Six Days (5 page)

W
e run, hand in hand, away from the hall, stumbling in the potholes. The well is just up ahead, and I can just make out Erin crouching in the shadows. We huddle down next to her, our breath smoking hot and fast.

Erin flashes Peyto a filthy look. “What were you
thinking
of? Things are bad enough as they are!”

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to know what they’d do if they really found it –”

“Haven’t we got enough to worry about without the whole village chasing after us? We have to go, right now.”

“Settle down,” I go. “You ain’t in danger. Things’ll blow over. They ain’t a bad lot, trust me.”

Erin pulls away. “You don’t understand, Cass. We have to go.”

“We can’t. It’s far too dangerous –” starts Peyto.

“We can’t leave it there,” cries Erin. “We’ve got days, Peyto! Days! Not weeks! And now you’ve gone and lost –”

“Calm down, I haven’t lost it. I know exactly where it is.
At least I found Wilbur – he was right where he was supposed to be.”

“You don’t know if he’s definitely
The One
.”

“Wait a second – what about Wilbur?” I go. “He’s the one what?”

But they’re so mad with each other, they ain’t listening.

“It’s all right for you,” goes Erin. “If the ship crashes, it’s not your family …”

Peyto leaps up. “Don’t you ever say that – that it’s all right for me!”

Erin’s pacing about now, fit to explode. “Tell him! Tell him he’s got to listen!” she pleads to me.

“Whoa!” I go. “Rewind! Lost what? What ship? What’s too dangerous? And what’s this about Wilbur? You knew he was gonna be at Big Ben?”

Peyto slumps against the edge of the well. “There was meant to be someone at the clock tower – someone to … help us. Wilbur was there. He has to be The One. He came there to look for the artifact of his own accord. It makes sense.”

“OK, look, you’ve got that wrong,” I go. “Wilbur ain’t got no more clue where the artifact is than any other scav. He’s just a kid with bonkers ideas, all right? He’s had more guesses where the artifact is than he’s had hot dinners. And they’ve all been dead ends, believe me. It’s a game for him. Anyway, who told you there’d be someone at the clock tower?”

“It’s a long story,” mutters Peyto, looking away from me. “There’s something we need to find. And there’s someone we need to find, too … a woman.”

I want to ask him how come this is all connected to the artifact when he didn’t know naff all about it at Big Ben, but he’s closed off from me, still seething at Erin.

“The point is, we’re in even more trouble now,” goes Erin, glaring back at him.

I glance between them. “Why?”

“I left something back where we were scavving,” mumbles Peyto.

“So? Get it tomorrow.”

“You don’t understand. I
had
to leave it there or the Vlads would have found it when I got scanned at the end of the shift …”

I shake my head. “Ain’t you had enough for one day? I told you already. We ain’t allowed that side of the river till it’s been cleared. They see you, they shoot you.”

“I’m going,” says Erin, and she means it.

I backpedal in front of her, trying to smile. “Slow down, lady! You ain’t even gonna make it across the river.”

Her eyes sparkle with tears as she tries to look through me, all hell-bent on marching to the edge of the world. At last she stops and hangs her head.

“Bejeepers, and I thought Wilbur was stubborn! What’s going on today? What’s so precious you can’t just pick it up tomorrow?”

And that’s when Erin brings something out from under her collar.

It’s such a shock, I figure I’m dreaming as she cups it in her hand to show me. First off I think it’s an animal. Long tentacles, thin as fishing wire, are waving about where it was clasped around her neck, and then they just disappear into the rest of it, like when you touch the stalks on a snail. It ain’t much bigger than a chestnut shell, but it’s an odd shape, a sort of knot with bulges and stalks and creases. And it’s glowing with the faintest of lights – a shimmer of faraway blue and green, with hairline streaks of cream drawn across its surface in patterns, like the grain of bleached wood. Except it’s much finer than that – all the detail is sharp and layered and sunk down deep inside. And as I gaze at it, I could swear them patterns are moving about, very slowly shifting and mixing. It’s the most weirdest, most stand-out beautiful thing I’ve ever clapped my eyes on.

