Mind the Gap (9 page)

“What does it have to do with the…the echoes we’ve heard?” Jazz asked.

Harry studied her. “Perhaps nothing. And perhaps the Hour’s what happens when the whispers wake up for a bit.”

“Maybe it’s just the sound of trains in the distance,” Jazz said.

Cadge laughed. “If you’d ’eard it, you’d never say that.”

“It’s not just a sound,” Harry said. “You mustn’t listen, that’s true enough—choose a song now, Jazz, and cover your ears and sing it when you know the Hour’s coming. But it’s everything else besides: the smell of age, the sight of weary shadows, the taste of rot, the feel of the scream rushing past your skin, the wind as though it wants to carry you away.”

“But it doesn’t last an hour?”

Harry shook his head. “Sometimes only seconds.”

“Just feels like an hour,” Cadge said. “Here we are. The way down.”

They had reached the end of the desolate tunnel, and Cadge aimed his torch at a rough hole in the wall to their left. It had been hacked into the concrete rather than formed, and there was a metal frame that held a heavy grille gate bolted in. The gate seemed to be closed, but Harry stepped forward and shoved it open. It creaked.

“Another way back to the United Kingdom?” Jazz asked.

Harry smiled. “There are several,” he said. “It wouldn’t do to live somewhere down here with only one way in or out.”

Why not?
she wanted to ask. But maybe she’d had enough information for now.

The Hour of Screams…

She’d seen things down here, heard them, and out of everyone she seemed to see and hear the most. What that meant for her when the Hour of Screams came, she really didn’t wish to know.

Maybe it would be best if she did not hang around long enough to find out.

The remainder of their descent passed in silence. Cadge went first, moving smoothly and easily along the flashlit tunnels, ducking under pipes and sidestepping pools of stagnant water that reflected rainbows of grease. Jazz followed, marveling at Cadge’s dexterity and grace. He was a natural down here.

Harry Fowler followed them both, trusting them to guide his way with their flashlights, and Jazz wondered how long he had been down here. He must have a history, a profession, perhaps a wife and children somewhere above, tales to tell, people to avoid, crimes to forget, or destinies yet to fulfill. He was much older than all of them, and older people had more to tell, and perhaps more to fear.

Like Mum,
she thought.
She always feared more than me. Tried to make me as scared as her, but it took this to make that so.

They heard sounds in the distance, and Jazz froze at every one. But Cadge did not, and Harry always calmed her with a smile or a shake of his head. They knew the sounds of the Underground, which belonged and which did not.

Jazz knew that she had a decision to make. The time would come for the Hour of Screams to storm through her new home. She had to decide whether to wait for that to happen. And if she did wait, she had to decide whether she would choose a song to sing or open up her senses and listen.

In the final short tunnel that led to the shelter, Jazz paused. Cadge went on before her and Harry stood beside her, looking down.

I’m being watched,
she thought, but she could not say that. “Need a minute.”

“Of course,” Harry said. “Cadge and I will ensure there’s food being prepared. Time alone to think is good, Jazz girl. Time alone is fine. Part of the reason I came down here in the first place was for time alone.”

“Don’t get much of that now,” she said, smiling.

Harry smiled back and shook his head, and she saw something then that didn’t surprise her as much as it should: he was content. Perhaps more content than any adult she had ever known. Then he walked on, whispering something to Cadge. The boy turned and looked back at Jazz, and though she tried she could not give him a comforting smile.

Because I’m being watched!

As soon as Harry and Cadge disappeared through a blank doorway, Jazz scanned the tunnel around her, probing every nook and cranny with the powerful beam of her torch, chasing shadows away to reveal the truth of what hid beneath.

She turned the torch off to see how much more she could see.

The tall, elegant man she had seen during her first hallucination stood at the end of the short tunnel. He was looking just to her left, an enigmatic smile on his lips, tuxedo well fitted, and tall hat touching the ceiling without effect. His white-gloved hands rose before him, fingers flexing as if preparing for some infinitely intricate trick.

