Voyages in the Underworld of Orpheus Black Page 11

  So when, hips giving out, deaf as the proverbial, Lottie started to have convulsions, we argued bitterly about what should be done. After one particularly horrific sequence of agitated aura, a prolonged fit of running legs and twisting neck, and then the long stumbling aftershock, things came to a head. To my astonishment Ellis sided with Father.

  She’s suffering. It’s time we put her out of her misery. End of story.

  I had assumed he would argue with me for a reprieve; I was taken aback. But even more so by the way he did it. Suddenly there was an Ellis I didn’t know. Matter-of-fact. Harsh even.

  No point being emotional about it. It has to be done.

  And even though I knew he was right, I felt that gap open between us. As if he was already steeling himself for something worse to come.

  I called him a coldhearted bastard, and he threw a punch at my head and caught me a glancing blow. Not the fights and arguments of childhood. Something grown-up and serious. Something with bitterness.

  Long gone now, Lottie. Buried at the bottom of the sloping garden. But still I sense her walking with me sometimes.

  Hell is different for everyone.

  And everyone finds their own way in.

  This was another thing I learned as the years turned,

  as leaves burned, as waters dried up,

  as the ground roasted, as trees died,

  as time and time again I made my way to the Underworld.

  As we sat upon that blasted wasteland,

  as the X-Dogs danced as merriful men,

  Agatha turned and clung to Harry,

  some sudden fear making her shake.

  She sobbed into his side, saying,

  Harry, O Harry, maybe they’re dead.

  It was all he could do to keep his head

  and whisper her name and hold her hand,

  and tell her things that it helped to hear,

  that answers were near.

  Harry was right.

  As night came on,

  the rubble sifters shifted more of London’s ruins.

  A mountain removed, brick by brick.

  Underneath, thick wooden beams,

  dragged away by tiring arms.

  Then, the ground tilted.

  Something slid.

  They scrambled for safety

  as a hole opened up,

  revealing a downward-sloping ramp.

  And there! At the end:

  a staircase to the Underworld,

  should any be brave to dare.

  The sifters back away in horror;

  the X-Dogs look, but don’t approach.

  Only Harry and Agatha come near,

  climb down to the ramp,

  head for the steps,

  holding hands,

  biting lips,

  making wishes,

  they turn to each other and force a smile.

  This is the gate, Harry,

  this is the stair.

  Don’t be scared by the putrid air.

  Ignore the smell, and that terrible hum.

  Forget that you ever saw the sun.

  And standing there, Harry, you’re telling yourself,

  as you edge towards the lip of the ledge,

  that this is the threshold,

  your crossing place.

  This, the moment you’ll go underground.

  Harry, oh, Harry, dependable friend,

  it makes me weep to understand

  you’ve no idea of truth anymore;

  that ever since you heard my song

  you’ve been in the Underworld

  all along.

  The staircase spirals down, Harry.

  And yet you live, and life spirals up to meet you.

  And Ellis? you ask. Does he still live?

  The staircase

  spirals

  down.

  We counted the steps till we lost track somewhere past two hundred and something. Dim emergency lights functioning, but only lighting a few feet of darkness around each bulb. Felt like we were penetrating some lost pharaoh’s deep tomb, the broken bricks and masonry cluttering our descent at first, and then everything was calm, empty, and hushed. It felt good to be going down again; crazy as it sounds, it feels like this is the way to find Ellis and bring him back to the surface.

  Agatha’s clear eyes looked to me, trusting, encouraging me even, but still occasionally showing the wariness she must have had to live with before she and her parents escaped.

  You don’t have to come with me, I said, as we peered down into the gloomy well of the stairs.

  She took a very deep breath. I do. You are guiding me to my parents.

  Be reasonable, I said. They can’t be down here, love. You can wait up there, and I’ll come back for you. Help you, as soon as I’ve found my brother.

  She looked at me rather as you would an errant young dog. I’m coming with you. You are not well (pointing at my head), and you will get lost if I do not stay with you. And we will find my parents together.

  We listened to the darkness, straining for the sound of voices or trains or — who knows — even that mysterious hum Ellis told me about what seems like weeks and weeks ago. Yet we heard nothing but our breathing, faint sounds from above of the rubble sifters getting back to work, and the slow crawl of distant planes.

  I didn’t recognize the stairwell. It was like the one at Covent Garden, but the tiled murals on the curving wall were strange to me. Bucolic scenes, dappled hillsides, pine trees, and magical creatures like fauns and centaurs picked out in olive, rose, lemon.

  Don’t suppose you know what station this is? I asked.

  I didn’t use the Underground before, Agatha said. But this reminds me of a station near our old house in Berlin.

  She patted her pocket where she keeps that photo.

  They’ll be OK, I said.

  Agatha nodded, bit her lip, peered down.

  Footsteps were coming towards us, a slow trudge of boots on the metal-shod stairs, ringing out in the gloom, and a pale light brightening the pictures on the wall that enfolded us. A minute later a heavyset man labored into view, breathing hard through his mouth, pausing now and then before climbing on another ten, fifteen steps and resting again, the tin ARP helmet shielding his face until he was nearly on us. When he looked up and his flashlight beam caught our faces, he almost jumped clean out of his skin.

