by Matt Whyman
From the back of the cellar comes another voice. This one sounds like it’s travelled from the Siberian wilderness to be here. “Why can’t you just obey orders with the same ease that you dish them out?” All the kids in this gathering turn and step aside, upon which a boy with pillar-box red spiked hair steps out into the space created for him. This is Mikhail. Judging by his half-smile, he isn’t taking Billy’s complaint too seriously. “Every time you’re in control of operations, we have to run around like lab rats. You really ought to learn to take instructions like you issue them.”
“I just like to run a tight ship,” Billy protests, “and that starts with all hands on deck. As soon as word went up to fleece the tourists—”
“The tangos,” Mikhail says to correct him. “You mean the tangos.”
“I mean the tourists!” Billy barks at the Russian boy, and then pauses to recover his composure. “Call them what you will. The fact is the newbies went absent without leave from the square, which meant I had to work twice as hard to prepare for the show.”
“Who’s missing?” asks Mikhail, as the crew here look to one another and shrug.
Behind him, the amber light above the camera begins to blink on and off. At the same time, through the steel hatch, and from a long distance away, the very faintest tap-tap-tap of footsteps can be heard approaching.
“All of them,” says Billy. “But I think we know who’s behind it.” He shoots his frilly shirt cuffs, as if preparing to play charades, and points to the trapdoor above them. “One night, right out of the blue, the boy I have in mind arrived here head first. Clean lost his memory as a result of the fall, but claimed to be fleeing from some big bad wolf of a man.”
“The brute!” chimes a moon-faced urchin behind him, and adopts a stony scowl just to play along.
“We took pity on him,” continues Billy, pacing the circle of space created by the rest of the crew. “We nursed him back to health, invited him to join our crew, and showed him the tricks of our trade. He’s half-Chinese, half-cockney, a nice lad at heart, but a little bit flighty.”
“Who can you be talking about?” enquires Mikhail, but the sarcasm is lost on this boy with the rollerblades for boots. As is the growing sound of activity behind the hatch . . .
“Here are some more clues, then.” Billy swings around to address everyone, his back to the flywheel now. “Slowly, our new boy began to remember more about himself, like the fact that his true home lay not under London but on top of it, leaping from building to building. Parkour was what he called this so-called urban sport, and to date, none of us have mastered it as he has. Isn’t that right, Spanner?”
A hand goes up from one of the smaller kids. Encasing the wrist is a plaster cast, which is covered in marker pen graffiti. “I was unlucky,” a little voice protests. “I took off without warning.”
“Indeed,” says Billy sourly. “On the strength of tonight’s turnout, it seems you’re not the only one. Our boy went missing a few minutes before the fireworks started. In fact, you might remember the last time he performed an unscheduled vanishing act, and showed up across the city in that Foundation for the freaky kids. If it wasn’t for our rescue mission, they’d all still be locked up inside.”
“I really wouldn’t call them freaky kids,” warns Mikhail. “They don’t like it if you call them freaks. Seeing that several of them chose to hide out with us, I’d call them guests.“
“Yeah, but those guys can pull tricks that defy all reasoning. They do stuff you and I could never hope to learn. When was the last time you set fire to a ball of paper just by touching it?”
“If you’re talking about the twins,” growls Mikhail, “you ought to show some respect.”
Billy No-Beard shrugs like that won’t be so easy. At the same time, the amber light over the security camera turns to green, and the flywheel begins to turn. “I’d never disrespect the twins,” he continues, oblivious to what’s happening behind him. “Scarlett and Blaize are red-hot. Their fire-starting stunts are sizzling. Really. I admire what they can do, and the same goes for their posh friend who’s convinced us all she can glow in the dark. All three of them can do some neat illusions on their own, and mystery boy’s high-flying acrobatics are certainly a sight to behold. I just don’t see why it means he should be allowed to bunk off with them when it comes to doing the groundwork for the team tricks. We all know you can’t make street magic without working as a team. What makes them so special?”