No voices, no crowds, no rowdy catcalls from a ghostly audience…This man was alone. He made no sound. She could smell a vague hint of lotion, something sweeter and more pleasant than the usual underground smell of dust and age. His expression was the fixed, tired smile of a performing magician, but as his hands closed together, his eyes shifted slightly until they were staring directly into her own.

Jazz shivered, nerve endings jangling as though a breath of freezing air had wafted through the tunnel.

The ghostly man pressed his hands together, and when he pulled them apart a chain of sparks hung between them. It swung low and heavy, ghost fire given weight, and he seemed to be trying to communicate something to her with his eyes.

And then he spoke.

All in the touch,
the ghost said.

He brought his hands close together again, and just before they met, Jazz saw the sparkles darken, and within them a dozen small forms danced and squirmed.
All in the touch.

Jazz ran. She reached the shelter quickly, went to Harry, and hugged him, comforted only a little when he hugged her back. And an idea pounded at her, one that she could never, ever say.

How do I hide from ghosts?

“Why don’t we ever nick anything from the Tube? Seems like easy pickings down here, with people waiting for the train, minding their business.”

Cadge’s face grew serious, his wide eyes narrowed with an expression that seemed almost an imitation of wisdom, like a small boy mimicking his father.

“Harry hasn’t given you that speech yet? Surprised at that,” he said. “Can’t ever nick from the station platforms. They’re our doors and windows, like. Hard enough for us to come and go without drawin’ too much attention. We start snatching bags and wallets down here and too many people will remember our faces, be on the lookout. An easy place for the law to keep watch for us too. That’s why we gotta go topside.”

“Right. Of course,” Jazz said. “I should’ve realized. Sort of a stupid question.”

Cadge shook his head sagely. “Nah. Not stupid. You’ve only been at this a couple of months. You’ve got good ’ands and all. Scary good. Stevie said Harry’s got big plans for you—”

“What plans?”

Her face flushed, and she couldn’t decide if the reaction came from knowing Harry was impressed with her or that Stevie had been talking about her. He kept to himself so often, but sometimes she caught him watching her with a kind of veiled curiosity that made her breath catch in her throat. He almost never came over to talk to her but seemed always to be hovering nearby, as though he couldn’t decide if he was protector or predator.

“Plans,” Cadge repeated, as though that was an answer. “Mr. F.’s got grand ambitions for you. For all of us, I guess. You’ve inspired him, like. Says we ought to move up in the world, now we’ve some of us got good enough to do more than nick a purse here and there.”

Jazz wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It sounded like Harry’s grand ambitions—as Cadge called them—would mean engaging more with the upside world, and that didn’t sit well.

“Anyway, what I was saying is, there ain’t any stupid questions, yeah? Down here’s got a whole different set of rules from up above. And nobody trained you to think like a thief, so you got to learn.”

Jazz uttered a soft laugh as they reached the bottom of the steps and strolled into the Tube station. Over her shoulder she carried a heavy bag she’d nicked from a tourist foolish enough to put it down while paying for a newspaper. Inside it were two wallets she’d also filched, as well as a nice linen jacket, a small sack of groceries, and a plastic bag from Waterstone’s with a few suspense novels inside. All stolen. Cadge carried a small duffel bag he’d brought upside with him that was now stuffed with fruit, drinks, and a heavy industrial torch he’d grabbed when some workmen had wandered off for lunch and left their tools unattended.

They’d had a very successful day.

“I think I’m doing all right,” she said.

“More than all right,” Cadge said, with such warmth in his voice that Jazz looked at him. Face a bit flushed, he glanced away.

On the train platform, Jazz scanned the waiting commuters. Her constant lookout for the Uncles and their BMW men had become almost unconscious by now. Half the time she caught herself looking around warily and only then realized what precisely she’d been looking for. Yet she felt more at ease in the Tube station than she did aboveground, and the deeper she went, the more comfortable she became.

She worried that she was becoming too comfortable, down there in the dark. But the upside world held only danger for her, and up there she would be on her own. Better by far to be safe and in the company of friends. And if she had ever had any real friends, certainly Cadge fit the bill.

The train slid into the station. The exhilaration of thieving and the threat of capture still prickled her skin as she stepped on and took a seat, setting the bag on the floor between her feet. Cadge sat beside her, and they kept silent for the brief ride to Holborn.

