The Black Dragon by Julian Sedgwick

Tony here. He doesn’t have to tell us anything.”
    As long as Ponytail doesn’t think he’s betraying the gang it should be possible to get him to reveal what they need by slight movements from his body, subconscious signals. Danny shakes his fingers loose and then places both hands lightly on the man’s shoulders.
    â€œJust keep thinking—really seeing in your mind—how you would go to find your friends . . . forward or back. Left or right. How would you start?”
    And then, as if sleepwalking, the man twitches. Danny reads the impulse and guides Ponytail back out of the alley, slow step by slow step, toward the pavement.
    â€œThat’s it,” Danny says. “Just keep that picture in your head . . . We’ll go this way, shall we? Left, isn’t it?”
    Ponytail’s muscles move under Danny’s fingers. Yes.
    Zamora whistles under his breath. “No way, Mister Danny. Hellstromism!”
    Danny doesn’t answer—he’s focusing carefully, keeping the lightest touch he can on the man’s shoulders, sensing every resistance, every slight change of body angle. Dad used to play it with him as a kind of game—and it used to be a big part of Harry’s routine. But this is going better than any of those tries he had at muscle reading—hellstromism—at the Mysterium. Maybe Ponytail’s so jumpy that the movements are easy to read? Who cares? It’s working.
    They’re out of the stinking alleyway and passing unnoticed in the hustle and bustle. Danny tries not to second-guess any movement of his mesmerized subject. But Ponytail transmits each change of direction as clearly as if he’s telling them which way to go.
    They turn left, back in through the doorway of the Mansions. Back into the labyrinth, past the little shops on the ground floor, past Heart and Sole, past the bedlam of the elevators with their blinking security cameras, the mobile phone shops, the tailors . . . All the while Ponytail’s movements are talking to Danny’s fingertips as if saying, “Yes, this way, over here, no, not that way, to the back here.”
    They come to a fire door at the back of the ground floor. Danny nods to Zamora, who darts forward, holding it open, and they edge through. The door springs shut behind them, and cuts the noise of the Mansions to a distant hum.
    In this sudden silence there’s just the sound of their footsteps on the bare concrete and Danny’s voice reassuring Ponytail. “Just keep seeing it in your head. Up the stairs? OK.”
    They climb two flights of stairs and find themselves in a grubby but empty corridor. A handwritten sign on a door says DELUXE DELIGHTFUL ROOMS. It looks as far from deluxe as you could get. Ponytail is moving more quickly now, urgency transmitting up through Danny’s fingers, into his arms. They pass a takeaway curry place, pans bubbling on dodgy-looking gas burners, and, beyond that, a room crammed with women bent over chattering sewing machines. Then down a long, echoing service corridor back into silence.
    Ponytail’s feet stutter and he comes to a stop in front of the door of an ancient elevator. A sign taped to it: OUT OF ORDER.
    â€œTry it anyway,” Danny says. “He wants to use it, I’m sure.”
    Zamora punches the call button and, somewhere far overhead, a grinding starts to shake the elevator shaft. The major wrinkles his moustache.
    â€œNeeds some oil, wouldn’t you say? Is Old Ugly here still under?”
    â€œReally deep.”
    The lift door judders open. As they step in, the whole thing swings perceptibly, and Zamora casts wary eyes at the floor.
    Danny looks at the control panel. Twenty-four numbered buttons as well as G for ground floor and B for basement. The alarm button is plastered over with red insulation tape. Not very reassuring.
    Careful not to break all contact with Ponytail, Danny moves his fingertips to the back of the