by Mark A. King
He stared at me. I didn’t realise that I’d stopped breathing and my heart was beating faster until he was level with me on the platform of the stairs.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Archie.”
I didn’t say anything. I was too busy trying to get my breath back and trying to find out what was going on back on the station platform.
“I thought I saw you earlier,“ he said. “I know most of the other street kids. You’re new, right?”
Despite his appearance, he had a voice that was confident and strong, like he might have been on the streets for a while and wasn’t scared in the same way that I was. Still, to tell him the truth would be stupid. “I ran away from home a few weeks ago. This is my first time in this station. I’ve been travelling round the stations and the parks.”
He smirked. “Really? A few weeks, yeah? The parks? Are you serious? I wouldn’t go near them. I thought I knew life on the streets. But maybe you could teach me a trick or two.” He was sassing me.
I needed to keep up the front. Maybe he could tell me where to go, where I could be safe and not have to deal with armed robbers or Crawlers that targeted children. “You think you’re smart don’t you? You don’t know everything. I bet you don’t even know the best place to stay safe round here.”
He laughed. “That’s the sort of thing someone who didn’t know what they were talking about would say to try and get information from someone who did.”
Wow. Was I that obvious? “Archie, if that’s even your real name, you’re what I would call… a smartarse.” It made me sick to say such smutty things. I noted to mention the profanity in confession, if I ever managed to make another one.
“Some would say I’m a smartarse. I like to think of it as being streetwise. For instance, I know you shouldn’t be hanging round here.”
I glanced at the storage room. “Why shouldn’t I be hanging round here?”
“It’s not safe. The people down there are looking for you. They asked me questions earlier. Dodgy as hell, if you ask me. There are a few places round here I can show you. There is one by the Thames, it overlooks a small area of shingle,” Archie said, climbing the stairs, heading towards the exit. “It’s like a private beach right in the centre of the city. I’m going there now. It’s not safe here. I’d be happy to show you.”
The door of the storage room was opening. What the heck! Is that really the Crawler leaving? “Archie, wait. I’m coming. Just give me a minute to catch up.”
Outside, St Paul’s cathedral rose up at the end of the street, its dome reaching into the sky. I gasped at the beautiful gleaming halo in the darkness. As Archie walked, I realised how exhausted I was. My feet were turning inwards and scuffing the pavement—a sure sign that I needed to rest. I rubbed my legs; my thighs and calves were tight. The drone of traffic and the wail of sirens made a strange lullaby. Everything I had gone through came flooding through me at once, and I felt like I needed to slump and sleep and dream of Am’ma. For in my dreams she might still be alive.
We walked through a hidden garden and descended levels of trees and shrubs. Then, through an alleyway, we found the area that Archie had mentioned.
It was a disused dock, a small indent in the banks of the Thames, hidden from all sides. You’d only know it was there if someone had shown you. The area we stood on was about a dozen feet above the river. The city lights shimmered on the water.
The area was a courtyard walkway between an office and the Thames. It sat high above the shingle area that Archie mentioned. It really did look like a beach. I could see the poles poking up from the river that must have been where cargo ships once docked. Maybe even tea from India, my home, had come here once?
Home. What I would give to see the green hills. To walk our simple village. To have Am’ma shout at me.
Archie was right. This was a perfect spot. I took a long, deep breath—trying to fill my insides with the beauty of the view. This was what I had imagined the city to be like before I came here. Not the violence, death, and evil horror that I had found. If hell was a real place, and I believed it was, then how much worse could it be than what I had already gone through? Maybe I was a bad person who was being punished by being born differently, so bad, that I was cruelly punished again for my selfishness in making Am’ma take me to London against her wishes.
I slumped against the wall above the Thames, and Archie sat with me. My tears fell like a monsoon—heavy, deep, and seemingly never-ending. I had promised, promised not to cry, and every time I started I pushed it away, but it was impossible to stop a tsunami once started. Archie watched me, his face filled with the panic only a teenage boy can have in these moments. My body heaved as I tried to breath between sobs. My nose, shamefully, was running in gloopy streams—I wiped it with my sleeve. I had no tissues, and I doubted Archie would either. Even in this awful moment of grieving, I worried what a mess I must have looked.
After a few minutes of me trying to regain my composure, Archie turned to me, and for the first time his voice had a lack of confidence. “Are you okay?”
“I guess I’ve been through a lot. This is the first time I’ve really had a chance to think about it or to rest.”
Archie half-smiled. He looked down the long, narrow passageway that had led us to this platform. “It’s a bit awkward for me. I don’t even know your name.”
It was the least he deserved. “I’m Maria.”
“Where have you come from? What are you running away from? It must be awful.”
I didn’t want to tell him everything. To speak of such things might be to disrespect Am’ma. “I came from India. I came to visit Pitāv, my father, Dad. Things haven’t… haven’t worked out.”
“You don’t live with him?”
I thought about explaining, but I didn’t even know the details myself. “No. He lives in East London.”
“Why aren’t you with him now?”
