Tube Riders, The (37 page)

‘It’s an old canal,’ Paul said. ‘I wonder what they used it for?’

‘God knows. But it’s here so we might as well make use of it. Where’s that boat, Owen?’

‘There.’ He pointed. The others saw it, caught up under a tangle of trees on the canal’s far bank, about fifty feet away. ‘I didn’t say it would definitely float, now, did I?’

To Marta it looked like an old barge, not dissimilar to ones she’d seen rotting along the sides of the Thames. Its hull was a rusty mottled brown, and hanging vegetation draped over the low cabin that stuck up at one end, clogging up its deck with ancient fallen leaves.

‘Let’s get across, see if we can set it adrift,’ Paul said, climbing down into the water. ‘Wow, it’s cold!’

Together, they waded across the canal. It was no more than chest deep at its widest point, the flow of water steady but not dangerous as it tugged at their legs.

Switch got up on the boat first, and pushed his way through the foliage towards where the boat nestled against the bank.

‘It’s tied up!’ he called back. ‘I’ll cut it free. Paul, Owen, help me push it away from the bank. Marta, go look inside. See if there’s some kind of engine that still works.’

She nodded and pushed her way through the low branches towards the door down inside. She felt a brief pang of fear; there was no telling what horrors she might find inside this ancient, abandoned boat. She braced herself for decomposing corpses. She felt quite familiar with dead bodies now, but they had all been fresh.

Behind her, she heard Switch and Owen whooping with delight as the boat lurched under her feet and swung lethargically out towards the centre of the canal. Over them, she heard Paul demanding quiet. Turning back to the job in hand, she found the handle of the little door to be rather smooth, maybe sheltered from the weather. The door wasn’t locked either, and opened without a sound.

It took Martha a moment or two for her eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. When they did, they widened in surprise.

The small cabin was well tended and ordered, like a miniature kitchen-dining room. There was a booth table at the back, complete with a vase holding dried flowers. In the middle was a small stove and beneath it a fridge, humming with power supplied by a generator somewhere. Near the front, set into an alcove in the barge’s hull, was a small bed.

And on the bed, a man of about forty was lying on his side, watching her. He looked like a detective from a
film noir
; in plain but clean clothes, with his face clean shaven and his hair combed neatly over to the side. He had a thin, pencil moustache that curled at the ends. He raised one eyebrow and cocked his head as Marta gasped.

‘Erm ... I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance, young lady, but it appears that you and your friends have just hijacked my boat.’

Chapter Forty-One

Rescue

At times, Carl felt he was supporting a dead weight as they headed down into the dark railway tunnel. Jess would walk a few steps and then suddenly slump against his shoulder, making him pause to get her moving again. She didn’t speak much, but she didn’t cry either, and Carl could only guess at what was going through her head. The darkness of the tunnel was a relief sometimes, because it hid the painful vacancy in her eyes. He had learned through her earlier hysteria that the Huntsmen had murdered her parents just two days before, and now with Simon dead Jess had no one left to live for. She had talked about turning her knife on herself, so now Carl was carrying all the weapons just to be safe. It was just talk, though, he knew. Death might free her from the pain, but he knew that somewhere behind those empty eyes, Jess wanted to live, if only to seek revenge.

The driver, upon Carl’s sudden appearance, had stopped the train. As honest a man as Carl had ever met, he had helped Carl carry Simon’s body back into the trees, accepting Carl’s muted explanations, asking no more questions than necessary. By the time the grave was dug and Simon’s body had been laid to rest, Jess had climbed down from the train. Carl had found her wandering in circles, her eyes blank.

At Carl’s request, the driver had taken the train on, leaving them behind.

For a while Jess had lain down on the ground, her body shaking with fever and shock. Carl had kept her warm and tried to comfort her.

Part of him shared her pain, now his own father was certainly dead too, while part of him resented her for taking away his time to grieve. In a few short minutes he’d gone from being the kid with the murdered father to the shoulder that supported Jess’s grief. The world, so bright and easy just a few hours ago now seemed so dark and unjust. Carl had frowned up at the blue sky, willing it to cloud over; willing it to give him some sign that the way things happened was preordained, that life wasn’t just controlled by the stupidity of chance.