Nobody breathes a word in response, much to Billy’s surprise. He tuts in annoyance and then arches one eyebrow. For a commanding light sweeps across his audience, accompanied by a creaking noise. It causes a few to squint, or cup a hand to their brow. Most just avoid Billy’s searching face, as if too embarrassed to spell out who’s just appeared at the open hatch.
“The newbies are behind me, aren’t they?” He grins idiotically as this bright haze around him shimmers hotly at the edges, and then looks a little nervous when the seat of his breeches begins to warm.
Mikhail nods towards the source of the intense illumination, still building behind his flamboyant friend. “Looks like they’re all present and correct,” he tells Billy. “Including your mystery boy!”
“Yoshi!” All of a sudden, Billy’s grin becomes a little fixed at each end. He holds on to it as best he can, though the street punks in front of him can plainly see the alarm in his eyes. “Bunking off a mission is one thing, but ask your fine friends to cool it,” he pleads next. “This isn’t funny any more. C’mon, the twins listen to you . . . Ouch! Stop turning up the heat!”
7
VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE
For a boy who comes alive crossing the upper levels of this city, Yoshi has clearly made himself at home below ground. There he is right now: a hint of the orient about his looks, dressed in a big hoodie and three-quarter-length skate shorts. With him are two girls who clearly share a great deal in common, and a third whose crow-black dress can’t disguise the halo of light that fans from one shoulder to the other. Together, these runaways from the Foundation are here to collect the evening’s takings from the homecoming crew. When the first tired-looking street kids step through the hatch, the twins hold out tins to take the money they’ve made before the girl with the aura escorts them along a gangway. Beneath their feet, the boilerplate floor makes a clanking noise, as does the piping on the walls. Steam issues from some of the joints, and pressure gauges needle in all directions. Overhead, some of the strip lighting has failed, casting long shadows in both directions.
Many years ago, army generals and weapons experts would’ve passed one another in this very corridor, trading salutes on their way between briefings. For this is a military bunker. One of many buried under Britain to house top-ranking officials in the event of a nuclear war. When the threat of being blown to bits by one superpower or another faded, many years ago, the military bailed out, blocked up the entrance, and found new toys to play with. But like so many spaces and places under London, the bunker didn’t lie empty for long. Today, it serves a very different purpose. Out of bounds to the adult world, thanks to a child-sized gap in the bars across the vent, it provides a place of safety for this band of young street magicians, and a hideout for the new arrivals.
Billy crosses the threshold next, hopping the raised steel lip on his rollerblades. Once inside, he glowers at the two girls responsible for making his own backside smoulder just now.
“That’s very funny,” he grumbles. “I’m not sure what hurts more, my beam end or my aching ribs.”
The girls glance at one another, clearly cut from the same cloth. They’re dressed identically, too – in hipster jeans, high-cut tops and bangles. Only one aspect of their appearance proves this is not some kind of clever optical illusion.
“It’s nice to come home to a real fire,” says Scarlett, whose long hair is divided into fine dreadlocks of red and silver beads.
“There’s nothing us freaks like better,” adds her sister Blaize, sporting b
lue beads instead of red.
Billy No-Beard glides past the pair, and shows them both his hands in surrender. “Mikhail was right. You’re not freaks.” He strikes forward, gliding out of earshot before muttering, “Just a little touchy,” under his breath.
Mikhail is the last one into the bunker, dipping low so his red spikes don’t clip the hatch. “You know Billy doesn’t have a bad bone in his body,” he assures Yoshi and the twins. He digs into a pocket in his combats, and drops several coins into Scarlett’s tin cup. “That sharp tongue and dress sense of his just cover up for the fact that deep down he’s a great big pussycat.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t take his comments personally,” says Yoshi. “As for the twins, I think they just wanted to make him sweat a little bit.”
Mikhail grins, and looks around. “What happened to Livia?” he asks. “I was standing at the back when you opened up the hatch, so I couldn’t see much. I figured she was behind that glaring light when the twins practised their pyrokinesis on Billy just now.”
