by Wendy Reakes
Ben Mason, he was becoming a liability now. He’d said it all along. Alice Burton should have listened to him. What did she know about the situation down here other than what he’d decided to tell her? Now, it was because of Ben Mason that Byron was dragging out the bloody tour.
He remembered his first tour. It had taken half the time and the only benefit he’d got from it was the attraction he’d felt for the Bird Catcher as he observed her putting on the show. He remembered that had been the first time he had considered seducing her. Not just for the extreme satisfaction, or for a way of passing the time, but to have her trust in that place since she was such a hot-shot. It could only help him in the long run. At the time, he didn’t know then what he would need her for, but considering the present purpose of their visit was to gain control over the city, it could only have its benefits.
Now, as he waited for the tour to conclude, he had used the time wisely. He’d instructed his men to talk to the workers, to try and find out more information about the location of the city and the landmarks above it. The one he did know about was the one which would be the target for his exit. It was a place ith no landmarks above to prevent him from doing what was needed to be done...to blast a piece out of Sous Llyndum, to open it up to the elements and the world upside, and to put the city back into the hands of the British government, once and for all.
The colonel consoled himself with the notion that as long as this tour continued, he would soon find a place which would allow him his next course of action. And if his instincts proved him right, it would be in their Forest of Birds, just below Festival Gardens.
Chapter 54
“I will show you where we grow the okra,” Byron said, as soon as they were once again assembled. A worker had joined them. Byron introduced him as Amos.
Ben was a little taken aback. He hadn’t noticed the lack of black people in Sous Llyndum until he saw Amos, who was, by all accounts, the only one. He was a senior and his position on the shop floor was clear, simply by his very demeanour and standing. He wore a dark green linen apron over his clothes, with a flat cloth hat and protective goggles perched above it. Judging by his stature, he had once been tall and strong in his youth. He still maintained an air of robustness, but now his back was slightly curved and his arms were thin. His once strong jaw was covered in a dappling of grey beard, his large hands were wrinkled, dotted with black and red bruises and his eyes, beneath bushy brows of grey hair, were coloured dark yellow.
“Come,” Amos said, as he and the Bird Catcher walked ahead of the group. “We use three tunnels for okra,” he explained, “one for planting and cultivating, the second for growing the plants from seedlings, and the third for storage.”
Amos opened a small door which had been cut into the larger one. He stepped aside to allow Byron to step inside first. Ben and the colonel went next, followed by the colonel’s men and finally Amos.
Inside was a long tunneled plantation of leafy green and through its middle was a path, only two feet wide, with a single rail running along the ground in its centre. The tunnel was warm and humid, subtropical almost. Ben surmised the temperature was controlled by the lights running along its roof. They were larger than the ones in the tunnel they’d just walked through, looking like a series of bright glowing suns. Below them, on each side of the tunnel, halfway up the walls, was a lead pipe with a series of holes along it.
“That is the sprinkler system,” Byron informed him, as he ran his hand along the lead next to where he was standing.
Amos went up behind him and turned two black wheels consecutively. A spray of water rushed from the pipe and drenched the foliage instantly. He turned it off and Ben thanked him with an appreciative nod of the head. Amos stepped forward and picked one of the okra and handed it to Ben. It had the shape of a courgette, but it was more like a pea pod.
“You call them ladies fingers,” Byron said.
Ben nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard of that. I’ve never eaten it though.”
“You tasted our wine at the banquet last night.”
“Ah, yes, it was very good.”
Byron gave a half smile, before she turned to the colonel at her side. “As you know, we use everything and we recycle everything. Even the water used to moisten the soil is drained away and re-used.”
“Am I to assume you are also using our water?” The colonel’s tone was patronising. He acted as if he alone was responsible for London’s water supply.
She chewed the inside of her mouth as she considered her response, and then shook her head. “The plant is susceptible to saline conditions. Therefore we use the water from our own freshwater spring. We do utilise some of your water supply rather than using the water from the Thames, but it is mainly for washing etcetera. Your water is not very pure.”
Ben grinned. He enjoyed the way Byron always managed to use logic and a direct approach with the colonel, allowing him no room for debate. “So you use okra for what exactly?” Ben asked.
“Oh, stews and soups...as a vegetable...we pickle it and we preserve it, we dry it for our bread...okra oil extract... a healing ointment and of course as a fertiliser for our Forest of Birds, which holds the sacred trees.”
“Trees?” the colonel had already mentioned the forest, but Ben was still having a hard time comprehending it.
“I will take you to the forest later, but for now, shall we move on?”
They bypassed two tunnels and went to the next one. Once again, Amos opened a small door within a larger one.