They stepped out onto the platform. Before the rush of disgorged passengers could subside, they slipped over the rail at the end of the platform and down to the shadows beside the tracks. When the train left the station, they ventured into the dark.

“What about that torch?” Jazz asked.

Cadge grinned like it was Christmas morning. She knew he’d been itching to try it out, but he waited until they’d left the main track, following an abandoned branch out of sight of anyone who might be in Holborn station, and then unzipped the duffel. When he clicked the torch on, the light sent rats scurrying and picked out some of the rust and scabrous growth that covered old piping along the walls and ceiling.

“Maybe less light is better,” Jazz said.

Cadge laughed. “Be it ever so humble…”

Jazz flinched. The down-below had become her sanctuary, a hiding place, and the United Kingdom behaved like a family, but no matter how long she remained there she refused to think of it as home. Once, on the day of her first topside nick, the word had come unbidden into her mind, and she’d vowed to herself that it wouldn’t happen again.

Cadge paused and glanced at her. “Hear that?”

She realized she did hear something—had been hearing it for a couple of minutes already. A susurrus of low voices like the hush of a flowing river ran nearby. Now that she paid attention to it, the noise grew louder.

“A crowd, sounds like,” Cadge said.

Jazz nodded. They both knew it couldn’t really be a crowd—not down here. Which meant it had to be phantoms.

The ghosts seemed to blossom to life around her. In the darkness they were shadows with a hint of ethereal illumination, but in the glow of Cadge’s torch they were revealed as true specters.

A Victorian carriage rattled by, drawn by a single horse, a lantern swinging from a hook beside the driver’s high seat. Cadge stepped quickly away from the startling sound of horses’ hooves but glanced around as though blinded. He heard the phantom near him but could not see it.

A couple of weeks ago such a vision would have terrified Jazz, but now she caught her breath in wonder. There was something almost comforting about them. The Underground was a forgotten home to lost people, and it seemed only right that it would echo with forgotten moments, the dreaming memories of London itself.

A sweet aroma reached her, a mélange of different scents that made her inhale deeply. She shuddered with the delicious odors, closed her eyes tightly to shut off all but her sense of smell. When she opened them again, she stood in a marketplace sprawled across cobblestones. There were carts full of vegetables and stacks of wooden crates overflowing with fruit. A little girl sold fresh flowers from a basket to specters who strolled about investigating the wares of the vendors. The smells were invigorating and such a wonderful change in the damp tunnels whose ordinary odors were rust and sewage.

A man rode by on a creaky antique bicycle with wheels so large and unwieldy it seemed mad to think anyone could keep such a contraption from crashing.

“You see something,” Cadge said.

Jazz had almost forgotten him. She blinked and turned to focus on his face. “What?”

“I saw your eyes. You see them, don’t you? The things I’m hearing. You see somethin’. More than just glimpses, like you said before.”

For a moment she did not breathe.
Never trust anyone,
that had been her mother’s advice. Her rule. But her mother had never had to create a brand-new life in a brand-new world, and her mother had never met Cadge.

“Sometimes,” she said.

Cadge gazed at her with open admiration. “Wish I could see them. Did you smell it too? The fruit?”

Jazz nodded. “Made me hungry.”

“I’ve only got apples and some pears in the bag. We’ll go to the market later this week, get ourselves something juicy—oranges or kiwis.”

“A pineapple,” Jazz said.

Cadge laughed. “You nick a pineapple, where d’you suppose you’ll hide it while you’re slipping off, eh? Bit prickly, I’d think.”

Jazz gave him an arch look but said nothing. They shared a quiet laugh and then started along the tunnel again. Around them, the ghosts of London were fading, and Jazz was saddened by their departure.

She shifted the big bag from one shoulder to the other.

“Let’s have that, then,” Cadge said, gesturing toward the bag. “I’ll carry it for a bit.”

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

He blinked and looked away, and she realized she’d been too sharp with him. Jazz had bristled at the suggestion that she might not be strong enough to do her part, but Cadge had just been making a clumsy attempt at chivalry.

