by Mark A. King
I head down. The rungs are slippery, and my muscles shake with a mixture of rigid fear and bitter, damp rheumatism.
Musty, dank aromas fill my nostrils. It smells like the rotting mulch of a woodland.
The ladder is shorter than I thought it would be. I reach a level platform only a few feet from where I started. I edge only a few inches on either side of my position, for fear of falling into lower levels I can’t see. I retrieve the torch from my backpack. While I am grateful for the light, it only casts a sickly glow a few feet away, as weak as a couple of birthday cake candles.
I see the edge of the platform and another ladder. I shine my torch down into the tunnel below. I see murky, fast-flowing liquid. Thankfully I can’t see white paper or brown torpedo shapes. I sniff the air just to make sure, but I can’t smell urine or excrement. Clumps of fat cling to the lower edges of the new ladder; they jut out like grey wax sculptures.
We talked about rats. Vermin the size of small dogs or children. My mates told me about a criminal on the run from the police who got stuck in a tunnel, and the rats ate through his eyes and into his brain. They’d chew through anything: wood, metal, bone, electricity cables.
I sweep the torch below me, and I see several rats running just above the waterline. When caught in the light they dawdle before scuttling away. Telling myself that they must be more scared of me than I am of them, I continue.
I reach the bottom of the tunnel. The water current is tugging at me, pushing against my knees. The tunnel is long. From the far end of the tunnel, I hear a sound as loud as growling thunder. It seems to charge through the tube, reverberating toward me like a train. It passes overhead and goes behind me. I tell myself it is just a bus—it sounded like the ambulance, only louder, and the vibrations were more violent.
I can’t go far from the ladder. The water levels are seeping up, and I cannot afford to be away from safety. A loud single bang. Then another. Followed by hundreds. It sounds like tiny cluster bombs. The noise is overwhelming and makes the bus seem like a peaceful musical interlude. Hailstones? It makes sense. A storm drain probably isn’t the best idea in a heavy rainstorm.
The sounds of the icy hail hitting the street are like static rumbling through God’s sub-woofer.
There is the danger of flash flooding, but tell myself I have time. Panic will make me fumble and make mistakes. I breathe, slow and easy. I hold out as long as I can, as I am reluctant to go back to the narrow platform above.
The waterline is level with my waist, and I can barely stand in the current.
I climb the ladder, making my way back to the narrow platform, praying that the water won’t rise and trap me against the manhole cover.
The deluge screams below, thirsty for the river, trying to make its way to the Thames.
Even through the noise, I hear something come for me.
Is it the man-eating rats with their black-red eyes and hungry yellow teeth?
No. They scurried and left long ago.
It is something worse than rats.
I look down. In the rising water, I see the faces of dead people. Bloated, veined, blue. They call me.
Cal.
Cal.
Cal.
Their moans are laments that echo in the chamber and seep into the fear buried deep within me.
I cry. I am ashamed to cry, even with nobody around to see me.
I sense their pain and suffering. The lives they had lived. The remnants of who they were and who they could have become.
I feel my way up the ladder towards the manhole cover, leaving them behind, for now. But I am trapped. I wrap myself around the ladder as if my life depends on it.
Why did my friends leave me? Why didn’t they come back for me?
I remember I am not a boy, I’m a fully-grown man reliving my experiences.
Rod, the hypnotherapist said, “Everything is fine. You can come back any time you choose.”
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“I’ve been here all along. I am only a few feet away. I’ve only ever been a few feet away. Do you know why you are here?”
“I’m not here, am I?”
“No, you’re reliving a past experience. You are safe, in my therapy room. I am here to help you. Wake up now. Let’s talk about why you took me here.”
Waking was easy, but the tears came quickly and made dark patches on Rod’s beanbag in his therapy room.
Rod smiled, as if it were a normal thing to see a grown man cry. “You were there because it’s important. It’s an event you’ve buried, and it’s likely to be relevant to how you’re feeling today.”
“Is this part of a test?” I asked.
“In what way?”
