So Below: The Trilogy Page 3

  “Has he really been down here for years?” Yoshi climbs from his sick bed, testing his balance before standing freely.

  “Since before any of us can remember,” says Mikhail. “He has probably done more to map the city under the surface than any other urban explorer.”

  Yoshi looks at him quizzically. “So he isn’t trapped inside the bunker?”

  “The military fitted bars above the entrance when they’d finished with it. With everyone out, I don’t suppose they saw much point in sealing up the emergency exit.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at a steel plate in the wall. “If the generals and their staff ever needed to make a hasty getaway, they’d simply climb into the chute behind there and slide their way to freedom. Julius has given up using it. The clamber back to the top makes his bones ache, but we use it to come and go.”

  “Where does it lead?” asks Yoshi.

  “That’s classified information,” replies Mikhail playfully, and taps his nose to show how top secret it must be. “Let’s just say there might be a military monorail that leads to an airport out of the city. If the general public knew about that, it wouldn’t be a secret any more.”

  “There’s no such thing,” protests Yoshi. “Is there?”

  “According to Julius, the line has collection points under the Houses of Parliament, government ministries and the Palace, in case the important people needed to get out of town in a hurry. But like so many levels under London, it’s no longer in use. Nobody goes down there any more, apart from us.”

  “Isn’t that trespassing?” suggests Yoshi.

  “Who’s going to catch us?” asks Mikhail. “As far as the military are concerned, the tunnels and this bunker are history. They’ve found other ways to blow their budgets on bigger, better toys. But for us, it’s everything we need. So long as this hatch is sealed from the inside, nobody can get in. The only way in from street level is through the bars, and no adult can hope to squeeze between that gap. For kids like us that means a lot,” he says to finish, “to some more than others.”

  “I think it must mean a great deal to you,” says Yoshi, when the boy drops his gaze for a moment.

  “All of us have run away from something,” says Mikhail eventually, “just like you.”

  Yoshi nods, wishing he could make sense of his arrival. This time, an image flashes across his mind’s eye: a man in a white mink coat, searching the streets for something.

  What’s weird is that it doesn’t feel like a memory. Yoshi had torn through darkness and fog to escape this guy. And yet the impression he has now is so bright it flares just like the sunshine he can see on the brute’s bald dome. It’s like a clip of some sort that could be playing out right now, somewhere on the surface of the city.

  Yoshi furrows his brow, concentrating harder, only for the picture to pop into little pieces as fast as it had formed. He shakes his head as if to clear it, finds his new friend once more, and puts the moment down to the big bump on his head.

  “I know I arrived in a hurry,” he says, nursing the bruise now. “I just wish my brain would stop playing tricks so I could remember what it is I’m running from.”

  “All in good time,” the young Russian assures him. He chews on a thought for a moment, says finally, “Speaking of tricks, would you like me to show you how I guessed your card?”

  “Yes, please!”

  Mikhail produces the pack one more time, only for a siren to begin wailing through the bunker. He sighs and, with a flick of his wrist, makes the pack vanish from sight. “All hands on deck!” he yells over the din, and moves quickly for the door. “Little tricks like this are just the beginning, Yoshi. Here’s your chance to see what we do best.”

  4

  ACTION STATIONS!

  Yoshi scrambles to keep up with his new friend with the flag-red hair. Other crew members rush ahead on the stairs, all of them flocking to the upper level. By the time he follows Mikhail to the Bridge, there’s a kid in front of every computer screen. Billy rolls between each row. He’s sporting a headset now. It has a little microphone on a bar in front of his mouth. He seems very pleased to be the one barking orders.

  “Tangos on cam three, d’you copy? I say again, we have four tangos in total, approaching south from Covent Garden tube station.”

  “Roger that,” a voice crackles over the main intercom. “What are they packing?”

  Billy glances at the nearest monitor. On the screen, an overhead camera appears to be tracking a family ambling through a crowded street.