Because, sometimes, terrible things happen to good people. Because I ran and hid, and I did what I have done my whole life. Because I am new to the city, and I am pitifully scared of every shadow. I don’t know who to trust, and the police could never be trusted, not fully—they couldn’t at home and they can’t here either. But Dad is here. Dad is here—somewhere in this city. I needed to find him. “I don’t know where he lives. I don’t know how to contact him.”
Archie reached into his pocket. He removed a phone and a bundle of cash. It looked like a lot of money for a boy of his age to have. The phone was chunky and old. He pressed some buttons and then threw up his arms in frustration. “This phone is locked to one number only. Tossers.”
I did not know what he was talking about. Then I remembered I had a phone, too. It was not mine, but I could use it. I eagerly pulled it out and turned it on. The light from the screen filled my face like sunlight in a church. I felt a smile stretch across my face as I thought about Dad. I watched the network icon and data signal jump to full strength, then my heart sank as I tried to access the communication apps. The phone was locked and required a PIN.
I almost threw the phone away in frustration, but I realised it meant something to the criminals in the newsagents’. I let my hand drop, my fingers loosely closed around the dimming phone. I looked around, trying to think of what to do next. A plaque on the wall said this place was called Queenhithe.
Archie stood. “Are you happy now?”
I shook my head.
“Everyone needs someone to turn to. Let me see that phone for a minute,” Archie said. “I have someone. He’s looked after me. But I have to look after him, too. He meets me here most nights. He’ll be here soon. He can look after both of us. He’ll like a girl like you.”
It’s not my phone to give. I thought about the sins I was committing. I’d already stolen the phone, and using it was selfish. Giving it to Archie was even worse. But maybe he thought it would help us. I handed him the phone.
Archie pocketed the phone and said, “It’s nothing special, but my friend might b
e able to sell it and get some money. He likes it when he can get money. That makes him nice to me, too.”
What?
The pit of my stomach turned. I stood and moved towards the pathway, but Archie was in my way. “Give me my phone back,” I demanded.
He put it in his pocket and laughed. “It’s my phone now.”
Forget the phone. “Keep it, Archie, it’s not even mine anyway. I think I better go now.”
“Not until my friend arrives.”
Behind him I saw the figure of the Crawler from the train station. The stench of liquorice and tobacco wafted up the walkway with every determined step he made.
The man walked past Archie and towards me. I edged back. I was pinned between the oncoming monster and the river far below.
“Good work, my boy,” the Crawler said. Spittle flecked his shirt as he talked through his rotten teeth. “Now keep watch.”
Archie walked away. How could he?
The man was right in front of me. His clothing touched mine. He lifted a hand and ran his disgusting fingers through my hair. Knee him. Punch him. But I stood there, frozen. “Help,” I whimpered to Archie, who stood a few feet away with his back turned.
“He’s not going to help you,” the Crawler said. “He’s never helped anyone but himself and me, of course. He’s helped me plenty of times. He’s nothing. Nobody. You’re wasting your time, girl.”
Archie sprinted back towards us. “Noooo! Enough. Enough.” He shouted. I saw his blurred shape just before he plunged into us. The man crashed into me and without a moment to prepare, or clasp, or reach for safety, I toppled over the side of the wall with the Crawler clinging to me like I was a lifebuoy.
The fall was cool air rushing.
Weightlessness.
Disbelief.
The surface of the Thames hit my back like a sledgehammer, knocking the held breath out of me. The man landed on top of me, and we went under.
Churning cold blackness. I could see nothing.
Hands grabbing. Arms and elbows clambering. He was pushing down on me to gain buoyancy. Now was not the time for weakness. I grabbed and reached. I had his thin hair in my hand. I yanked and tugged. He thrashed.
I pushed for the surface and broke it.
Light. Air. Air. Air.
The Crawler surfaced and came after me once more. Despite my medical conditions, it was clear I was not in the same state of panic as he was.
He pushed down on me. His full weight impossible to remove this time. I went under again.
Panic thoughts filled my head. My chest was burning and calling for a gulp of air.
Despite using me as a human buoy, he started to go under, but he was not letting me go. He just dragged me deeper.
A gulp of air.
Air.
If not air, then water. Anything. My lungs burned with a heat that was as fierce as funeral pyre.
I opened my mouth and sucked in the water.
My body tried to cough it up, but this just forced in more water. I tried to push upwards, one more time. The man was limp and heavy—but still attached to me—dragging me deeper into the blackness. I closed my eyes. I thought I opened them again, but I could not tell.
I struggled until there was no more fight left in me.
I accepted it.
The city had also claimed me. Soon, I would see Am’ma again.
Umbra. The word came to me. Umbra.
Darkness.
Cal
Merla had taken me to the platform, saying that I had to rescue her now. When I saw signs of trouble inside the storage room, I’d barged in, foolishly, without thinking might be inside.
What the hell was going on?
First I met Abna. Then Merla. Then I remembered being trapped in the lost river running underneath the city as a kid with the dead calling my name. I’d heard the ghost of Churchill echo in an abandoned stations and driven a train that could stop time.
Then this!