“To determine if I’m seeing things. I want you to be honest.”
“If you want me to be honest, then yes. This is not a test, but it is telling me—and hopefully you—that there are things you’re not aware of that are causing you to act and feel in certain ways.”
If the therapy was designed to dig up past trauma, then it worked. I certainly hadn’t intended on talking about this event below the streets. I felt ashamed and disappointed with myself for being naïve and impressionable, for caring too much about saving face, for not being brave enough to say no.
“Is there more?” Rod asked.
I shook my head. How could I explain what had happened next? I had found the answers I was looking for. It wasn’t about Abna, the man with the hat. It was about her.
I had spent my life hiding in the darkness and working in the tunnels because I felt like I owed it to the woman who had rescued me that day.
Jimmy
After he told Iona almost everything he knew, Jimmy stayed in the pub and drank more of the bottle he’d asked to have put in front of him.
He’d told Iona that Westbourne was the person acting as the senior figure in the organised crime network. Westbourne was the alias for the main contact between the criminal organisations and the authorities. Jimmy could have told Iona who it was, but what good would it do? Iona was unlikely to believe him, given his own role in the underworld, over legitimate squeaky-clean pen-pushers. No, Iona needed to discover the depth, scale, and nature of the corruption for herself. It was the only way she would believe it.
Jimmy’s head was spinning, and the world seemed skewed. It was more than the alcohol in his bloodstream.
This was it. Life. The great adventure. Over as soon as it had begun. What was next? More drinks? A slow fade into drowning as his lungs filled with fluid in a hospital bed?
He took the bottle and flung it at the stippled mirror nearby, smashing the advertising for northern ale that had been there for decades.
Ryan and Josh rushed to him, and without saying anything they retrieved the wheelchair, which they’d hidden behind the bar, and lifted Jimmy into it.
Josh took out a pen from his coat. He scrapped a sticky, reinforced-paper beermat off the bar and scratched at the Australian beer logo until the recycled paper underneath was visible. Writing an apology on the mat, he took out a wad of fifties, wrapped the beermat around the notes, and placed both inside a clean pint glass behind the bar. “I’m sure Billy won’t mind,” Josh said to Jimmy, as he returned to wheel him outside.
Jimmy thought about Iona. She’d done well for herself, considering. Would she be capable of stopping this madness and finally be able to make headway in Operation Scythe? Would bringing down Westbourne really stop the nasty, vicious trade in people and prevent another Maria Mathan from happening?
Jimmy shrugged and allowed himself a carefree chuckle, despite the pain he knew it would cause him. He imagined this was how religious people felt when they sought forgiveness—but he’d never really believed all that crap, how could he? Responsibility weighed heavily on those who bore it, and Jimmy could feel a new lightness in his shoulders and neck. Like he could finally lift his head and face the world head-on. I’ve done my bit. I might as well see some of the city. Savour these last few hours.
They wheeled Jimmy out of the bar. The daylight was sharp, and instead of enhancing his sobriety, it heightened his sense of wooziness.
Outside, the city buzzed and pulsed, flowing around him like a time-lapse pop video. He breathed it in. A long, luxurious inhale of chaos—of life. Despite the lightness of his new-found contentment, his body ached and he had to resist the urge to rest, to go back to the hospital and the eternal void that awaited his final sleep.
“I don’t want to take the car, boys. Let me see the city. Take me up high,” he slurred to Ryan.
“Mr. Kinsella, my job is sometimes...” Ryan paused, as if trying to find the right words, “...sometimes, it is my job to save you. Not just from external enemies, but once in a while, I need to save you from yourself.”
“I know, son. But I need to do this. Despite being a bit tipsy and dressed in the worst hospital gown ever. I won’t get another chance.” Jimmy adjusted his gown to cover his pasty-white thighs. “If I make it back to the hospital, that’s it. What sort of crappy final image is that to go out with? Let me see the city one last time, boys.”
“Yes, boss,” Josh replied. “It’d be our honour to make it happen. Give me a few minutes. Ryan, you stay with Mr. Kinsella.”
