by Fiona Shaw
–For god’s sake! Swift slapped the poster so hard the sound echoed around the room. She hissed at him. –Take Davie and Jake, take the others, and come back for us. Cass and me, we’ll keep our rucksacks packed and ready.
Poacher shook his head. –No, Swiftie. We might need to move very fast. Won’t be time ter come back. We got more chance if we’re all together. Stronger that way.
–And this blond Surfer? Swift’s voice was high, stretched thin, like she didn’t believe what she was hearing from Poacher.
–We gotta trust him, cos we got no choice. How long d’you think we’re gonna last down here? How long before a couple o’ crazies gets wind of us, an’ that we’re kids, an’ marches in an’ takes everything we got, or worse? He shook his head again. –An’ don’t forget about Jet. A dog’s gotta be valuable down here too. Might eat it or keep it for company, either way we ain’t gonna be able ter stop ’em. I ain’t saying that out loud to anyone, but it’s what I got going on in my head …
Jake felt his stomach drop. Jet! He felt dizzy with rage. Poacher had forgotten he was sitting up there listening. Jet too …
–An’ if they take everything, we ain’t even got our knives ter defend ourselves, or kill ourselves a rat or an eel. Can’t get north. They ain’t Outwalkers down here. They’ll chuck us out of our den, and we’ll starve to death in one o’ them service tunnels an’ they’ll kick our bodies into that river. Crabs’ll pick our bones good and clean.
–Come on, Swift said, her voice softer, – not everybody’s out to get us.
–Don’t need everybody. Just need one. Now it was Poacher’s turn to pace. –I dunno who’s running the meet. Mebbe it’s a thing they do down here sometimes. Crazy party to make people remember they’re alive. I ain’t wantin’ ter put us in danger more’n we have to, but it’s our only chance. An’ if the blond Surfer is true ter his word an’ they guide us out, then we kin move on north again. Git Cass to a hospital, eh? He paused a moment. –Swiftie, he said, and now his voice was quiet and sad, but somehow it carried more force than all Swift’s shouting. –We ain’t got no choice.
Davie went up front with Poacher, calling the way. Tunnels, staircases, long long slopes; huge drops away down concrete shafts, ladders Jake had to lift Jet up. Crazy landscape, like something from an old film. Jake smelled burning, like the tang of burning rubber, and sometimes a stink like rotten eggs. And everywhere the black dirt, soft as velvet. And everywhere the warm, old air.
–Smells like rotten breath, Martha said.
Sometimes they heard shouts, sometimes other noises, violent noises. Jet huddled in close to Jake, his tail between his legs. –Hey, boy, Jake would whisper, and he’d put his hand to Jet’s head or pat his back.
–Lake of fire and sulphur, Davie said. –Beasts an’ false prophets an’ torment.
Ollie was muttering behind him, and once he leaned forward and whispered to Jake: –This crazy, or what?
Jake shrugged. How could he know? But he wished they had never come to London. Never come down into this horrible underworld.
They came to another dead station and walked the narrow trench between the rails.
–Gang territory, Davie called back, pointing to the platform, and Jake saw, now he was looking, mattresses stacked beneath the Eastbound sign and a pile of cans. –An’ where we’re walking, that’s the catch pit, Davie said. –Lucky they’re all at the meet.
Jake had no idea where they were, or how deep beneath the city. It seemed to him he’d been down here for months, not days. He longed for light, and clouds, and sun and the darkness of the night, not this underground darkness and the grey strip lights. His breakfast with Ollie behind the scaffolding had happened in a different universe. One with a sky and rain, and trees and buildings, and a north and a south. Poacher said they might get out of here soon, but what did he know? The black dirt was in Davie’s lungs and Jake was sure he could feel it in his own. They would die down here and no one would know and no one would care.
Once they walked through an empty room with a desk and an old-fashioned light. A sign on the wall said ‘Quiet Please’. Sometimes Jake saw things moving: a rat clambering over a mattress. Cockroaches scuttling. Once, he thought, a person, slipping away through a grating at the corner of his sight. They came down a short ladder into a long room lined so deep with boxes there was only room for one person at a time down the middle. Security Archives, Jake read on the sides. Numbered box after numbered box. When they reached the far end Jake could feel a pulse of sound, coming from below his feet.