  “Tangos are wearing matching yellow windcheaters. Adult male has a video camera slung over left shoulder. Looks like adult female is wearing the bum bag. Proceed at will, copy?”

  Yoshi struggles to take it all in. Both eyes bug out, while his jaw slowly loses the fight against gravity.

  “In case the authorities happen to be listening in,” whispers Mikhail, ‘tangos’ is our code for targets. Right now, the tangos are tourists. We’ve hit the jackpot if they turn out to be American. They always have deep pockets. Just like the Japanese and the Swedes.”

  “Please don’t say they’re about to be robbed,” pleads Yoshi, watching the two children saunter along happily in front of their parents. They’re clearly enjoying the atmosphere out there. Street entertainers compete for their attention – a juggler balances a chair by its leg on the tip of his nose, while buskers belt out classic songs on anything from banjos to bongos and even dustbin lids. The place is bustling, colourful, but relaxed. Almost too relaxed, thinks Yoshi fretfully.

  “Just watch,” suggests Mikhail.

  The big screen at the front of the room fires up to reveal the family in close-up. On Billy’s order, the camera pulls back. It brings some street punk into the frame – hands in pockets, whistling to himself – who tags behind the woman.

  “Bravo Team Leader, you’re clear to go on my word.” Billy glides by Yoshi now. “Your soup will have to wait, kiddo,” he tells him, covering his mouthpiece for a moment. Yoshi is about to declare that it’s too late – for this whole affair is leaving a bad taste in his mouth, but already Billy has swung back around to the big screen. “Go, go, go!” he yells by way of command. “This is not a drill!”

  At once the street punk’s hands dart forward. It’s a blur on the monitor, but then he breaks away and it’s clear to Yoshi that he’s clutching a wedge of passports.

  “Bum bag located,” the punk confirms over the intercom, picking through his find as he melts into the crowd. “The goose just laid four fine, golden eggs.”

  “No!” yells Yoshi. “This is wrong!”

  Nobody turns to face him except for Billy, who scowls over the monitors.

  “There’s more to this than meets the eye,” Mikhail assures Yoshi. “There always is, with us.”

  On the screen, the street punk appears to have finished going through the passports. Yoshi watches him double back to rejoin the family, walking close behind the woman again. Another blur of hands, and when he breaks away this time, the passports have gone.

  “Eggs returned to the nest,” he confirms over the intercom. “Will regroup with Bravo Team immediately.”

  “Good work, Team Leader,” says Billy. “Here’s hoping we can hatch the eggs without a hitch. Bravo Team, are you ready?”

  “Copy, Billy. We have a visual now. Tangos are on their way.”

  With a crackle of white noise, the main screen switches shots. This time, it focuses on a motley crew of kids hanging around bollards where the street meets a square. The pickpocket that Yoshi has just been watching walks into the frame. He joins the pack, who gather round for a brief moment and then break apart like someone has just dropped a bad smell. A second later, the family appear. They slow to a halt – confronted, it seems, by a question from one of the kids.

  “What’s going on?” asks Yoshi, upon which the kid draws a deck of cards from thin air, just as Mikhail had. He fans the deck effortlessly, and shows it to the family. They look hesitant, but this scamp has a winn
ing grin. It’s enough for the father to overcome his reluctance and pick a card. He shows it to his wife and children, all of them pulling faces like this will never work, and then returns it to the pack.

  “The kid you’re observing is one of our best. Not only has he bet that he can correctly guess the card, when he shows it to them it’s going to have their names and birth dates miraculously scrawled across it.”

  “Maybe he could do the same for me,” mutters Yoshi, sensing some kind of trick take shape. “I could certainly use the information.”

  “There’s plenty of time for that.” Mikhail touches a finger to his lips. “You’re missing a master class here. You’ll note he’s involving the whole family in this trick. Working the crowd is far more effective than focusing on one person. It makes individuals less likely to question what they’re seeing for fear of ridicule from the others. We like to call it our weapon of mass delusion.”