“You’ve got enough to carry,” she added.

Cadge brightened a little. “Yeah. We’ll both be glad to set these down. Mr. F.’s gonna love this torch too.”

“We should’ve nicked some batteries for it,” Jazz said.

“Nah. We’ve got loads, all sizes.”

They fell silent then, trudging onward. Cadge led her up onto a platform that had been abandoned for decades, its walls covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, floor scuffed with years of boot and shoe marks left behind by the United Kingdom and perhaps other subterranean travelers. They eschewed the chained gate blocking the way up and instead followed a corridor that led to yet another train track.

Jazz had been astonished when, after just a couple of weeks, she had come to know her way around the labyrinth of abandoned stations, tunnels, and bomb shelters beneath the city.

Across the tracks was a smaller platform, part of the same long-closed station. A rusted metal door set into the far wall of the platform drew her attention. It had a heavy handle that had been left in a raised position, the door open just a few inches for forgotten ages.

As Jazz and Cadge dropped down to the tracks, she could not stop staring at that door.

Cadge stopped to glance back at her. “Jazz?”

It felt as though someone had set a hook in her chest and was drawing her in. She took a step and then paused, fighting the urge. Whatever called to her from behind that rusted metal door, it frightened her in a way the ghosts of old London no longer could.

“What’s through there?” she asked without looking at Cadge.

“Through where?”

She pointed to the door.

“Dunno. Stairs, I guess. Some kind of emergency exit. Could just be storage. Or toilets. Never know what you’re gonna find behind a door down here.”

Cadge walked back to Jazz and took her hand. That intimate contact allowed her to drag her gaze from the rusty door. She smiled at him halfheartedly, gave his fingers a squeeze, and then pulled her hand away. The boy was sweet, but he was just a boy. If she’d let her hand linger in his, he might get ideas.

“Want to go over there? Have a look?” he asked.

Jazz blinked. The temptation to say yes nearly overwhelmed her.

“No. No, let’s go,” she said.

Cadge waited for her this time. When she started walking again, he turned off his torch and stored it in his duffel bag. Drains and grates high above them let daylight filter down, along with the sounds of the cars, trucks, and buses growling by above. Somewhere close, a train roared through the Underground. Dust sifted down from the ceiling and a breeze blew along the tunnel. This track might be closed, but others nearby remained in regular use.

A hundred yards farther on, they arrived at the door that led into a staircase down to the sublevel. The circular stairs were quiet as a tomb, the rock closing in on all sides. Jazz shuddered, feeling a claustrophobia unusual for her.

“What’s that?” Cadge said.

Jazz listened, thinking at first that perhaps more phantom echoes of London were about to appear. But then she heard a girl crying out for Harry and recognized the voice.

“Hattie,” she said.

They rushed down the last half dozen steps and pulled open the door. The tunnel curved off to the right. The entrance to Deep Level Shelter 7-K was just around the bend. Above, dim light filtered down from screened vents that went all the way to the surface.

There came another scream, followed by the shouts of angry men and the sound of scuffling. Cadge and Jazz exchanged a glance, and she saw her fear reflected in his eyes. Turning away, she started along the tunnel. All that remained of the former rail line here were occasional railroad ties on top of dirt and stone, and she kept close to the wall to avoid tripping over anything in the gloom.

“Vermin!” a man shouted. “Filthy little vermin.”

Jazz dropped her stolen bag and all of its contents and started running. The others needed help. From behind her, she heard Cadge utter her name like a curse and give chase.

She came around the bend in the tunnel and staggered to a halt. Cadge bumped into her and nearly sent the two of them sprawling. Tendrils of gas roiled along the floor of the abandoned tunnel, crawling as though with hideous purpose. At first glance, Jazz thought the yellow mist another phantom, a glimpse of some moment out of London’s past. But then Hattie came racing toward them, hacking and choking, the gas parting around her legs.

The girl collided with Cadge. He managed to hold her up, but only barely. She began to retch and pushed away from him, dropping to her knees and vomiting.

“The others…” Hattie choked out.

“Go on to the door up to the old Holborn tunnel. Hide in there until I come to fetch you,” Cadge told her.