Ollie nudged him. –D’you feel it? he said.
–Meet’s through there, Davie said.
He was pointing to a door with a sign on it:
Davie was handing out something blue, something flimsy and plastic, from a box next to the door. –Gotta put these on. Cover our tracks.
The gang followed Poacher through the door into a corridor, their blue feet rustling. The pulse was stronger here, nearly tipping over into sound. Wherever it was, it was very loud.
–Jeepers! Poacher stopped so suddenly the others nearly fell over him. He ran a finger along the wall. –It’s clean, he said.
But it wasn’t just ordinary clean. This corridor was clean like when Jake’s dad had cleaned the bathroom clean, and it was lit with proper lights like you saw in shops, with coloured shades. There were doors off the corridor and the PLEASE CHANGE SHOES OR APPLY PLASTIC COVERINGS signs on them looked new too. ‘Emergency Exit’, one said, and Jake could see a spiral staircase going upwards through the glass panel. On the floor were shiny blue tiles and there was a lemony smell in the air. There was no black dirt.
–Look, Davie called. –Full of richly things.
He was peering on tiptoes through a glass door pane. Jake looked through. It was a shop, shut up now because it was night time. Jake could see a stand of postcards, and rows and rows of model trains. There was a counter with boxes of pencils and gig sticks, and bouncy balls and sweets, and a lift to bring you down to it on the far side. ‘This way for the street’, a sign above it read. Another sign on the wall read: ‘MailRail Museum’.
–So where now? Poacher said, and Davie pointed to a final door. –That’s where it’s happening. Down there. Sodom an’ Gomorrah, ain’t it; and Jake saw Martha put her hand on Davie’s shoulder.
Through the door, another spiral staircase. Louder and louder the noise got with every step down, pulsing through the metal stairs, throbbing in their ears, until they reached another, smaller door. Swift held Cass tight in her arms. Jake wrapped Jet’s lead around his wrist. Davie was drumming on his thigh.
The sign on the door said ‘Engine Repairs’. Poacher looked back at the gang.
–Partner up. Martha an’ Davie, take this side. Jake, you and Jet go with me an’ we’ll take the far side. Swift, you got Cass too, so you an’ Ollie best stay here by the door. Check out newbies, check out who’s leavin’. Only reason we’re here is ter find the blond Surfer. Only reason, remember? He’s the one gonna git us out a these tunnels and north. So stay sharp, eyes peeled. He’ll have Surfer gear on, hoodie, trackie bottoms, white knee pads, an’ a ponytail. Right, Davie? Jake?
–Only Surfer with long hair, Davie said.
–Right. Cos we ain’t staying a minute longer than we have to, Poacher said. –If we gotta go, I’ll whistle, or Swift will. An’ if we ain’t signalled, then it’s half an hour an’ we leave anyway, out this door. Understood?
He pushed the door open.
Twenty-eight
The room was huge and crammed with people – a hundred, two hundred, more, Jake didn’t know, because he couldn’t see the end of it. He couldn’t believe so many people lived down here beneath the city.
The music was so loud now that it felt like being underwater, and he wanted to run out, or put his hands over his ears. He felt Jet’s growl, rather than heard it. Jet’s hackles were raised, and when Jake put a hand to his head to reassure, he felt him flinch. The sooner they were out
of here, the better.
The people were lowlifers, all of them, no mistaking it. Their clothes, their hair, the way they walked, half-stooped as if they were still crouched down, and most of all the colour of their skin: their hands were grimy, and their faces looked grey, like they hadn’t seen the sun in years, and everywhere he heard that cough, Davie’s cough, a dry, rasping sound. Some people were dancing, but most were standing in clumps. Some of them were smoking something and it hazed the air, a musty, sweet smell, mixed with the smell of sweat. Drifts of heat seemed to wash across and everyone was drinking from bottles of water and he wondered where they’d got them, and if that meant there was food somewhere too.
He followed Poacher to the far side of the room. The music was quieter over here, and he could nearly hear what people were saying. Further down he glimpsed a trestle table. That’s where the bottles of water came from: it was piled with them and people were grabbing them like they were in a desert, chugging them back, chucking the bottles in a dustbin. That was weird, because it sounded like you didn’t get anything for nothing down here, so someone must’ve paid for those and brought them in.
