concrete then slim wiring along it, at about the level of my head. It’s a comms tunnel.
The lines of wire, someone said, I don’t remember who, used to be how sound travelled. I don’t understand this, as they are not tight stretched like cello or viol strings, but slack and covered in stickwrap.
After a while we’re coming near to where Lucien sang the Lady’s cadence. I start to listen for her as we run, wait for the telltale drops of silence, the silver shiver.
When her silence speaks out, I pull on Clare’s shirt to get her to stop.
Lento steps and then the usual flash of surprise as her silver fills my mind with quiet blindness. I extend my hand in the dark ahead of me. The water is cold, and leaves and wads of stickwrap and mulched paper swim past as I try to sluice tacet through the muck. And there she is. A smooth, gnarled round and the silver bright in my ear. My fingers close on the nugget and I lift it clear of the water.
We retrace the tune and are heading clear south back to the tonic and the amphitheatre when I hear it. A high cry, cut off sharp. I stop short and Clare, a few metres ahead, wheels. In the few seconds as the echo dies, I take its bearings. We stand and wait for the sound to come again, but it does not.
‘I think that was Abel,’ Clare says. The fear in her voice makes my stomach and throat feel like they’re made of cold water.
The cry came from one of the large tunnels to the east. If I am right with my bearings, it is one of the ones with two times a man’s headroom and echoed mettle tracks. We need the straightest path there.
I force the map up in my head and look for it. I peer through the darkness and its half-lit, ghosted strands. And at last I think I have the route.
With Clare behind, I run back down the gutters of the path we came in on, ignoring all the turnings until we reach a wide brick mouth. It’s a dry stormwater drain, and a long straight run with the brick walls circling overhead. If I’m right, it will open into a service tunnel that will take us down to the tracks.
We sprint down the bricked way. I feel the sweat in my eyes. But after only a few beats of straight run I can see the tunnel’s end, sealed in brick. I curse. We come to the bricked face and slow to a walk and I draw breath. On the left wall is a blue mettle door.
It opens onto a short corridor and a curving mettle staircase. Rust under the yellow paint. At the bottom of the stair, another heavier door and I breathe relief as I know we are in the right place and it opens. We slide out at ground level, into a wide, high tunnel. Dark rusted mettle rails run under our feet.
Four or five beats from us, on the wide grey expanse of the concrete platform above, three figures are struggling. They push and turn in a strange sort of dance. Two are tall pactrunners with legs bound in black stickwrap. The third is Abel.
Abel fights silent. He spits and bites and kicks. The tallest, a thin-faced, dark-haired guy, is trying to hold his arms back while the other searches him. As we watch, Abel’s knee makes contact with the searcher’s stomach.
‘Fucking leave trying to hold him and just get him down.’ And the dark-haired one punches Abel in the face.
Clare flinches. I reach to my ankle and pull my knife. Light is coming into the station from behind us, where the tunnel emerges at ground level. But we’re standing in shadows and invisible. They must be Wandle. Why they’re in our territory I have no idea. The worse for them.
Things move lento. I pull Clare back into the stairwell, then up one flight of steps. The door to the platform is warped, but we shoulder it together in one push that scrapes harsh on the concrete.
I run with my hunting knife held close to my body, Clare with a full-throated scream, lips back and teeth bared. We’re across the platform before they can turn. Clare jumps the short one and I land a fist to the other’s head, my punch loaded with the knife handle. I feel the
The lines of wire, someone said, I don’t remember who, used to be how sound travelled. I don’t understand this, as they are not tight stretched like cello or viol strings, but slack and covered in stickwrap.
After a while we’re coming near to where Lucien sang the Lady’s cadence. I start to listen for her as we run, wait for the telltale drops of silence, the silver shiver.
When her silence speaks out, I pull on Clare’s shirt to get her to stop.
Lento steps and then the usual flash of surprise as her silver fills my mind with quiet blindness. I extend my hand in the dark ahead of me. The water is cold, and leaves and wads of stickwrap and mulched paper swim past as I try to sluice tacet through the muck. And there she is. A smooth, gnarled round and the silver bright in my ear. My fingers close on the nugget and I lift it clear of the water.
We retrace the tune and are heading clear south back to the tonic and the amphitheatre when I hear it. A high cry, cut off sharp. I stop short and Clare, a few metres ahead, wheels. In the few seconds as the echo dies, I take its bearings. We stand and wait for the sound to come again, but it does not.
‘I think that was Abel,’ Clare says. The fear in her voice makes my stomach and throat feel like they’re made of cold water.
The cry came from one of the large tunnels to the east. If I am right with my bearings, it is one of the ones with two times a man’s headroom and echoed mettle tracks. We need the straightest path there.
I force the map up in my head and look for it. I peer through the darkness and its half-lit, ghosted strands. And at last I think I have the route.
With Clare behind, I run back down the gutters of the path we came in on, ignoring all the turnings until we reach a wide brick mouth. It’s a dry stormwater drain, and a long straight run with the brick walls circling overhead. If I’m right, it will open into a service tunnel that will take us down to the tracks.
We sprint down the bricked way. I feel the sweat in my eyes. But after only a few beats of straight run I can see the tunnel’s end, sealed in brick. I curse. We come to the bricked face and slow to a walk and I draw breath. On the left wall is a blue mettle door.
It opens onto a short corridor and a curving mettle staircase. Rust under the yellow paint. At the bottom of the stair, another heavier door and I breathe relief as I know we are in the right place and it opens. We slide out at ground level, into a wide, high tunnel. Dark rusted mettle rails run under our feet.
Four or five beats from us, on the wide grey expanse of the concrete platform above, three figures are struggling. They push and turn in a strange sort of dance. Two are tall pactrunners with legs bound in black stickwrap. The third is Abel.
Abel fights silent. He spits and bites and kicks. The tallest, a thin-faced, dark-haired guy, is trying to hold his arms back while the other searches him. As we watch, Abel’s knee makes contact with the searcher’s stomach.
‘Fucking leave trying to hold him and just get him down.’ And the dark-haired one punches Abel in the face.
Clare flinches. I reach to my ankle and pull my knife. Light is coming into the station from behind us, where the tunnel emerges at ground level. But we’re standing in shadows and invisible. They must be Wandle. Why they’re in our territory I have no idea. The worse for them.
Things move lento. I pull Clare back into the stairwell, then up one flight of steps. The door to the platform is warped, but we shoulder it together in one push that scrapes harsh on the concrete.
I run with my hunting knife held close to my body, Clare with a full-throated scream, lips back and teeth bared. We’re across the platform before they can turn. Clare jumps the short one and I land a fist to the other’s head, my punch loaded with the knife handle. I feel the
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