The clear blue had beamed back at him unflinching until he turned away.

He had needed to drag her to get her moving. He’d thought to let her say goodbye to Simon before they buried him in the forest, but for the first time Jess had shown a reaction, angrily pushing him away.

‘Let him rot!’ she had screamed, getting up and marching off down the tracks. Carl knew her words weren’t a reflection of her true feelings, but a result of the frailty and loneliness she felt. She had lost him, found him again and saved him. And then, when everything should have been getting better, he had been taken away.

Carl had followed her until she started to slow down, watched her as her legs began to shake, and then caught her as she started to fall. Supporting each other they had walked along the tracks, their shoulders slumped under the combined weight of their collective grief.

He had to find her friends. That was the only way to help her, but by now they should be inside Bristol GUA. There was only one unguarded way in that he knew of, and that was the same way the trains went: through the tunnels. To Carl’s relief, the train had left them only a couple of miles from the Bristol GUA perimeter wall, which began to rise above the trees as they got closer; not as tall as London’s but still foreboding enough. Beyond it, plumes of smoke rose into the air from dozens of industrial holdings, one or two large enough to be visible above the wall. The clunking sounds of machinery grew louder as they approached.

Jess had said nothing as Carl led them down into the railway tunnel, the darkness closing in about them, clammy like cold sweat.

After thirty minutes of walking, they could see nothing but the faint glow of occasional emergency strip-lighting in either direction. Carl figured the tunnel would eventually come out somewhere, but he hoped it was sooner rather than later because back down the line, the rest of those creatures were following.

Then, up ahead, he saw lights.

‘Come on,’ he said to Jess, nestled into his shoulder. ‘We’re almost through.’

The girl said nothing.

They emerged into an old underground station. Carl didn’t know much about trains or city stations, but it didn’t look like somewhere passengers would get on or off, but for freight loading and unloading. There were no seats on the platform edge, no sign that there had once been shops, timetables, or trash cans.

He found some steps at one end of the platform, and helped Jess up. It was a relief to be off the tracks, because another train would be due soon.

They went up some more stairs, away from the platform. Emergency lighting bathed the passageway in a dull orange glow, enough for them to see the dust on the floor, the few footprints where it had been disturbed. None looked too recent, which also came as a relief to Carl.

The passage thinned, and the tiles beneath their feet changed from a sandy colour to a darker grey. There was little dust here, suggesting the tunnel was still in use. It headed off in two directions. Carl chose left.

The passage angled slightly uphill, reaching a sharp corner at the top of the rise. Just as they reached it, Jess moaned and leaned against him, causing Carl to stumble forward around the corner. He was looking at Jess, and he only knew he’d bumped into someone when the other man pushed him away.

‘Hey, you!’

Carl looked up. A man wearing the black uniform of the Department of Civil Affairs stood right in front of him. He looked like he had been in a fight: bruises shadowed his face and one eye was swollen shut. Behind him were two more agents, supporting the limp weight of another man. This one looked far worse. Long hair crusted with dried blood hung down around a bloodied and badly beaten face.

Carl stepped back. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, for lack of anything else to say.

‘Who the hell are you?’ the DCA agent said, and reached into his pocket for something.

‘We got lost?’ Carl ventured. ‘It’s pretty dark down here.’ He looked down at Jess to tell her to run, but the girl’s eyes were open, focused, and narrowed with hatred. ‘You!’ she screamed, as she snatched a knife from Carl’s belt and launched herself forward.

The other man still had one hand in his pocket when Jess reached him. He didn’t have time to scream as her knife raked his throat, spraying blood across the walls. He fell back into the other men, causing them to let go of their prisoner.

Carl reached for a knife of his own as Jess slashed at the nearest of the other agents, opening a wound on his face. As the shocked man reached up to feel for the damage, Jess rammed the knife into his stomach. The agent grunted and fell backwards, trying to pull the knife free.

‘You little bitch!’ the third man shouted, but as he lunged for Jess the battered man swung a fist up between his legs. The agent doubled over in pain and Jess pounded him on the back of his neck. He grunted and tried to punch her, but she kicked him in the groin and he fell to the ground, coughing.

