Hide Me Among the Graves (17 page)

“Yes.” She set the birdcage on a shelf near the impossible volume of water. To Crawford, she said, “This will draw the ghost, if there's a ghost there.”

Chichuwee nodded to her, and she dropped the soiled handkerchief into the boiling water. Steam immediately sprang up, and at this point Crawford was hardly surprised to see that the vapor didn't dissipate but instead floated over the water in a distinct wobbly oval.

“Lucky,” said Chichuwee, shaking his head. “If it's her.”

McKee crouched so that her face was level with the blob of steam while the handkerchief spun in the water below. Crawford noticed that, in spite of her show of confidence, she was trembling.

“Carpace,” she said.

A whisper bubbled out of the water in puffs of vapor: “None of the officers wear waistcoats in the mornings… I travel with two canes, one for morning and one for evening…”

“Damn,” said McKee, “it's that ghost that was buzzing around the bird by the Temple Arch this morning.
Carpace
!” Sweat gleamed on her forehead in the candlelight.

“… catch me, the ground quakes…! I—
Adelaide.”

“Got her,” said McKee with feral satisfaction; then, to the vapor, she said, “You shouldn't drink.”

“Drink,” whispered the steam, “the glasses, the man switched them? Am I dead?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, don't look at me!” The steam oval wavered. “Back in my ave!”

“Soon,” said McKee, “and then you can share all the half-wit gossip of the ghosts. But first—you said my daughter is alive.”

“Fly to the rooftops,” the steam bubbled, “trade stories with the sparrows. Nobody looking at me.”

“Yes,” said McKee, “greet every dawn before the people in the streets below see it. Where is my daughter?”

“Her name is Johanna.”

“Yes. Where is she?”

“Your man switched the glasses. Ach! I think I puked, in front of everybody.”

“No, not a bit,” McKee reassured the frail ghost. “It was as dignified a death as I ever saw. Where is Johanna?”

“I told you she died. At a different time than now.”

“Yes. But then you said that she is still alive.”

“Aye, she's alive, but—”

McKee waved her open hand. “But…?”

“She's not well, to speak of.”

“Tell me where she is.”

“Why can't I think? Promise you'll put me back in the ave.”

“I promise.”

“Hope to die?”

“Hope to die.”

“Fair enough. She's alive but pledged to death and eventual resurrection.” The boiling water emitted several pops that Crawford thought might have indicated laughter. “I … adopted her out to the Nephilim.”

Even though it was just an inorganic whisper, the last word seemed to concuss the still air.

Crawford gripped his elbows and held his breath so that it wouldn't hitch audibly. His mother and father had used the term
Nephilim
to describe the supernatural tribe they had escaped and spent the rest of their lives hiding from.

And he remembered his encounter with Girard, after Girard's death on the river … and the thing he and McKee had encountered seven years ago on Waterloo Bridge.

And, it occurred to him, the woman who had been with Trelawny tonight.

Can we …
oppose
those things? he wondered; surely not. But he was surprised at the anxiety and grief he felt for a daughter he had only learned of today and who he had thought was dead until an hour ago.

McKee's face in profile looked older and haggard, but she said, “Where can we find her?”

Crawford shuddered.

“This will be my first dawn, as a bird,” babbled the steam.

“Where can we find Johanna?”

“Put me back in my ave and I'll take you there, over the rooftops.”

“You'll move too fast. We need to walk where we go. Where can we find her?”

The steam said, “The river, now—it's cold and dark, and full of eely things.”

McKee opened her mouth to repeat her question, but the steam went on, “Her father is swallowed in Highgate; she brings him flowers.”

“Swallowed,” said McKee, frowning, “flowers—is he buried? Is he buried in Highgate Cemetery?”

“Often I've seen Johanna there,” whispered the blurry oval over the globe of water, “at night. Perhaps I'll fly to her now.”

“Does she …
live
at the cemetery?”

“For now she does, I think. Soon she'll be busy being dead there.”

McKee nodded at Chichuwee, then straightened up and took her birdcage from the shelf and handed it to Crawford. “Take this into the other room,” she told him. “I don't want her getting back in.”

Chichuwee was dropping handfuls of rusty nails and screws into the water now, and it stopped boiling.

Crawford nodded and crawled back through the curtain into the shaking cacophony of cheeping birds, and stepped down from the wagon to the creaking wooden floor. He walked quickly to the archway through which they had entered, and looked at the bright-eyed bird in the little cage he was holding.

“I imagine you're glad to be rid of her,” he said quietly.

The bird just blinked at him.

A moment later Chichuwee and McKee emerged from the low wagon doorway; the old dwarf sat down on the wagon bed, nearly invisible again below the bright glare of the lantern, and McKee walked down the steps and crossed to where Crawford stood.

“Piping bullfinches,” came Chichuwee's deep voice. “Two dozen of 'em.”

Crawford saw McKee wince.

“And four dozen miscellaneous,” the old dwarf added.

“That'd be larks and linnets, mostly, in winter,” McKee said.

“Fine. And scrapings of church bells, Fleetditch or St. Catherine's.” He glanced at the excited birds and then looked squarely at Crawford. “Any reason you got
cat
ghosts following you?”

Crawford actually looked behind himself but saw no diaphanous cat forms. “Uh,” he said, “I'm an animal doctor. I—”

Chichuwee interrupted with a wave like a benediction. “You're mad if you try to find the girl,” he said, “but in any case don't get killed before you pay me. Travel by day, wear metal, and do you know the crossing sweeper who takes only a ha'penny?”