  He huffed, What the blazes are you doing down here? Wiped his forehead with a bloodred handkerchief.

  Fire service, I said. Looking for someone. Putting as much authority into it as I could.

  He looked me full in the eye. Well, I wouldn’t go this way if I were you.

  Why not? Agatha asked, stepping just that bit closer to me. The man’s voice was thick with some anxiety, or disgust maybe.

  Not safe. There’s a collapse in the next tunnel down, might be gas or water leaks. And there’s an old tramp down here, reckons it’s his little empire. Bit unhinged, I think, off his head on something. They say he deserted at Dunkirk and swam half the way home. Rather violent if you catch him on the wrong day.

  I told him we’d be just fine. After all it’s probably just some poor misunderstood sod. They say some people came down into the Underground and shelters in ’41 and have pretty much been down here ever since. Particularly the misfits, those who couldn’t find a place or anything to belong to up there in the real world.

  Well, I’m off duty now, the ARP man said, getting his breath back. For good.

  Me: What do you mean?

  ARP man: I’ve done my time. They’re letting me go when the shift ends. Thank God. I shall sit in my allotment, and Jerry can keep bombing all he likes. I’m going to dig the soil in January and plant seeds and smoke my pipe and have a bumper harvest. Sweet peas for the missus. Happy New Year!

  I told him it already was January by my reckoning and he laughed. New Year’s Eve still, he said — a few hours left of this old year yet! I’ve been bombed out, but at least I still know what ye
ar I’m in! You must have got confused.

  He laughed again, then thrust the heavy flashlight he was carrying into my hands. If you’re going on down, he said, you’d better have this. Battery’s brand-new. It gets very dark before it gets light again. Bomb damage even down here, and everything’s a bit of a mess.

  He looked us up and down. Well, cheerio. Watch out for Old Jimmy. He’s got a few unpleasant so-and-sos working for him too. They guard him. Rough lot.

  I thanked him, said I had nothing to pay him with after giving my last coins to Greene, and he said no matter.

  Give him one of the eyes, Agatha whispered, and reached into my pocket before I’d had time to answer and slipped the man one of the eyeballs.

  The man looked at it thoughtfully.

  Very nice, he said. I’ll put it on my windowsill in the shed. Thank you. Take care in the passages.

  Then he climbed on up, feet banging away, echoes receding.

  At the last I realized I’d forgotten to ask which station this was, and shouted after him, but he either didn’t hear or was so out of breath that his reply was lost. I hope he’ll make it through this last night on duty and then get to puff those clouds of blue-gray smoke across his ripening vegetables. The thought fills me with a kind of buoyancy again, the sense that we are doing the right thing.

  Bit worried about how I keep flipping in and out, like I’m here one minute and gone the next. But Agatha seems a steady guide. We’ll take it step-by-step. When I listen to the depths, I fancy I can hear that buzzing hum again. Just on the threshold of hearing, like a distant hive of bees, angry, muffled, on the way to swarm, but getting louder.

  Still can’t work out where I’ve gone wrong on the days, though.

  That ARP man must have been confused about the date. Or is it me? A pretty poor state when you don’t even know what year it is! Don’t know where we are. Don’t know when we are.

  We came down the mosaic-walled stairwell, through a doorway, and into a long echo of a corridor. Not a light on and glad to have the flashlight. We edged forward, thoughts of the ARP man’s warning about Old Jimmy and his boys fresh on my mind. It’s not that I worry so much about me; it’s not letting Ellis down that matters. And also Agatha. Don’t want to lead her into any trouble when she’s got her parents looking for her. I told her again she should have stayed aboveground, kept safe up there, but she just grabbed my jacket sleeve and said again, I am coming with you. You are very important to me.

  And again her smile lifted me, gave me new strength from somewhere.

  Bless her.

  The tunnel was wide, arched. We went forward, picking our way through scattered debris, a fallen pipe leaking wires. That smell of burning again and the hum louder. After about forty paces, I felt water drop onto my face, drip by drip, cold, refreshing, and the flashlight beam picked out what I can only describe as rain. A steady cold rain, percolating through the plaster overhead from some ruptured main or storm drain, falling the length of the tunnel, bringing the occasional chunk of white stuff away with it. More worried about keeping this damn book dry than myself. We dodged through it, stumbling, the tunnel extending for what felt like hundreds of yards, but I suppose was no more than the length of a platform, and came to a heavy door at the far end. No markings, no signs, no Keep Out. Just a heavy black door, open a fraction, the hum louder beyond, and a hint of smoke.

  And then we heard footsteps ringing out behind us.

  An angry voice: Oi, you two. Where do you think you’re bleeding going?

  I trained the flashlight behind us into the dark to show a tall man, dark coat flaring as he chased through the rain behind us.

  I shouted I was looking for someone, that he was down here somewhere.

  If you’re after the boss, forget it, the man barked. He’s deeper down. Have you brought anything for him? If you don’t give Old Jimmy something, he’ll not take kindly to that.

