So Below: The Trilogy

by Matt Whyman

  It had been a scream of frustration and despair, not pain. Yoshi felt certain of that. What he couldn’t fathom was how the eerie light around her began to travel through the wires attached to that pan over her head. She had tried to climb out of the chair, prompting the man in the mink to restrain her. With his big hands on her shoulders she had thrown her head back like some trapped wild animal. It was then Yoshi had witnessed light pour from her eyes and mouth like torch beams. Shocked to the core, his mind’s eye had fled from the scene – soaring through the ceiling and the building itself, up into a sky at twilight. When gravity appeared to take over, his view had switched back to look down upon a roof garden in the shadow of a great dome.

  That was the impression Yoshi had returned with on accelerating to earth, through a seam of foliage, shrubs and soil, then roof tiles, joists, floors, foundations, clay and finally steel . . . to a vintage bank vault in which he had snapped open his eyes and come to his senses once again.

  “Billy is on the Bridge,” says Julius, unaware of the boy’s thoughts. Yoshi finds the old man has rolled the papers back into the tube. He returns it to the deposit box and straightens up, looking set to move out. “They’re having problems with the main monitor.”

  “And they called you to fix it?”

  “Yoshi, the problem he described sounds most fascinating.”

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” says Yoshi, as Julius swishes to the other end of the vault.

  “Tell me about it on the way,” he calls back.

  “But I—”

  “No buts! I want to know exactly what you saw.”

  Julius climbs through the blast hole into the tunnel so painstakingly dug by thieves with millions in mind, and then stops because something isn’t right. He’s used to the boy lagging – as he had when they left the ghost station – but the silence is all wrong this time. Indeed, when he turns, Julius Grimaldi can only think that Yoshi has pulled off the kind of vanishing act that most street magicians take an age to perfect.

  16

  A HEAD FOR HEIGHTS

  Many years earlier, a daring band of villains might have climbed this rope to freedom. Perhaps it had been dropped into place by a lookout on street level. He might have had more than just a sharp eye and a gift for sailors’ knots. Maybe he was the brains behind the master plan. The one who had plotted this escape route, up through an old iron grate in the gutter outside the bank itself.

  Whether these rogues actually made it, and where they were now, is of no concern to Yoshi. They could be lounging on a beach in Rio, or pressing their faces between the bars at Strangeways Prison. Like so much he has discovered down here, this cord from the underground realm has clearly gone unnoticed by the world above. Just moments earlier, swinging out over the abyss again, Yoshi had figured that the knot securing the rope to the grille up there would be so caked in grime it was as good as invisible to anyone passing overhead.

  Pushing his way up, clamping the rope with his hands and knees, the boy holds out hope that it will take him to the top. The further he ventures, the less secure it seems, and there’s still the height of a house to climb. A weak light falls through the grille, which is the focus for his attention. It’s just enough to show his lifeline brushing back and forth across a band of broken piping. He could be the weight on a clock pendulum, the way each new footing causes the rope to swing and scrape. What troubles him, as he continues his ascent, is the way it also begins to feel kind of elastic.

  “Don’t fray on me!” he hisses, urging himself not to look down. The rope must have come closer to breaking every time Julius travelled to and from this subterranean shoreline. Had the old man known, maybe he would’ve followed the boy to the lip of the vault right now, and begged him to come down. The short hop to the lost river was one thing, daring to climb to the surface quite another. Despite the risks, however, Yoshi will not be persuaded back now. It’s the visions of the girl that drive him onwards, not least the thought that she was be in such distress. He may not have been present to step in and help her at the time, but he couldn’t just walk away now. If Yoshi really did have a special gift to see beyond the naked eye, this quest to rescue her would be his making.

  Several times, this strange angel had hijacked the boy’s senses. What each viewing failed to reveal was her whereabouts. The room she was in could’ve been anywhere, until in the last viewing Yoshi took off like a rocket, leaving him with the impression that he was overlooking the building that contained her. Wherever she was being held stood in the shadow of a great dome. Of this he was quite certain. When Julius had suggested that such a feature dominated the district skyline directly above the bank vault, Yoshi knew just what he had to do. There was no time, the way he had seen it, to wind their way back to the bunker and regroup. It even explained why his vision had been so clear, intense and haunting – she must be close by, and he would find her.

