Mind the Gap
That had definitely been a movement. An echo, per-haps, of something farther away, but definitely not dripping water. More ghosts? She imagined an endless procession of people fleeing endless bombing, but the things she had found down here were at odds with that image. Ghosts did not eat biscuits, drink milk, or listen to Metallica.
Jazz scanned the shelter by the poor light of the hanging bulbs.
Keep your wits about you, her mother had once said. That's the best weapon you can have.
****
"See?" she said. "Richard Kimble's got his wits. Evades cap-ture. Runs. And he's saving himself too."
"The Fugitive is just a film, Mum," Jazz said. She was sitting on the sofa with her legs tucked up beneath her, eating strawberry ice cream straight from the tub. Her mum's whiskey tumbler was almost empty again, but although her eyes glittered and her face was flushed, her words were as clear and concise as ever.
"But you can learn a lot from a film. Why shouldn't you learn from fiction? It's a vast array of ideas, and you can take what you need from that. Look at him. You can see the plan-ning in every movement of his eyes, everything he does. He knows not to stop running. He knows to lose himself and how to find himself again after that."
"But he's just an actor, Mum. Not flesh and blood."
"Flesh and blood?" her mother said, and she froze for a few seconds, her eyes seeing something much farther away.
"Mum?"
"Flesh and blood," she repeated, words quieter than ever. "Not everything real is flesh and blood, Jazz. Not everything at all."
****
Those ghosts were not real, Jazz thought, running low and fast toward the other end of the shelter.
She wanted to get as far from the spiral staircase as possible, and she remembered seeing some cupboards and storage units piled haphazardly against the end wall. Perhaps there she would find cover from whatever was coming.
She could hear the footsteps now, a single set descend-ing with confidence.
Whoever it is, they're not expecting anyone to be down here. It gave her a moment's hope, but still she was terrified.
She almost fumbled the torch and held her breath, loop-ing her index finger through the handle. If she lost that, she really would be in trouble.
If whoever came down was threatening, she could blind them with light, then run for the stairs. It wasn't so far to the surface. A hundred feet, maybe? A bit less, a bit more?
She reached the end of the shelter, paused, and heard those footsteps still descending. She should have been count-ing steps, she knew. Should have been trying to work out how long she had, how close they were, how fast they were de-scending.
There were a dozen cabinets here, stacked against the crumbling brickwork, and most of them were full with all manner of goods. She started panicking again. She could lie down on one of the mattresses and pull a blanket across her, but how effective would that be? She had to hide, and now she was starting to wish she'd just gone to wait at the en-trance tunnel, ready to clout the visitor over the head with the torch and run for her life.
She found a cupboard that was only half full, coats and jackets piled flat on its floor. She could fit in there.
The footsteps echoed so loudly that she was sure they were right behind her.
He paused for a while at the end of the entrance tunnel, looking around the shelter, nose raised.
He knows I'm here. Oh fuck, he knows I'm here. He can smell me, see me, sense me!
The man was tall, easily six feet, and stood proud and straight. She thought he was older than his appearance sug-gested. He had long black hair that was tied in a loose pony-tail and wore a trench coat that had seen better days. Its material was ripped in several places, and there seemed to be stains beneath both large pockets, as though he kept some-thing in there that leaked. From this distance, Jazz could not make out his features, but his face looked pale and long, only the chin and cheeks darkened by stubble.
He held one hand out before him, fingers moving gently as though he was playing the air.
Jazz knew for sure that he was no ghost.
She tried to breathe slow and deep, but she was out of breath from her mad dash along the shelter.
The torch was held between her knees; if it slipped and banged the cabinet, she would be found out.
The man looked around, moving his fingers before him again. What can he see? she thought. She shifted slightly and looked at the array of cupboards and shelving, trying to pic-ture what it had been like when she arrived and make out how it had changed. Some doors were open, but they had not all been closed to begin with. The fridges were closed, the cabinets housing them shut. Some of the blankets on the mattresses were messed up —had she done that as she ran?— and...
She could just make out the biscuit packet, still half full but discarded carelessly on the floor.