“I know him,” said McKee.

“Pass through the eye of his needle when you can.”

“And you keep your dice rolling,” said McKee.

She turned away and led Crawford back into the spiral tunnel, and the light quickly faded behind them. Crawford couldn't see at all now in the darkness after the hard light of the paraffin lantern. He remembered to keep his head down.

“Carpace won't get a bird to live in,” he guessed. “An ave.”

“No,” came McKee's voice from ahead of him. “She's spilled into the sewers, and good enough for her—she'll wind up in the river with everybody else.”

Crawford didn't say anything.

“Promises to ghosts don't count,” McKee said. “They're promises to nobody.” She plodded through the wet sand for a few moments, then went on, “Piping bullfinches he'll wait for, they need training, but he'll want the miscellaneous pretty quick. I'll have to bring my nets out to Hampstead or Tottenham—used to be I could get hundreds at Primrose Hill, but the railway has frightened them all away. But—” Crawford heard her fist hit the damp brick wall. “But merciful God, how will we get her away from the devils? She was such a sweet-natured baby!”

“I'd—bring a priest,” said Crawford helplessly. “Two priests, big ones.”

“I'm not sure what side of the line priests would see her on. But at least she hasn't died yet.”

“If Carpace was telling the truth, in any of this.”

“Ghosts are stupid, but they can't lie.”

Crawford could tell by the curve of the brick wall under his sliding hand that the tunnel was straightening, and soon they were able to stand up in what must have been the circular chamber with the seven arches and the hole in the ceiling, though he still couldn't see anything.

From some direction he heard again the gasping, moaning sound he'd heard on the way down, and it seemed louder, or closer, now.

“How do we get back up the well?” he asked, barely remembering to whisper.

“We don't go back up it. Come on.” She patted his arm and took hold of his hand and began leading him forward. “Two to the left from Chichuwee's is the way out.” They were moving up a slope now.

“What
is
that noise?”

“Vox cloacarum,
the voice of the sewers. Tide and pressure changes force air through all the clogged channels, and you get that.”

The sound trailed off in indistinct syllables this time, though, and Crawford thought he heard sand shifting and rocks grating in the blackness behind and below them. His forehead was cold, and he was suddenly achingly aware of the vast volumes of earth above him, between the windy streets of London and this dark intestine of the earth.

McKee's hand brushed his face, and then one of her fingers pressed firmly against his lips; and she began tugging him along more quickly.

From behind them, echoing, came a woman's voice:
“John.”

Crawford's ribs went tinglingly cold. He didn't stop, but he looked back—a dim blue glow stained the darkness behind them, possibly beyond the curve of the low ceiling.

Veronica!
he thought.

“That's my wife's voice,” he whispered shakily.

“She's dead, I believe?”

“That's right.”

“Keep moving. Don't say her name.”

They plodded more quickly up the tunnel, their boots sloshing in muddy sand. Crawford dragged the fingers of his free hand along the wall and trusted that McKee had an arm extended in front of them.

The subterranean breeze was at their backs, and the seaweed-and-rot smell was gone—the air now smelled of mimosa.

“Her perfume?” whispered McKee.

A strangled syllable: “Yes.”

“John,”
came the voice from behind again; Crawford could hear motion back down there, but the grinding sound seemed to imply a very big body moving.
“Be safe. Stay. Forget everything. Never be afraid again.”

The mimosa scent was stronger, cloying. To his surprise, Crawford found himself wanting to obey the voice; he didn't let go of McKee's hand or slacken his trotting pace, but the thing behind them was at least to some extent mimicking Veronica, his wife—wouldn't staying down here with an imitation of her, even a grotesque imitation, be preferable to his empty life in that unroofed world of cold sunlight so far above?

He remembered thinking, at the salon, that McKee was attractive—and now he couldn't understand why he had thought so.

The breeze from behind was coming intermittently now, in puffs—was it breath, her breath?

“Father,”
came a boy's echoing voice, closer, from back in the darkness. It was the voice of his younger son, Richard. Crawford moaned behind clenched teeth.

“Johanna is still alive,” came McKee's breathless whisper.

That was right, he had a daughter up there somewhere.

But
pledged to death and eventual resurrection.

“I named her,” panted McKee, “after you.”

John, Johann, Johanna. Six or seven years old now. Unbaptized, like the poor animals he cared for.

McKee pinched his thumb hard, and then gripped his hand tightly. Her hand felt hot.

“Stay with me,” she said, quickening their pace still further and pulling him along. “I'm alive.”

And so am I, he thought, suddenly very tired. And a thousand, thousand slimy things lived on, and so did I.

The dragging sounds from behind were louder. Crawford's legs were beginning to ache.

McKee said—no whispering now—“Do you have any iron, steel?”

Crawford thought about it as they jogged on upward through the darkness. “My watch,” he panted. “The clockwork in it.”

“A timepiece! Perfect. Quickly, stop and bash it to pieces against the wall. Don't drop any of the pieces!”

Crawford fished his watch from his waistcoat pocket, then slid to a halt and broke a fingernail prying the back cover open; holding the watch cupped in his hand, he slammed it against the brick wall while pressing the open palm of his other hand against the bricks below it to catch any falling pieces.

“Drop the watch, John,”
echoed the approaching voices of his wife and son,
“time doesn't matter here.”
He could hear wet sand shifting only yards away, and the mimosa perfume was failing to cover a smell of fermented decay.