The Young City: The Unwritten Books

by James Bow

  Edmund paled. He wagged his head desperately. “Mr. Birge, I assure you, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  Aldous shrugged. “Perhaps if we spoke with your sister we could be more assured of your loyalty.”

  Edmund looked ready to faint. “No! Do not harm Faith! Please, Mr. Birge!”

  Peter grunted, agreeing with Edmund.

  “We will not harm your sister, Edmund,” said Aldous. “But perhaps she will be interested in hearing the benefits of our business relationship. You can explain, can’t you, Edmund?”

  “Mr. Birge, please —”

  “Bring her in, boys,” said Aldous. Some of Aldous’s thugs turned and strode out the door.

  “And have Edmund wait comfortably in my office,” Aldous went on. “Make sure he waits.”

  Two henchmen gripped Edmund’s shoulders. Edmund gave Peter one more wide-eyed glance before he was pulled from the room.

  Aldous leaned into Peter’s vision again. “I’m sure we can clear this up,” he said. “I’ll know better what to do when you tell me who you work for and how much you know. I’m sure you’re interested in talking to me, just as I’m sure you’re interested in rising from this chair.”

  He reached for Peter’s gag, then hesitated. “But I am interested in the complete and unvarnished truth, and I think you might be more forthcoming with that truth after you’ve had some time to think over your predicament.” He stood up. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  Peter grunted in alarm.

  Aldous turned away, waving for his remaining men to follow. “Good night, Mr. McAllister.”

  Peter thrust against his bonds, grunting as the cuffs and ropes pinched. Will Farley, the last to leave, smiled and blew out the lantern. The door clicked shut and was bolted, leaving Peter alone in the dark.

  CHAPTER NINE

  RUN SILENT, RUN DEEP

  Rosemary sat on the basement stairs. Enough light seeped in from under the door for her to barely make out the walls and floor around her, but the stairs vanished into a sea of darkness. She could have fetched the candle, she supposed, fumbling around in the dark for it, but without a match it was useless. She sat with her chin in her hands and sighed.

  Then she perked up. How had Edmund delivered those crates unnoticed? Perhaps there were other stairs leading out of the basement. That would be worth fumbling around in the dark for.

  Then she heard footsteps in the kitchen, and she abandoned the plan, leaping to her feet. Was this Edmund, coming back? “Edmund! Open this door!”

  The footsteps halted.

  “Edmund, please,” said Rosemary, putting as much meek into her voice as it would hold. “Let me out! I’m just a helpless female and I promise I won’t do anything to you.” Under her breath she added, “Like kick you in a sensitive place!”

  No response.

  She thumped the door. “Edmund!”

  The door swept open, knocking Rosemary back against the wall. She gathered herself for a leap, then stopped when she found herself staring up at Faith, who stood wide-eyed in astonishment.

  Rosemary flashed a smile. “Hi, Faith!”

  Faith pulled Rosemary into the kitchen. “Rosemary, what is going on? Did Edmund lock you in the basement?”

  Rosemary hesitated. What could she say to Faith? Your brother’s hooked up with a local criminal and he locked me away when he realized I’d found out? But her silence told almost as much.

  Faith gaped. “Why did he ... Why would he ... Why?” Her face darkened. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Then why did he lock you in the basement?”

  Rosemary brushed herself off. “I’m not sure I can tell you.”

  Faith grabbed her arm. “Tell me!”

  Rosemary shook her off. “Edmund’s fallen in with bad people! I found out, and he locked me in there until he could figure out a way to get me out of the house. There, satisfied?”

  Faith stared. Then her eyes glazed. “The bolt of fabric.” She turned away, her fingers twitching. Then she drew herself up and strode toward the hall door. Rosemary followed. “Faith?”

  Faith pushed open the door to Edmund’s bedroom and staggered at the sight of the mess. She shoved boxes aside and waded to Edmund’s desk.

  “It’s locked,” said Rosemary.

  Faith pulled a set of keys from a pocket in her skirt. Selecting the right one, she slid it in the lock. It clicked. Faith pulled the drawer open and hauled out the leather-bound ledger. She flipped through it. Rosemary stood at the door, biting her lip.