Jess walked among the fallen agents, looking for a pulse. The leader was dead, as was the second man, but the third man was lying curled up and clutching his groin, otherwise unhurt. Jess sighed, pulled the knife out of the second man’s stomach and slit the third agent’s throat with the weary nonchalance of a mother tidying a child’s room.

Carl felt a sick feeling in his stomach as he watched the clinical way Jess finished off the DCA men. Much as he hated to admit it, her actions reminded him a little of Dreggo: cold, merciless.

Jess wiped the knife clean on the shirt of one of the dead men and slipped it into her belt rather than returning it to Carl. The beaten man was sitting against the wall, watching them.

‘Thank you for saving me,’ he said. ‘My name is Ishael. Who are you?’

Jess actually smiled, but it was wild, almost macabre. ‘We’re the Tube Riders,’ she said.

The man’s eyes went as wide as the bruises and swellings would allow. ‘Jess and Simon?’ he asked. ‘I know your friends! I’ve heard so much about you.’

Jess looked at Carl, then back at the man. The strength drained out of her face, and she stumbled back against the wall, putting her hands out to stop herself falling. Carl heard a high-pitched moan, like a distant door creaking. Then, slowly at first and then faster like a sudden flood, Jessica began to cry.

Chapter Forty-Two

Cruise

‘They built it way back. Heaven knows why, but it goes all the way down as far as Exeter. We’ll be there before nightfall, I should imagine.’

The Tube Riders watched the man who called himself John Reeder as he sat cross-legged on the bed, smoking a pipe. The aroma of tea leaves filled the air, and Marta for one wished he’d put the stuff in a pot and offer it around. The canal water dripping through a strainer on the top of the boat didn’t look so appetizing.

‘Thank you for not throwing us overboard,’ Owen said.

Reeder cocked his head and grinned. A clump of hair detached itself from his neatly gelled scalp and he hastened to realign it. ‘It’s not often I get visitors. Even the government leaves me alone, and how many people can say that? I haven’t moved the
Old Rose
in a few months, but there’s still enough power in the tank to get you to Exeter.’ He tugged on one curl of his moustache and shrugged. ‘Not that I have a lot of choice really, is it? It’s too far for you to walk. Where are you headed from there?’

Marta said, ‘We’re not sure,’ at the same time that Switch said, ‘Falmouth.’

The others looked at him. ‘What?’ Paul said.

Switch grinned. His twitchy eye flickered like a bird trapped against a window. ‘I didn’t really have time to tell you about the plan. I figured I would when things had calmed down a bit.’

Marta flicked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘We’re taking a canal cruise. Is it quiet enough for you now?’

‘I guess, yeah.’

Paul started to stand, then shot a wry glance at the low ceiling and sat back down. Owen, sitting on the floor in front of the fridge, was the only one who seemed comfortable.

‘Do you want me to leave the room?’ Reeder said with a wry smile. ‘Remembering of course, that it is, er, my room?’

‘Isn’t it called a cabin?’ Owen said.

Reeder grinned at him. ‘I also charge for conversation.’

Marta watched the man as he talked. From the moment she’d burst into the cabin and found him lying on the bed she’d found him captivating to look at, but not in a sexual, attractive sense. He was just so
odd
, so out of place that it was like looking at a time traveler, someone pulled forward a hundred years in time just to help them.

The barge’s cabin was immaculately decked out in a 1950s style. Black and white prints of long dead actors and actresses hung from the walls. An old, brightly coloured tea set stood on a rack above the fridge, the ancient spider-webbed china cups rattling as they moved through the water. A gas hob balanced a wrought iron kettle. Tucked into one corner, behind the bed, was a jukebox, the like of which Marta had only seen once before, in a junkyard. She was desperate to ask him if it worked.

Rather than be alarmed at their presence, John Reeder had seemed reluctantly excited, like an old explorer pulled out of retirement for one last mission.

‘Uncle told me to head to Falmouth,’ Switch said. ‘He said there was a way there we could get across to France. Didn’t say how, but said we’d get further instructions later.’

‘Where’s Falmouth?’ Owen said.

‘Cornwall,’ Paul told him. ‘Don’t they teach you anything in school?’

‘Ah, you know it’s all censored. Where’s Cornwall?’