  Now I saw the gun in the man’s hand and pulled Agatha round behind me to shield her.

  He waved the thing at me, closing the gap fast.

  Just stand still, mate. And your little tart. Can’t have any Tom, Dick, or Harry running around down here. Might see something you shouldn’t. This is Jimmy’s little empire, and we decide who goes where.

  I told him to mind his language. That Agatha was a refugee, and she didn’t need the likes of him chucking words like that about.

  The man growled back at me, a sound full of derision, disgust.

  I know one when I see one, mate. I can sniff ’em out. You don’t get decent buggers looking for Old Jimmy. Just the likes of you and me. The likes of her.

  That kind of thing.

  What got me was the tone — hard, flint hard — and the way he kept the gun pointing at us as he stalked forward, jabbing it to underline each word, as if he knew everything about us. But he hadn’t a clue.

  I told him to put the bloody thing down. Seemed senseless having some kind of petty gangland spat down here in the middle of all the carnage.

  He spat out a gob of phlegm. And who the hell are you, matey, to tell me what to do? he shouted. Nobody else can hear you this deep. You do as I say, or I’ll drop you on the bloody spot. Perhaps I’ll start with whatever you’re carrying on you: cash, watch, coupons, ciggies maybe. He gestured with the black bore of the gun: Now that looks like a nice bit of gold on your girl’s finger there. I’ll have that for starters.

  For a moment I thought I was shivering, from cold, perhaps even fear, though I didn’t feel it, just a growing anger — rage — with this stupid man, what he was saying. Then I realized it was Agatha who was shaking, pressed tight behind me, trembling, her teeth chattering.

  Don’t let him take it, she whispered through the shivering. The ring belongs to my mother. I must not let it go, Harry. I promised Mutti I would keep it safe for her. Forever and ever.

  The stranger’s voice cutting over hers: You got any other jewelry, sweetheart? Lovely-looking thing like you must have.

  My head was hurting again, blurring. I reached for A’s hand, gave it a squeeze. Hadn’t noticed the ring there before, but now it looked so obvious. Valuable.

  I kept it safe all this way, she hissed. And some other things in my pocket, Harry. Jewels. I promised Mutti. He can’t have them.

  The man was nearly on us, just a couple of yards away. Cocky, self-assured, all the time in the world — and enjoying the fact!

  If you give me enough, he sneered, perhaps I’ll let you go. Perhaps Old Jimmy won’t keep you down here for good.

  Something snapped in me. I launched myself at him, so hard, so fast, that he didn’t have time to react — not quickly enough anyway. I pushed him back hard against the tunnel wall, screaming at him to leave Agatha alone, grappling blindly for I don’t know what — the gun or his throat maybe — and the gun went off. Thunderous in the confined space, but I just kept going, had him by the scruff of the collar. In that moment I wanted to thump him, kick him, hurt him badly. But that voice in me whispered not to, that it wouldn’t relieve anything, so instead I just wanted to get him away from us both, and in a kind of weird, frantic waltz, both of us wrestling for each other, I spun him round and round, and then sent him spinning off balance along the rain-soaked passage. Falling, cursing.

  Then we ran. I heard him shouting, furious, and another two shots exploded behind us. Agatha pushed through the black door, and we slammed it shut and slid two big bolts home, and slumped to the ground.

  The man banged on the door. Shouted threats about what Old Jimmy would do when he finds us, stuff you don’t want to think about. That we would never see the light of day. Then the thud of bullets as he emptied his gun impotently at this heavy metal door, and then silence.

  And here we are.

  Some kind of — what? A deep storage space? A bunker of some kind? It’s big, like a cavern, but all straight lines and metal. Maybe this is where the government is planning to hide if the Germans ever get going with anything worse than V-2s: sonic rays
, robots, who knows what? Low-level lighting, so dim you can feel your eyes straining, trying to make sense of it all. Pipes, walkways, wires, corridors leading off in different directions. And the hum. The hum is much louder here. You can feel it throbbing all around. God knows where we are now, but A looks calm again. She’s twiddling the gold ring on her finger. Smiling a thin smile, whispering to herself, lost in something I can’t see. I’m sure I didn’t notice that ring before. Odd.

  My head’s so foggy.

  Everything’s slipping.

  It was a last-minute thing

  — the giving of the ring.

  When,

  in the moment before the train departed,

  Agatha’s mother, who knew she must not cry,

  slid the ring from her fumbling fingers

  and reached towards her daughter.

  From the platform below

  it was nearly too far,

  but Agatha

  leaned

  out.

  Mother and daughter:

  their fingers brushed

  as the train huffed and hushed,

  and jolted to life.

  And Agatha’s mother thought, Remember me!

  Dear child, remember me!

  For this is the end of our time together;

  this is the end

  of our time.

  Agatha gripped the ring

  and stared as her mother grew smaller and smaller,

  until she was lost from sight.

  Then, as London grew bigger and bigger,

  Agatha stared at the ring,

  that symbol of love, eternal and right.

  And placed on her finger,

  there the ring stayed,

  day, after day, after London day

  as Agatha tried to make herself thin,

  the better to blend with the people of London,

  the people who’d taken her in.