  Faith stopped and stared. She flipped between pages and stared again. “Rosemary, I am no businessman, but is not red ink bad?”

  Rosemary nodded. “I’m sorry, Faith.”

  “He was losing ten dollars a month!” Faith stared at the ledger in shock. “Taxes were due, licence fees ....” She blinked. “But then he found fifty dollars.”

  Rosemary snatched the ledger. Her practised eye skipped down the line of numbers. “Found, nothing. He’s been receiving ten dollars at the end of each week. It doesn’t say from where; just like the first fifty dollars, which conveniently paid off creditors, taxes, and the licence fee.”

  Faith drooped. “Oh, Edmund, how could you?”

  Rosemary touched Faith’s shoulder. Then she paused.

  “Where is Edmund, anyway?”

  Faith frowned. “He was not here when I arrived ...

  Wait ... It is half past eight. Where is Peter?”

  The colour drained from Rosemary’s cheeks. She set the ledger down with a thump. “Peter?” She strode into the hallway. “He should have been here an hour ago!”

  Faith grabbed her elbow. “What’s that noise?”

  They listened. A soft rattle of metal and wood came to their ears from the front of the store. The bell above the door tinkled softly.

  “Edmund?” Faith started toward the store, but Rosemary grabbed her and pulled her back. They stood, watching and listening.

  The store was full of shadows. The street light glared across the empty sidewalk and through the shop window. Two hunched figures showed outside the doorway. The handle twisted and the door shook.

  “We are being robbed!” gasped Faith.

  “No,” said Rosemary, her face grim. “We’re being kidnapped!” She grabbed Faith’s wrist. “Come on! Out the back door!”

  They walked quickly but quietly down the hallway and were halfway to the kitchen when they heard the door jangle and hard soles hit the storeroom floor.

  “She’s not here,” said a gruff voice.

  “’Course not,” said another. “Check the kitchen. Check the bedroom.” He gave a throaty chuckle. “Perhaps we’ll surprise her in bed.”

  Rosemary pulled at Faith, who had frozen in indignation, and dragged her into the kitchen. She reached for the back door, but stopped when she saw the handle jiggle and turn. She turned to Faith and mouthed, “Did you lock the door?”

  Wide-eyed, Faith shook her head.

  Rosemary pointed at the stairs. Together they dashed, Rosemary heading for the basement, Faith for the sanctuary of her bedroom. Rosemary just managed to grab Faith’s wrist and pull her to the basement landing when the back door opened.

  A burly man strode in, turned, and saw Faith, framed in the landing doorway. “Faith Watson? A friend of Edmund wants to see you.”

  Hidden in the shadows, Rosemary gave Faith one last pull. The woman stumbled down the basement steps.

  The burly man strode onto the landing and stared into the sea of darkness. He sucked his teeth. “Damn. Of all the places to hide.”

  “What’s wrong?” said one of the voices from the front of the store. “That’s where we were going to take her.”

  The first henchman stood out as a silhouette. He reached out and pulled the voice into view. Just the shadow of a head was visible. “Look down there. Did you remember to bring the lanterns?”

  “I didn’t. Smith did.”

  The silhouette
flinched. “Smith? On the boat? You idiot!”

  “What?” said the head shadow.

  The silhouette’s voice took on a lecturing tone. “Smith’s on the boat. Lanterns are on the boat. We’re up here. That,” he thrust a finger at the dark basement, “is between us. You see the problem?”

  The head shadow stared. “Oh. Right. Damn!”

  “Get their lanterns,” said the silhouette. “Or find their candles. Get me some light!”

  There was a shuffle of feet and canisters. Something dropped and shattered. In the darkness, Faith let out a squeak.

  Then someone let out a triumphant shout. “Candles! Found them!”

  A match struck. Yellow light flickered. A candle appeared in the silhouette’s hand. No longer a silhouette, he took two steps, stopped, and stared down at Rosemary, who had pressed herself against the stairs, looking up at him. Before he could shout, she lunged for his ankles.

