So Below: The Trilogy Page 6

  Julius comes to a halt, the lamplight way below him, and peers up at the boy. “The ring’s power is locked up in the ley lines. If we’re going to keep them safe and sound, what we need is a key.”

  9

  HOW WE DO IT

  It’s first light, at the far end of a dead-end alley, and something stirs among the weeds. A pair of hands appears to sprout through the bars. This is followed by a boy in full bloom, judging by his colourful costume.

  Billy No-Beard clenches something tightly between his teeth, but it isn’t a cutlass, despite his pirate theme. It’s a pair of knotted laces, with two roller-blade boots dangling underneath. He blinks in the early sun, glances around, and then hauls himself up as if boarding a ship.

  It may be too early for the tourists, but the din at the mouth of the alley tells Billy the market is open for business. Strapped into his boots now, he sets off past the shuttered kitchen. With his chest puffed, he switches around on his wheels to face the weeds, but doesn’t stop moving or even slow down.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” he sings, spreading his hands wide. “It’s a beauuuutiful day for magic and mischief!”

  Immediately, another head pops up through the bars. This one is sporting bright red spikes and a scowl. It’s Mikhail, and he really doesn’t look like he’s here to chip in with the chorus.

  “Shush!” he hisses, and clambers out himself. “Can we please stop showing off?”

  Billy brakes with one heel, and folds his arms. “Where is the new boy, anyway?” he asks, as a band of sun-dodging punks crawl out behind Mikhail. All of them are hauling heavy-duty cases of different shapes and sizes. They look like buskers moving an orchestra of instruments, with Billy conducting from the front before anyone is ready. “All I’m trying to do is entertain the crew,” he protests. “A little song, to put a spring into their step.”

  “Billy, honking like that is not entertaining. It’s embarrassing!” Mikhail steps away from the weeds, clearing a space for the next arrival. “Any more of that racket and the poor new lad’s ears might start bleeding.”

  At this, Yoshi emerges from the pit, followed by several other kids. “Don’t mind me,” Yoshi says and grins at his newfound friends. “I’m just keen to find out where I came from.” Rising up beside Mikhail now, his attention turns to the buildings pressing in on this cramped alleyway. To his eye, these wonky dwellings seem to almost climb over one another. Yoshi traces an imaginary path from the wall to a sloping gable roof. “Maybe if I climbed up there I’d get my bearings,” he says, half thinking of his earlier view of the city.

  “I don’t think so,” scoffs Mikhail. “The rooftops are for pigeons and parkours.”

  Yoshi looks at him questioningly. “What are they?”

  “Pigeons?” he repeats. “Grey-feathered birds with beady eyes. Can’t stand them, personally. They give me the creeps.”

  “Parkours, Mikhail! I’m sure I’ve heard that term before.”

  “Oh, you know.” The Russian boy shrugs. “Those crazy free-runner dudes. The ones who leap from building to building like God should’ve given them wings. You’d think they have a problem using pavements, the way they head for the rooftops at every opportunity.”

  “Oh,” says Yoshi, none the wiser.

  “You see them around town every now and then, but you need to keep your eyes to the sky, and that isn’t so easy when what you really want is a spare pair in the back of your head. Having seen who chased you here, Yoshi, my advice is to stay underground with us. Whether you’re in the city or the wilderness, you get warmth and protection from a good bolt hole.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right,” Mikhail confirms. “I also know that you need food to survive, so let’s earn some breakfast.”

  “Whatever you say.” Yoshi raises his hands, pretending to surrender. “You’re the boss.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” warns Mikhail, under his breath. “But if Billy was in charge, we’d all be ordered to dress up like musketeers on wheels.”

  “What is that all about?” asks Yoshi, speaking up as Billy swings out of earshot. “Is his entire wardrobe fancy dress?”

  “Below ground, we can wear whatever we please,” says Mikhail. “We’re safe from the kind of grief you might get from looking different on the surface. Sure, we might tease one another, but always in good fun. Bullying is banned, you see. As anyone who joins the bunker is usually running away from that kind of trouble, so it’s a rule that suits us all.”