As soon as Ben stepped inside, the smell of damp hit him. It was a decaying smell, woody and musty. The tunnel wasn’t as brightly lit as the okra tunnel, but it had a humid heat that was beginning to make Ben feel stifled and even a little light-headed. Down below, instead of lush and vibrant greenery as they had seen in the okra tunnel, damp, brown soil lay across the floor. It was flat in places and in others there were mounds covered with blankets of moss, all scattered with an array of various sized mushrooms in their thousands. Logs lay randomly about the tunnel and climbing weeds clung to the walls, tamed and clearly not allowed to run amok across the field of mushrooms. There was no rail track through this one, but there was a natural path running though the middle, made with footprints.
Ben was beginning to get a feel of what the people underground considered important. Not unlike the French, food was as essential to their life as breathing fresh air. And, unlike the English, who considered a good meal a special occasion, these people lived for each mouthful as if it were their last. It made sense to Ben. The fact they had survived for four hundred years below ground was testament to their resourcefulness and science. Ben couldn’t remember when he had been more impressed. Sous Llyndum was growing on him and the consequences of the opposition above getting involved there was making his stomach churn. Ben wondered if the British government knew exactly what they were dealing with. And more importantly, what was he going to do about it if they didn’t?
Chapter 55
Wren had secured a boat. She was now travelling along the canal, alone, on her way to Bedlam to recue Mark. It had not been easy. After her good-for-nothing brother had refused to help her, she had left his room and sneaked out of the palace without a moment’s hesitation. There was no time to waste. Not when Mark was locked in Bedlam in the company of another woman.
Each time she deliberated the consequences of her beloved being seduced by someone else, it made her want to cry. She couldn’t help it. He had bewitched her and if she lost him now, she would surely die of a broken heart.
Escaping the confines of the palace had been easy. There were no guards in Sous Llyndum until there was a threat to the city’s security. Her father had some stationed around the market place while they had visitors from upside, but they were out of uniform, so that the upsiders would not detect them.
Wren, however, already knew their identity, so it was easy enough to avoid them as she made her way towards the southwest entrance via the air tunnels behind the city’
s walls. This time, as she arrived at the landing where Cannes seemed to never leave, she crept out and worked her way along the walls towards the smuggler’s tunnel. Just inside was a smaller tunnel branching off it, with a narrow walkway, the width accommodating only one person.
Wren walked tentatively though the dark, oppressive tunnel, feeling her way along its walls in pitch blackness. She had never been there before so she was a little daunted, making her bosom rise and fall with each laboured breath.
Out the other side, she came to a narrow walkway running a few meters along a brick-lined wall where below, a channel of water began. A single light reflected on the rippling, churning surface, as if water was being poured into it, making it move and displace itself. The smell was off-putting. It was a putrid smell of urine. Wren took the hem of her dress and held it over her face as she stepped into a boat moored next to another one.
The boat was old and uncared for, but it seemed to function well, as she discovered when she began the process of firing it up. Soon steam was billowing from the funnels in its centre and, as Wren untied the rope leashing it to a metal ring embedded in the concrete walk-way, it took off, going upstream towards Bedlam.
As she travelled, with her head almost scraping the roof of the tunnel, she passed rats swimming in the water. Wren thought about what she would find when she finally got there. Would Mark still want her? Or would he now leave her for the woman called Croft? She just couldn’t bear to think about it.
Chapter 56
Charlie Croft, otherwise known as ICE, was, as usual, sitting at his computer in his flat, in a secret location which only his sister, Charlotte, and his closest internet buddy, Fischer55, knew about. Fischer55 was the guy who held all of Charlie’s files, and Charlie returned the favour. It was an essential safeguard, seeing how dangerous their occupations were. If ICE was Internet Control Enforcement, Fischer55, on the other hand, was something else entirely. If ICE provided a service to the public to serve and protect, Fischer’s business served something else entirely. But, the one thing they had in common was that they were internet illegal's, whose identities were kept secret for fear of arrest and prosecution and ultimately imprisonment.
Charlie had met Fischer on Ebay, albeit Fischer55 called himself Candy then. It had been just two years before, when they were both bidding for a collection of working retro spy equipment, being sold by yet another incognito. Charlie had been determined to secure it with a starting bid of two-hundred pounds. The pieces appealed to his taste in steam punk devices and he knew he could adapt the items well, adding to the security of his ever-growing, barricaded apartment.
Candy had jumped in with a bid of two-fifty.
When Charlie checked out Candy’s buyer status, his feedback was minimal, so Charlie watched the progress of his bids from afar over the course of the week without participating. Candy’s interaction with two other bidders was erratic to say the least and even though Charlie naively put it down to Candy not knowing his way around, in the back of his mind he couldn’t help thinking the guy knew exactly what he was doing.
It came to the final hour before closing. The top bid was Candy’s at twelve-hundred. The two other bidders had dropped out. Charlie went in with fifteen. There was a pause of twenty minutes. Charlie could almost hear the guy thinking out there in cyberspace. His location was listed as New York, but Charlie doubted he lived there.
He clicked refresh.