  “I might have lost my mind,” he grunts to himself, only for his next breath to be knocked from his chest on banging into the mossy brickwork, “just don’t lose your nerve, old son.”

  Cursing his precarious situation once more, Yoshi finds the next knot with his foot. He hauls himself up by his hands, only to feel himself sinking by a couple of centimetres. He gasps, and waits for the rope to settle. When it does, just a sigh of relief is enough to trigger the twang of fibres. He can’t look up now, let alone glance down. All he can do is squeeze his eyes tightly shut, and try not to make the rope swing. “Help,” he pleads quietly, to nobody in particular. “Help me!” As if in response, and with an awful jerk, the rope drops another notch. Yoshi tucks in tight against the cord, sees his life underground flash brightly before his eyes . . . and when it fades he is back in the room again.

  The doctors are gone in this viewing, as is the brute. Looking through this psychic window in his mind, Yoshi sees that even the machines have been wheeled away. All that remains is the girl in the chair. When he sets eyes on her this time that bruising haze around her warms to a lipstick pink. What happens next almost causes him to fall off the rope in surprise.

  “You’re watching me again,” she says, a note of playfulness in her voice, and looks to the upper corners of the room. “I can sense it.” She nods to herself now, and all the time her aura brightens. “I knew you’d come back.”

  From his precarious perch the boy calls out, if only to appeal for her assistance, but she doesn’t seem to hear. Yoshi hears his echo fall away, and struggles to hold back a sob.

  “Hey, you seem upset,” she says next, focusing on nothing in particular.

  Just for a moment, Yoshi breaks free from his terror, and registers what this must mean. He clings to the rope as tightly as he can. She might not be able to see or hear him, but she’s tuned in to his emotions for sure.

  “Hold on,” she says next, sounding very certain. “Whatever is going on, you can do it. Just be strong, and have faith in yourself. If anyone can do it, Yoshi, it’s you.”

  This time, Yoshi catches his breath for a very different reason. She knows me? She knows my name. She must know who I am!

  “You’re the first person to have escaped from this place in years,” she continues, “Of course, they’ve all been looking for you, scouring the streets day and night. Aleister has sworn to bring you back, but you must’ve given him the slip or he would’ve found you by now. He’s taking his fury out on us instead: more tests to tap our energies, along with all the pretence that it’s for our own good of course – but we can handle it. You know how it is, and so does he. Together, if we put our minds to it, we can be a force to be reckoned with.”

  The boy listens with his eyes screwed tightly shut. All this information seems so new and yet so familiar. Just knowing that she’s aware of his presence strengthens his grip on the rope. So, too, does the sound of another fibre failing. It even persuades him to let go with one hand, get a grip above, and continue to climb from this chasm.

  “Whoever you are,” he says out loud
, his mind still burning with this image of the glowing girl, “I wish you could help me out of here.”

  She seems to consult her thoughts at this. As if to confirm that she understands, the peachy haze around her grows richer. “Don’t let me down, Yoshi. You said you’d come back for me. For all of us. When I see you next, I want to know exactly what happened, right from the moment you made it to the rooftops.”

  “The rooftops?” Yoshi gulps at the thought, still willing himself to keep scaling the rope. “So now I’m supposed to have a head for heights?”

  From way down below, the faint sound of a disturbance in the water reaches the boy’s ears. It’s a churning and a whiplash splash that leaves Yoshi clinging to every word of the psychic pep talk he’s just heard. He has to keep going. Hanging around would make him little more than a drop-in snack for jaws that are likely to be waiting wide open for him. Yoshi may not be able to see where he is climbing, but the mesmerising connection with this girl is enough to guide him. Just then he sees the aura surrounding her darken considerably. A look of concern crosses her face. She turns to glance at a door, says only: “Come quickly, Yoshi. We’re in this together—”

  And then she is gone.

