“I never thought I would see the Under like this,” said Carter, as they waded along another dark corridor. He sounded almost melancholy. “One of the unseen architectural wonders of the world, as important as the pyramids at Giza or the lighthouse at Alexandria.”
“A rat’s nest is a rat’s nest, whatever you call it,” said Lucy.
“Can art only be made by good men then, Miss Lambert?”
Lucy shrugged. “I don’t know about that, but I know that dungeons and torture chambers aren’t on my list of great achievements.”
They fell into silence again. With every weary step the flood water dragged at their legs and sucked the warmth from their blood. And they still had such a long journey to make.
They had decided to return to Mr. Smutts’s. Since the Legion had already searched there and found no sign of the Watchers – thanks to Hans – it made sense that the Legion wouldn’t think of looking there again. That meant that they had to trek from one side of London to the other, all the way back to Old Gravel Lane. It was miles.
They trudged onwards, each lost in their own thoughts.
“You know that the Legion will have doubled the guards on the detention camp now,” said Nathaniel. “I don’t see us being able to break in a second time.”
“We might not have to,” said Lucy. “Just as your tunnel broke the surface, Mickelwhite was gathering victims to take part in a ‘circus’, whatever that means. Mr. Moon broke the captain’s nose and Ghost was caught trying to escape – you can bet your life that Mickelwhite will want to punish them for that.”
“A circus?” said Ben. “What’s that all about?”
“History holds all the answers, Ben,” said Carter. “Do you know how the Roman Emperors held on to their power?”
Ben shook his head.
“With bread and circuses.”
“I don’t understand,” said Nathaniel.
“Free bread and free beer,” Carter explained, “so the masses had something in their bellies, combined with gruesome spectacles to keep them entertained.”
“Gladiators versus lions?” Ben gasped.
“Something like that.”
“Wherever they are, we need them and we’re going to find them,” said Ben.
Carter drew in a breath as if to say something and then thought better of it. Instead they all kept their thoughts to themselves and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
A day, a lifetime, later, Carter brought them to a halt beneath a manhole cover. The professor climbed up the iron ladder and cautiously lifted the heavy lid. The storm-laden sky was dark and Old Gravel Lane was eerily quiet. The curfew bell had rung and the street was deserted. Motioning for the others to follow, Carter hauled himself out onto the cobbles, his eyes constantly searching for danger.
Ben knew that they had to get under cover before they could breathe again, but as he lifted his face to the rain he found an unexpected grin forming on his lips. He nudged his brother in the ribs affectionately.
“We’re home,” Ben whispered. There was the Jolly Tar, the pub where he used to go and buy books from Jago Moon before it all began. There was the spire of St Peter’s, stretching up into the stormbound sky…
There were faces looking at them from behind filthy windows.
“Quick!” said Ben, the smile gone. “The Smutts’s place is just up here.”
Hugging the shadows, the Watchers followed Ben. Just a little further…
Ben’s hopes came crashing down. They had arrived at Mr. Smutts’s house but there was no refuge to be had here. The windows were all broken. The door had been smashed off its hinges. A message had been scrawled along the wall in blood-red paint – Watchers beware!
Ben staggered to a halt, uncertain of which way to turn. His heart ached in his chest; after all the kindness that family had shown him…
An image of them flashed through Ben’s mind – filthy and miserable inside the detention camp. With difficulty, he shook the thought from his head. They had to keep moving; make it to safety; make it to Revolution Day.
“What shall we do, Ben?” Lucy hissed.
“I don’t know,” said Ben. “But we can’t stand here—”
“Psst!” called a voice from the gloom. There was something familiar in its bronchial wheeze that gave Ben hope. He turned. Standing in a doorway, beckoning with a tobacco-stained hand, was a shabby, unshaven man.
“This way, hurry,” said the man in a rich Polish accent. He smiled, displaying an uneven row of brown stumps.
