, had he not been sporting the kind of pantaloons, bandanna and blousy shirt last
seen on a cut-throat pirate. He’s also wearing a pair of rollerblades, which you don’t often see on a figure more at home on the high seas. The combo certainly screams for attention, as does the voice that crackles into the earpiece he’s wearing.

  “Move in, soldier!” the command crackles down the wire. “C’mon! There are tangos to your right just begging to be targeted. The entire family are watching the fireworks. You can fleece them no problem.”

  “The name is Billy,” the boy replies petulantly, seemingly talking to himself out there. Come closer, however, and it’s clear that he’s speaking into a small mouthpiece attached to a headset. He’s also sporting two fine strokes of downy hair on his top lip, which further makes him out to look like some kind of trainee swashbuckler on wheels. “It’s Billy No-Beard, as well you know.”

  “Soldier, you’ll be Billy No-Mates if this insubordination continues!”

  “And they’re not tangos. They’re tourists. Guys, I thought we’d agreed to drop the military jargon while we’re training up the new recruits? They get confused. To the untrained ear, out in the field, they’re likely to misunderstand what the code means. Only yesterday one of the girls genuinely thought you were asking her to target a traffic warden. Now, you can’t blame her for following orders, but you really should’ve kept a closer eye on her. Those wardens are trained not to tolerate any funny business from the general public, after all. The poor girl made one attempt to pinch a sheet of tickets from his pad, only to find herself involved in the kind of roadside drama that slows traffic.” A round of fireworks scream into the sky as he speaks, which forces him to pause while the crowd show their delight. Billy flattens his lips, and screws the piece into his ear a little tighter. He knows the boy behind the voice in his ear is watching him at this very moment, thanks to a sneaky video feed from the network of traffic control cameras studded around the city centre, and so he pulls a face at one for their benefit.

  “Careful, soldier. You’re at risk of cracking our screens here.”

  Billy mugs at the camera one more time, and mutters sourly into his mouthpiece. It was OK for them, tucked away in the warm with banks of monitoring screens to keep them posted on proceedings. On the streets, it was cold, a little bit damp, and eating into those hours he reserved for fine food and song. In truth, Billy preferred barking orders to obeying them. It was fine for him to pepper every command with military jargon; coming from others, it just didn’t sound right. Then again, everyone deserved a turn in the command seat. Tonight just happened not to be his night.

  Billy draws breath to tussle with them about the appropriate use of code words one more time, only to be struck by another thought entirely. “Guys,” he says, pinching the mouthpiece between his thumb and forefingers. He narrows his eyes, checks out the square. “Where are the new recruits? I can only see the regulars at work. What’s the view from the cameras?”

  His request is met with a muffled groan. “Soldier, quit stalling. This is not an exercise. Repeat, this is not an exercise. Target your tangos immediately! We don’t have much time left!”

  The boy in the bandanna swears he isn’t playing games, and then decides not to waste his breath any further. The new recruits will just have to look out for themselves, he thinks. As for the use of technical terms on a training mission, Billy makes a mental note to raise it later at the debriefing session. He rolls his shoulders, and scans the crowd for the tourists assigned to him. There they are on the corner, sporting the kind of brightly coloured backpacks that always marked out visitors to this city. Billy moves out into the square, ignoring the flashes and crashes from the fireworks overhead. He flexes his fingers on approaching them, spots a zipper half open on one of the bags, and wishes someone would advise these people about the importance of keeping a lower profile.

  “This is Billy to the Bridge,” he mutters, one of just a handful of young street punks paying no attention to all the rockets reaching for the stars. “It’s a shame the newbies have made themselves scarce. They’re gonna miss a masterclass in picking pockets.”

  2

  WHAT LIES BENEATH?

  Now appearances can be deceptive, as any good street magician knows. For this is no robbery in progress. Sure, the tourists among the crowd are about to be relieved of their personal effects while the fireworks distract them, but every single item will be returned to their rightful owner. Then a very different kind of display can begin.

  “Moving in now,” confirms Billy, so close that he can hear this unsuspecting family speaking in a tongue that means nothing to him. It could be French, Portuguese, Eskimo, even Martian. It doesn’t matter to Billy. The language barrier would only be a problem should one of them turn and catch him in the act, but he hadn’t had to explain himself for years. Not since he turned professional, out here with the crew on the streets of the capital.