  Everything Yoshi can see before his eyes flares white. When it fades, the only light he can see is right above him. There it is. The last of the day shining weakly through a grille that is almost within his reach.

  “Yes!” he cries, and then follows with a “Nooo!” on seeing the state of the rope in between.

  For Yoshi has reached the outcrop of broken piping, and there’s barely a thread left where the rope has frayed. It might as well be dental floss, stuck between two decayed teeth. Gingerly, he stretches one hand high. His fingers find the rope above the fast-fraying section, which he grabs desperately as the final fibre gives way to his weight.

  The rope beneath him snakes away. A terrible silence follows, before it coils into the water too far below for him to contemplate. Right now, with just one hand gripping what remains of the old cord, Yoshi’s concern is totally focused on survival. Dangling there with both legs flailing, the boy wishes the crew had revealed the secret behind that levitation stunt they had performed for him. Instead, with nothing up his sleeves but straining arms, he hauls himself up the rope with all the strength that he can muster.

  “You’re nearly there,” he grunts, wishing that vision might appear in his mind once more like some genie from a bottle. The girl’s encouragement had saved him from freezing up and waiting to fall, but there’s no blinding flash this time. No transportation out of here. Instead, the only thing facing Yoshi is the grate just over his head. Through it, he can see the last spread of sunshine over the winter sky, and gives thanks that it isn’t raining. Making it this far has been tough enough without dealing with a deluge from the drains, though he has no intention of just hanging around for the weather to turn. Instead, using the broken pipe work for a foothold, Yoshi presses his shoulder to the grate and gives it several hefty shoves.

  At this time, London’s rush hour is almost over. The city is no longer gridlocked. Cars and buses move freely, while those workers who have finally left their offices think of little more than supper, a nice hot bath and bed. All wrapped up against the cold, they keep their heads down and focus on getting home by the fastest means possible. This is not a moment in the day when people look around at London, and marvel at the architecture. Take the financial district, at the end of a long day’s trading. Here, the pavements could have turned to gold and even the bullion traders wouldn’t notice.

  Right now, the electric gates to one former banking institution slide apart. The place had closed in disgrace many years ago, following a legendary assault on a supposedly impenetrable vault. It is the riches of the present occupant that has restored the place to its former glory, so it’s no surprise when a white limousine purrs out into the street.

  The windows are tinted, suggesting someone very important is seated comfortably inside, but not a single commuter pays any attention. Indeed, the attitude of the passenger in the vehicle is much the same. The magnificent dome of St Paul’s Cathedral might rise behind the rooftops, but the figure in the back seat is too busy brooding to notice.

  He dips his bald head into the palm of one hand, the mink-lined sleeve of his coat falling back to reveal the colourful oriental tattoo of a snake on his forearm. Nothing seems to turn his tight blue eyes: not even a grate suddenly jumping from the gutter as the car prowls into Threadneedle Street. The chauffeur happens to catch sight of this unusual event, and monitors it from his rear view. He’s even moved to adjust the mirror to frame the appearance of some strangely jubilant young vagabond. The kid hauls himself out by his hands and knees, and then faces up to the open sky like an old friend.

  The chauffeur returns his attention to the road ahead, easing this luxury car on its way. The street kid he’s just seen is of no concern to his passenger in the back. Whatever has been troubling Mister Aleister these last days, interrupting his thoughts could wind up losing him a plum job behind the wheel and very possibly his driving licence, too. For his boss moved in high circles, from police to politicians, priests and beyond. Sometimes those circles seemed so high, the driver muses to himself, it wouldn’t surprise him if the devil himself had sent Mister Aleister up here to do business on his behalf.

  17

  THIS MAN IS NO GHOST

  When Julius Grimaldi reaches the Bridge, he finds every member of the crew crammed inside. All of them are facing the big screen at the back, in silhouette to the shambling figure with the white mane of hair. He gives no more than a glance at the bizarre footage of the bald-headed brute from the market that morning. What concerns the old man is the air of silent tension among his young street magicians. It’s as if they believe this sinister figure, caught on camera up there, might somehow conjure his way off the screen and into their world.