  Mikhail instructs the others to join Billy at the far end, asking for a moment more with Yoshi. “We all have hard-luck tales to tell,” he continues, once everyone is out of earshot, “and Billy is a case in point.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “That’s a story for Billy to share when he feels you can be trusted,” suggests Mikhail. “All I can tell you is that he went through hell before he found himself here. And when he did, boy did he blossom! However Billy chooses to express himself is fine by us, mind you. What matters is that he can keep the bunker shipshape, and cook up a storm for the crew.” He pauses there and smacks his lips. “Now, you must be hungry, and I don’t just mean to learn more about yourself. Follow me, my friend! Let’s get on with conjuring up some food.”

  “Roger that!” laughs Yoshi, mindful of the operation he had witnessed from the control room. At the same time, he can’t help but dwell upon what he had been running from when he fell upon the bunker. He hangs back from the Russian boy for a moment, his expression turning thoughtful. When he catches up, he has one last question for him. “If my memory comes back to me, do you think I’ll have a hard luck story to tell like everyone else?”

  “Who knows?” Mikhail answers as they join the waiting crew. “But if you want a happy ending, you’d be wise to stick with us.”

  The market here strikes up before dawn, only to close for business before the sightseers begin to tour the streets. Like so much in Chinatown, there’s more going on than you might think. If everyone knew the stalls that briefly come to life were crammed with every delicacy known to the Orient, the place would be overrun. And so the chefs and restaurateurs who come here to buy wholesale keep it a secret among themselves. They deal as fast as they can, haggling over packing crates, slapping down money, knocking back coffee, trading jokes, fresh produce, chickens and prize roosters. Occasionally, an early bird might stumble upon this exotic thoroughfare, and wonder how such a glorious bazaar has been missed out from the guidebooks. By the time they return with their friends, however, the traders will have packed up for the day. Instead, they’d find the shutters lifted on the grocery stores, kitchens and medicine houses, with no sign of what has gone before but for the odd stray feather and an unusual spill of spices. Even the pushcarts and packing crates will have vanished into thin air, only to return in the small hours once the tourists have retired to bed.

  Right now, such a transformation seems a world away. The place is ablaze with colour and humming with activity. Over there is the chef with the chop knife. The one who had recently come so close to skinning a lost boy on his last legs. He’s busy arguing with an elderly herbalist. Every now and then, he breaks away from the display of open pots and bowls to sneeze. Yoshi keeps one eye on him from a safe distance. The boy is standing with Mikhail on the opposite side of the street, beside a telephone box rigged out as a pagoda.

  “Don’t worry about him now,” says Mikhail. “Keep your eye on the operation. You never know when you’ll be called upon to help out.”

  Yoshi refocuses his attention on the rest of the crew. They’re still gathered back down the pavement at the alley mouth. Most are sitting on their cases, watching Billy laying cards out on the pavement, while one of the girls stands watch over the market.

  “What’s with all the luggage?” asks Yoshi curiously.

  “Tools of the trade!” declares Mikhail, as if Yoshi should’ve known this by now. “We can’t just conjure up a m
agic trick out of thin air. We need props. Specialist equipment to help persuade our audience that what they’re seeing is real. The punters might think they’re witnessing miracles. We know it all comes down to military planning and showmanship.”

  “I see,” says Yoshi, his thoughts returning now to the dark spectacle he had witnessed with Julius. What had swept over the city seemed real enough and chilling too. Even the old man’s ramblings about Faerie Rings and unlocking ley lines made sense in its wake. His very mention of some quest for a key had certainly struck a chord in the boy, even though he couldn’t quite work out why.

  But now, in the clear light of day, Yoshi can’t help thinking that perhaps he really has been duped by some grand illusion. “Mikhail,” he asks, still watching the crew, “do you believe in real magic?”

  “This is as real as it gets,” he says. “If the punters can’t fathom how we perform our tricks, they have to conclude that what we do must draw upon some higher power.”

  “So you don’t buy all that . . . mystic stuff?”

  At this, Mikhail turns to face him directly. “The mumbo jumbo that Julius studies? Yoshi, the way I see things, everything has an explanation. Take that card trick I showed you. I can’t read your mind. I have no special powers. I simply offered you a pack that had been neatly split into red and black cards. I watched you pick a card from the black side, and encouraged you to return it to the red side. I might have then cut the deck a few times, but your card would always be the only single black card sandwiched between two reds.”