The guy I knocked over in the station storage room got up. He turned to me. His black jagged teeth snarled, and he headed straight for me, arms aiming directly at my throat. He stunk of a manky vape flavour.
I looked at the shivering girl, who could have been Merla’s daughter, and realised that she had been trapped in here, with this guy.
Fucker!
I went for him. His strength surprised me, but he was making mistakes, his intensity was being fuelled by energy that couldn’t be sustained. He tired. I got the upper-hand and I didn’t hold back.
The girl left while we were fighting. I tried to grab her. I didn’t know what else she’d be walking into, and I wanted to know why Merla had brought me to her.
But he had his hands around my neck, pressing. I elbowed him. I lowered my frame and pummelled his stomach, blow after blow.
The door flung open and two people walked in.
Seriously? What now?
“Oi,” a guy shouted.
“You leave him alone, sicko,” the woman said.
Great. Finally, some sense.
The two new people grabbed hold of me and pulled me away from the creep. I threw everything I had. I wanted to teach him a lesson.
Instead the two new people overwhelmed me and pushed me, face-down, into the dusty floor storage room.
What?
The man grabbed my hands and pressed them high up my back, I shouted as a blunt sensation filled my arm and I was convinced he was going to snap it in half.
Are they with the creep?
“We’ve met people like you before,” the woman said. “Sick losers who think it’s funny to beat on a poor homeless person. I’m glad we caught you in time. What would have been next? Lighter-fluid and a match?”
The guy on top of me pulled my arm even tighter and dug his knees directly into my spine. I screamed in agony. “Not so tough now are you? Bullies never are when they face people stronger than they are.”
Are these two completely stupid? “It’s not like that. I—”
“He—he tried to kill me,” the creep said.
“Don’t worry,” the guy on my back said. “You’re safe now. We’ll take care of this lowlife. Do you want us to call you an ambulance?”
“No! No ambulance,” the freak said. “I just want to leave. Put it behind me.”
Of course you do.
They let him go.
Once he’d gone, the guy released his weight off me and dragged me to my feet. He had a baseball cap on low and I could make out scarring underneath his stubble.
The woman stepped forward. She had dark-blonde hair tied tightly back, which gave her features a serious, don’t-mess-with-me expression. “Explain,” she demanded.
The guy finally released his grip from me.
I shook myself off. “I don’t need this crap. I’m leaving.”
The bloke with the cap stood in my way. “Like Detective Stone says, ‘Explain’.”
What the hell is a detective—or detectives—doing in a storage room? Surely they don’t spend their days looking for people who might harm homeless people. “I was trying to explain. You have the wrong idea. It’s the other guy you should have pinned down. It’s the other guy who needs to be answering your questions.”
“Bullshit,” the bloke said. “We saw you. We saw him.” He faced-up to me and prodded a finger in my chest. “I might not be police like Detective Stone here, but I can see what was happening with my own eyes—”
“Raf, that’s enough. Let him talk,” the detective said.
I threw up my arms and hurled him backwards. The detective stepped between me and the guy called Raf, before I took his head off—or more likely he ripped mine off. “Tell us what happened then, sir.”
I skipped the part about Merla, the lost tunnels, and the train. “I heard sounds from the room,” I lied. “I went in and there was this guy in the room. I’d knocked him over when I opened the door. But he looked like he was about to do something awful. There was a young girl in there, she—”
<
br /> “What did she look like?” the detective shouted.
“I don’t know. She was about eleven, twelve, thirteen? It’s hard to tell. She looked like she was of Indian origin, but I can’t be one hundred percent certain.”
Detective Stone turned to Raf and she smiled—there were no lines or crinkles—which suggested she didn’t do it much. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yes, of course. I’m hardly going to see people that aren’t really there, am I?” Umm, not exactly the truth, but it sounded a reasonable thing to say.
“What happened to the girl?” the detective asked.
“I wasn’t happy that this creep had her cornered in here. He wasn’t happy that I knocked him to the floor. He looked properly pissed off that I intervened. We fought. No way was I letting him get to her. She was smart—she legged it—about a minute before you came in. Then you pounced on me and let that sleaze-bag walked free.”
“Shit. We’ve got to go. Now, Iona!” Raf said to the detective.
Iona looked at me, her stance open and relaxed. “I’m sorry, sir—”
“It’s Cal, Detective Stone.”
“Call me Iona, please. I’m sorry, Cal. We’ve got to go. Right now. I wish I could explain.”
They both turned sharply and headed for the door.
“Let me come with you,” I said. “I deserve an explanation.” I didn’t, but I was going for the guilt-trip.
They paused. Raf said something to Iona. She shrugged.
“Okay, Cal. We’ll explain on the way. Another pair of eyes can’t hurt. Just do everything we tell you to do.”
I nodded.
We left the storage room and headed out of the station. All I wanted to do was to find the girl to make sure she was okay. Having seen how much they looked alike, I was also curious to know if she knew Merla.
Iona
Iona, Raf, and Cal charged out of Mansion House station and into the night.
The streets were a muffled hum of activity.
“Which way?” Iona demanded, shouting in Cal’s direction.
