by Heide Goody
“Oh. Then shall I…?”
“That’s it. Close the door. We need to address the problem of your low scores.”
“It’s been a tough week, Mr Mammon-Mammonson.”
“The progress data for your year seven English group is very alarming,” said the headteacher, flicking through her tablet.
“There are behaviour problems in the group,” said the teacher.
“Which would be remedied by better teaching. Pupils who are entertained do not misbehave.”
“I’m not sure it’s possible to make The Fountainhead entertaining.”
Xerxes slapped his heart as though shot. “Are you blaming your poor classroom management on Ayn Rand’s writing?”
The teacher struggled to find a meaningful response to the question.
“I’m only a supply teacher,” she said weakly. “I haven’t been given much of a chance.”
“Good teachers don’t need a run up,” said the headteacher.
“Now,” said Xerxes, “here’s the rub. Mrs Grey here” – he waved the knife at Vivian – “has informed us that it would be improper for us to cart your sorry ass off to the Dinh’r pits to face trial by combat.”
“Oh?” said the teacher.
“We can’t give you a final opportunity to redeem yourself, to attain personal glory for yourself or provide psychic nourishment for our holy mother’s intimate fauna and some entertainment for your betters. Apparently, it is ‘unauthorised.’”
“Right,” said the teacher who couldn’t see where this was going. Vivian could.
Xerxes put one hand on the doomed teacher’s shoulder and tightened his grip on the knife with the other.
“Isn’t she a spoilsport?” he said.
The teacher’s mouth was open to speak but she didn’t even get the chance to do that.
Rod rolled up the dollar note and slid it into the gap between the lock and the cage doorframe. He pulled the button from his jacket cuff, unspooled the thread and tucked it into the end of the rolled dollar.
“To a casual observer that would look like the actions of a crazy person,” said Morag cheerfully.
“Is this some sort of James Bond thing?” said Colin.
“Cordite-infused dollar,” said Rod. “Thread laced with black powder.”
“I thought you had the explosives in your sand timer thingy,” said Morag.
“The sand timer explosive is francium. Twenty-yard blast radius. Minimum. This will be much more controlled.” Rod gave the woman in the cage his most reassuring smile. “Nicoleta. I need you to move to the rear of the cage and crouch down. It’s going to be noisy.”
The young woman did as instructed, disappearing into the gloom at the back of the cage. Rod waved Morag and Colin back, lit the fuse and joined them some distance away. Five seconds later, the lock flared with sun-bright light and then popped with a harsh metallic toink!
Keeping his hands far from the superheated lock, Rod flung the door open. It caught the giant cow bell as it opened and sent the clapper rattling with a dull atonal sound. Nicoleta burst from the cage and slapped her hands to either side of the bell to silence it.
“No,” she said tremulously.
“What?” said Rod.
“They come,” she said.
“Eh?”
Morag slapped his arm and held up a finger to indicate he should listen. From the low arches near the arena floor, the sound of dripping water had been replaced with a rustling sound. Like leaves, albeit huge leaves, with steel piton feet and bigger mandibles than any insectoid on earth.
“That’s the dinner bell,” said Morag hoarsely.
“What?” said Colin.
“Let the games begin,” said Rod sourly. “Time to run.”
As Morag shoved Colin ahead of her, Rod grabbed Nicoleta’s hand and dragged her along the stone step and towards the tunnel by which they had entered.
The first Dinh’r – the first of dozens – squeezed spongily out of the burrow-like arches before the four humans were halfway round the arena.
“Spiders!” yelled Colin.
“We noticed!” yelled Morag in reply.
Rod did a double-take.
“You can let go of the broom!” he said to Nicoleta, wrested it from her grasp and hurled it down at the nearest critter, where it bounced off its cushiony thorax.
“We have to pay for broom ourselves,” said the cleaner.
“Aye, you need a better job,” said Rod.
