In the Shadow of London

by Chris Ward

  ‘Yeah, he’s gone.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lindon.’

  ‘Me too.’

  She cocked her head. ‘Will you jump with us later? I mean, I probably won’t jump, but I’ll come down.’

  ‘I’ll come. I have to go to the Tank first. There’s trouble.’

  ‘What trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know. Spacewell got a message for me.’

  Cah shrugged. ‘Okay then.’ She turned and disappeared back into the other room, where a broken sofa and a couple of old armchairs enjoyed a view of London’s suburbs. Lindon stared at the doorway for a few seconds, but since she had started up her new habit, he didn’t go near her until they went to bed. He couldn’t bear to watch her fade away, knowing there was nothing he could do.

  The apartment building he called home was a couple of hours from central London by foot, but Lindon took the tube. It was amazing that in a city so overgrown with decay and disillusionment the London Underground still continued as ever. It was like the immortal central coil around which everything in London Greater Urban Area revolved. Sure, there were regular strikes, closures, and breakdowns—as well as the occasional hijacking—but his grandfather had told him that was nothing new. The tube, he had heard, was the beating heart of London. When it finally died, London would die with it. Until then, the wheels of the failing city would continue to grind.

  He held the note crumpled in his hand as the train bumped along, remembering its unusual wording.

  Swimming time, L-Man. Anticipating a visit from the Siamese Queen. Urgent.

  It was from Spacewell, the weird little computer geek who technically lived in the apartment upstairs but spent more time in theirs than his own. Lindon had never figured out if that was how he received the messages from his own source, or if it was part of some elaborate joke that only Spacewell understood. Still, over time Lindon had come to realise they usually translated to the same thing.

  Get your ass over to the Tank.

  Who or what the Siamese Queen referred to, he couldn’t guess, but it had him intrigued.

  There were several ways into the Tank, the self-proclaimed criminal underworld of London GUA that had built up beneath the streets of the old Borough of Westminster. The easiest was by one of the many roads, left unblocked because it was easier to shoot someone when they had no cover. The roads weren’t a wise man’s choice though, regardless of whether you were known in the Tank or not. The more friends you had, the more enemies you had too, and dirty windows provided plenty of cover for eager gunmen.

  Westminster Underground station had long ago become a through-station, controlled as it was by the Tank. Lindon got off at Piccadilly Circus and walked down towards the Thames, the sawn-off remains of St. Stephen’s Tower looming over him like an open, lacerated maw screaming up at the sky. A couple of streets before the river he ducked into an alley, went through a door into an abandoned café and down a set of stairs to a basement. The north wall had been smashed through; a tarpaulin hung from a curtain rail to cover it. Lindon pushed past it, following a path lit by dim electric lights through the basements of several other buildings and then down a metal ladder out on to the Westminster Underground station concourse. A man stepped out of the shadows to interrupt him, but Lindon put up a hand, revealing a tattoo on his palm. The man nodded without a word and slipped back into the shadows.

  In a former ticket office, two men were waiting for him.

  ‘You took your time,’ said Rusty Pete, so-called for the red patches in his otherwise grey beard that many said were from the blood of men he had killed.

  Lindon shrugged. ‘London traffic, what can I say?’

  The second man stepped forward. Tim Cold’s grey eyes reflected his personality. ‘Quick tongues have killed better men than you, Lindon,’ he said, his face expressionless.

  Lindon felt uncomfortable in Tim Cold’s gaze. Clothes that hung off the man’s thin frame hid weapons everyone knew were there. ‘What have we got?’ Lindon said, trying to deflect Tim Cold’s attention. ‘Who’s the Siamese Queen?’

  Rusty Pete rolled his eyes. ‘Spacewell … unique as ever. The Governor’s right hand. Let’s go. They’re waiting.’

  In a chamber of the old Houses of Parliament, fitted wooden seats lined up in rows either side of a stage, its walls covered with graffiti and water dripping from a hole in the roof, Lindon, Rusty Pete, and Tim Cold stood waiting for the new arrival.