“Mr. Wachowski!” Ben exclaimed, greeting the old man who had lived in the basement back in the day when the Kingdom family had rented Mrs. McLennon’s freezing attic room on this very street.
The man bustled them in through the doorway, which, like his teeth, had presumably once been white and shiny. “I have new lodgings, yes,” Mr. Wachowski exclaimed. “Mrs. McLennon turned me out on the street.”
“I know the feeling,” said Ben, standing shivering in the man’s corridor.
“I never knew why,” Mr. Wachowski continued, then paused to dredge phlegm up from his rattling chest and spit it roughly in the direction of a rusting spittoon.
“A complete mystery,” muttered Carter, following them inside and closing the door behind him.
Mr. Wachowski drew the bolts across the door and then led them into his room. It was tiny, filthy and cold. A meagre fire struggled in the grate. A single chair that clearly doubled as a bed sat in the corner, its horsehair stuffing spilling from a dozen tears. Mr. Wachowski drew the flimsy rags that counted as curtains across the window, and pushed his chamber pot out of sight under a stained table. The contents slopped alarmingly.
“Make yourself at home,” said Mr. Wachowski. “So, you’re famous now, Ben Kingdom. Lucky I found you, eh?” He paused to hawk up another mouthful of mucus. “Everyone in London knows your name and, to think, I knew you when you were this high.” The old man’s eyes glowed warmly. “Sit,” he said. “Rest, please.”
Ben didn’t need to be asked twice.
The floor suddenly seemed to be as comfortable as a feather bed, and as he flopped down, Ben felt the arms of sleep wrapping around him. In the moment before his eyes shut, he saw Lucy and Nathaniel were already asleep, and even Carter was nodding. The incredible exertions of the day had caught up with them. They couldn’t have stayed awake at that moment even if they’d wanted to.
Home sweet home, thought Ben, as St Peter’s chimed eleven o’clock.
Mr. Wachowski looked down on Ben affectionately as he slept.
The old man shuffled around the room, quietly checking on his sleeping guests. He found a moth-eaten blanket and laid it carefully over Ben and Lucy, who were leaning against each other.
“You have a nice long rest, Ben Kingdom,” Mr. Wachowski muttered. Then he left the room as quietly as he was able, pausing only to lock the door behind him. Regardless of the rain that was rattling down from the sky, regardless of the curfew, Mr. Wachowski walked along the corridor to the front door and stepped out into the night.
“This is my lucky day,” he chuckled.
Ben and Lucy were in a universe of their own.
At some point, someone – Mr. Wachowski, Ben guessed – had covered them both with a blanket. The room, like almost every room Ben had ever slept in, was cold and damp and so Ben had drawn the blanket right up until it was covering their heads. Inside that tent, their breath made the air feel warm, almost cosy. Although he was more tired than ever, Ben woke after a short while and lay there happily, comforted by the sound of Lucy breathing and the knowledge that Carter and Nathaniel were both near.
“Are you awake, Lucy?” Ben whispered.
Lucy gave a low groan.
“I was scared back there in the tunnel, Lucy, when…you know… Anyway, I just wanted to say that…I’m glad you made it. That doesn’t sound right. I mean, obviously I’m glad you’re alive and not… What I mean is, I don’t think that I could do this without you, L
ucy… I… Are you hearing any of this?”
Lucy moaned again, louder this time, and started to toss her head from side to side.
“Lucy,” said Ben, putting his hand to her forehead and finding it clammy with perspiration. Her eye was fluttering madly beneath its closed lid, and another tragic note escaped her lips. “Hey,” said Ben, stroking her hair. “You’re alright, Lucy, it’s just a bad dream.”
Lucy woke then, her expression full of panic as she looked around wildly, only relaxing when she saw Ben.
“It’s always the same,” she said softly, trying to get her breathing back under control. “My nightmare never changes.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
Lucy looked uncertain, as if this was too much to ask.
“I’m here if you need me, Lucy. You’ve shown me what it means to be a Watcher. I’m only the Hand because you believed in me.”