“This better than the school,” said the cleaner, panic in her voice. “Cannot go back there. Teachers bad. Children even more bad.”
The Dinh’r rippled up the steps as their prey reached the exit tunnel. There was no door for Rod to pull shut behind them. He was the last through and turned on the nearest pursuers. He took aim. The pencil torch on the Glock barrel picked out a pair of intricate silver-pink eyes. The eyes swirled, loomed large. Rod felt his mind teetering on the lip of something, a pull against him like the torrent above a waterfall.
He turned his head aside and fired blindly. He hit something.
As he made to run, something wet and cold latched onto his gun hand. The creature had its maw wrapped around his gun, his hand, his whole forearm. Mandibles like crooked chisels came down upon his arm to strip flesh from the bone.
With no direct input from his brain, Rod’s finger pulled the trigger repeatedly. The creature bucked and shook as bullets tore through it and exploded from its soft body. The Dinh’r’s thrashing and Rod’s considerable desire to save both himself and his arm tore them apart. It was only while he was sprinting away that he realised that he had left his pistol inside the dying creature. He shook the mucosal slime from his hand.
“Still stinks of prawns,” he spat.
“Come on!” Morag shouted.
Torchlight blinded him and suddenly he was splashing through shallow puddles.
Morag was waiting for him. Somewhere ahead, Colin the engineer and Nicoleta the cleaner were making their escape. Morag spun a valve wheel on a nearby pipe. Water sprayed out from beneath the wheel.
Rod gave her a look.
“They might be afraid of water,” she said.
“Incy Wincy Spider?” he said.
Shapes tumbled and rustled in the dark behind them. They ran.
“I lost my gun and torch,” he said.
“That was careless,” she said.
Behind them, the tone of the spraying water changed as the Dinh’r pushed through it.
“Okay,” panted Morag. “Not afraid of water.”
“No, but…”
Rod found his keys and snapped the little hourglass key fob from its chain. He violently depressed the top to break the vacuum seal, paused, turned and threw it as far back towards the Dinh’r as possible.
“What was that?” said Morag.
“Two grams of francium. It can react explosively with air. But it really hates wa–”
The explosion was a bright flash and a low boom, loud enough to clear sinuses and make ears bleed. A wall of pressure nearly tumbled them from their feet and then, in the ringing silence as they helped one another onwards, the water surged around their ankles. Morag yelled.
Something huge and spongey bashed against Rod’s leg, a dead Dinh’r surfing the wave. They sprinted on through ever-deepening water.
In the bouncing light of Morag’s torch, Rod could see a door ahead. Colin stood on the other side, clearly poised to slam it shut and throw the bulkhead bolts. Morag was through first with Rod close behind.
Water was already pouring over the lip of the door as Colin closed it and span the locking wheel.
“What the hell happened?” shouted Colin.
“What?” said Morag, waggling a finger in her ear.
“Explosion ruptured the pipes,” said Rod. “I should think the water table’s going to rise with a vengeance now.”
As he said it, he noticed that water was pooling about their feet already. It wasn’t coming through the blast d
oor but from elsewhere. From conduits in side corridors? Rising through cracks in the concrete?
“I think we need to find an access ladder,” said Rod.
“I think we need to find a ladder, don’t you?” shouted Morag.
They tied her to a tree.
Nina had been tied to a tree before but that first time had been a lot more fun and there had been safe words and alcohol and a much lower chance of the night ending in savage murder. Right now, she was being kept alive by the children’s indecision.
“I think we should eat her,” said young Croesus for the third time.
“It’s pizza for tea tonight,” argued the army cadet girl.
“I’m not saying we eat all of her,” he replied.
“We should hold her for ransom,” said the army cadet boy, sitting on a fallen log and resting his chin on the muzzle of his rifle.
“And do a deal with the humans?” said pig-tailed Yang.
“They’d give us several grand for her,” said the boy.
“Human money,” said Yang. “No. We kill her and leave her body as a warning.”