Jazz shifted again until she could see the man. He did not seem to be looking in the direction of the biscuit cup-board. Indeed, he now seemed to have his eyes closed and his face raised, as though smelling the air of the place.
"You can come on down now, my pets," he said. "We're very much alone."
The man walked gracefully into the shelter, and then Jazz heard the whisper of many more feet descending the spiral staircase. From where she was hiding, the footfalls sounded like fingers drumming on a tabletop, distant and ambiguous.
The man took something from the pocket of his trench coat, stuck out his tongue, and placed the something on it. He chewed thoughtfully, only turning around when the first shape appeared behind him.
It was barely a shadow, slipping into the shelter and dash-ing across the concrete floor. Jazz tried to keep track, but the poor lighting defeated her. It was as though this shape —who-ever or whatever it was—knew just where the lighting levels were lowest and took advantage of that.
Another shape came from the entrance tunnel, then an-other, all of them much smaller and slighter than the tall man. They came low and fast, parting around the man like a stream flowing around a rock.
Jazz counted four, six, per-haps nine shapes flowing from the tunnel. When she did catch sight of their faces, she saw only pale skin and dark eyes; the light was too poor, and they were moving too fast to truly make out any features.
They were all carrying something on their backs.
What am I going to see? she thought. I've moved on from one danger to... what? Something worse?
The man raised his arms and turned slowly around, and then all the shapes stopped and turned to look at him.
They were kids. Teenagers and younger. Pale, scruffy, yet most of them with a smile on their face, and a couple with expressions of outright joy.
"Ahh, my pets, there's nothing like coming home," the tall man said.
"Now, then," the man continued. He groaned slightly as he sat on a large blanket in the center of the floor. "Cadge, if you'd be kind enough to illuminate our day's haul, I'd be most grateful."
"No problem, Mr. F." A boy to Jazz's left disappeared out of her line of sight, coming close to the cabinets and ap-parently slipping between two of them to whatever lay be-hind. She had thought they were lined against a solid wall, but maybe not. Seconds later, the rest of the strung lights lit up, and Jazz had to squint against the glare.
There was a brief cheer from the kids and a satisfied smile from the tall man —or Mr. F., as the boy Cadge had called him.
Cadge came into view again and performed an elaborate, slow bow. He was a short, skinny kid, maybe fourteen, with an unruly mop of bright ginger hair, baggy jeans, and a denim jacket studded with button badges. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, which seemed too delicate for his face. He glanced back once —Jazz held her breath—then he slipped the rucksack from his shoulders and went to sit close to Mr. F. From the brief glimpse of his face lit up by the lights, Jazz was sure she had seen no lenses in his glasses.
The children gathered around Mr. F., sitting on blan-kets, mattresses, or bare concrete. They all took off ruck-sacks or duffels and placed them beside them on the floor, and the tall man looked around with a warm smile. "Good day, my pets?"
"Best I've 'ad in a while," one boy said.
"Ah!" Mr. F. clapped his hands. "If Stevie Sharpe tells me he's had a good day, I know we'll be eating well tonight."
Stevie Sharpe smiled tightly, the expression hardly changing his face. He tipped up his rucksack, and Jazz gasped. Dozens of wallets and purses fell from it, pattering to the floor like dead birds. "American bus trip broke down," the boy said. "They had to catch the Tube to meet up with a new bus." He picked up one wallet and flipped it through the air.
Mr. F. caught it and put it to his nose. "Real leather, of course," he said. Then he opened the wallet and flipped through the contents. He smiled. "Yes, eating very well tonight. That's if you all don't mind fillet steak bought with honestly earned money?"
The children laughed and started offering their own hauls to the man sitting in their midst.
What the hell is this? Jazz thought. And as she watched the strange display before her —more loot, more celebrat-ing, more banter, and plenty of laughter—another realiza-tion struck her: she needed to pee.
Wallets and purses were the main hauls, handed to Mr. F. as though he were some ancient god to which the kids had to pay tribute. Jazz guessed that the youngest was maybe twelve , the oldest eighteen. A couple of them were about her age —seventeen—and old enough to pass as adults.