  The man fell back, knocking the other henchmen into the kitchen. The candle slipped from his fingers, through the slats of the stairs, and onto a crate. Faith snatched it up. Rosemary scrambled up over the man’s body, her knee smashing his chin, and slammed the basement door closed before the others could rush. She leaned on it as they shook the handle and thumped.

  She saw Faith standing at the foot of the stairs, holding the candle and staring. The first man sprawled between them, unconscious.

  “Faith,” she whispered. “Come on! Pull him up!”

  Faith clambered up the stairs, passed the candle to Rosemary, and dragged the unconscious man the remaining feet to the landing. With Rosemary’s help, they propped him against the door and braced his feet on the opposite wall.

  Faith stepped back. “’Tis a very temporary solution.”

  “’Tis indeed,” muttered Rosemary. “Is there any other way out of this basement?”

  “No,” gasped Faith.

  Rosemary started. “Then how did they deliver all of those crates?” She slapped her forehead. “Of course! The boat!” She grabbed Faith’s hand. “Come on!”

  “Where are we going?” Faith clattered down the stairs after her.

  “The other way out.” Rosemary raised the candle and peered through the gloom until she spotted the boom and tackle in the corner.

  Faith stared at the row upon row of crates. Her shoulders sagged. “Oh, Edmund!”

  They stumbled through the aisles to the corner. Suddenly, their boot soles met hollow wood instead of foundation stone. Rosemary stepped back and shone the candlelight on a huge trap door lying beneath the boom and tackle. There was a smaller trap door within it, big enough for a person to fit through. Rosemary pulled the latch. Cool, moist air struck her face with the sound of running water. Stairs descended into the dark.

  Suddenly, a voice called out. “Hey! Did you get her?” A light shone up and swept over Rosemary’s knees.

  Rosemary didn’t drop the hatch. Instead, she blew out her candle and dropped her voice an octave. “Yeah. Come up here. We need help.”

  The man below chuckled. “Didn’t come quietly, did she? Had to tie her up, did you?”

  “Yeah,” said Rosemary. “She’s heavy.”

  “I’m coming up.” There was a splash, then the sound of boots on wood. The lantern light shook as the boatman mounted the steps. He pushed the hatch aside and stared at Faith and Rosemary staring back at him. “You’re not tied up. Where are the oth—”

  Rosemary kicked him hard between the legs, doubling him over. Her next kick cracked his nose and he clutched at it. Her third kick struck his shoulder, sending him sprawling. There was a clatter of man on wood, followed by a splash.

  “Rosemary!” gasped Faith, shocked. But her eyes gleamed in admiration.

  The basement door burst open. The henchmen piled down the steps, candles held high.

  Rosemary shoved Faith to the steps. They clambered down, and found themselves inside a long, square tunnel of running water. At the base of the steps was a wooden jetty, bobbing in the stream, and beside it a large flatbed boat, four feet wide and four times as long, bucking against the current. Two lanterns shone, one at the bow and one at the stern. They made the slick brick walls gleam as if molten. The air sopped their skin and smelled like all the alleyways in Toronto concentrated into a single drop, then multiplied.

  The boatman lay unconscious, half in the stream. Above, voices and clattering crates approached the hatchway. Rosemary shoved Faith toward the boat. “In! Now!”

  “What are you doing —”

  “Don’t argue! Go!” Rosemary pulled the rope from its hook and jumped onto the boat as it started to slide away. Faith gripped the sides, but it held steady under Rosemary’s feet. There were poles on the bottom of the boat. Rosemary picked one up and pushed away from the wall, sending the boat toward the stronger middle current.

  Then she looked up and quailed. The hatch was directly above her. One of the thugs stared down, a gun in his hand. He aimed.

  “Down!” She dove on top of Faith, shielding her and making them both as small a target as possible.

  The gunshot sent splinters flying. The tunnel rang like the inside of a drum.

  Then the boat found the current and gathered speed downstream, leaving the jetty far behind.

  For a long while, Faith and Rosemary lay huddled in the bottom of the boat, gasping. Finally, Faith pushed Rosemary aside and sat up. Rosemary checked herself for holes. She didn’t find any.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Faith.