“And Mother Shepherd, and Mr. Moon and Josiah.”
“Yes, and them, but mostly you. I think we’re sort of the same, you and me.”
Lucy gave a dismissive snort through her nose. It was a sad sound, Ben thought.
“Have I upset you, Lucy?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just everybody says what a good Watcher I am—”
“Because you are.”
“I know, Ben. I know. And for years being a Watcher has been everything to me. But it wasn’t how I saw my life turning out, that’s all.” She broke off. “I never wanted to be a fighter, Ben.”
Ben understood exactly how she felt. War was not a game that anyone would choose to play.
“You probably wouldn’t believe it to look at me now, but I loved pretty dresses when I was a little girl. My mother always curled my hair and put ribbons in it. My big brother always teased me and tried to pull them out, but I didn’t care… I was happy just to put my dolly in a pram and push her around the park on Primrose Hill.” Lucy laughed at the memory, but Ben could tell that her happy story was about to change.
“And then my mother died,” said Lucy flatly. “Tuberculosis… And one month later my father’s regiment was posted to India. I think perhaps my father thought that the change would be good for me and my brother, take us out of ourselves again. India is a whole new world, Ben. It’s so beautiful and different; the sights, the sounds, the colours, the animals – it’s hard for me to explain…It was wonderful in many ways. My father tried so hard to make it work, Ben, to build a new life for the three of us…”
“So what happened?” Ben hardly dared to ask.
“The Legion happened, Ben.”
Ben drew in his breath.
Lucy’s voice wavered. “We fought them… I did my best, Ben, I really tried. But we lost.” She couldn’t hold back her tears. “I lost my eye. My brother. My father…We lost our family honour, too…”
There was so much more to this story, but Ben knew that this was not the time.
“And so I hid on a tramp steamer,” Lucy continued, “and made the long voyage back to London alone. Mother Shepherd found me and the Watchers took me in and…well, here we are.”
Ben didn’t know how to respond. He heard the disappointment in Lucy’s voice. “What would you like to have been then?” asked Ben. “In another life, if you could be anything.”
“I wanted to be a dancer,” said Lucy.
Ben took her hand. “You will dance, Lucy. One day, girl, I promise you.”
“Ben…don’t…”
“All we have to do first is overthrow Sweet, destroy the Crown of Corruption, defeat the army of the Legion, rid London of the Feathered Men and Bob’s your uncle.”
Lucy laughed, as Ben had hoped she would.
He was going to try to make her laugh again when he heard a sound that set his nerves jangling.
“Did you hear footsteps?”
Lucy shook her head, but they both sat up and freed themselves from the blanket, all their senses alert. Mr. Wachowski’s room was silent, except for the breathing of the other Watchers. The fire in the grate had burned down to embers, but it gave enough light for Ben to see that one body was missing.
“Where’s Wachowski?”
A shadow crossed the window and they both knew what that meant.
“We’ve been betrayed – Watchers, to arms!” shouted Lucy, her words cutting through sleep. Nathaniel and Carter responded within seconds, Nathaniel poised with his quarterstaff, Carter with his claw raised.
They all heard the key turning in the front door. Then the cough, gargle and spit that announced Mr. Wachowski’s return. And the sound of boots which told them he had not come alone.
“Quick,” said Carter, grabbing the chair and flinging it up against the door. “We’ve got to buy ourselves some time.”
Mr. Wachowski and the Legionnaires were outside the room. Ben listened to the sound of a key slipping into the lock, followed by cursing as the Polish man tried his door but found it blocked.
“I thought he was our friend,” said Nathaniel. “We used to live under the same roof. How could he do this to us?”
“The oldest reason in the book,” said Ben. “Money. The Legion always reward their informers.”
The chair shuddered as someone put their shoulder to the door.
“Come out, Ben Kingdom!” snarled the Legionnaire.
“Come out, Ben,” said Mr. Wachowski, trying his best to sound reasonable. “This is for the best, yes? No fuss.”