“What … on Earth … is … that?”

“It’s a flinder,” says Peyto. “Erin’s got one and I’ve got one – that’s what I had to leave on the other side of the river. But there are others, and … well, one of them is lost. Here. In this city. We think. I don’t know what the Vlads are looking for, but this missing flinder, it could be your artifact.”

Gently, almost reluctantly, Erin hands it to me.

And as soon as I touch it, I
know.
This is what we’re all
looking for. The artifact is a flinder, just like this one.

I think about what Wilbur said –
If you hold it, you’ll know …

It feels like … a sleeping heart, filled with wrestlings and yearnings, sparking out echoes that snatch away before I can hold them. Like the scraps of dreams when you wake up. Like ghosts stirring, flinching from my touch. I come back to the here and now slowly, flutters in my skin. The stalks unfurl again, like moth feelers, gently reaching out to touch my fingers.

“So, will you help us?” asks Erin at last.

Her manner ain’t pleading – she just lays it down like the quietest of challenges.

I don’t say nothing, and I can see her sucking in her temper, then writing me off. She takes the flinder back.

I feel suddenly lost, like the thing’s swiped a warm bit of my soul. The tentacles reach out to embrace her.

Up the street I see the meeting breaking up – everyone standing in huddles arguing. We can’t stay here. Awkward questions are coming our way …

But you know, I’ve seen crews march out of buildings just cos the floorboards creak a certain way, and ten minutes later the whole street comes crashing down. It’s that feeling that bugs me now – my scav nose for trouble. And what else? It spins in my head like the beacon on a moving crusher. I could take it, this flinder. I could give it to the Vlads and maybe they’d just pack off home and
leave us in peace. It’s what Gramps would do. Peyto looks uneasily to the ground. He knows what I’m thinking.

But it ain’t as simple as that, is it? Cos I ain’t gonna sell them out after what’s happened today, am I? Thing is, these two strangers from who-knows-where are both ready to lay down their lives rather than lose their flinders. Question is, why?

Just right then, Erin puts on her kiddie earmuffs, like she’s shutting me out, moving on. And they’d be ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow she carries them off, cos she ain’t got a clue that they’re in any way wrong. She don’t even know they was meant for little girls. To her they’re just ear cozies. And that’s when I warm to her. So I smile.

“I must be bonkers, like I ain’t already had a gutful of trouble today. But I suppose you’d better count me in.”

Out the corner of my eye I spot Wilbur trotting up toward us, and I hiss at Erin to tuck her flinder away.

“We’ll have to start pretty soon,” I go. “It’ll take us at least an hour to reach the river even if we go in the cart. Don’t ask me how we’re gonna get across the water, but we’ll figure something out.”

I listen to myself as I’m whispering all this, and I can’t believe it’s coming out my mouth.

“Cass, what’s going on? You’re planning something!”

Sharp as a tack, my little brother.

“What makes you say that?” I go, all casual.

“I can always tell. Just the way you poke your tongue in your cheek when you’re thinking hard.”

There ain’t no point in trying to deny it. I make my mind up right there to include him, else he’ll just blab something to Dad. But there ain’t no way I’m gonna let on any more than I need to, least till I figure out just how dangerous this whole escapade is. When in doubt, orders.

“Right, Wilbur. Listening? Go and fix up Sheba to the cart, and do it nice and quiet. Meet us up at the head of the north track in ten minutes. Make sure no one sees you. And, Wilbur? You goof and we’re gone without you, all right?”

He scampers away toward the animal sheds.

My head’s going frantic with the details. Course, I suppose I could still bail out. But somehow, now I’ve taken charge, I know that ain’t gonna happen.

“Thank you, Cass,” Erin goes at last.