  “I’m back,” says Julius, but nobody turns to greet him. “Hello?”

  He sighs, and concludes it’s only natural that these young illusionists and tricksters might be dumbstruck by evidence of real magick. He considers the figure in the mink once more, apparently leaving his mark in time as he prowls through Chinatown, and wonders what spell a rogue master of the discipline might cast over Yoshi should he be first to track him down.

  On discovering his young charge gone from the bank vault, Julius had simply turned and retraced his steps back here. Any attempt to follow Yoshi on foot seemed futile. Julius was in the winter of his years, after all. The boy was more agile, and possibly more daring, than the old man could ever hope to be. Wherever the lad had taken himself, he would just have to go there alone. Besides, with what Julius had learned from Billy’s call, Yoshi’s destination might just be located on screen before the boy even arrived at it.

  Charged up by the plan he intends to share with the crew, Julius clears his throat and says: “Would everyone face me!” He claps his hands, in vain it seems, for nobody turns from the on-screen action.

  Julius sighs deeply to himself, and spots Billy at the controls. There he is, running the tape in slow motion until the moment the brute seemingly melts out of the market. At that point Billy stops, and winds back through the same sequence as if someone might spot how it’s done.

  “My guess is it’s a spirit of some sort,” the Executive Deck Hand says out loud, oblivious to the old man at the back, just like everyone else. “We’re looking at Chinatown here, after all. I’ve heard Mae Ling say that opium vampires haunt the neighbourhood passageways. According to her, those blood-freaks often surface from their smoking dens to haunt the alleyways in search of fresh prey.”

  “Really?” pipes up one small boy, looking very pale all of a sudden.

  “So he is a spectre,” says one of Billy’s wingmen from across the floor. “I knew it as soon as I set eyes on him.”

  “Once they’ve sucked the life out of their victims,” continues Billy solemnly, “they bleed them dry of money and sco
re the drugs they need to sedate themselves again. A horde of opium vampires has haunted this quarter for well over a hundred years, apparently. Ever since the community was founded, according to Mae Ling. If Yoshi is his next victim, maybe we’ll be next. He might pick us off, one by one.”

  “Don’t spook me!” squeaks the kid. “I haven’t been frightened for years.”

  “It isn’t a ghost or an opium vampire.” This is Mikhail, addressing everyone crossly. “It’s a myth. An unpleasant kind that’s often cooked up when immigrants settle, and I should know. I am proud to be from Russia, but that does not mean I have ever worn a fur hat and danced like a Cossack! Even stupid people accept that once they get to know me, and quit demonising me for being different from them.”

  “But I heard the story from Mae Ling!” protests Billy sheepishly.

  “Like so many of these tall stories,” Mikhail tells him, “it’s become part of Chinatown’s folklore. The residents here might be a superstitious sort, but since when did we buy into anything that has no explanation, huh?”

  “So if he isn’t a drug-addicted Dracula then explain what’s happening here!” Billy jabs a finger at the big screen, and rewinds the sequence once again. “Does anyone have any answers?”

  The hush that follows is even thicker than the silence in which Julius had found them. He steps back to the door to take it all in. Never has he witnessed a crew seem so unsure of themselves. He finds himself reflecting on all those generations of runaways and street children who have found their feet here over the years. Across the surface of this city – he consoles himself with a note of pride – a small but growing band of adults are making the most of their lives, thanks to the chance this bunker offered them. Sure, a few continue to perform illusions on the streets. Indeed, one individual has even made it as a celebrity mind manipulator. Even those who pursue careers in everything from air traffic control to zoology still stow the odd trick up their sleeve. A little juggling of incoming aircraft could help avoid disaster, as could misdirection when entering the lions’ den to remove a thorn from a paw. Whatever walk of life they now tread, however, every single individual remains united in wanting to keep this bunker the best-kept secret in town. There is nothing to hide in this old tin can, admits Julius to himself, but peeling away the lid would expose too many vulnerable souls to the miserable existence they’ve each escaped.