‘I can guarantee that you will have enough food to last you a week. How does that grab you?’
‘It had better be more appetising than the rubbish you brought me last night. Hell, I’d rather eat the shit straight from a horse’s arse!’
Oscar got up, laughing. ‘You certainly have a colourful way of putting things, Arthur, but I suspect your bark is worse than your bite. Come on, let’s take a walk.’
Oscar put his arm around the gaffer’s bony shoulders and they walked back towards the entrance of Finsbury Park station. Along the way, Oscar provided vivid descriptions of Myron and Jen, down to the last freckle.
‘You can’t miss them!’ said Oscar. He stuck out his hand for Arthur to shake.
‘Good luck on your journey, son,’ said the old man. ‘I want you to know I believe in what you’re doing, and if you ever need help with the printing press, you know where to find me.’
‘I appreciate that, Arthur. Godspeed on your journey, too!’
Oscar left Arthur by the turnstiles, and made his way in the direction of Oxford Street. This was where the journey to Northwood would truly begin.
Chapter Thirteen
Oscar came across more victims of the so-called plague as he passed through the network of tunnels on his way to Oxford Street. He was beginning to doubt the authenticity of this plague; upon looking at some of the corpses’ wounds, he suspected they were victims of a governmental patrol’s bloodlust.
His need to get to Northwood was greater than it had ever been. Not because of the urgency of the situation, but because the stench of death was far too much to bear. Every inch of the tunnels seemed to be swimming in blood and dead flesh. Oscar prayed for a quick end to his journey, hoping that he wouldn’t encounter any more grisly scenes.
Reportedly, the only network of tunnels affected was in the north of Central London, but Oscar knew otherwise from reading Sir John’s files, and Arthur was the only one who had been a silent witness to some of the patrol’s attacks.
*
Oscar saw a glimmer of light coming from further down the tunnel and raced towards it, hopeful that fresh air might be at the end. From Arthur’s directions, he knew he had one more stop to go. Not only had the gaffer given him verbal directions to Northwood, he had also written them down to make sure Oscar wouldn’t get lost. Oscar smiled, realising again that Arthur was really a kind old sort, and not as cantankerous as he acted.
As the sliver of light became taller and wider, Oscar grew a little more apprehensive. He spied the silhouettes of a couple of people hanging around by the tracks. Dare he go any further? For all he knew, they could very well be patrolmen. Damn the presumed bounty on his head: he had to proceed.
Thankfully, the loitering couple were just tunnel dwellers passing through, trying to escape the stench of death. Oscar walked quietly by, trying not to draw their attention away from the intense conversation they were having about how they had been lucky not to find themselves dead like the others.
Once he reached the end of the platform, he quickly climbed up to make his way through to the Central Line, which would lead him to Bond Street and the last leg of his journey on the Jubilee Line.
*
Arthur had started his journey to find Myron and Jen, but there were many obstacles. He had also come across further devastation caused by the patrols—more rotting corpses, all for the good of the ‘cause.’ The smell was even worse than what he had to endure at Finsbury Park station, but he had passed the worst of it over the space of three platforms. The further south he travelled, the lower the body count fell. The rumours of the culling only happening north of Central London appeared to be true, but why only the north of London?
*
The government’s paranoia had gotten out of control. Any references made to the north, no matter how small, were always frowned upon, to the extent that North London had been regarded in the same light as the enemy just because it was north of Central London. The English had been forced to give up more of their land holdings due to the government’s insecurities. The government had drawn an imaginary line to separate North London as enemy territory, in order to dissociate itself. But drawing this imaginary line meant that they had lost control of most of Essex and Hertfordshire, which the Scots had successfully infiltrated during the battle for the forest.
Beyond the tunnel networks, reports had spread across the country stating that the war was coming to a close, after nearly twenty years. The Scottish had risked advancing until they had pushed the English Armies as far back as Hastings, which would prove to be their undoing.
The Scots had gone in with guns blazing. They hadn’t anticipated being greeted by an armada of decommissioned Navy battleships. Their best laid plans would prove costly in many ways, and the lives of so many men and women would tragically be lost as a result of poor planning. The ships had been in position for months, waiting for the chance to enter into battle and finish the Scots off once and for all.
All sides had grown weary of fighting and looked forward to the day they could put their weapons down. Unfortunately for one group of warriors, it would mean defeat and impending doom. The battling English armies had gained an advantage over the enemy. They had almost acquired the weaponry that they so desperately needed by using their own men to get the message to the armoury, and thus completing the annihilation of the Scots and their desperately depleted allies. Most of them had been captured and used as shields in front of their own troops or imprisoned in one of the remaining labour camps—or even worse, tortured beyond recognition in public and then executed, if they weren’t lucky enough to get themselves killed in battle.
It had taken a little under an hour for the English Army to completely decimate the Scots and their allies, leaving only a handful of prisoners of war to do with as they pleased. Each prisoner had their hands bound with an article of their own clothing, belt or bootlaces being the most efficient. They were then led on one of the longest route marches in history back towards the Watford Gap. Many would perish along the way, bleeding to death from wounds sustained. The brutality that would occur throughout the journey would also be a factor.