Yoshi motions towards a door at the far end of the gangway, through which all the kids are heading. “Back on the Bridge,” he tells him. “She’s been monitoring the traffic cameras all evening, and wasn’t really supposed to leave her post until the debrief. Livia just wanted to give Billy the welcome he deserved.”
Mikhail looks at him quizzically. “Weren’t you supposed to be on the streets with us?”
Yoshi shakes his head. “Us ‘newbies’ were recalled a few minutes before midnight, and ordered to oversee the operation. I even got to sit in the hot seat.”
Mikhail pauses to consider what this means, and a sly grin crosses his face. “So you were calling the shots.”
“Uh- huh. Live and direct into Billy’s earpiece.”
The Russian boy beams at his new friend, and claps him on the shoulder. “Let’s get ourselves to that debrief!” he says. “This is one replay I really want to see.”
One time, you could’ve directed the destruction of civilisation from the Bridge. The space is kitted out with row upon row of monitors and control panels, with several big screens at the far end on which to witness the fruits of such madness. Where once the buttons, keys and switches might’ve been used to launch warheads from missile silos, now they function to toggle between traffic control cameras, thanks to a long-forgotten feed from the monitoring rooms at New Scotland Yard police headquarters. As a result, one of the big screens shows a map of the world, as if the globe itself had been rolled out flat. The other shows a freeze-frame of the crowded Chinatown square, at the moment when the first of the fireworks launched.
Yoshi and Mikhail find every crew member packing out the place. Those standing chatter quietly among themselves, while the operatives seated at the control panels punch buttons and keyboard to prepare for the debrief. There are two posts in particular that draw the boys’ attention. In the first chair is Livia. She’s hovering over the controls, poised like a vampire preparing to feed. If her long black hair and milk-white skin make her look like the bride of Dracula, the strange glow radiating from her should really be enough to clear the room. And yet nobody pays her any special attention, as if they’ve learned to live with it. Only Billy appears to be bothered by this shimmering light. But this is simply because it makes it hard for him to study the console screen when he attempts to peer over her shoulder. It shows thumbnail shots from every camera in town, which can be accessed at the touch of a button. Livia crooks a long, painted nail over the keyboard, only to retract it and sigh when a voice breaks her concentration.
“I shouldn’t mess with the settings if I were you.”
“Excuse me?” She turns, and at the same time the glow coming off her grows a watt more intense.
“Just friendly advice,” says Billy. “Whoever’s in charge of the traffic cams is probably on a relief break. They won’t thank you for fooling with the controls. It isn’t a toy, you know. It’s a precision instrument.”
“Billy,” she says quietly, clearly simmering now, “I am in charge of the traffic cams.”
Billy laughs, out of nowhere, it seems, and then stops just as suddenly. “Really?”
Livia nods solemnly. “I’ve had my eye on you all evening, soldier.”
“And I didn’t really think you were the type to slip away.” In a bid to stay cool, he takes the empty seat beside her – the big leather one with the headset clipped over the backrest. “I must say, though, that’s quite a responsibility for someone so new. Your superior must have a lot of faith in your abilities.”
“I do,” says a voice behind him now, prompting Billy to swivel round in the chair with a start. There, he finds himself looking up at the boy in the hoodie with the weird twins behind him. The one who had been here for just over a month, and clearly considered this place to be his home. “I think you’ll find that’s my chair you’re sitting in,” says Yoshi, trying very hard not to laugh. Beside him, Mikhail covers his mouth, but it can’t hide the sparkle in his eyes.
“You?” Billy looks around, appealing in vain to the rest of the crew for some kind of explanation. He pauses for thought, it seems, and absently dabs at his earpiece. “So you were the one who gave me such a hard time? You could’ve identified yourself when I thought you had gone missing. I feel like a prize plum now.”
“I was only following orders,” says Yoshi.
“Which is what was expected of you, too,” adds Livia, bringing Billy round full circle.
“What are you suggesting? I worked twice as hard preparing for the performance because I thought you guys had abandoned us.”