  Yoshi watches the street kid shuffle the pack, pinpoint a card as if following some higher instinct, and then face it to the family. This time, they respond as if he’s just flashed them a glimpse of tomorrow’s headlines. They turn to each other in amazement, their mouths forming perfect circles, while the kid stows the cards, dusts his hands and holds out his palm expectantly.

  Yoshi only has to see the money cross this punk’s palm to realise what he has just witnessed here, and can’t help but be impressed.

  “That was so cool,” he says, watching the family move on with smiles painted wide across their faces. As soon as their backs are turned, the kid lifts his attention to the camera and gives the thumbs up. All around Yoshi, the boys and girls at their monitors begin to whoop, cheer and swap high-fives. All except one eagle-eyed lad near the front, who stabs a button near his screen so his voice comes across the intercom.

  “Cops on cam five, Bravo Team, approaching from the Strand. They’ll want to know why you’re not at school, my friends, so time to make yourselves scarce.”

  “Roger that. Returning to base.”

  Gradually, the jubilant buzz on the Bridge returns to a workmanlike drone. As the kids begin to move around, returning to posts and positions, Mikhail leads Yoshi to one side. “What you’ve just seen is street magic in action.”

  “I’m impressed,” says Yoshi. “But it’s hardly magic.”

  “That’s because you saw how it was done. Through the eyes of that family, what happened defied all reason, but we know it’s just a deception.”

  Yoshi can’t help but look a little downcast. “Don’t you feel guilty?”

  Mikhail draws air between his teeth, thinking through the question. “It’s tough to accept that what you see is just a trick,” he says finally. “Everyone wants to believe that there is more to this life, after all. We’re simply in the business of suggesting that dreams can come true.”

  “Well, if you put it like that,” says Yoshi, though it’s clear to Mikhail that his new friend has some reservations.

  “Before we showed up, those tourists were practically sleepwalking through their visit to London! We just gave them a little wake up call, and brightened up their stay. Even better, we got paid for it. So, everyone is happy.”

  “Hey,” says Yoshi, enjoying the sales pitch now. “You’ve won me over.”

  “It’s all about preparation,” says Mikhail. “Thanks to this camera network we can carry out some of the greatest feats in the history of illusion. We have Billy to thank for that. He’s the one who restored the feed from New Scotland Yard’s traffic cams, and set up the firewall so our computer system is invisible to them. With an eye on every street in the West End and the surrounding area, we’re talking big business. Sometimes we’ll make a few pennies from an operation like that. Other times it can amount to a small fortune. It all depends on the trick and the tourist.”

  “And this is what you do, day in and day out?”

  “Like I keep saying,” grins Mikhail. “There’s more to us than meets the eye.”

  Yoshi watches the crew settle down again, wondering if things can get any more crazy, only to attract the attention of the boy in charge of operations.

  Billy No-Beard wheels across the floor, accepting instructions over the headset. “There’s no space in here for observers,” he breaks off to tell the boy. “Besides, Julius has just radioed in. He wants to see you in the Map Room.”

  “Where’s that?” asks Yoshi.

  “You want me to give you directions?” Billy smiles slyly. “To the Map Room?”

  “I’ll show you,” says Mikhail, shaking his head now. “Did I tell you that our cabin boy is also the resident wise guy?”

  “I’m an Executive Deck Hand,” Billy says to correct Mikhail, clearly stung by his description.

  “That’s fine,” says Yoshi, palms up, for the last thing he wants is a conflict. “Whatever you want me to call you is not a problem.”

  “And Number One Game Champ,” adds Billy as they pass, as if anyone could’ve forgotten. “Whenever you’re ready for a round, Yoshi, just say the word. I’m beginning to think you’re a top player who’s trying to fool me into thinking you’ve never picked up a joystick in your life.”

  “I’ve no idea what I am,” says Yoshi with a shrug. “I just hope that if my memory comes back I’ll like what I discover.”