Carter picked up the table and added it to their makeshift defences.
The door bulged again as it was struck a second time, the hinges making cracking sounds as the wood started to splinter.
“The window,” said Ben.
Just as the door crashed inwards, so Ben smashed the window outwards, covering his face with his arms to protect himself from the jagged shards. The chair and the table still blocked the door from opening fully and Ben saw a hand enter first. It was holding a pistol. And it was searching for a target.
Carter didn’t hesitate. He threw his own weight against the door and there was a yelp as the Legionnaire’s wrist was crushed. The bullet went wild and the Legionnaires were still stumbling through the door as Ben and his Watchers dived out the window.
Four Legionnaires were waiting for them in the street.
Carter cheerfully slashed at one with his claw. Nathaniel swung his quarterstaff, catching another in the belly and bending him double. That left two.
“You take the one on the left,” Ben called to Lucy.
The Legionnaires had been expecting them to run, so this full-on assault took them by surprise. Ben was up against a barrel-chested man with tiny eyes almost lost in the fat folds of his face. If the man laid a punch on him, then Ben would be going down. Fortunately, for all his size, the man signalled his moves so clearly that Ben was able to avoid them with ease. The man swung a huge haymaker of a punch and Ben ducked neatly beneath it. Then, using a move which Mr. Moon had delighted in teaching him, Ben moved in close and gave an open-handed blow to the side of the big man’s neck. The giant wobbled for a second, not comprehending what had happened to him, and then fell face down on the pavement, unconscious, landing with a splash.
Beside Ben, Lucy was finishing off her opponent. Her Legionnaire was lean and wiry, with whip-crack reflexes.
The man launched a volley of punches in quick succession, but each one met only air as Lucy weaved around his blows. Finding the weakness in his defences, Lucy unclenched her fists so that her hands were held out in front of her as if she was waiting to receive a Christmas present. Then she jabbed her hands upwards, keeping her fingers locked straight as they hit the Legionnaire just below the ribcage.
The man would live, of course, but that wasn’t much consolation when he was rolling in pain and watching his sworn enemies disappearing up the street into the distance.
The Watchers put on a spurt of speed and, by the time the Legionnaires got out of the house, they were half a street away.
Ben caught Lucy’s
eye as they ran.
“You’d be an amazing dancer,” he said.
Lucy laughed, did a cartwheel, and kept on running.
Inside the staff tent, Brigadier Carnehan looked down at the sleeping figures, tucked up beneath thick army blankets. The little girl and the brave crippled lad, not forgetting that dog, nestled in beside the boy. Survivors against the odds. What’s going to become of you? he wondered. The orphanage? The workhouse? Neither option held much hope for the future. Carnehan tiptoed over to the girl’s bed and paused, adjusting her blanket slightly so that it didn’t cover her nose and mouth, then he returned to his field chair beside the stove, deep in thought.
He had written to his wife about Molly and Munro, the waif and the stray that he had rescued from the rubble, but he hadn’t given the letter to the dispatcher yet. It was a foolish letter in many ways and Carnehan was surprised that he had felt so compelled to put pen to paper at all.
The Legion had ripped the heart out of London. Civil war was always the war that a soldier dreaded – where was the victory for an Englishman in killing another Englishman? Carnehan desperately wanted some good to come out of this, for there to be some legacy of the conflict of which he could be truly proud.
That was what he had suggested to his wife. When they were first married they desperately wanted to have children but they had never been blessed, and so they let that dream die. Had this blasted war given them a second chance?
Carnehan pulled the envelope out of his pocket and held it between thumb and forefinger, staring at the address written on the front as if somehow the answer were contained there.
It was stupid, he decided, and he hooked opened the door on the stove revealing the crackling fire inside. He should toss the letter into the flames and forget about it.
He leaned forwards and watched as the paper started to discolour, turning from white to cream as the heat reached out to grasp it—
Molly rolled over and gave a small moan. She sounded so small and vulnerable. These children needed a protector, needed a father…
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