“Not a word about any flinder malarkey to him, yeah? Kid’s got enough spooky ideas as it is, and I don’t want him getting hurt, all right? But listen up, I swear to God, when this is over tonight, you tell me the whole shebang. Agreed?”

Peyto smiles. “Agreed.”

W
ilbur shows up on the nose of ten minutes, and we all clamber into the back of the cart. By now I’ve figured what to say to my brother about the mission. His excited little face is hanging on my every word.

“Now, listen up. Peyto’s gone and dropped his cash bag on the job and we’re gonna get it back.”

Wilbur searches my eyes. “How come we don’t just get it tomorrow?”

“Cos it’s too risky! It’s everything they’ve got, and if we ain’t careful, some nosy gangmaster rooting about first thing’s gonna snaffle it up.”

He nods, but I can tell he’s seeing right through me and out the other side. Cos Peyto and Erin ain’t the sort to even have a cash bag. They’ve never grafted for money their whole lives. Still, Wilbur takes it on board, even gives me a cheesy grin.

So I gee up Sheba and we’re off. It’s a windy night with no clouds to spoil the moon. The stars swim and hover
when you squint at them, like the sparkles of coins at the bottom of our well. But I clock that Peyto and Erin ain’t interested in any of that. They spend the journey glued to Sheba’s swaying flanks, the flick of her tail, her wheezy progress along the north track. At one point, Erin reaches out and touches the old nag’s rump – just gently, like a kid does. Sometimes in the distance we can make out other villages – huddles of lamplight and the faint burble of people rabbiting. No one says a word. There’s something about this caper that makes me think it’s just a game – that we’ll only get as far as Blackfriars or one of the other bridges, and it’ll dawn on us that it’s nuts to go any farther.

For the last few hundred yards before the river, we leave Sheba and go on foot, away from the track and up onto one of the slag mounds. All along the dark reach of water, we can see the still-standing bridges picked out with searchlights. To the right, the remains of the old Millennium Walkway and Southwark. In front of us, the arches of Blackfriars. And to the left, as the river swings round, Waterloo. Even from here, I can make out the figures of Vlad sentries moving about near the busted railings of the bridge ahead.

“Ain’t no good. We’ll never get past them guards.”

“What about a boat or something?” goes Peyto.

“Nah, there ain’t no boats here. People ain’t allowed on the river this far up.”

“Maybe we could swim,” goes Erin.

I look at her like she’s lost it. “You seen the current? You’d be down to the dogs soon as you dipped your toe in. Anyhow, even if you was a decent swimmer, it’s way too cold. You wouldn’t last five minutes.”

“Just an idea,” she goes, all sulky.

“The tunnel,” whispers Wilbur. “You know – the Jubilee one.”

“Nah, it’s got to be flooded. The tunnel’s lower than the river –”

“No, the water’s drained away – not completely, but there’s like a gap near the roof.”

“What kind of cobblers is that, you spod? How can it drain away? There ain’t no tides no more with the Great Barrier holding the sea back.”

“It’s not a tide that does it. It’s the pumps – there’s loads of them on the north side dredging the old Underground tunnels. They run all day, but they work much harder at night when all the crushers are shut down.”

I look at him. “How on Earth d’you know all that?”

“Heard Gramps say once.”

He’s all shy then. Wilbur’s so quiet most of the time, you forget he’s there. But when people are yabbering, he never misses a trick.

“Makes no odds,” I go at last. “If it ain’t drained away the whole hog, then it’s still gonna be too deep for us.”

“If Wilbur thinks there’s a way across the river, we should at least look,” says Peyto firmly. “We said we’d
listen to him.” The way he glances at me, his eyes all fired up, I feel on edge all of a sudden.