He was about to tap Poacher on the back when a group caught his eye. Surfers. He searched among them but he couldn’t see the blond ponytail.
How had they all ended up down here? A few looked ancient, but lots of them didn’t look much older than Poacher or Swift. Maybe they’d escaped from Home Academies too. They were passing round water and a little plastic bag, the kind of bag his mum used to put carrot sticks in for his pack-up. The bag was full of sweets, it looked like, and he watched each of the lowlifers take one and swallow it down with a glug of water.
–You want? A girl (she wasn’t much more than a girl) was offering him a sweet. She was wearing a long mac, the kind his dad wore to ride his bike in the rain, though it wasn’t going to rain in here. Jake didn’t know which gang she belonged to, but she had a soft voice and a kind smile.
–Go on, she said. –One for you, one for your very nice dog, and she handed him two of them, a blue one and a pink one, and a bottle of water. –Plenty more where these came from, little boy.
–Thanks.
Her fingers were black, her nails broken, and her eyes were like dark holes. –There’s a Surfer messiah down here, she said. –Gifts galore.
–Yeah? Jake said. –What’s he look like? Is he here?
But she went on talking like she hadn’t heard him. –I heard he’s got a golden halo an’ everything. An’ brought us manna from heaven, enough for every tribe. See everybody? And she swept her arm around to include the whole room. –So eat it, sweetie. Babes in these deep dark woods don’t turn down treats when they’re offered.
Her voice was all drifty-dreamy against the noise, soft on his ears. And he didn’t know what manna was, but he had the sweet on his tongue, and it tasted bitter, not nice at all, when a hard grip on his arm pulled him sideways and a voice hissed in his ear:
–Spit it out.
Poacher tugged him away, pinching his ear. A sign above his head said: ‘Rules Before Operating Heavy Machinery’ and another said: ‘No Smoking’. Then Jake felt Poacher’s fingers in his mouth, feeling for the bitter sweet, and he threw it on the floor, a blue blob in blue spittle.
–Rinse yer mouth and spit, Poacher said, handing him a bottle of water. And when Jake had finished, he shook him by the shoulders. –These are drugs, Jake, he hissed. –Mandy. They ain’t sweets. They just give ’em to you?
–And Jet. Gave me one for Jet as well. Poacher put his hand out and Jake handed him the pink pill. His hands were shaking. He felt like he did after nearly slipping on a climb.
Poacher dropped the pill on the floor and stamped on it till it was powder. –They’re dangerous fer kids. Proper dangerous. Kill dogs, probs.
–It’s the blond Surfer handing them out, Jake said. –I’m sure of it. The girl called him a messiah.
–Are you sure? Did you see him?
Jake shook his head.
–Mandy for free, Poacher said. –No wonder they think he’s like a god. An’ the bottles o’ water? Who’s payin’ fer that? He shook his head. –I don’t believe he’s gonna help us. This whole thing stinks. The meet, everythin’. He dropped his head, scratched his dreads, and when he looked up, he looked scared. –Swift was right. We shouldn’t a’ come here. Somethin’s gonna happen. Something not good. An’ if you’re right an’ the blond Surfer’s handing out the mandy, then he’s a part of it. We gotta get out. And he gave a sharp whistle.
Poacher moved fast, fast as Swift, and it was hard to follow him. He was soon out of sight. Keeping his eye on the far door, and ducking and diving between the crowds Jake stumbled behind, keeping Jet tight to his legs. His rucksack bumped against his back and sweat trickled down. He’d have killed for another drink of water, but there wasn’t time to stop.
More people were dancing now, tying clothes around their waists in the heat of the room, and the lights had gone down. The music seemed mellower too, more like a band off one of his mum’s old CDs. Maybe Poacher was wrong. Maybe this was OK, all of this, and it was Poacher being crazy, not everybody else. It all looked chilled to him, even Poacher, loping ahead, and if there was free water and free mandy, he’d bet there was food too somewhere. Gangs with different kinds of clothes were all dancing together, in pairs, in little groups, all mixed up together and their territories forgotten, like in a dream. Like the soldiers in the old war that his teacher told about who got out of their ditches because it was Christmas, both sides, and played a game of footie.