*
It had taken Arthur around an hour and a half to negotiate the tunnel network to Hyde Park, and the crowds of people overwhelmed him when he finally reached the platform. Never before had he seen so many living souls on one station.
Arthur clambered onto the platform and took a look around before deciding which direction he would go, hoping that it would be the correct way to find Myron and Jen. There couldn’t be more than one tempestuous redhead wearing an eyepatch and roaming round the tunnels of Hyde Park. He looked upon every face he passed, but he couldn’t see the elusive couple. He ventured further towards the entrance of the station. Maybe they were hanging around there?
Arthur’s hunch proved to be correct. In the doorway of the station stood a man fitting the description that Oscar had given of Myron: six foot one, with raven hair—and next to him stood a redheaded vision, her beauty remarkable despite the patch and the ugly jagged scar on her left cheek.
He hurried over to them to relay his message so he could get back to his beloved Finsbury Park station. The unruly crowd made him uneasy, but Oscar had promised him a mountain of food after he got back from Northwood, and Arthur’s mouth watered just thinking about it.
Before he could get to them, the couple had moved out into the open. Jen made her way across to the centre of the park, where the bodies of her mother and Gunnar Bailey had been left to the scavengers to peck away at over the last two days. They swung in the stiff breeze as a message to everybody who passed them by: this is the ignoble fate of anyone who dares to commit treacherous acts against the government.
Jen wanted to take her mother’s body down and bury her, but she knew all too well that the consequences of committing such an act would be most severe. Myron thought the idea foolhardy and told her as much, succeeding in talking her out of it. But Jen had insisted that t
hey come to pay their final respects to Lavinia.
Arthur kept a fair distance between himself and the young people, not wishing to alarm them. He could sense by the confident, almost swaggering way Jen carried herself that she was not a person to be trifled with. He had to plan his approach very carefully, and hope that he would be welcomed as a friend.
Jen stared up at her mother’s body, and wished again that things had been better between them. Myron walked up beside her and placed his left arm across her shoulders, pulling her body towards him and forcing her head onto his shoulder. Arthur crept up behind them, and tapped Myron on the shoulder. Quick as a flash, Myron turned around and stared intently at him.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ Myron demanded angrily.
Arthur took two cautionary steps backwards. ‘Easy, young fella! Oscar Saracen sent me—told me to give you a message! Said you need to meet him in Northwood on Wednesday, and bring your notes! Here, take this map, it’s got directions to Northwood on it.’
Arthur handed Myron the piece of paper quickly and ran back towards the entrance of Hyde Park Corner Station, surprisingly fast for a man his age.
‘Wait! Come back!’ Myron shouted after him. His request went unheard.
*
Oscar had the Northwood station platform in his sights, thankful he could finally escape the stench of death that had made his journey a living nightmare. He ran down the track urgently, needing to get outside. On the odd occasion when he had found someone alive, all they told him was that the Scots had been defeated, and the war was now over. Every now and then Brigadier John Howard’s name would crop up—preposterously, he had been declared a national hero!
If only they knew what he knew, that the Scots were not the villains of the piece; that they, too, were victims of the government’s barbarity. Only when Oscar had the printing press up and running would the truth be known. It would spread like wildfire to the furthest corners of the British Isles. Brigadier John Howard would be a regarded as a national hero no more.
Once Oscar had clambered up onto the platform, he ran towards the exit as if his life depended on it. With nobody in his way, he ran out of the station and breathed in the fresh country air, holding his nose up high and making the most of it.
The place seemed to be deserted; patrols never ventured further than was necessary, leaving Oscar free to roam with no hindrance or fear of capture. The freedom was almost too much for him to bear. Arthur had told him that the warehouse where the old Fuji offset printing press was housed was around two miles from the station. He had drawn Oscar a crude and barely readable map of the area.
Oscar followed the map, misreading and losing his way once or twice, but managing to find the place nevertheless. The warehouse had remained untouched since Oscar had last been there, and the first thing he did make sure that nobody had been inside and found the printing press. If they had it would have been destroyed, along with the others of its kind.
Oscar took a deep breath as he entered the print room, whispering under his breath, ‘Please be OK, please be OK.’ Blessedly, the printing press was still intact, much to Oscar’s relief. He ran his hands over every curve of the machine, grinning all the while as if admiring a vintage car.
‘Now to accomplish what I came here for.’ he said in a fierce whisper.
*
Oscar had spent the evening putting together some notes on the first draft of what he termed a newsletter. He couldn’t afford to give its readers too much information at the onset. The plan was to give them information gradually, keep them wanting more, and keep them interested—making it difficult for the government to regain what little respect the people of the British Isles might have retained. Oscar’s intention was to make the government realise that the people were not going to fall for their lies any longer.
Oscar couldn’t draft a proper newsletter until Myron and Jen arrived on Wednesday, knowing they would want to add their input. Oscar utilised his spare time wisely, cleaning up the printing press. He took great pleasure in pampering his new toy; it was not a chore to him, but grand fun. He grinned from ear to ear and whistled merrily while he worked.