  5

  DEEPER DOWN

  Mikhail reaches for the brass door knocker, and gives it a hefty whack. It seems odd to Yoshi for such an old-fashioned device to be fixed to a blast-proof steel door, but then nothing seems normal since he last saw daylight. In vain, the boy’s been searching his mind for some clue that might tell him who he is. All he can be certain about is that life down here feels somehow more secure than the life he’s left behind.

  The door to the Map Room is half open, but the boys stay out on the deck plate, awaiting a response. When it arrives, the distant, mumbled “Enter” tells Yoshi that the man they’ve come to see must have his mind on other matters.

  “This is where he does his thinking,” whispers Mikhail. “Shhh!”

  They’ve come down to the bunker’s lowest level. It’s really just a narrow, dimly-lit gantry that rings the Engine Room. If Yoshi turns around he can see it through the viewing glass: a hulking great core of riveted steelwork, pumps, flasks, switches and pressure gauges that seems to rise up from oblivion. Yoshi peers through the gaps in the deck plate. He can hear dripping far below, as if they’re standing over some kind of chasm. It’s almost a relief for him when they step over the threshold and into the Map Room, even if it does take them down a series of iron steps and onto cold flagstones.

  “So glad you’re with us again, Yoshi! I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  With no sign of the old man, Yoshi looks up and around. The walls in here are towering, with bookshelves climbing high. There are ladders on rails to reach the upper shelves, all of which are crammed with tomes from every age. At the very top is a skylight. Every now and then, dark spots trail across, taking shape and then peeling off from above.

  “You’re looking at pedestrians,” says Mikhail. “You must’ve walked over glass bricks in a pavement before?”

  Yoshi focuses on the square of flat light, thinking hard. “Of course,” he says. “I haven’t forgotten what it looks like up there, but if you asked me to find my way home I wouldn’t know where to begin.” He finds the dog tags hanging from the chain around his neck, rubs one of the plates between his fingers. “Eleven twenty-three,” he says to himself. “These numbers must mean something.

  “They’re too long to be a house number,” Mikhail points out, “and too short for a telephone number. You’re not old enough to play the lottery, but it might be a pin number for an account containing a million pounds!”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I wish so, Yoshi, but who knows? It could be anything. If it’s a code of some sort then Julius is the right man to crack it.” Mikhail crosses the floor to a large circular table. A candelabra stands in the centre, with a
ring of wicks burning brightly. Light flickers over the paperwork strewn around it, and a chess set with a game in progress. The candlelight makes the pawns appear to advance as the Russian boy pores over the set, studying the next move.

  “Numbers are what makes his world go round,” says Mikhail, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Present him with a pattern, he’ll unpick it.”

  “So where is he?”

  Mikhail nods towards the far end of this cavernous room. It goes beyond the reach of the candlelight, but as his eyes adjust Yoshi spots a passage with a dim light of its own. The bare earth walls are shored with timber, but the boy can’t help thinking he’s in some kind of human badger’s sett. Oil lamps hang from the joists, revealing a gallery of picture frames of different shapes and sizes. “When Julius filled the Map Room with his stuff, we had to dig him some more space. That’s the advantage of underground living. If you need more room to breathe, simply grab a spade!”

  Just then, a slanted shadow passes from the wall of the passage to the floor. The sound of someone muttering to himself grows with it, and then Julius Grimaldi appears around a corner. He seems puffed, like he’s come a long way, and shuffles out clutching so many scrolls that the boys offer to help without being asked.

  “No need. I can manage!” he insists, and promptly stumbles on the edge of a flagstone. The scrolls spill across the floor, one rolling to a stop at Yoshi’s feet. The boy crouches to collect it, and rises to find this snowy-haired oddball looking sheepish but thankful.

  “I’m not as sharp as I used to be,” he admits, as the Russian boy retrieves the other stray scrolls and begins stacking them in his arms again. “If it wasn’t for the likes of kind-hearted kids like Mikhail, I’d have starved to death down here. Either that or I’d have learned to enjoy the taste of stewed rat. Are you hungry, Yoshi? You must eat to get big and strong.”