So Below: The Trilogy

by Matt Whyman

  “What in the world is going on here . . .?”

  He rubs his eyes, blinks for focus, but this is not some hangover from his dreams. It really is a jet of water, punching into the air several blocks away from the fireworks. He can just about make out the manhole cover, flipping like a coin as this furious spout blows it higher than the surrounding scrapers. He’s up on his feet when another one goes off just behind the British Museum, followed by a third down at the old dockside.

  A moment later, the first manhole cover comes sailing out of the night sky. With an almighty splash it hits the river close to the drifter and his dog. The pair scramble for cover under the bridge. Even so, nothing can stop their eyes snapping back across the Thames. This old drifter hasn’t seen such a dramatic skyline, in fact, since his days as a boy in the midst of the Blitz.

  This must be one very broken ring main, is all our man can think . . . until several spikes of fire rise up around the city like the waterspouts, and take his breath away. Even his dog stops barking, and cowers behind his legs. From Bloomsbury to Spitalfields, he counts four towering flares, like burn-offs from an oil rig. But just as quickly as they had risen, so each one sizzles malevolently into nothing. At the same time, the three giant waterspouts drop down and disappear. Meanwhile in Chinatown, there in the midst of it all, the fireworks continue to enchant the crowds. As for the drifter, he is fit for nothing now but to simply gawp at his dog, and at the bottle in his possession.

  “Are you playing tricks on my eyes?” he asks the demon drink, then takes another swig just to check. With the whisky still hot on the back of his throat, the drifter considers reporting the incident to the police. The last of the rockets detonate just then. Judging by the distant oohs and aaahs that drift across the water, it’s clear even to him that nobody watching the aerial display had noticed the surrounding spectacle. Otherwise chaos would’ve followed, with sirens and screaming and all sorts.

  The drifter exchanges a look with the mongrel at his feet, and once more scans the skyline for some evidence of what he’s just seen. But there’s nothing. Just the same old urban jungle under a mothball moon. Then he thinks about what a shaggy dog story it’s going to sound like to the duty sergeant’s ears, and casts the bottle into the river.

  Who would believe him, he thinks? An old soak in the gutter of his life. No. What he had witnessed seemed just too chaotic for words. Perhaps, then, an event of this nature and scale might only make sense if viewed from the heavens.

  4

  UP ON HIGH

  Should the last flight into London have been circling at the time, the fireworks might have idly entertained those passengers with window seats and chronic jet lag. The fleeting eruptions of water and fire that shot up so briefly all over the city certainly wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Unlike the view from ground level, it clearly staked out a pattern – a star shape with seven points. This would’ve moved some to comment on the cost of funding such an eye-catching display. Only one of these long-haul travellers would’ve read more into the pattern than this, and known that it couldn’t possibly be part of the programme.

  A star-shape with seven points. Were this man a mathematician, he might recognise the shape as a septagram. A cartographer wouldn’t need a map of London on his lap to remark upon the fact that a church stood in the vicinity of each eruption. He might even be able to see the spires, towers and steeples if he studied the ground closely enough. A historian would be most likely to remark upon the fact that each church had been designed by the same hand. Nicholas Hawksmoor wasn’t just an architect, as every scholar would know, but a visionary who looked to the cosmos for his inspiration, and then built his creations on sites where ancient ley lines converged at waypoints underground. A modern mystic might share in Hawksmoor’s belief that these lines were effectively arteries through which coursed earth’s energy. He might even know that they were once used to deliver spells from one waypoint to the next.

  Above all, it would take a master in the dark art of magick to bring all these insights together, and divine the true meaning of the arrangement. Through such eyes, the seven points that spanned the city represent none other than the Faerie Ring: a sacred form that served a very special purpose, as only one man on this late night flight knows: a bald-headed brute with a white mink coat folded neatly in his overhead locker.

  Your average citizen would have no knowledge of the ring’s existence. Were the people to learn that it served to protect all London from the clutches of evil, they might not be sleeping so soundly in their beds. There would be panic on the streets, in fact, especially if they knew that a bunch of gifted children had the potential to unlock the energies bound within the ring, and claim it as their own. By laying their hands on the waypoints connecting each ley line, and tuning into the same psychic wavelength within the ring, any waterworks that crossed its path would experience a sudden surge in pressure, while the fuel lines at several petrol stations would now be little more than smoking threads.

  The figure in the window seat is impressed. These kids had clearly made a great deal of progress since he last set eyes on them. Even so, he can’t help musing on the kind of eruption that could spring from the ring with a little organisation and direction. For what just occurred was little more than the work of children at play. If they really put their minds together . . . why the devil himself could surface in the city and the people would be powerless to stop him.