  Much of their haul will be replaced straight away, like the passport Billy lifts with ease. It’s the same with any unsent postcards for home, also the identity cards and driving licences. Such things are good for personal information only, as the boy demonstrates on scrawling details across the palm of his hand. The valuables? These urchins keep hold of what they can, but only for the time being. In a moment from now, just as soon as the fireworks have finished, so another spectacle will commence. Firstly, one crew member will start coughing. Just a tickle in the throat at first, but worsening steadily until he finds himself fighting for breath. He’ll fall to his knees in the centre of the square, and keep up the song and dance until the crowd surround him. Another crew member will appeal for a doctor, knowing with absolute certainty that one will step out. There, the unsuspecting medic will diagnose an obstruction in the poor lad’s windpipe. Immediately he’ll haul the boy into his arms from behind, clasp his hands squarely under his ribcage and attempt to squeeze some life back into him.

  With just seconds to spare, it will seem, the doctor saves the day. For the manoeuvre he’s so quick to perform forces all the air to leave the boy’s lungs. At once the blockage pops from his mouth like a cork from a bottle. Except it won’t be a cork but a crumpled playing card. An unusual sight, everyone will agree, and with much relief as the lad draws in his first free breath. But then it will be the turn of the crowd to gasp collectively when his accomplice plucks the card from the pavement and reveals . . . the doctor’s name penned across it!

  Before anyone has had a chance to question what they’ve witnessed, the rest of the crew will make their move, coughing up jewellery and heirlooms belonging to those around them. Not for the first time that night, the crowd will applaud a dazzling display, and then part with their small change when one of the newbies comes around with his Little League cap in hand. For this kind of magic makes money, and once the band of young illusionists has cleaned up they’ll head for the alley where Billy had been loitering.

  There, in the shadows at the dead end, they’ll vanish one by one. Should an awe-struck tourist watch them depart, it might appear to be one almighty disappearing act. To those who know, however, they’ll be simply dropping through a gap in a buckled vent too small for an adult to squeeze through. What lies beneath? Let’s not reveal too much too soon. For the performance has yet to take place. Indeed, the kid assigned to take centre stage is currently seeking out a good spot to fall to his knees and fight for breath, while the rest of the crew continue to slip business cards and bracelets from as many people as possible. When the command comes up from the bunker to begin the stunt, it will proceed exactly as foreseen. After all, as every good street illusionist knows, this kind of magic depends on perfect preparation.

  Besides, it’s what’s going off over London, not under it, which commands everyone’s attention right now.

  Every time a rocket explodes over Chinatown, the faces down below are lit up for a moment. Some cup their brows to counter the flares. Others point or keep taking pictures as if this is something they want to remember for a long time to come.

  Then again, this isn’t just a l
ittle show of special effects to brighten the lives of the citizens of this city. It also serves to cover an event that’s even more magical, but which some would prefer to keep a lid on. For it’s hard to keep a secret in a city that never sleeps. There’s always someone around to witness things they really shouldn’t see. That’s why a distraction such as this is perfect, and not just for street magicians to go about their business. For even if anyone does chance to look around as the fireworks go off, including these young impresarios, they’d simply assume that what’s occurring is part of the performance.

  Unless, of course, some washed-up soul chanced to be watching from the sidelines, and witnessed the bigger picture.

  3

  IN THE WINGS

  Let’s go wide across the city, spooling back through time by a matter of minutes, and restart this story with a drifter. The one bedded down with his dog on the bank under Millennium Bridge. The coals in the brazier are still glowing, and pop and fizz on occasion. It provides just enough heat for this homeless soul to stay warm until sunrise. He’s slumped there with a sack of belongings for a pillow, snoring noisily. In his hands is a near-empty bottle of whisky, which he clutches to his chest like an age-old teddy bear. The dog lies at his master’s feet, obedient to the last but clearly wishing he could get some peace and quiet. Sadly for the mutt, that’s not going to happen now. For we join this down-at-heel duo just as Big Ben heralds the midnight hour.

  Across the churning water, somewhere behind all the buildings overlooking the river, that opening volley of rockets score the night sky. The dog is quick to bark and yap, but some chop-socky celebration isn’t enough to persuade its grumpy, grizzled owner to pop open more than one eye. The drifter sees this kind of thing year in year out, after all. Living as he does on the streets, there is nothing in this city that could surprise him, so he believes. Which is why he’s up on his feet at what follows the first of the fireworks. Such sky-high pyrotechnics may have failed to rouse him, but the sideshow leaves him slack-jawed, bug-eyed and dumbfounded.