  The doors opened and a tall, robed figure strode in, two men in uniform striding along on either side. Lindon fidgeted uncomfortably, recognizing the uniforms.

  Personal Guard.

  What are they doing here?

  It was said only a Huntsmen could take out a Personal Guardsman. If they were here, then the Tank had to be considered a threat.

  As the figure reached the foot of the stage, two soldiers in tatty military uniforms carrying a stretcher came in through the door. A bloody corpse lay on top.

  ‘There,’ the robed figure said, pointing at the ground at the foot of the stage.

  The two soldiers tipped the corpse off the stretcher. It thumped onto the wooden floor, half flopped on its side, then rolled onto its back. An eyeless, shredded face stared up at the shards of light coming in through holes in the ceiling.

  ‘This man is known to you?’

  Rusty Pete stepped forward. ‘I know him. Leonard Woakes. Controlled a recycling franchise in Fulham.’

  ‘Why did he lead a mob in an attempt to derail a train in Goldhawk Road?’

  Rusty Pete shrugged. ‘He always was a cocky bastard.’

  ‘This was ordered by the Tank?’

  Rusty Pete shook his head quickly. ‘No, of course not. No one here had anything to do with it.’

  The robed figure pulled back her hood. Lindon suppressed a gasp. She was burned and disfigured, half her face covered by a metal plate, but he remembered her. He had replaced her as leader of the Cross Jumpers.

  Dreggo.

  Was she the Siamese Queen? She had abandoned the group in a whir of violence and failure. How had she become the Governor’s right hand, capable of commanding the Personal Guard?

  ‘This place could be gutted and every man, woman, and child strung up to rot in the sun,’ she said. ‘If you lie to me I will personally ensure it. I’ll ask you one more time. Did this have anything to do with the Tank?’

  Tim Cold stepped forward. ‘We might be under the law here, but we’re loyal to the government.’

  ‘Music to my ears. I have a task for you. Compliance is not optional. You will do as I request or every one of you will die. Do you understand?’

  Lindon kept his head down, nodding along with the others.

  ‘Tube Riders.’

  ‘There are no Tube Riders,’ Rusty Pete said quickly. ‘That’s a myth.’

  Dreggo turned. ‘You.’

  Lindon slowly lifted his head. Dreggo was staring right at him.

  ‘You. I know you.’

  Lindon shifted. The powerful arms that had beaten the resolve out of dozens of hard men felt like jelly. Dreggo’s human eye and its machine counterpart stared at him. He wanted to wither and die beneath her gaze.

  ‘Lindon. That’s it, isn’t it? I remember you.’

  ‘Dreggo.’

  Rusty Pete and Tim Cold were staring at him too now. One of the Personal Guardsmen stepped forward, as if Lindon might dare to attack his old leader.

  ‘You look the same,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks. You don’t.’

  For a moment she shifted, the scar tissue around her mouth hardening. The human eye narrowed. ‘Observant, aren’t you?’ She swept an arm towards Rusty Pete and Tim Cold. Wires glinted beneath the folds of her robe. ‘Tell them.’

  ‘The Tube Riders are real,’ he said. ‘But they’re just kids playing a stupid game. They’re no threat to anyone.’

  Dreggo laughed, a raspy, watery sound that made Lindon shiver. ‘You fool. If only that were true. They pose a greater threat than
you imagine, and they must be weeded out.’

  ‘I heard they escaped London.’

  ‘Five Tube Riders escaped. My concern is the others.’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘Our Huntsmen detected more than five scents in St. Cannerwells Underground station. Old scents, too old to follow.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘This gang has become a standard for the disenchanted. If others were to appear, staking a claim to the Tube Rider legacy, they might become a rallying call for the people. That can not be allowed to happen.’

  Tim Cold exchanged a glance with Rusty Pete. Lindon understood the meaning of that look. While London was in turmoil, the Tank benefited from all the underground criminal activity, and the government ignored it because it helped with the suppression of the people. If peace and order was restored to London GUA, those in power in the Tank would suffer.