‘Cornwall is the south-western tip of England,’ Reeder said. ‘It’s famous for its beautiful beaches, a type of pie called a pasty and was once popular among tourists. Main industries were tin mining, china clay quarrying, fishing and farming. Main recreational pursuits were surfing, moorland walking, and a rather odd style of wrestling, in which the defeated party would be thrown square on his back. These days, of course, most of it is empty.’

‘Empty?’ Owen said.

Reeder pouted and frowned. ‘How would you say? The government
closed
it.’ He looked around at the others. They were all staring at him. ‘About halfway across, after the moorland ends, they built a fence. Made everybody who lived behind it leave.’

‘Why?’

Reeder spread his hands. ‘Why do they do anything? They have their reasons. Luckily, if we’re heading for Falmouth, we won’t have to go that far.’

‘We?’ Owen said.

Reeder raised another eyebrow. ‘What kind of a hostage would I be if I didn’t accompany my captors to their final destination?’

While they were floundering for a reply, he climbed up from the bed and walked over to the miniature kitchen, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling. With five people in the cabin it must seem a lot smaller than usual, Marta thought.

‘Now, we’ve got a few hours before we arrive, and you all look a little hungry. Would you like anything to eat?’

‘Hell, yeah.’

‘Thanks.’

‘What do you have?’

John Reeder looked at Marta. ‘Fish, my dear, and a few pilfered vegetables from the GFA. My diet doesn’t vary much. I’m a simple man as you can see.’

Later, sitting up on deck while the small boat whirred along the canal, tall trees rising up on either side of them, Reeder told Marta about his life on the canal.

Downstairs, Paul, Owen and Switch were playing a game of Monopoly on an old board Reeder had pulled out of a cupboard. It was a welcome respite from all the violence and death, but Marta couldn’t concentrate and preferred to be up on the deck, watching the countryside pass by. She’d seen little enough of it in her life, and despite the threat of the Huntsmen out there somewhere, it helped to calm her.

‘It’s an uneasy world we live in,’ Reeder said, sitting on a stool, one hand on the boat’s wheel, occasionally shifting it slightly from side to side. ‘The government tried to compartmentalize everything, but those of us that didn’t fit into any particular vein just got skipped over. No one cared about a young man living on a riverboat. How old are you, Marta?’

‘Twenty-one.’

Reeder nodded, not looking at her. ‘You’ve seen a lot, I suppose.’

She shrugged. ‘Until recently life was just usual, you know? I saw car crashes, riots, whatever. It was all just
life
. I did what I had to do to survive. It was hard, but I was used to it.’

They had told Reeder a shortened version of their story. They had no choice but to trust him, and he seemed genuinely willing to help.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘your legend stretches far. Even I’ve heard mention of it.’

‘Really?’

‘Many people talk about the wraiths of the Underground.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what they say?’

‘They say that the souls of the dead reside down there in the dark, screaming their pain at those who dare enter the tunnels.’ He smiled. ‘Stories get around you know. Even though most people can’t travel anymore, stories still move. They blow from place to place, like the wind.’

‘I’m surprised.’

‘Why do you do it? Why do you “tube ride”?’

The way he said it, as if it was the strangest thing in the world, made her smile. She shrugged again. It was difficult to explain. ‘Why do people do anything?’ she said. ‘Because it’s fun.’

‘But it’s so dangerous.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Have people died?’

‘That I know of, five. Maybe there were others, practicing alone. I don’t know.’

‘That’s a lot of death to see. Why didn’t you stop?’

Marta looked around them as the canal bank eased past. A willow tree hung over the water, its nearest branches scraping the side of the boat.
So peaceful
, she thought.

‘Many did. At one point there were over twenty of us. Seeing someone die, though, it changes things. It sorts out who values life the most. Because the people who value life don’t do it.’

‘Don’t you value your life?’

Suddenly Marta felt close to tears. Hearing someone say it reminded her how worthless she was, how worthless the country had made her. ‘My parents are dead. My brother disappeared years ago. I had nothing else to do. I just … carry on.’

‘How did you get into it?’

‘My brother, Leo, he was the first.’

