The Deadly 7

by Garth Jennings

  “I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping first.” Uncle Pogo picked up his bag of tools and headed toward the front of the cathedral.

  It was at this point that the clouds finally gave in and it started to rain. Not a gentle pitter-patter but a sudden crash of water being flung down from the thunderous sky, chasing Nelson and Uncle Pogo up the steps of St. Paul’s.

  “Well, this should be a cozy place to spend the night,” joked Nelson as they reached the grand entrance.

  “I’m very glad you think so,” said Pogo, pushing his way through the heavy doors.

  “I was joking, Uncle Pogo. We’re not actually sleeping in here, are we?”

  “No, no,” he chuckled. “You can’t go sleeping on the floor of St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

  Nelson breathed a great sigh of relief.

  “We’ll be sleeping downstairs, in the crypt,” said Uncle Pogo. “Follow me.”

  ONE DEAD NELSON

  St. Paul’s Cathedral can seat at least two thousand people for anything from a royal wedding to a midnight Christmas mass, but right now Nelson felt as if he and Uncle Pogo were alone inside the dark and vast belly of a whale. If this had been a normal visit, Nelson would have been gazing up at the incredible arches and marveling at the sheer scale of the dome, but at night, with the only light coming from a few emergency exit lights, it was all far too creepy for him. He decided to keep his eyes focused on the black-and-white tiled floor in front of him.

  * * *

  “Look at this poor fellow,” said Pogo as they reached a very large marble statue wrapped in plastic sheets. The storm must have been directly overhead by now, because there was hardly a gap between each shock of lightning and roar of thunder. The lightning briefly illuminated the impressive figure of a man riding a horse under clear plastic.

  “There’s a leak, and the water is completely ruining his lovely looks. Look at him. His face has gone all yucky. Anyway, our mission is to find the leak and save the statue!” Pogo grinned, but his excitement wasn’t quite rubbing off on Nelson. “Follow me,” said Uncle Pogo, before limping off toward a stone staircase on their right. “It’s like a great big colander. The dome, I mean. Holes everywhere. In fact, you could say this is a very holy place! Ha ha! Do you get it? Holy! Ha ha ha!”

  Nelson really wasn’t finding any of this funny, but Pogo didn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh, that was a good one. Anyway, this place has leaks galore, and every time it rains it’s causing more and more damage, not to mention playing havoc with the electrical system. Shot to bits from what I gather. I mean, they patched up all the holes they could find, but somehow the water’s still … You look confused—are you all right?”

  “No, I get it,” Nelson replied emphatically, but it wasn’t true at all. He hadn’t taken in a single word his uncle said, but he followed him away from the statue toward the stairs.

  “Anyway, they’ve tried all sorts of things to fix it,” said Uncle Pogo, his voice echoing off the walls as they descended the dark staircase. “Even had teams of specialists from those wonderful cathedrals in Venice. Cost ’em a fortune, but none of it worked because … Well, I’m not exactly sure why it didn’t work, but anyway I know one of the priests here—used to play rugby together—and he put me up for the job of solving the problem once and for all. So here we are. Welcome to base camp, Nelson.” Uncle Pogo unhooked a flashlight hanging from his utility belt and pointed it into the darkness. The beam of light illuminated a circle of bone-colored pillars surrounding two tents; one large and brown, the other small and orange. Between these tents was a large black tomb that rose high from a stone plinth on an intricately patterned tiled floor. With a shock that almost stopped his heart, Nelson saw his own name written on the side of the tomb.

  It was worse than any nightmare he had ever had. Imagine seeing your own grave!

  “Ta-da! You’ll be sleeping right next to the one and only Admiral Nelson. The two Nelsons! You can keep each other company.” On closer inspection Nelson saw the full name of the man inside the black tomb.

  HORATIO ∙ VISC ∙ NELSON

  Admiral Nelson. The same man who stands proudly on a column with pigeons on his head in Trafalgar Square. He may have been a noble and famous leader, but all Nelson could think about now was that he was going to be sleeping in a big scary room next to a dead guy. “You’re probably hungry, eh? Growing lad and all that. Of course you are. Why don’t you grab something to eat while I finish setting up. I put a lunch box in your tent.” Uncle Pogo pointed at the orange tent and busied himself lighting paraffin lamps and placing one at the base of each column.