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ Tim Cold said.

  Dreggo looked slowly from one to the others, as if memorizing their faces for future reference. ‘You will use what resources you have in order to hunt down any renegade Tube Riders and deliver them to the government, or if possible, in person to myself.’

  Rusty Pete tugged on his beard, his small eyes narrowing. ‘And in exchange?’

  Dreggo smiled. ‘You will be allowed to stay here, and allowed to prosper. And to live.’

  3

  Raine

  With the board wrapped in plastic bags and stuffed into a tattered old rucksack, David took the tube across the city towards Finsbury Park. Going to see Raine was probably a waste of his time, but it was the only thing he could think to do. There were three other Tube Riders that he remembered, but Raine was the only one for whom he had an address. Even that was two years old. She might be long gone. Her flat was a couple of streets in from the northern perimeter wall. It was possible her building had been torn down and the masonry used for wall repairs.

  He got off the tube at Arsenal and walked the rest of the way as a light rain fell around him. The memory of the Huntsman meeting his eye had kept him awake the last two nights, his bed pushed up against his door, his one wardrobe pulled in front of the small second floor window.

  Raine’s flat was at the end of a cul-de-sac, tucked up in the shadow of a three-storey townhouse with boards over its windows. Raine had lived on the second floor, the downstairs flat abandoned. Afraid of bringing attention to his old friend, David circled the nearby streets for an hour until twilight fell. As he had expected, only half the street lights in the cul-de-sac were working, and he was able to approach Raine’s apartment under cover of darkness. Standing on the concrete walkway outside her door, he knocked quietly.

  ‘Raine? It’s me. David.’

  The growl of a male voice surprised him. ‘Who is it?’

  David stepped back from the door as it swung open and a bare-chested man stepped out, a potbelly and sagging muscles framed by the light from inside.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I’m an old friend of Raine’s.’

  The man looked him up and down. ‘I bet you are. What do you want?’

  ‘I … I was just in the area, and wanted to stop by.’

  ‘Who the hell does that anymore?’

  The man started to close the door, but a girl’s voice came from inside. ‘Wait!’

  David tried to see past the slovenly man blocking the doorway as a girl appeared, wearing faded jeans and a slip that revealed the press of breasts and a tight midriff. Jet black hair framed her face, the nearest clutch of strands on either side plaited into braids laced with coloured beads. Eyes so brown they were almost black widened at the sight of him.

  ‘This punk says he knows you.’

  The girl turned towards the slob with a look of contempt. ‘He does. Go in, Greg. Look after Jake.’

  Before David could ask who Jake was, a baby’s cry pierced the air. Greg gave a dramatic groan and lumbered back inside, pulling a door into the living room half-closed behind him. Awkward shushing sounds drifted out as the baby began to settle down.

  ‘I had no idea—’

  ‘Why would you? What do you want, David?’

  ‘Can I talk to you? I think it might be important.’

  Raine stared at him, as if wondering whether this was a joke. Then she nodded. ‘Not here. We’ll go up to the park. Just a minute.’

  She went back inside, hollering at Greg to look after the baby again. A groan of discontent came back.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ she said to David. ‘Let’s go.’

  A single street light burning out of an ornate Victorian-style lamppost was all that lit up the small circular park at the end of Raine’s cul-de-sac. They sat side by side on the edge of a dry fountain, the water replaced by litter and weeds.

  ‘I left when I found out I was pregnant,’ Raine said. ‘I couldn’t carry on, could I? I didn’t bother to say anything, just stopped showing up. It was getting hard, seeing you with Marta.’

  David shrugged. ‘We broke up a month later. That was when I quit too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why did we break up?’ He smiled. ‘I fell badly one night and I wanted to quit. I wanted Marta to give up too before one of us got killed. She refused. That was about the whole of it. Tube riding was her life. I wasn’t.’

  Raine looked down. ‘I would have quit for you.’