  “Oh!” declares Yoshi. “I get it now. I guess it’s quite simple when you think about it.”

  “Always the way,” Mikhail agrees. “Whatever Julius has seen, maybe he just hasn’t worked out how it’s done.”

  Yoshi considers this for a moment, wondering whether the old man was a trickster or had simply been fooled himself. At the same time, the girl on watch spots something of interest in the market. She turns to the others and points to the far side of the street.

  “What’s she seen?” asks Yoshi.

  “Breakfast,” Mikhail replies, and blows on his hands to keep warm. “See that stall with the green tea urn and the dim sum snacks? The lady behind it is one of our regulars. We try out new tricks on Mae Ling, and in return she gives us discount on all that tasty food.”

  Yoshi turns his attention towards this short, slight-looking old lady, wrapped up in a big old scarf and quilted coat, and finds she’s already noticed him. She waves cheerily, and then again to the crew at the alley mouth.

  “She looks like she’s expecting us,” he says, and waves back awkwardly.

  “Oh, Mae has learned to be on the lookout from the moment she opens her stall. Our job is to surprise her, even if she does see us coming.”

  As he speaks, the phone inside the pagoda starts to ring. Mikhail excuses himself. He reaches in for the receiver, sighing to himself like whoever’s on the other end is late. “Zdravstvuite,” he mutters, then covers the mouthpiece with his palm. “It’s Russian for hello,” he tells Yoshi with a shrug. “Old habits die hard.” He returns to the call, nods and grunts in places, then startles the boy by showing him the handset. “It’s for you,” he says.

  Yoshi looks at him quizzically. “Who is it?” he asks, but Mikhail shrugs like it isn’t his business. With a sigh Yoshi takes the phone and presses it to his ear.

  “This is the Bridge,” pipes a young voice at the other end, sounding even more official than Billy had the day before. “Do you copy?”

  “Erm, I think so,” says Yoshi. “What’s up?”

  “Listen carefully, soldier. Bravo Team have requested that you remain in this position until further notice. Under no circumstances should you put down the phone. Is that clear? Do not. Put down. The phone!”

  Yoshi turns to Mikhail for advice, barely believing what he has just heard. The Russian boy winks at him, and begins to back away. At the same time, Billy and several crew members advance, clutching two of the longest reinforced cases. With professional ease, they set them down on the pavement, flip open the latches, and remove two full-length mirrors. The boy is lost for words, watching, with the phone still pressed to his ear, as they prop a mirror behind a stall. It’s facing the wall behind the phone box he’s in, reflecting nothing but bricks. Next, one of the crew crouches down and carefully tilts the mirror towards the mystified boy with the handset pressed to his ear.

  Meantime, Billy and a scruffy-looking lad bring the second mirror towards him. It covers the front of the box perfectly, from side to side and top to bottom.

  “What’s going on?” breathes Yoshi down the line, as Billy tilts the mirror towards the one behind the stall. Yoshi turns without thinking, and promptly gets cobbled in the phone cable. “I can’t see out!”

  “The trial run is almost complete,” assures the voice on the line. “In a moment I’ll patch you across to Mikhail. He’s wired up with a microphone as well as an earpiece, so you’ll know when your time has come.”

  “Huh?” Yoshi doesn’t like the sound of this one bit. He draws breath to complain, only for sunlight to slide across him once again as Billy and the boy shift the mirror clear. “Where are they going now?”

  “Just relax, soldier. You’re doing good.” Yoshi looks out once more, seeking some kind of explanation from Mikhail. This time, he spots him on the opposite side of the crowded market street. Mikhail is talking to Mae Ling in front of her stall. He looks kind of animated, making shapes with his hands as he talks. “The distraction process is almost complete. All you have to do is keep talking and be cool.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” asks Yoshi, trying hard not to sound panicked. “Will it hurt?”

  “So long as you follow instructions,” the voice assures him, “you won’t feel a thing.”