“Is that so?” Livia returns her attention to the console in front of her, and presses several buttons. “Let’s see if we can find footage of you in action.” On the big screen, the wide shot of the square skips into life. The fireworks go up with a whoosh for a moment, before picking up speed as Livia fast-forwards through the footage. A second later, she freezes the picture. A cursor appears on the screen, which she directs towards a narrow passageway on the opposite side of the square. It’s flanked by noodle bars, neon signs, balconies and fire escapes, and dotted with people seeking a break from the crush. Another jab at the buttons, and the picture zooms in towards the cursor. Finally, it stops on a familiar face. There he is, sitting on a shop step, tucking into a plate of chow mein.
“That can’t be me!” protests Billy, weakly. “I was busy shaking down the audience for the main event. I went through wallets, passports and all sorts!”
“We believe you,” purrs Livia, who leans in close as if to make things better with a comforting kiss, only to pluck a strand of noodle from the ruff of his shirt. “Maybe this just appeared as if by magic, huh?”
“OK! So I got hungry after targeting my first tourists.” Billy removes himself from the chair, wheeling away to save his blushes. “Anyway, let’s not waste any more time. We’re gathered here for a debrief, after all.” He spins around on his rollerblades, facing Yoshi now. “Seeing that you’re temporarily in charge, perhaps you’d like to take us through tonight’s operation from the top.”
“Oh I don’t know.” The boy looks a little uncertain, turning to Livia and the twins as if to seek their advice. “Shouldn’t we wait for everyone to get here?”
“Who’s missing?” Billy asks anxiously. “Can’t we just close this debrief? I think we’ve been through the event in enough detail, don’t you?”
At this, the sound of someone shuffling along the gangway outside draws the crew’s attention. Next, a slanting shadow falls across the entrance to the Bridge, which is quickly filled by a wiry figure in silhouette.
“Whatever this old goat has missed, there’s no need to attempt an explanation! Just play the footage from the start!” Sounding a little puffed as he addresses them all, a man in the winter of his years steps out under the lowlights. With his snowy white beard, grime-encrusted fingernails and patchwork garb, he looks like some kind of urban castaway, or a Druid who’s fallen on hard times. “
The truth is I’ll never keep up with the kind of magic your generation can make,” he remarks, as the crew move apart and give him some space. Shuffling into the room now, he stops before Yoshi, Livia and the twins, and his eyes brighten visibly. “Billy, I should confess that I was responsible for recalling these new recruits to call the shots.” He pauses there, allowing the Executive Deck Hand a moment to complete the picture. “So, if Yoshi and his friends played a hand in tonight’s performance, I should imagine I am about to be spellbound.”
8
LET’S SEE THAT AGAIN
Julius Grimaldi watches the big screen over the top of his half-moon spectacles. He’s occupied this bunker for many years now, having been the first to slip through the buckled vent. He might’ve been able to come and go through the bars back then, just as these kids do now, but not any more.
“The square,” he says with a sigh, as Livia replays the evening’s footage, courtesy of the city’s network of traffic cameras. The opening shot reveals not just the crowd, taken moments before midnight, but also the scrapers that tower behind the narrow streets and alleyways in this quarter. “How times change.”
Some of the crew figured Julius must have forgotten to get out before he became just too big to squeeze through the bars. Others figured he had chosen to stay out of sight, as if in fear for his life. Nevertheless, everyone agreed that somehow he seemed more content to be living out his life below ground than above it.
“You missed an excellent show,” says Mikhail now. “Where have you been?”
“Away from here,” replies Julius, without taking his eyes from the screen. “I prefer to make myself scarce during an operation like this. You youngsters work so fast that I’d only get in the way.”
The Russian boy nods, wondering if this madcap old man is aware of all the dust that has gathered on the shoulders of his long patchwork coat. Everyone knew that Julius could move around town without once feeling fresh air on his face. Using a tunnel through the clay outside the bunker’s lower level, he had been known to vanish for hours at a time – forever charting the honeycomb of disused train tracks and ghost stations, lost waterways and creeks, conduits, culverts, catacombs, cellars and smugglers’ passages that existed beneath the city.