  Nelson pulled at the stubborn zipper of his orange tent several times before he managed to get it open. He did this with very little enthusiasm, mainly because he was still feeling enormously sad but also because he didn’t want his uncle to think that any of this was cheering him up.

  In the gloom of the tent Nelson could see a pile of gray blankets and a pillow stacked at the far end. His inflatable mattress was clearly made for use in a swimming pool, as it had dolphins printed all over it, a bright pink base, and a hole on each side for your drink. Nelson pulled his backpack in after him, nearly bringing the entire tent down when it rolled backward against the side. Next to the pillow and blankets he found a shoe box with the words FOOD FOR NELSON written on the lid in black felt-tip. He realized that he really was hungry and opened the box to find two more boxes: AM and PM.

  As it was the evening, Nelson opened the box marked PM and found three smaller boxes inside, labeled STARTER, MAIN COURSE, and PUDDING. Inside STARTER he found a pepperoni stick bent double to fit in the box. He didn’t fancy a spicy sausage right this minute, so he opened the next box: MAIN COURSE. Inside this box was a Scotch egg. (For those of you who don’t know what a Scotch egg is, it’s a hard-boiled egg under a layer of sausage meat and the whole thing’s covered in bread crumbs.) This Scotch egg had evidently seen its best-before date come and go, and it bore the smell of something very wrong indeed. Nelson almost didn’t dare open the last box. But he was hungry. How bad could it be? When he slid open the box marked PUDDING he found a teaspoon and a large wad of tinfoil. He peeled the foil back to reveal what he thought at first to be maggots but then recognized as rice pudding. Nelson loved rice pudding, but this gloopy mess, and the smell of the Scotch egg still hanging in the air, had completely short-circuited his pangs of hunger. The idea of sleeping on an air mattress in this eggy tent seemed impossible, so he ventured back out to the crypt.

  * * *

  Hunched over a laptop that was connected by several wires to what looked like a large radio, Uncle Pogo sat with a pepperoni sticking out of his mouth like a cigar. As he tapped quickly at the computer keys, he chewed away at the spicy sausage.

  “Did you find your food box? I labeled everything for you.”

  “Yes, thanks, Uncle Pogo,” said Nelson, still trying hard not to retch from the smell of rotten egg.

  “Look at this. A 3-D model of the entire cathedral,” said Pogo proudly, his eyes fixed on the screen, which was lit by a rotating outline of the building. “All the red dots are barium sensors. You know what barium is?”

  Nelson shook his head.

  “Oh, it’s a very handy chemical. I’ve covered the whole roof in it. That’s what I was doing when you arrived. So now, when the rain leaks into the building, it will carry the barium with it, and these clever little sensors will lead me straight to the—” Pogo was interrupted by a loud alarm. The screen flashed and one of the sensors lit up.

  “There she blows! Level 1. Ha ha! Nelson, the time has come to save the day!” Like a cheesy special effect, the entire crypt exploded in a flash of lightning accompanied by a knee-knockingly loud roll of thunder.

  “Let’s suit up,” said Uncle Pogo, and before Nelson had time to ask why or even protest, he and his uncle were wearing matching outfits consisting of rubber boots, a head-to-toe waterproof poncho, and a balaclava with flashlights strapped to either si
de of their heads right where their ears were hiding.

  This is what they looked like.

  “Ready?” asked Pogo with a big grin.

  “I don’t want to do this, Uncle Pogo,” said Nelson, which, when you think about it, seems fair enough.

  “Oh” was all Uncle Pogo could say in return. He seemed to be noticing his nephew’s lack of enthusiasm for the first time. Nelson had only just begun to come to terms with the idea that Celeste was missing and now he was dressed up like a loony and about to go looking for leaks in St. Paul’s Cathedral. He just wanted something to make sense. To be normal. And he certainly didn’t want to cry in front of his uncle.

  Pogo awkwardly reached out and grabbed Nelson’s shoulder. It was meant as a reassuring gesture, but Uncle Pogo was not familiar with being supportive and ended up nearly knocking Nelson over.