  10

  OUT OF HERE

  The way Yoshi feels, left hanging on the line like this, he might as well be under a spotlight. Billy is standing to one side with the second mirror, out of sight from Mae Ling. He catches Yoshi looking at him, and touches a finger to his lips. The phone feels hot against his ear, while the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. For one horrible moment, he wonders if the entire phone box might suddenly soar into the sky like some kind of infernal elevator. Another crackle brings his fears back to ground level. Then a Russian voice clips in through the receiver that prompts Yoshi to focus on Mikhail across the road.

  “. . . and that, Mae Ling, is how it’s possible to survive in a glass box for over a month without food. Now, my crew like our grub too much to get involved in that kind of stunt, so how about we earn ourselves something to eat with a little trick of our own.”

  “Sure thing, Mikhail. But you won’t fool me so easy. I bring my glasses today, see?” The old lady is wearing a pair of half-moon spectacles on a chain around her neck. From the box, Yoshi watches her prop them on her nose. “OK, what you got me?”

  “Let me begin by introducing you to a new friend.” Mikhail steps aside and gestures over the market strip towards the phone box. “Yoshi there has lost his memory. He’s making a quick call to report it missing. We’re just worried it’s not only his memory that’s in danger of vanishing.”

  “I know this.” Mae Ling claps her hands together. “You got false bottom in that phone booth. Am I right? I turn around. The stooge drops out of sight.”

  “Oh, please!” Mikhail sounds wounded. “Do we look like amateurs? You know us, Mae Ling. If we can’t do a job properly, we don’t do it at all. We could make our boy there disappear in a blink, but let’s think bigger than that. What do you say we make the whole box vanish into thin air?”

  “I say you crazy boys!” She sounds both dismissive and delighted. “Go ahead then, Mikhail. Make my day!”

  “Very well,” Yoshi hears him say, and his grip tightens around the receiver. “But first you’ve got to let me taste one of those dumplings.”

  “Hey, hands off!” Mae Ling laughs as Mikhail reaches
for one of the small snacks without warning, and playfully slaps his wrist. It’s the moment the crew have been waiting for. In a blink, Billy and his boy have snapped the mirror into place in front of the phone box. Swiftly they tilt it towards the mirror behind the stall, just as they have practised, and then scurry out of sight.

  The move leaves Yoshi unable to see the old woman across the street. Even so, he doesn’t need the phone to hear the cry of delight that follows, and judge from it that the trick has worked a treat. “How you do that, Mikhail? Where is the phone box? All I see are bricks!”

  Yoshi glances at the boy with the other mirror, still hiding from Mae Ling. He’s tilted it now to reflect the wall behind them onto the mirror in front of the box. He certainly looks very pleased with himself, as he’s managed to seamlessly blend the reflected brickwork with the real thing. Yoshi can’t help grinning himself, especially when he hears Mae Ling protest again. For as Mikhail helps himself to yet more dim sum, he signals on the sly for the removal of the props around the box.

  With the mirrors gone, Yoshi is free to see his friend pop another snack in his mouth, then face him directly.

  “Look who’s back, Mae Ling!” he says, feigning surprise.

  The old lady turns, peels off her glasses to check the lenses haven’t deceived her, and then takes a step back.

  “You did it! Wowee, Mikhail. You earned big breakfast today. Take all the grub you can eat!”

  Yoshi waves at them both, relieved to have come through the illusion unscathed. Billy and the rest of the crew look just as pleased. Even so, something doesn’t feel quite right to the boy. The hairs on the back of his neck are still prickling wildly. He glances around, sees nothing strange – just people browsing and striking deals – and yet his heart continues to hammer. He’d almost be able to hear it beating away, but a high-pitched hum has started up in his ears. It sounds like some kind of interference, and yet nobody else in the market seems to notice. Yoshi winces, feeling both confusion and alarm. Then, out of nowhere, a flash appears to go off in front of him. He blinks and shields his eyes on impulse, only to realise that the flash has come from within. And as it fades away, taking with it the piercing noise, he is left with the weird but unmistakeable impression of two tight blue eyes. Slowly a face and then a figure take shape in his mind, flanked by ornate gates just like those that book-end this very street. A static click down the line spells an end to this dreamlike vision. It’s Mission Control, congratulating him.