‘The first Tube Rider?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

Marta brushed the hair out of her face and fresh tears out of her eyes, and smiled. ‘It’s kind of dumb, really. He was drunk or stoned, or something. He wandered into the station by mistake. At least this is the story he tells – told.’ Her bottom lip trembled. ‘A train came just as he tripped and stumbled towards the track. Had it come a second earlier it would have crushed him. As it was, it should have killed him, but it didn’t. His coat got caught on something, a hook, a loose piece of metal paneling, maybe. It literally picked him up and pulled him along. He managed to free himself a moment before the train went into the tunnel. He broke several ribs and one arm, but otherwise he was fine. And afterwards…’

‘What?’

She shook her head. ‘It was like he was a different person. He was enlightened or obsessed, one of the two. All he talked about was the trains. He even got himself a job working in a rail yard just so he could study the trains and find out if there was a way to replicate what had happened. He got a friend to help him design and build the first clawboard. Then he went down into the tunnels and learned. He started off on the slower freight trains, practicing until he’d perfected the technique. And then he started to invite people.’

‘Sounds exciting.’

Marta smiled again. ‘Yeah. I didn’t get into it at first because I was the kid sister, you know? He wanted to protect me, so he kept it a secret. With his train obsession I just thought he was some anorak nerd. Then one day I saw him when I was riding the train home. It scared the shit out of me, and I thought it was a premonition of his death or something. I told him and he owned up. He took me along a few days later and I ended up as hooked on it as he was.’

She shook her head, wistful memories coming back to her. ‘Tube riding, it’s like nothing you can imagine. It hurts, you know, when you hook, and the train jerks you away. But it’s a good pain, like when you have sore muscles after a workout, and you can’t stop touching them. And then, when you’re riding, for a few seconds your mind just empties as though the train’s moving so fast you just leave it behind. Then after you brace with your legs you can see the people inside the train through the windows. Sometimes they look back at you, and it’s like looking into a book. You feel like you know everything about them. It’s just … magical.’

Reeder patted her shoulder. ‘Marta, dear. I would love to give it a try.’

‘It’s way too dangerous.’

‘For an old man, you mean?’

‘John, that’s not what I–’

Reeder laughed. ‘You’re probably, right. I’m too old to be hanging off the side of trains. Barges are far more my pace.’

They were quiet for a few minutes. Marta watched as fish jumped out of the water, and birds called from the trees. For a while she leaned over the side of the boat and let one hand trail in the water. Finally, she said, ‘Thank you for helping us.’

‘Never underestimate the kindness of strangers,’ Reeder said with a wide smile. ‘Not everyone has become what the government drove them to. Most people, especially out in the GFAs, are just trying to get on with their lives the best way they can.’

‘They’re the lucky ones.’

‘You could say that. There might not be the violence, but they miss out on certain things too. They can’t travel outside of their particular area. The government pulled up most of the roads, just to make it a hassle to get around. If they are inclined to drive thirty miles on the gravel and dirt tracks for whatever reason, they eventually come up against concrete road blocks. There are no soldiers anywhere, but there doesn’t need to be. It’s such an inconvenience to go anywhere other than where the government wants them to go that they don’t bother.’

‘I’d still like to live out in the country,’ Marta said. ‘It’s just so peaceful. The air’s so fresh.’

‘Yeah, it has that going for it. I don’t miss the cities.’

‘How do you survive out here? Where do you get your food from?’

Reeder shrugged. ‘This way and that way. People know me in some of the villages. I do farm work, labouring sometimes. Odd jobs. In some villages I’m known for the baskets I weave from the canal reeds. Hence the name.
John the Reeder
.’

‘Is that not your real name?’

Reeder smiled. ‘I’m known by different names in different parts. It’s safer that way. I forget just which name preceded the others.’

Marta could understand. ‘You don’t look the sort to do odd jobs,’ she said.

Reeder grinned. ‘Just because a man likes to look the part in his own castle, doesn’t mean he won’t get his hands dirty when necessary. Like you say, the world’s changed.’

The door opened. They both turned to see Switch coming up out of the cabin onto the deck. He looked around at the trees, his bad eye flickering. When he saw them sitting in the little driving space at the back of the boat, he walked over, looking a little uncertain as the boat rocked along. Reeder was following a course close to the outer bank as the canal arced gradually right towards open farmland. Switch looked afraid that they would crash at any moment, and Marta found it comical after all the dangerous things she’d seen him do.