  Faith nodded, her cheeks pale in the lantern light. “Where are we?”

  “Storm sewer,” Rosemary replied.

  They were in the centre of the stream. The wet walls curved above them, the brickwork sweeping past like picket fences by a highway.

  Faith tried to gather her breath, with little success. “What ...,” she breathed, then started again. “Who ...,” another breath. “I cannot stop shaking.”

  Rosemary squeezed her shoulder. “I know.” Her own throat was dry.

  “What — what do we do now?”

  Rosemary sat and stared at the passing brickwork. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “Get out of here. Find Peter and Edmund. I don’t know where to start.” Then her eyes focused. Ahead of them, the curved brick wall angled into what had previously been open tunnel. She shot a glance to her right. The distance between starboard and brick wall narrowed steadily. She stood up. “Steering! That’s where we start!”

  “What?” gasped Faith.

  “Pass me that pole!” Rosemary snapped her fingers.

  Then Faith saw the approaching bend and she looked around frantically. She found the pole lying on the bottom of the boat and picked it up. It was eight feet long and hard to handle, but Rosemary gripped it and dipped it into the water. The brick floor almost snatched it from her hands.

  “I can’t slow us down,” she shouted over the rushing water. “Faith! Does this boat have a rudder?”

  Faith turned. Stretching on her stomach, she reached for a twisting plank of wood resting beneath the back lantern. “Yes!”

  “Turn it!” Rosemary’s voice rose with anxiety.

  Faith turned it. The boat lurched to the right.

  “The other way!” Rosemary shrieked. Her words echoed throughout the tunnel.

  Faith twisted the rudder, but it was too late. Rosemary threw herself to the wooden bottom as the boat smashed up against the wall, the starboard side rising as it scraped against the brickwork. Faith screamed. The boat slowed. Rosemary twisted her staff and planted the end of it against the wall. She pushed.

  The boat eased back out into the stream.

  Rosemary sat up and planted the pole in the bottom of the stream. It caught. At this speed, she was able to hold on, and the boat slowed, then stopped. She eased up and the boat started forward, until she planted the pole again. This way, she was able to keep the boat moving forward at a leisurely pace.

  “Keep manning the rudder,” she said, her voice steady. Her chest he
aved.

  “Yes,” said Faith. She looked ahead. The boat floated forward in the murk.

  Then Faith stirred. She looked down. She stood up. “Rosemary ... My skirts are wet.”

  “Huh?” Rosemary looked back, then down. Water sloshed over the bottom of the boat, edging up the sides. “We’re sinking.”

  “What?” Faith’s cry echoed through the sewer. “How?”

  “The gunshot must have blown a hole in the boat,” said Rosemary. “Running into the wall didn’t help, either.”

  “I do not care how it happened,” yelled Faith. “What are we going to do?”

  “Hold us steady.” Rosemary passed over the pole. Faith planted it in the water and held on for dear life. Rosemary clambered over the deck, searching, until she found an upwelling in the brackish water lining the bottom of the boat. She pressed her hand to it and felt a jagged hole in the wood. She cursed as her palm caught splinters. The viscous water seeped through her fingers.

  “Rosemary, hurry!” Faith cried. “I cannot swim!”

  “I’m trying!” Rosemary shouted. She looked around for something to stuff into the hole. Nothing could be seen. She pulled at the hem of her dress.

  Then the boat vanished beneath them. Faith screamed and fell back. Rosemary gasped. The water swept over their legs. Crouched on all fours, Rosemary stared as the water rose to her elbows. Then the boat met the bottom with a crunch, and the water stopped rising. The lanterns dangled inches from the surface of the stream.

  For a long moment, the only sound was the water lapping over their arms and legs. Finally, Rosemary got to her feet. “So, you can’t swim. Can you stand up?”

  “Do not mock me!” said Faith, bitterly.

  “Sorry.” Rosemary waded over and helped Faith to her feet. “Oh God, look at us.” Their dresses were black, sagging from their shoulders. The weight of the sodden material made them stoop. “I’m afraid I ruined your nice new dress.”