  David felt a momentary pang of regret, but what was done was done. ‘But you’ve got the baby now, and Greg—’

  Raine scoffed. ‘That lazy prick isn’t the father. What do you take me for? Greg’s my cousin. He needed somewhere to stay. He acts like my protector but he’s as useless as he looks.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t see the father.’

  ‘Well, I guess—’

  Raine put a hand on his thigh, squeezing tight. ‘David, this has been nice and everything, but what do you want?’

  ‘We’re both former Tube Riders, right? I think we could be in danger.’

  ‘I’m not a Tube Rider anymore. I gave up. It’s nothing to do with me. I heard something about Tube Riders and the Huntsmen, but I want no part of it.’

  David explained what had happened to him up at Goldhawk Road. ‘I think it smelled me. I think they could be hunting the rest of us.’

  Raine stood up and began walking away. David went to follow, but she turned around and held up her hands. ‘And knowing that, you came here to see me? What if they track you, David? What if they find my baby?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was hoping you would come with me.’

  She kicked out at something hidden in the shadows. A piece of paving stone clattered away down the street. ‘That was always you, David. Always sorry. It’s time to stop being sorry.’

  As she walked away, he called out, ‘I’ll be at Melling Road Junction Underground station every Tuesday night. I’ll wait for you. I think we might be safer together.’

  Raine threw up a hand as if to swat him away, but she didn’t look back. Uncertain whether he had done the right thing, David headed for home. Maybe she would come around, maybe not.

  Raine didn’t go straight back home after David left. She did a couple of circuits of the nearby streets, her mind awash with a flood of old emotions. She hadn’t thought about the Tube Riders in a long time. She was working part time in a supermarket two stops up the tube at Tottenham Hale and the rest of her time was taken up by Jake. Greg showing up had been convenient. He was a slob but harmless, and took enough care of Jake during the day while he sat in front of their old TV to allow her to work. Until then she had kept Jake in a back room of the supermarket while she worked, looking in on him every half an hour, suffering from a cut in her wages due to supposed missed work time.

  At the end of the street connecting to her cul-de-sac, she climbed up on to a pedestrian overpass and looked through the gaps in the houses towards an elevated train line cutting through as it arced towards the northern perimeter wall behind her. She’d heard the rumours too, that the Tube Riders had got
out through one of the tunnels, clinging like barnacles to the side of an express train. It was a fanciful notion, escaping London GUA. Impossible now, because the tunnels were heavily guarded, in some places closed and the trains rerouted elsewhere. She turned to look up at the towering perimeter wall, a black shadow sixty metres high in this part of the city, spotlights sweeping around from the top, exposing the silvery glint of gun emplacements.

  Like most people, Raine had her horror stories of Mega Britain. Her parents had vanished, never returning from work one day, and her brother had been arrested for staging a political protest. She didn’t know if he was still alive, but every few weeks she would drop by her old house—now abandoned—and check for mail, hoping something would have come from the government to give her a clue as to his wellbeing. There was never anything. Aside from Greg and a sour-faced, borderline alcoholic aunt who lived in East Burton, she had no family left.

  Which made Jake all the more precious.

  She headed back to the apartment. Greg was asleep on the sofa, snoring loudly, but he had at least put Jake back into the crib and tucked him in. Her little boy, a little over a year old, was sleeping, his breathing coming in soft whispers. Raine brushed his hair out of his eyes, smiling at the way one of his hands was clenching and unclenching in his sleep, as if he was dreaming about some adventure.

  Who wanted to bring a child into this world? When she discovered she was pregnant, she had talked to several former doctors about termination, but without the money to go to a government-sanctioned hospital she was stuck with a backstreet job. In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to do it, and she had never felt a single moment of regret—not about keeping the baby at least. There were plenty of other things she regretted.

  Like not telling the father.

  Jake’s eyes suddenly popped open. He looked up at her and gave a little smile. It was amazing, she thought. He was just one year old, but he looked so much like his father. She hadn’t realised until tonight.