Yang stepped towards Nina and licked her teeth.
“Who’s going to video it?” asked Nina.
Yang frowned at her, like she was some kind of worm: a worm that had learned to talk but a worm nonetheless.
Nina tried to shift her position. The movement made her head pound; the rifle butt had left her with a localised but astonishing pain in her temple. She didn’t know if she was bleeding. She hoped she was bleeding. What was the point of getting hurt if it didn’t leave a cool and colourful injury?
“Someone’s got to video it,” she said.
“Why?” said Yang.
“If you don’t video it, no one will know.”
“We’ll know.”
“And when people find the body,” added one of Yang’s cronies.
Nina laughed. “Not much of a marketing strategy, is it? Look, if it’s not online, it didn’t happen. Rule number one.”
“Like on Facebook?” said Croesus.
“Facebook? Sure, if you’re an ancient. Facebook’s for mums and dads and sad loners called Emily who post pictures of their dinner and who will one day be eaten by their own cats.”
“I don’t have Facebook,” said the army cadet girl.
“Who’s Emily?” said Croesus.
“A sad and lonely glun’u who tangled with the wrong bitch and will one day be eaten by her cats. Pay attention.”
The army cadet boy nodded sagely.
“We could put it on YouTube and get money from advertising.”
“There we go,” said Nina. “See? A man with an eye on the future.”
“Fine,” said Yang. “Prester, get out your phone. I’m going to do her.”
Nina was shaking her head.
“What?” demanded Yang.
“You can’t just do it,” said Nina critically. “You never heard of foreplay?” She looked at the pre-teen. “No, probably not. Um, if you’re going to do this then… Look, Prester hasn’t even started filming.”
“I’m just deleting stuff to make room,” said the army cadet boy, fiddling with his phone.
“You don’t just leap in,” said Nina. “You don’t give the viewer thirty seconds of footage that’s one hundred percent money-shot. Tease and reveal. Tease and reveal. Here, I’ve…” She struggled against the cords that tied her to the tree. “I’ve got this brilliant video I shot on my phone. It’s just a dog falling into a canal but it’s… well, you just have to see it.”
“I’m not untying you,” said Yang.
“Actually,” said Croesus, “I’d like to see the dog falling in the canal.”
“Oh, and I’ve got this amazing picture of a cute spider in a hat.”
“Spiders don’t have hats,” said Yang.
“Right, I’m ready,” said the army cadet boy.
“But we are going to watch the dog video, aren’t we?” said Croesus.
“We’ve got time,” said Nina.
“But it’s pizza tonight,” said the army cadet girl. “We need to go home.”
“We do this first,” insisted Yang.
“No,” said Vivian loudly, behind Nina and out of sight. “You are going to untie Miss Seth and, as your friend suggests, go home.”
Vivian entered the rough clearing, trampling brambles. She held out a twenty pound note between her hands. The army cadets already had their rifles raised and aimed.
“Who are you?” demanded Yang.
“My name is Mrs Grey. I work with Miss Seth. And you need to let her go.”
“You can’t tell us what to do,” said a girl.
Vivian’s expression was stony.
“I certainly can and I am. Now, luckily for you, I don’t yet know who you are. You can walk away from this.”
“They killed their teacher,” said Nina. “It’s her remains in the tunnels.”
“No, they didn’t. The teacher – several teachers probably – were killed by the head and the governors and other upstanding members of the community and,” she added with a stern look for the children, “they are in a lot of trouble.”
“But you lot don’t get to tell us what to do,” insisted the girl. “Not here.”
“Here?” said Vivian. “In Dickens Heath?” She looked up, down and around herself. “But we’re not in Dickens Heath. Your land is approximately twenty metres that way. This, here, is not your territory.”
“No, it is,” said Yang, but without conviction.
“Lines on a map, bitch,” said Nina.
The mood of the group had switched. Suddenly the idea of going home for pizza seemed more appealing.