Piece by piece, the printing press began to gleam. Oscar spent a fair amount of time on each component, getting rid of ink stains and old oil, buffing up the metalwork, and oiling the wheels. His conscientious efforts were all well and good, but would the printing press still work after he had finished? Yes, he had run it briefly on first finding it, but that was three weeks ago, and he was well aware that the machine’s starting up might have been a fluke. He would be devastated if it turned out he had been wasting his time. Before he went any further, Oscar decided it was about time that he put his insecurities to rest. He reached over and turned the dial at the top of the machine’s panel to the ‘on’ position, then pressed the black start button just below. It took three attempts to start, but it worked. Oscar was overjoyed; it was music to his ears!
Then it came, the smell of dust that had settled in some of the components, a musty smell that made him sneeze uncontrollably even as he vowed to get rid of it later. For now, Oscar was satisfied that the printing press was fully functional and up to the job that he was going to ask of it in the coming weeks, months, and possibly years ahead; or until they had done so much damage to the tyrannical government that there would be no need to print any more newsletters.
*
The Hyde Park officials had been hard at work removing the remains of Lavinia Cole and Gunnar Bailey that morning, making sure everything was clear for that afternoon’s event. A parade of prisoners of war had been scheduled, and notices were posted again. It was mandatory for all citizens to attend the public humiliation of the two hundred men and women of the Scottish forces who had been marched from their defeat in Hastings—a quick stopover before they were taken to the labour camps for processing and certain death.
Jen stood in the doorway of the station and watched her mother’s body being manhandled and dumped into a cart. They were taking it for incineration—a polite way of saying that they were going to dump her body in the middle of nowhere and set it aflame. The laws of the land prevented Jen from taking control of the situation. She wanted nothing more than to give the woman she professed to hate a proper burial.
‘Why, all of a sudden, do feel remorseful?’ Myron said, studying Jen’s glum expression. ‘You hated your mother!’
Jen became pensive, and didn’t speak for several minutes. ‘Yeah, I know, but she’s still the person who gave birth to me,’ she finally said. ‘You know what? The day she was executed was the first time I had seen her sober in God knows how long. I know it’s a strange thought but for once she wasn’t swimming in alcohol, and she actually appeared human for a change. I can’t totally hate the old bitch. She wasn’t all bad; no one is. Can you understand that?’
Myron understood fully, as he had seen a different side to the father he had hated with just as much passion.
‘Why is it that we truly find out what they are all about only after they are dead?’ Myron mused. ‘For instance, my father turned out to be a member of a rebel cell, and your mother was human after all.’
‘I don’t know, Myron. It’s just one of those things you can’t really explain!’
Jen had had enough. She moved away from the station. Myron followed behind her at a slow pace, gathering his thoughts and planning the journey to Northwood in his head. He took out the map the strange gaffer had handed him and studied it.
Myron wished he didn’t have to wait until Wednesday to meet up with Oscar. He had in fact made the decision to leave for Northwood a day earlier than scheduled, but had yet to tell Jen of his intentions.
Myron ran to catch up with Jen and made his body an obstacle in front of her.
‘Jen, wait! How would you feel about starting the journey to Northwood a day early?’ he said with wide-eyed excitement.
Jen stared blankly at him for a moment, and then smiled broadly with approval.
‘Why the hell not?’ she said. The sooner we can expose those government bastards, the better! Let’s get out of here!’
*
Tuesday morning rolled around quickly, finding Myron and Jen on the last few miles of track before reaching the Northwood station platform. They had experienced the carnage left behind by the patrols for the first time, and wondered whether or not others were aware of what had been happening around them. Myron decided the newsletter would graphically describe the wanton deaths of the scores of innocent people who were just trying to keep out of harm’s way.
Jen was lagging behind due to the inferior footwear she had been forced to endure; her heels had blistered and bled.
‘Can’t you keep up?’ Myron groused. ‘You should have scavenged some better shoes when we were underground, or somewhere along the way.’
Not for the first time, Jen was taken aback by Myron’s surliness. ‘Give me a break!’ she shot back. ‘We’ve been legging it for friggin’ hours without any rest. And for your information, I did look for some better shoes but I couldn’t find any that would fit!’
‘All right, I apologise for being a dick,’ said Myron. ‘Guess my nerves are a little on edge. Anyway, we’re almost there.’
Jen struggled through the rest of the journey, stopping every now and then for a respite but not holding Myron up too much. For his part, Myron regretted his snottiness and decided to be chivalrous, slowing his pace.
Relief came in the form of a light at the end of what seemed to be a never-ending tunnel. The Northwood platform loomed in the distance, much to their delight.
‘Not far to go now, Jen. We should reach the warehouse by twelve-thirty.’ Myron glanced at his beat-up pocket watch and then placed it back in his inside breast pocket.
Jen didn’t care that her feet were raw, scabby and bleeding. The bliss of reaching their destination had taken over her senses, and she rushed past Myron.
‘Slow down, Jen—think of your feet!’ he shouted.
Going Underground Page 17