  With the waterspouts and flame-offs over, this passenger surfaces from his thoughts and reaches for the button overhead to summon a member of the cabin crew. Should the hostess unbuckle her safety belt at this late stage in the flight, she wouldn’t find the usual nervous traveller in need of a hand to squeeze. Instead, she would arrive at the seat in question, and try hard not to appear rattled by the tight blue eyes that round upon her.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” she asks, trying hard not to switch her gaze to this brute’s rock-solid dome. With his slab of a brow and hollow cheekbones, he reminds her more of a gargoyle carved from stone than a fare-paying passenger with a badly timed request in mind. He’s sporting a black, collarless shirt with a thick gold chain around his neck. It’s a smart appearance, the hostess notes, if not a little sinister. She can’t help but catch sight of the tail end of an intricate oriental tattoo peeping from one sleeve. A snake, she thinks at first, and then blushes when she realises he has picked up on her interest. He turns his wrists away from her, but as he does so his shirt cuff rises to reveal not a serpent, which is what she swore she had seen, but the leg of a galloping horse.

  “There’s no problem here,” he assures her, in barely more than a whisper. “I was simply wondering whether I might order a glass of champagne.”

  “Now, sir?” The hostess wonders if she needs to explain why they’re circling over the city, awaiting the green light from air traffic control so they can begin their runway approach. This was not a time for refreshments. It was time to shut up and pray for a safe landing, she thinks, smiling all the same.

  “It’s good to be back in London,” the man explains. “A miracle, in fact, but that’s another story.

  I just wish to raise a toast to my return to the capital.” He pauses, and draws her attention to the fireworks way below. “It seems I’ve missed a great deal in my absence.”

  “Sir, we can’t possibly serve drinks at this stage in the fli—”

  Out of nowhere, this passenger snaps his fingers in front of her face. Immediately, the poor hostess cuts herself off mid-sentence. Lost in the swirl of his penetrating stare, her jaw slackens by a notch and her own eyes lose some focus. Within seconds, she seems entirely under his spell.

  “There is still time to serve champagne,” he instructs her calmly.

  On this occasion, despite curious glances from the other passengers, she carries out his request without question. Indeed, without even blinking.

  5

  ALEISTER INBOUND

  The brute clinks his glass against the por
thole, and salutes this city of a million points of light spread out below.

  “What a welcome home,” he mutters to himself, reflecting on the sudden eruption of fire and water.

  He affords himself a smile as the plane banks steeply inwards, and tips his glass to stop the bubbly from sloshing into his lap. At the same time, he marvels at the overhead view of the fireworks he now commands. As the final volley of rockets surge towards him, he marks the sight by draining his glass dry. When they burst apart and fall away, the source of the display becomes the focus for his thoughts. Not only does it appear to be at the very heart of the Faerie Ring that’s just been so fleetingly staked out across the city, but it also reminds him of a fissure in some shaky old dam. Knowing the forces present behind it, he thinks to himself, without due care and attention the whole thing could just go up at any time.

  “Wherever you are,” he mutters, mindful of the kids hiding from him down there, “I’ll find you. It doesn’t matter how close you think you’ve come to cracking the ring, there’s no way now you’ll do it without me.”

  “What’s that you say, dude?”

  The groggy-sounding voice that disturbs his musing is accompanied by stale peanut breath. Taking care to stow his empty glass from sight, he brings his gaze around to find his companion on this flight. The one who’s been out cold for hours in the aisle seat beside him. Earlier in the crossing, before they’d even taken off, in fact, the brute had employed another small act of hypnosis to ensure some peace and quiet.

  “Have I missed something?” the man asks, still surfacing from what has been a very deep sleep, but the plane levels out before he can see for himself. He leans across for a better look, much to the brute’s displeasure.

  ‘Nothing you won’t see again some time,” he growls, in a bid to underplay the moment. “I figured you needed the shut-eye.”

  This guy is on the opposite end of the scale when it comes to brawn as much as dress sense. Unlike the brooding hulk with the black shirt, gold chain and polished dome, he’s short and out of shape, sporting a thin weave of lacquered-back hair, golfing shirt and slacks. He yawns, loudly, and then helps himself to a glance of the big man’s wristwatch. “Will ya look at that?” he declares, revealing his Italian-American roots. “I been asleep for hours! When are we due to touch down?”

  As if somehow he’s uttered magic words, the engines drop by a notch, and the plane begins its slow descent from the heavens.

  “Not a moment too soon,” the bald one assures him, and settles back in his seat.

  “Amen to that!” his fellow traveller agrees. “I swear I won’t rest again until my precious angels are safe and sound.”

  “We’ll reunite you. I guarantee that.”

  If the brute had been hoping his assurance would stop the guy from quacking, it doesn’t last long. Indeed, when he speaks again, his words come out unsteadily, as if perhaps he might burst into tears.

  “They’re very special kids, Mister Aleister. Quite unlike other twins.”

  “As indeed are all the young residents at my Foundation,” this man called Aleister points out, rolling the beefy nape of his neck across the headrest to face him. “Believe me, I recognise how difficult it must be to grow up with paranormal gifts. It doesn’t make them any more popular. It simply labels them as freaks. It’s no surprise your girls grew up making mischief with their pyrotechnic powers. By starting fires using the power of their unique minds, I believe they were simply venting their frustration at a world that failed to understand them.”

  “That’s exactly why I trusted you to help them,” the guy in the golf shirt says, clearly unloading his grief once again. “The courts left me with no choice, in fact. When the school burned down, it was rehabilitation or a spell behind bars.”