Wilbur looks gobsmacked cos no one ever listens to his harebrained schemes usually. I give him evils, just so he knows not to get too cocky on all the attention. But I can tell none of them is gonna back down. So I lead the way through the trenches toward the big old crater that marks where Waterloo Station once stood. It gets sludgier as we plow on, till you can see water pouring into the entrance where the old tracks dip underground.

“See?” goes Wilbur.

“See what?” I snap back. “Anyone got a submarine handy?”

“We’ve got to go deeper, follow where the water drops,” says Wilbur.

“Wilbur, you crack-job, this ain’t like paddling up Blackheath. Check it out!”

But Wilbur ain’t looking at me. He’s looking at Peyto, who’s forged on ahead, clambering down bits of broken concrete at the edge of the tunnel wall. I’m pretty much done with the whole adventure, but I don’t want to waste the I-told-you-so speech that’s brewing in my head. So we carry on.

And guess what? Wilbur’s right – where the tunnel starts proper, the roof is a good thirty feet clear of the water. It don’t exactly look inviting, though – the tunnel mouth has all these rusty rods poking out of it, all covered
in gunk like mucky fangs. And course, we ain’t thought to bring a lamp or nothing.

We edge closer and look at the darkness, which is about as total as it gets. In the distance, you can hear the rushing echoes of water, and what sounds like a right downpour – probably leaks in the roof. Me and Peyto squelch down the slope together, leaving the other two behind. Peyto spots it first – an old steel ladder fixed to the wall. It leads to a platform cut into the concrete and there’s something bulky stashed up there.

We look at each other. I know what he’s thinking. Everything round here has been scavved out, so whatever it is has to be stashed here on purpose.

I volunteer to go up first, but pretty soon I’m cursing that blinding idea, cos the rungs are all slimy and I get the horrors about three-quarters of the way up. Somehow I hold it together enough to reach the platform. The thing is lashed really tight to the wall with rope and tarpaulin, but at last I manage to squeeze under the cover.

Whatever it is, it’s sopping wet and stinks of old rubber, and I’m squitting it cos I can’t see a thing. Then my hands land on what feels like a bag, and inside it something solid, plastic maybe, long like a tube. I try to drag the bag out, but I lose my grip and drop it. Then my heart nearly gives out cos a light beam shoots right into my face. Slowly I calm down and realize what I’ve done. The bag is see-through and inside it is a flashlight – old-school ’lectric with a
battery. Me dropping it has switched the bloomin’ thing on.

All the stuff inside is bone dry. Apart from the flashlight, there’s half a dozen street maps torn from a book, a notepad, a pencil, and a compass. In the notepad it’s just diagrams with no writing, and what looks like numbers, but I can’t read, so it’s cobblers to me. I pan round with the flashlight. And find myself sitting in the bottom of a dinghy. It’s pretty big – enough room for six or seven people, I reckon. Parked on the sides, there’s two paddles and a grapple hook on a cable.

Next thing I know, there’s a pale face staring up at me from the edge of the tarpaulin and I just about freak.

“It’s me!” goes Peyto.

“Yeah, you wanna give me some warning next time? My ticker’s gonna give out any second!”

But he’s just grinning at the boat. “There’s a winch here, see? Give me a hand.”

I show him the notepad and the maps, but he can’t suss them out either.

“It looks like code, or a checklist. I don’t know.”

“This is looters’ stuff,” I go. “Maybe we should just get out of here.”

“We’re just going to
borrow
it.”

I shine the flashlight at him and he’s beaming from ear to ear. He really is enjoying all this, but then, I have to admit I am, too.

Ten minutes later we’ve got the dinghy lowered into the water.

Erin and Wilbur are both speechless – Erin through fear, and Wilbur … Well, Wilbur don’t exactly look scared, but it’s kind of funny that he doesn’t “ooh” and “ah” like I’d expect. In fact, he never says much at all, right up to the point when I say he can’t come.

“Cass! Oh, please!”

“I’m crazy even to let you come this far! If Dad knew, he’d clout me into next week!”