She closed her eyes and tried not to concentrate on her bladder. However desperate her situation, she was too proud to piss herself while shut away in some cupboard. Some smelly cupboard, she realized.
The coats and jackets com-pressed beneath her seemed to be exuding an old, musty odor, a mixture of damp and sweat and something more spicy and exotic.
When she looked again, several of the children were gathering their haul and starting to store it away. They shoved it seemingly at random into cupboards and cabinets, but they worked in a way that convinced Jazz there was some sort of system here.
No coats today, she thought. No jackets, no coats or jackets, please, not today.
But remaining undiscovered was simply delaying the in-evitable. Unless she could stay here until these people went out again, what hope did she have?
Mr. F. stood and strolled to the other end of the shelter, opening the fridge cabinets and taking out a bottle of beer. He popped the top and drank deep, turning around to watch his kids hide away their stolen goods.
Bunch of thieves. Nothing more, nothing less. Jazz ac-tually felt disappointed. Discovering this subterranean place had instilled a sense of mystery in her, distracting to some small degree from the seriousness of her situation. The hope-lessness. She had been thinking only minutes, maybe hours ahead —avoid capture by the Uncles, maybe plan forward to where and when she could go back up to the surface. And then the ghosts— (though she had not really seen them, had she? Not really. The stress, the strain, the trauma had thrust visions at her from the darkness, that was all) —and the discovery of this strange place had combined to help remove her even more from the world. She had not only come deeper, she had come farther away. That had felt good.
"Just bloody thieves," she whispered.
"Mr. F.?" One of the girls walked to the tall man, hold-ing something in her hand.
"So who's the litterbug?" Mr. F. asked. "Cadge?"
"Not me, Mr. F. I'm clean an' tidy."
Mr. F. smiled and held up the half-empty biscuit wrap-per. "Someone craving bourbons? It's hardly surprising. They are, after all, members of the biscuit royalty, though I'd only bestow a princehood on them.
The king being... ?"
"Chocolate Hobnobs," a tall boy said, rubbing his stomach and sighing.
"Right. So...?"
A chorus of no's and shaken heads, and then the strange group went back to tidying their haul.
"As ever, I believe you all," the man said. His voice was lower than before, and Jazz could see the confusion on his face.
Damn, she really needed to pee.
Jazz sobbed. She couldn't help it. She quickly pressed her hand to her mouth, squeezed her eyes shut, and the torch slipped between her knees. The handle touched the metal wall of the cabinet, making a sound as loud and strik-ing as a school dinner bell.
Oh fuck!
"Guests?" she heard Mr. F. say.
She tried to open her eyes, but fear kept them glued shut. Tears squeezed out and tickled her cheeks, and when she finally found the strength to look, the shelter was fran-tic with activity, children darting here and there as they searched for the intruder. The only person not moving was Mr. F. He was once again standing on the blanket in the center, turning slowly around until his gaze settled in her di-rection.
"Cadge?" he said.
"Mr. F.?" The voice came from very close by, and Jazz's breath caught in her throat. She leaned forward slightly and saw the ginger boy, Cadge, standing six feet away.
"The coat cupboard," Mr. F. said.
Jazz kicked open the doors and went to leap out and brandish the torch as a weapon. But her left leg had gone to sleep, and instead of leaping she stumbled, falling to the ground and sending the torch spinning away.
Cadge was on her quickly, knocking her left hand away and sending her falling painfully onto her side. He sat astride her and pinned her right arm beneath his legs.
Jazz struggled for a moment, then realized it was far too late.
"Mr. F.!" Cadge called." 'Fink we caught us a proper lady!" "Is she wearing a hat?" one of the girls asked, and every-one laughed.
"Trust Hattie to think of the most important things," Mr. F. said. He came into Jazz's field of vision, sideways be-cause she still had her face pressed to the cool concrete, and he looked even stranger close up. His skin was so pale as to be almost white, and even beneath the stubbled chin and cheeks it looked like flesh that had been underwater for too long. He had a large Roman nose, a wide mouth, and deeply piercing eyes. She thought they were green, but it was diffi-cult to tell in this light.