  “Sorry,” he said, and shuffled awkwardly. “Erm, look, they’ll find Celeste, Nelson. I’m absolutely sure they will.”

  “I just wanna go home,” mumbled Nelson as he looked down at the rubber boots on his feet.

  “Yes, well, sitting around brooding will only make you feel worse. But I know what the solution is.”

  “What?”

  “Keep busy and keep moving,” said Pogo. “Oh, and music!” He reached down to his fake right leg and pressed a switch just below his knee. Music began to boom from his shin. “Oh ho! That’s more like it!” Nelson was amazed. His uncle’s leg had a built-in speaker from which “You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon was now blasting, echoing around the cathedral loud enough to rattle Admiral Nelson’s bones. Pogo grabbed hold of the flashlights on either side of Nelson’s head and switched them on. “Okay, Nelson Green. We have music, lights, and now it’s time for action!” Nelson was swept up in Uncle Pogo’s madness. The musical leg was undeniably bonkers and if Uncle Pogo’s plan was to keep Nelson’s mind off his sister, he had just succeeded.

  Whether or not you know this song by Paul Simon, I highly recommend you put this book down for a moment, find the song, and listen to it before you continue. It has absolutely no bearing on the story, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, and that’s a good enough reason to stop reading and listen to a song, right?

  THE SECRET LABORATORY

  ENGLAND EXPECTS EVERY MAN TO DO HIS DUTY

  These were the words written in mosaic tiles on the stone at the foot of the second flight of steps they were about to climb. “The words of Admiral Nelson,” said Uncle Pogo, pointing and talking loudly over Paul Simon. “And it is our duty to find and repair this leak!” As they stomped up the stairs, Nelson could hear his uncle’s laptop beeping faster. He had seen enough action movies to know this meant they were getting closer to the target (although if this was a movie the target would be something more exciting than a leak, and they certainly wouldn’t be dressed up like this).

  The rubber boots Nelson had been forced to wear were way too big for him and made the climb to the first floor an exhausting experience. When they reached the top Pogo pulled out his laptop and flipped open the screen. An image of St. Paul’s appeared, covered in little red dots. One of the red dots was flashing, and when Pogo hit the Return button, the image zoomed in on it. “And we should find the leak right around…” He scanned in closer to the flashing dot and a huge smile came to his face.

  “Ah, I see. We’ve come up too high. Idiot. Must be down there.”

  He switched off the music and there was a delicious silence.

  “Sorry about that, Paul Simon, but we will need to use our ears now. Follow me, Nelson.” Nelson had no intention of being anywhere on his own and kept up as best he could as his uncle hurried back toward the stairs. At the bottom there was a long corridor lined with prints of the cathedral in various states of construction down one side and great stone arches down the other.

  “These are the buttresses. They hold everything up. Superb design.” Pogo was gazing up at the ceiling admiringly. “And through here we should find…” He wrestled with a key in a lock and opened yet another door, into a magnificent library. Nelson’s flashlights revealed the eerie stone busts of men wearing large wigs and proud expressions on their faces.

  This is the library at night.

  It’s very dark in here, which is why you can’t see very much.

  He turned around and realized he had walked to the opposite side of the library to his uncle, who was pressing his ear against a gap between two bookcases. “Here! Listen!” said Uncle Pogo with such delight and urgency that Nelson found himself running toward him.

  Uncle Pogo was right. Nelson could hear rushing water on the other side of the wall. “Maybe there used to be a door or maybe a…” Uncle Pogo pulled off his rubber gloves and pressed his hands against the wall. Crouching low, he took his hands away from the wall. With a smile as wide as his entire head, Uncle Pogo showed Nelson that his hands were covered in white, wet plaster. He looked delighted, like a toddler displaying his first finger painting.

  Using a crowbar from his toolbox, Uncle Pogo managed to create a split in the wall that ran vertically from just above his head down to the floor. There was a loud crack as the split reached the floor, immediately followed by water rushing out of the bottom and a smell that was so bad and so strong it would make your nose want to quit its job for good.