“It was my idea to come to the tunnel!”

“So? This ain’t a game!”

“I can help!”

Wilbur’s on the verge of tears, but then Peyto squats down and puts an arm round him.

“Of course you can help,” he goes. “See, someone has to stay and look after Sheba.”

“That’s right,” I go. “Gonna have to be one brave soldier staying here in the dark to keep Sheba company.”

Wilbur ain’t too happy about it, but least he stops sniveling.

“Can’t Erin stay with me?” he whimpers.

We all look at Erin.

“I don’t think we should leave Wilbur here on his own,” she goes at last. “Can’t we all go together?”

“I told you he ain’t coming with us.” I’m all spoiling for a fight, cos we just sorted the question of Wilbur.

She throws a pointed look at Wilbur, who’s getting all hopeful about tagging along again. “But what if the Vlads come here looking?” she goes.

“It ain’t no crime to be this side of the river. All he has to say is he’s digging up bait for fishing or something. But they ain’t gonna be bothered – a kid and a cart horse. It’s us you have to worry about.”

“I don’t think you realize how dangerous it is over there,” explains Peyto.

“Too right. We ain’t got any excuse to be across the water at night. They catch us, it’s curtains.”

She gives me a puzzled look then, not angry. “I don’t want to argue with you, Cass. I just didn’t want to leave Wilbur alone, that’s all. If you say it’s safer for him here, I believe you.”

That takes the wind out my sails. “Fair enough. I think it’s me and Peyto on the paddles, but someone has to sit up front with the flashlight – and that’s got to be you.”

She strokes Wilbur’s head and nods at me, and without the huge scrap I was gearing up for, it’s done and dusted.

“Right, Wilbur, listening? Check your watch. We’re gonna be gone no more than, say, six hours. If we ain’t back by two at the latest, then don’t hang around, you hear?”

“But then what?” groans Wilbur.

“Well, we
are
gonna be back, I promise. It’s just in case we get stranded over there when the sun comes up – if that happens, I’d rather lay low till it gets dark again. Look, it’s
gonna be fine. Get onto one of them mounds and keep an eye out. When we get to the far side, I’ll flash the light a few times to let you know we’re safe, then you stick with Sheba till we show up again.”

He nods and watches us as we clamber into the dinghy. It’s tragic watching him wave as we undo the winch rope and cast off into the gloom.

It’s swirly in places where the water’s being sucked deeper into the tunnels – vicious little currents that make the dinghy hard to straighten up. Every now and then, water gushes down from the roof and we get a drenching.

The farther we go, the stronger the current gets. After about ten minutes I clock a patch of moonlight shining through a hole in the roof. The tunnel branches off here in two directions – up a steep slope to the surface, and off into the rest of the Underground where the old Tube trains used to run. Me and Peyto paddle against the flow, and Erin manages to wedge the grapple hook round a bit of concrete. Which is a relief, cos I don’t fancy floating all the way into the West End – them old train tunnels are meant to go on forever this side of the river. I leave the maps in the dinghy and just take the flashlight before we head up to the surface.

All’s quiet as we climb out onto the north bank – just a few foxes screeching. I spot one of them padding through the river mud, starving and wary. This end of the tunnel has got the same slag mounds, and we crawl up one of
them for a butcher’s. To the south I can’t see much – just the leaning wreckage of Westminster Abbey and Big Ben blocking out the starlight. In the west I can make out the swaying tops of trees – St. James’s Park. North lies the yet-to-be-scavved buildings of Whitehall, shabby and stained but still managing to look important. To the east lies the approach to the river – the ripped-up canyons of mud and the bare stumps of Westminster Bridge, mostly pulled down now.

It’s a risk to signal Wilbur, but I can’t leave the lad on tenterhooks. He’s got to know we’re safe, so I flash the flashlight three times.

“Let’s get a lick on,” I whisper. “And keep your eyes peeled.”