  “If it helps,” says Aleister, “they were responding well under my guidance.”

  “Which makes it so hard for me to understand why they should choose to run away!” This time, the guy breaks off to snuffle back tears. They seem to fall a little too easily for Aleister’s liking, who watches the performance with barely hidden distaste. “How could they do this to me,” the man continues, “and to their dear mother? Poor Marlene is beside herself with worry. The news affected her so badly that I doubt she’ll make it to the gym all week!”

  Otto Tempesta hadn’t been expecting a visit from Aleister. Hours before take-off, the brute had shown up without warning at his talent-booking agency, in the Bronx quarter of New York City. Having never met the man, Otto’s first thought was that he had come to audition. With his imposing frame and presence, Aleister would’ve been perfect to play an executioner or a henchman. In the world of cable TV commercials, there was often a need for that kind of thing. What’s more, his English accent marked him out from any other meathead or nightclub bouncer hoping for a career on the small screen. Otto admired it greatly. There was something classy about the Brits, even if they didn’t understand baseball. It wasn’t until the brute declined to say if he could sing or dance that Otto realised he had seen his face before.

  There and then, he had opened his desk drawer and pulled out a prospectus. It had come from some UK-based foundation for problem kids, soon after the twins’ arson case made international headlines. Otto had only looked at it once, before deciding that the scholarship on offer meant he could wash his hands of them for a while. Sure enough, on turning to the opening page, Otto had found that the bald-domed figure in the photograph accompanying the Programme Director’s introduction matched the heavy-looking bruiser here in front of him.

  That’s when he had practically fallen over the desk in his bid to apologise to the man who had taken Blaize and Scarlett under his wing. Before Otto could thank him for such a charitable gesture, Aleister revealed that he had flown over with bad news. Otto had gone silent, on learning that the twins were missing from the Foundation. A second later, he had muttered darkly about compensation. His attitude swiftly brightened once again, however, when Aleister invited him to fly back to London with him in a bid to draw them out of hiding. Privately, Otto could not believe his luck. He had watched plenty of documentaries about the UK’s famous capital, but never seen it for himself. As soon as he had checked that he wouldn’t be paying for his own flight and board, Otto had called his wife and matched her distress tear for tear.

  Through Aleister’s eyes, Otto could switch his concern for the twins on and off like a light. Despite this, he needed him on the streets of London, as bait for the daughters he didn’t deserve. Which is why he reminds himself to be as courteous as he can, despite wanting to push him from the plane without a parachute.

  “If it’s a comfort to your wife,” says the brute now, “I don’t believe the twins ran away without persuasion.” He pauses there to offer his handkerchief, which he declines to take back once Otto has blown his nose. “I blame one bad seed. A resident who caused trouble from the day he arrived to the night he incited so many to join him on the run.’’

  “Are the cops making progress with their search?”

  A moment passes before Aleister responds.

  “The police are not involved,” he confesses quietly, and closes one meaty paw over Otto’s arm, just in case he needed restraining. “I felt that going public risked attracting the kind of attention to the twins that they had been seeking to escape all their lives. In this view, I’d prefer it if we tracked them down quietly ourselves.”

  Otto faces him directly, looking surprised and bewildered at first, but then nodding as he thinks things through. “I guess you’re right,” he says, upon which he feels that hand tighten around his arm. He looks up, sees those elemental blue eyes demand his attention.

  “But I guarantee you this: the boy responsible for their disappearance will pay the highest price. That’s all you need to know for the time being.”

  There, the pair fall silent and face the front of the plane. Otto might well have further questions about how his precious angels came to be at large in this city below,
but now is not the time to press the man who brought him here for answers. Even if he knew this great brute is secretly brooding over how those two runaway brats and their friends came to fire up the Faerie Ring so dramatically, he wouldn’t dare challenge him. Besides, he has more immediate issues on his mind at the moment. For the plane they’re in has just encountered some turbulence. Nothing unusual, but it rarely feels that way. Judging by the look on Otto’s face, in fact, you’d be mistaken for thinking they’re about to descend into hell.

  6

  WHAT MAKES THEM SO SPECIAL?

  With the show over, the Chinatown crew have gathered as foreseen at the dead end of the alley. The first of these street punks slips between the vent’s buckled bars. As soon as his boots touch the floor of the pit below, it flaps open and delivers him into a cellar. This little ragamuffin lands gracefully, moving quickly aside as the next one drops in to join him, followed by Billy and the rest of the kids from the street. If the floor was once used for storage, there’s nothing left of note in here now. Just empty cloth sacks and mousetraps, along with a bulging pile of refuse sacks that look like they’re waiting to be taken to the surface. What’s most striking about this subterranean space is the steel hatch embedded in the far wall. It’s fitted with a flywheel, like the kind you might find to gain access to a submarine. Mounted above the hatch is a security camera, sporting a status light on red. With a click, the iris opens wide. The light turns amber and the camera begins to sweep around.

  “Let me go first!” Billy steps forward now to glare into the lens, which stops to fix on him. “Whoever was calling the shots from the Bridge needs to learn a thing or two about clear communication! Without it, we’d look like mugs not street magicians!”