  “Stand back,” cried Uncle Pogo, and grabbing the open seam with both hands he pulled as hard as he could. More water gushed across the floor. Filthy, stinking water. Something bumped against his ankle, and when Nelson looked down his headlamps lit up several dead rats thudding against his rubber boots. His instant reaction was to jump back, but all this did was splash the horrible smelly water all over himself.

  “That’s as far as it will go for now, but I wonder if…” Uncle Pogo trailed off as he strained against the opening. He let go with a sigh and peered into the gap he’d made. “I can see it. It’s right there.” He picked up his toolbox and tried to wedge his entire body into the gap he had made. No chance.

  “Nelson, over here.”

  “It really stinks,” protested Nelson, sloshing through the water, whose flow was now subsiding.

  “A smell won’t do you any harm. Now look. Do you see it? At the back, up high.”

  Nelson peered through the gap and his headlamps illuminated a windowless chamber about the size of his headmistress’s office. There was an iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling, which would have once held candles but now looked more like a rusty torture device. Against the far wall there were two stone sinks without taps, and above them a large pipe that ran the length of the room had snapped through and the end that hung loose was spewing water all over the floor.

  “Here,” said Uncle Pogo, handing Nelson the toolbox. “It’ll be dead easy. I’ll talk you through it.”

  “What? I’m not going in there,” protested Nelson, aware that his voice was suddenly higher-pitched than usual.

  “Oh, you’ll be fine. Really it’s a piece o’ cake. And it’s only to stop the water for now. I’ll need some backup in the morning to get this to open wider before I can repair it properly,” said Uncle Pogo, trying hard not to sound too excited. Nelson didn’t move. He just stood there. “Please,” said Uncle Pogo, with a sorry look on his face. “It’ll only take a minute. Then we can go home.”

  He really did want to go home, so Nelson took a deep breath and, holding his nose, squeezed through the gap. Once he was on the other side, Uncle Pogo handed him the toolbox and a large roll of silver industrial-strength sticky tape. Nelson turned around and focused his headlamps on the broken pipe. The rest of the room was way too creepy and he certainly didn’t want to look into the dark corners.

  “Now you just need to find something to stand on so you can reach the pipe,” said Uncle Pogo, his face squished into the gap in the wall.

  This meant Nelson was forced to look around. Slowly he turned his head, and the lamps on his ears revealed an eerie sight. The room stretched back farther than he had thought and ended at a la
rge black wooden door. One side of the room was lined with furniture-sized objects covered by filthy torn sheets, like a group of oddly shaped people in bad ghost costumes.

  “Can you see anything to stand on, Nelson?” asked Uncle Pogo, sounding more keen than ever.

  Nelson looked up at the pipe hanging down from the wall and realized he would need more than a chair to reach it. He turned back to the objects covered in sheets and selected the tallest thing he could see: a narrow table under a particularly moldy sheet. “There’s a table, Uncle Pogo. I’ll try and move it.”

  He took a few steps through the filthy water toward the table, grabbed the edge, and pulled. There was a horrid scraping noise as the metal legs ground against the stone floor.

  “That’s it, Nelson. Now put the toolbox on the table, and once you’re up there I’ll talk you through what you need to do.”

  Nelson put one knee on the corner of the table and tried to climb on top without disturbing the horrible sheet.

  “The pipe will likely be made of lead, so it’ll be easy to bash it back into place with the mallet—not the hammer,” called out Uncle Pogo through the gap in the wall. “But have the tape around your wrist so you can tear off a strip and wrap it around as quickly as possible.”

  The table gave a shake, which made Nelson gasp. “It’s quite wobbly, Uncle Pogo.”

  “I’m not surprised. It’s probably hundreds of years old! Now you want to get the two ends of the broken pipe to meet, or at least get them as close together as possible. So you’re gonna whack that loose end with the mallet until it’s back where it should be. Got it?”

  Nelson gave his uncle a thumbs-up, lifted the mallet out of the toolbox, and looked up at the offending pipe. The stench was awful, and his body made all the movements necessary to be sick without actually being sick.

  Just get it done and get out, thought Nelson, and he swung the mallet at the hanging pipe. His uncle was right; the pipe was made of lead and it bent back into position after only a few blows of the mallet.