Candy had placed another bid. It was two-thou. Charlie looked at the clock on the wall above his screen. It was one of those big flat ones. Charlie liked it because of the decorative art across the clock face of wheels and cogs. He thought it was very steam punk-ish, but more importantly, its pulsating second hand gave him an accurate time. A further ten minutes had elapsed. He pressed enter. He’d already typed in the amount. It was two and half thousand, guaranteed to knock that Candy clown off the table.
Ten minutes later another bid came in.
Candy was slowing. This time it was just two thousand-six-hundred. Charlie had him beat. He tapped in two-seven. He was prepared to go to three thou. He doubted if the other guy could even afford it. It was three minutes before the end when Candy put in a new bid, two-eight. With just 45 seconds to go Charlie entered three thousand two hundred. It was his. The guy would never beat him now.
Charlie leaned back in his chair with a grin plastered all over his face. He propped his feet up on the desk, and placed his hands behind his head. He was already planning to finalise the transaction with the seller, when, one second before the end, Charlie refreshed the screen with one cocky finger before he placed his hand back behind his head.
His face dropped. Candy was in the lead with three-five.
Charlie pulled his feet from the desk and spun about in his chair. He typed with lightning speed, 'four-thousand pounds'. He pressed send and then did another screen refresh. Bidding had ended for this item. Winning bidder is Candy.
An instant message came through just as Charlie was swigging from his plastic water bottle, defeated. It was from Candy. Interesting race. I was just pissing about. The equipment is yours, if you still want it. Gimme ur address.C.
Charlie’s pride was hurt. He typed No 10, Timbuck-friggin-two. He banged the enter button with a violent stab of his forefinger.
The reply was almost instant. Okay, it’s on its way.
It turned out Candy was one of thousands of pseudonyms Fischer55 used on the internet. That was his bag. He bought and sold user names and passwords. He bought Ebay feedback like brokers bought stock. And Charlie later found out it was Fischer55 who had been the first to get wind of the value of dot coms when the commercialization of the internet first began in ‘95. He'd secured them all: Boots.com, londonstockexchange.com, nytimes.com, etc. and he sold them to their rightful owners for an undisclosed exorbitant fee.
It was that piece of information, as well as the fact that a large package arrived three days later at Charlie’s secret location, which persuaded Charlie Croft that Fischer was the man to know. And when he made a World Pay payment to Candy in the sum of £3,500, Fischer felt the same. From there on, an allegiance was made and the two renegades worked on several projects together that were beneficial and profitable to each.
As soon as the transaction for the retro spy equipment was completed, Fischer had confessed to knowing exactly who Charlie was when he went up against him in the auction. He knew Charlie’s address, Charlie’s date of birth and he knew Charlie was the brainchild behind Internet Control Enforcement. It was because of his ICE identity that Fischer wanted to hook up. He simply admired his work.
They had exchanged files about a year ago, after they’d helped each other out on several transactions. They were a team now, albeit one that was divided by an ocean. Fischer was American and he did indeed live in New York.
Now, Charlie was talking to Fischer by private message when he heard a knock on his door. He spun around in his chair, and through his camera device, saw two men in suits standing outside. Charlie tapped a message on the keyboard. Code red. Shit!
Chapter 57
The next two tunnels were fascinating. The first held bees.
Ben was the only one to enter, along with Amos. Byron remained outside with the colonel and his men, after Barnes claimed he had seen the bees before and had no desire to suffer the experience again. When Ben glimpsed a speck of a grin from Amos when he thought no one was looking, Ben asked him what had happened on the occasion of the colonel’s previous visit.
Amos took a solemn stance. Obviously he didn’t know if he could trust Ben. As far as he was concerned, along with all the people of Sous Llyndum, Ben Mason was as much a part of the Jellalabad as the rest of them. “Unfortunately, Colonel Barnes was stung and he had to be treated at the infirmary,” Amos said.
Ben gave a sober nod of the head, but underneath, the thought of Barnes being stung and losing his soldier-esque dignity, gave him an inordinate amount of satisfaction. As it did Amos, judging by his expressio
n.
Inside the bee tunnel, Ben was given a strange suit to wear. The top, which rested on his head, was like an upside-down metal platter and from it a length of netting fell to the floor with simple sleeves and fingers in which to insert one's hands and a clear square panel was at face level, in order to view. It reminded Ben of a surgeon’s gown, long to the ankles and secured with ties at the back, but he also pictured monks tending bee hives with enormous straw bonnets and veils. As the protective robe was secured at the back by a Llyn worker, Ben wondered why he was being robed in such a way. He wasn’t actually going in amongst the bees. Was he?
He, Amos and two Llyns stood in an ante space shrouded by thickly-gathered netting; discoloured and stained with patches of yellow, brown and lime green. Amos instructed him to follow and to make his way through the nets without causing too much of a break. In other words, he was expected to glide through, so that the curtains remained closed as much as possible. As he worked his way in, Ben noticed some dead bees clinging to the netting, almost as if they had attempted to escape, failed, and had become so entangled they starved to death. As Ben pushed his way in, the thought of his own life ending the same way wasn’t far from his mind.