The scream stopped him in his tracks. A girl’s scream, sharp, and then gone. A girl’s scream, not an adult’s.
He looked back, and between the swaying dancers he saw her: a flash of black hair, a wild glare. A tall man had her in an arm lock, his hand a bar across her mouth, and she was fighting him, twisting and turning, but he had her tight. Jake shouldered his way closer. Now he could see the man clearly. Now he could see the lightning zigzag on his hoodie and the blond ponytail that whipped across his back as the girl struggled.
–The blond Surfer, Jake murmured.
The Surfer was saying something to the girl, tight-lipped, and the girl was shaking her head. Jake couldn’t fully see the girl’s face, but he could see enough to know she was no adult. Older than him maybe, but younger than Swift and Martha. And he could see that she didn’t stand a chance against the Surfer.
Twisting her head free, the girl yelled out, –Let me go! Help! Gaz! Checker! He’s going to hurt you!
She was dressed in Catchpit gear – black denims, black jacket scratted with tinfoil and plastic and crisp packet colours – and there were some Catchpitters right there, but their eyes were big as saucers and they watched it all like they were on a different planet. Whichever ones were Gaz and Checker, they didn’t make a move to help her.
–Let go of me, the girl yelled. –I’ve seen your plan. I know what you’re going to do. You won’t get away with it! Gaz! Help!
But the Catchpitters turned away, shaking their heads, and the blond Surfer got his arm clamped down and silenced her again. Jake was close to them now, close enough to hear what the Surfer was whispering to her.
–Now now, little girl. Your friends don’t want to know. You don’t matter to them, not when they’ve got free treats. But your mother’s been very very upset … she’s had us searching all over London, such a waste of our time, far more important things to be doing, so we ought to get you back to where you belong … The Surfer was grinning, a wide smile full of shiny white teeth … –but then again, if you’ve seen things, then we don’t want you telling anybody else what’s going on down here, do we? Might ruin future plans too. So maybe we’ll lock you up somewhere comfy for a little while. I think your mother would approve, as long as she thinks you’re safe. Then he reached into his pocket and fished out a plastic bag full of mandy and shook them onto the ground. –Be happy, he said, and where nobody would help the girl, now there was a
mob pushing and shoving to get the mandy: Catchpitters, Friners and others Jake didn’t recognize, scrabbling for the pinks and blues and reds.
Jake stared. This was the Surfers’ leader, the man who’d said he’d get them out. They’d paid him for it with the last of their food. He’d promised them. But he was hurting this girl, wrenching her arm round, twisting it behind her. He was holding her prisoner. Anger boiled through Jake. The blond Surfer was a big man and Jake knew he didn’t stand a chance. Besides which, he had Jet, and he didn’t dare let go of his lead.
–Poacher! he yelled. He looked around. Where was he? –Poacher! he yelled again.
Slowly the blond Surfer turned towards him. He had a hard look on his face, like a question and an accusation all at once. Their eyes met, and Jake saw recognition flash across the Surfer’s face. Still holding the girl, he’d taken one step towards Jake when Poacher came from nowhere.
Poacher saw it all in a flash. He gave one sharp wolf whistle, then folded his fingers into a fist and crunched the blond Surfer straight in the face. Jake felt the blow, heard it, almost as if Poacher had hit him instead. The Surfer had let go of the girl and was on the floor, hands to his face. No way he was going to lead them out of the tunnels now. Because whatever he’d been threatening the girl with, he was their only chance to get out of here, wasn’t he? And Poacher had made him mad.
Jake’s heart was thudding in his chest. Now what?
–Get her out, Jake! Poacher shouted, because the Surfer was back on his feet fast, hands to his face, blood pouring from his nose.
–You frigging lowlife illegal, he roared, making a grab at Poacher.
The girl just stood there, paralysed. Jake got her by the wrist and pulled her.
–Come on! he shouted.
He didn’t look back, just ran, gripping her wrist and Jet’s lead. This time the crowds seemed to part for them, boy and girl and dog, and they got to the door in no time. The gang was all there, and seconds later Poacher too, his face and hands covered in blood.