Josh ran across the busy road and into a charity shop. Soon he returned with a long overcoat. “It’s not much sir, but it’s better than what you’re wearing,”
“Where do you fancy, Mr. Kinsella?” Ryan asked. “The London Eye or The Shard?”
“The Shard is too tall, and I doubt if the lifts will help with my queasiness,” Jimmy said, waving his arms about as if brushing off sickness. “The London Eye, now that sounds great. It hardly looks like it’s moving. You can hire an entire pod, can’t you?”
Ryan padded Jimmy’s shoulder gently as they changed directions to walk towards the Thames. “Yes, Mr. Kinsella. We’ll hire a whole pod. It’ll be just the three of us.”
This is good. My objective is complete. I can spend time with my boys. See the sights. What could be better? Yet Jimmy did not feel completely settled. Something nagged deep in his gut. Jimmy couldn’t stop thinking about the visions of Ryan when he was younger and his recent challenges to Jimmy’s authority. Ryan had taken part in a crime that Jimmy wanted nothing to do with, and did not seem contrite enough.
They took the open-top bus, tourist rip-off cliché that it was. Jimmy had always had a reputation to protect and couldn’t have tried it even if he’d wanted to—but now, what was stopping him? He smiled like a Premier League football player signing a new contract. The tourist buses were going through Brixton these days. Jimmy remembered how Brixton used to be: the heartland of everything good about the city, the diversity, the vibrancy, the upbeat music, the glorious spectrum colours, the smells of exotic spices and fruits, the flavours of slow-cooked meats and strong beer, the laughter. Brixton had become diluted and corporate. A land of gentrification and gated communities. Ethnic cleansing in the name of redevelopment and progress. How had this been allowed to happen? Could people like Westbourne have so much influence that even entire neighbourhoods could be purchased and effectively destroyed by the highest bidder? No come-back. No questions. All legit.
The boys scowled and grumbled until they left the bus on the borders of the Thames.
As they approached the Embankment, seagulls were hovering in the cross-winds, and then swooping on tourists to dive-bomb their open fish ‘n’ chips.
Living statues in gold, silver, and bronze dotted the promenade, mixing static poses with animated movements when people stood to take pictures without paying their dues.
The crowd was a babble of foreign languages, maps, cameras, and distraction, creating a paradise for any career pickpocket. Jimmy was thankful for his dangerous carer pushing him behind and the squat wall of muscles parting the seas in front.
The alcohol had started to ease, and Jimmy was more alert and desperately keen to take the trip in the Eye.
“I’m just going inside to book a private pod, Mr. Kinsella,” Ryan said. “Josh will stay here and look after you.”
“It’s fine, boys. Go in together. I need some time to take it all in. I hope you don’t mind,” Jimmy replied.
Jimmy watched the wheel. Even at this close distance, it was hard to make out the movement.
He didn’t see her coming, but he recognised the voice. “Hello, Jimmy,” she said. If there could be a less welcome sound in all the world, Jimmy couldn’t think what it might be.
“Holy crap,” he replied, trying to play it calm. Don’t panic. Keep calm. Show her you’re still strong. She won’t try anything here. Not in public. “Hello, Verity, or should I call you Director Armitage, illustrious leader of cyber-crime prevention? It’s been a long time.”
She went behind Jimmy and scraped her roughly-chewed fingernails down his neck. “It’s been too long, Jimmy. I’m disappointed in you. The great Jimmy Kinsella, overlord of crime, once fearless, brutal and godlike—now turned into a petty grass. No better than the scum floating on a stagnant pond. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. You’re sitting there, weak, breathing your last breaths, looking for help from your two minders, scared of me. It’d be funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic.”
“Don’t try that crap with me,” Jimmy spat. “We both know exactly what you’re capable of. So, is this how it’s going to be? You’re going to wheel me into the Thames?”
“Don’t be an idiot, you old git,” Armitage said. “Too many witnesses. I didn’t get to where I am today by being stupid, did I, old man?” She moved from behind him to crouch beside the chair, so they were face-to-face.