“But who would know?” argued Yang. “We kill them and drag them over there.”
“That would be dishonest,” said Vivian. She stepped towards Yang, the twenty pound note held out before her.
“What?” sneered Yang. “You going to bribe me? With twenty measly quid?”
“No,” said Vivian and tore the banknote in two.
Yang reeled. A girl gasped. Prester nearly fell off his log.
“What…? What did you do that for?” said Yang.
Vivian had another banknote in her hand.
“You will untie Miss Seth and let her go.”
Yang stammered. “No one would… Why would you…?”
Vivian tore the second note in half.
“Stop it!” yelled Croesus.
“I’m going to be sick,” said the army cadet girl.
Mammonites worshipped money. Value was the sea they swam in. It was life to them. Vivian tearing up banknotes was the Mammonite equivalent of repeatedly punching a kitten in the face.
The army cadet boy fumbled with the cords that tied Nina.
“Thank you, Prester,” she said.
“Now go home,” said Vivian, another banknote in her hand.
The Mammonite children fled from the deranged woman. Nina brushed leaf mould and bark from her clothes.
“Are we actually outside Dickens Heath?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Vivian. “You owe me forty pounds.”
Nina scooped up the ripped notes.
“You can Sellotape them back together.”
“But I’m not going to.”
Vivian led the way out of the woods.
“You could have used fivers,” suggested Nina.
“You can’t tear the new five pound notes. They’re plastic.”
“You could try,” said Nina. “Anyway, you stopped me getting a muffin earlier. So that makes us even.”
“No, it doesn’t, Miss Seth,” said Vivian.
Nina sighed and took out her phone.
“Maybe a picture of a cute spider in a hat could change your mind.”
“No.”
“I bet Rod thinks it’s funny.”
“I think,” said Rod, quietly contemplative, “I will be happy if I never see another spider for as long as I live.”
Morag
heard him. He sounded like he was speaking from the bottom of a tin dustbin but her hearing was at least returning.
Nicoleta clung to the ladder, eight rungs above the rising flood. Morag, Rod and Colin stood shin-deep in water. While Colin spoke on the chunky, wall-mounted telephone, Morag swept her torch back and forth across the tunnel and Rod inspected the scratches the gun-swallowing Dinh’r had gouged in his arm.
“Access fourteen,” Colin said. “Yeah. It won’t open from the inside. Five minutes? Okay.”
He put the phone down.
“It’ll be about half an hour,” he said.
“Good,” said Rod. “I’m surprised the water is rising this fast.”
“If the Venislarn messed with local space-time down there,” said Morag, “who knows what reservoirs they accidentally tapped.”
“Let the wriggly bastards drown,” said Rod with feeling.
Morag looked at his wounded arm.
“You’ll have to go to the hospital with that.”
Rod groaned.
“At least you might accidentally bump into that cute doctor you fancy,” she said.
“What cute doctor?”
“You know the one.”
“I’m sure I don’t, thank you,” he said.
It wasn’t possible to see him blush in the dark. Morag didn’t need to.
An hour later, with the water approaching their knees, they heard the clunk of a manhole cover being shifted.
“Up, up, up,” said Rod, shooing the others toward the ladder and then rapidly bringing up the rear.
It was evening in the world above. Rod looked about. They had come up near Millennium Point, practically in the shadow of the old Curzon Street station building. A trio of police cars were parked nearby. Paramedics guided Nicoleta to an ambulance.
Rod clapped a hand on Colin’s shoulder.
“You did a right good job down there,” he said. “Above and beyond.”
“I won’t lie,” said Colin. “I think I’ll need a big drink and a long sit down.”
“Watch some Downton on catch-up.”
Colin gave him a wry look.
“Maybe so.”
Rod’s phone buzzed in his pocket as it reconnected with the world.
He shook out his wet trouser legs and looked at his one message, from Nina.
“Shall I come with you to the hospital?” asked Morag.