“No, that’s true. You whored yourself out to the highest bidder. You have the audacity to call me scum, when your wages are being paid by the tax-payers, but you’re taking backhanders from the very people who are destroying this city.”
“Oh, that’s rich, Jimmy-boy. When did you become a moral guardian? You’ve extorted money. You’ve been involved in beatings, arsons, robbery. I could go on.”
“I’d rather you just did what you’re going to do and leave me. Unless I’m already dead and this is my hell.”
“We were once close, Jimmy—do you remember? You paid me, too, back in the old days, when I wasn’t where I am now. I turned a blind eye, gave you information, protected you. Now you have the audacity to think you’re better than me. Trying to be all high and mighty from your deathbed. But look at you now, with your shaky limbs and plastic bag to piss in. Your mouth drools and you don’t even realise. Brain cells so dead that you’ve forgotten all about the past.”
“I haven’t forgotten, you bitch,”
“Ouch. That hurts, Jimmy. After all I’ve done for you. Haven’t I kept that little patch for you? Protected you from the new breed who didn’t see you as competition, just a relic, a curiosity. Sure you set up a fund for Iona Stone, ensured she could scrape through her self-education without knowing where the money came from. But I gave her the job, took her under my wing. I told you it was a favour to you. Oh, don’t get me wrong, she’s talented all right, but she’s also a pain in the arse. I moulded her and guided her when you weren’t around and her no good junkie-whore mum was just ashes in a flowerbed. And despite all this, you choose to turn traitor? You know about respect, Jimmy. You should know how I’m now feeling.”
Jimmy smashed his hands down on the wheelchair arm, “That’s enough! No more. Her mum might have been many things, but she was sick. What the hell’s your excuse?” Jimmy wanted to get Armitage angry, so she’d lash out, draw attention and have to escape in the scrum that followed. The boys would be back soon, and they couldn’t see Armitage, otherwise they would ask questions, they would be at risk. “You took Iona in because I’d been part of the problem, paying you over all those years. You took her in because I’d sussed out your game and played you at it. It was a symbiotic relationship. I kept your dirty little secrets. I joined the game and paid you money to watch over her. A last deal. She was important to me and y
ou looked after her, you— “
“Jimmy, you really are a sweet but foolish old man. Let me tell you how it really was. I took on Iona as leverage. What else could I hold over you to keep you quiet? But she’s been poking around and caused me no end of trouble. Came close a few times. But I put a stop to it. It’s almost like you don’t care about her. Why put her in danger by providing her with information? When you’re gone Jimmy, there will be no reason for me to keep her around. You’ve given me the most powerful reason I can have to finally be rid of her.”
Jimmy cursed himself for not thinking. He’d been playing snap, while Armitage had been playing chess. Trying to convince Armitage of all the reasons why she should take Iona on, when Armitage had all along been happy to have her close. “I never talked about you. I wished I had. It’d would have destroyed her faith in humanity. You were someone she always looked up to. But you’re as much of a cancer as the people you’re protecting. I’m curious, Verity… how did you know I was talking to Iona?”
Armitage leaned in closer, grasped his arm, and whispered in his ear, “Maybe she double-crossed you, old man? Maybe she was here on my authority, a surveillance mission, and when she realised what this was about she called it in.”
“Bullshit.” Jimmy swiped her away. He looked for Josh or Ryan. “How did you know?”
“Maybe you should look closer to home. You were always a bit too soft for this game, Jimmy. Too gullible. Too trusting. Sad, poor Jimmy, always looking for the best in people. Not everyone is like you. You think by rubbing stones you get diamonds, Jimmy K? It’s pointless, you can’t polish a turd, can you?” Jimmy’s mouth opened, he couldn’t hide his shock. Verity started to walk off but then turned and smiled. “Yes, that’s it Jimmy, piece it all together. One of your trusted employees has been cashing two cheques and has two masters. Although ... one is just a front.”