Published by Warwick House Press
Edited by Wade-Staten Services
Cover design by Pig and Cow Designs
License Notes
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
LONDON’S FRIDAY NIGHT traffic pulsed around Thomas Young, light and sound penetrating the metal shell of his car.
He’d been sitting in the all-but-stationary traffic for almost an hour, wondering where the hell all these people had come from and what they were doing out at this time at night. Taxis made up the majority of the cars in the line ahead, the silhouetted heads of party-goers bobbing up and down through the rear windscreens. Someone up ahead beeped their horn in frustration and several others joined in, creating a cacophony of noise.
Tom let his head fall forward, his forehead resting on the middle of the steering wheel. He considered pressing down harder and joining the rest of the racket, but he didn’t have the energy. These trips to and from the hospital were literally driving him into the ground. Upon finishing work, he went straight to the children’s ward to relieve his wife, Abby, who’d been watching their son, David, for most of the day. She’d get a few hours reprieve while he spent time with his son, trying not to notice how sick he looked now; how hollow his cheeks had become; and how, with the loss of his hair, eyebrows and eyelashes, he now looked almost alien.
The car behind beeped again and he glanced up to see the traffic had moved forward about ten feet, the person behind impatiently telling him to close the gap. He sighed and put the Audi into first gear, allowing the vehicle to crawl forward until the bonnet almost nudged the bumper of the car in front.
The glare from the headlights of cars in the opposite lane swept past, making Tom squint. Why did traffic always seem to be moving in the opposite direction? He blinked against hot and gritty eyes, the constant dazzling light making him dizzy.
In front of him, a large, silver four-by-four was crammed full of young men in their mid-twenties. A couple of them craned their necks, looking back at him. One of them grinned and lifted a can of lager in a salute.
Tom forced his mouth to twitch at the edges. He didn’t begrudge these people their lives, but he wished he was still one of them. Not so much time had passed since he’d been a young man just like them. He, too, had once been free of responsibilities and able to enjoy a night on the town with friends, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. Now, he barely recognised himself. All he did was work and spend time at the hospital.
Guilt pierced his heart. Sometimes, he thought David’s illness was his punishment for not being a good enough husband or father. The times he dreamed of being young, free, and single made him feel like the worst father in the world. It was like wishing David did not exist.
Now he was in jeopardy of not only losing his son, but his wife, Abigail. He knew if David died, he would lose Abby as well. Their relationship would never survive—they were already hanging on to the cracks of their marriage as it was. Sometimes he wished Abigail would leave, freeing him of the responsibility, the constant guilt, and heartache. But he knew he didn’t mean it. What would his life be if he didn’t have his family?
Guilt smothered him.
How could he feel sorry for himself when poor David suffered the pain and the sickness and the fear?
Tom sighed in frustration and leant his head against the steering wheel again. He could easily fall asleep and he willed himself to sit up and pay attention to the road.
Once again, the person behind beeped. The traffic had pulled forward and, almost miraculously, kept moving.
“Thank God,” Tom muttered and shifted the car into first, his foot on the accelerator. At least the traffic—
A man’s body slammed against the windscreen and, an instant later, bounced off the bonnet. Tom jammed his foot on the brake, the seatbelt constricting tight around his chest, jolting him back in his seat.
I’ve hit someone! Oh, my God, I’ve hit someone!
He sat, stunned, a moment of horrible stillness settling over him. Then, a young woman standing on the side of the street wearing a precariously short skirt, started to scream.
Tom’s hands shook as he pulled open the car door and climbed out. Behind him, the row of vehicles started up their cacophony of horns, but Tom barely heard them.
I hadn’t been going that fast, he thought in a panic. I had scarcely got off the mark! How could someone be hurt?
He rounded the bonnet of his car. A pile of blankets lay in a crumpled heap in front of the car.
I’ve run over a laundry basket, he thought, confused. But then, the tangled heap of cloth started to shift and a muffled groan rose from beneath. Tom’s heart soared with relief. At least whoever was beneath the pile wasn’t dead.
Across the street, a young man in his mid-twenties came out of the shop and rushed over to help. The man’s girlfriend—the girl in the short skirt—tottered behind him in her heels, her hand covering her mouth.
“Is he all right?” the man asked.
“I hit him with my car,” Tom said, stating the obvious, his voice noticeably shaky. “He literally came out of nowhere.”
The crumpled pile of clothes groaned again and Tom crouched beside the hidden person.
“Don’t move,” he said, putting out a hand. “Are you hurt? I’ll call you an ambulance.”
Tom looked up at the young man. He already held his mobile in one hand, dialling, Tom assumed, 999.
The stench suddenly hit him—a mixture of rotting bins, stale urine, and alcohol. He realised the strange heap of cloth made up the person’s bedding, and had been thrown over his head when he landed.
Gingerly, Tom started pulling back the assortment of blankets and clothing, trying to figure out where the person started and the cloth finished. The person moved again, a strange shifting, like a moth emerging from a chrysalis. A dirty hand with bitten down nails and rough skin appeared, followed by a man’s head.
Aged anywhere between forty and sixty, a thick, greying beard hid most of the man’s face. A network of capillaries covered his cheeks and a red bulbous nose poked from between the fur. Deep-set, startling blue eyes peered out at Tom.
The man rubbed the top of his head with a large, rough palm.
“Jesus Christ,” the man said in a deep, gravelly voice, affected by a Scottish twang. “What the bloody hell happened to me?”
So relieved to hear the man speak, Tom wanted to laugh out loud.
“I ran you down,” he said. “I’m so sorry, but you came out of nowhere.”
The man stared up at him and his eyes widened. “You?” he said, his voice taking on a different tone.
“Yes, me.” Tom took the man’s single worded question as confusion. “I ran you over.”
“You are him, aren’t you? The one they’re trying to find.”
Tom’s forehead creased. “I’m not sure what you mean. You might have hit your head. You’re probably concussed.”
The man smiled in delight, revealing a crooked row of yellowed teeth. Strangely, Tom couldn’t help but smile back.
“I can see it in you,” the man said. “The stuff gets in your pores, in your soul.”
“What does?” Tom asked, baffled.
“The Shadows. Once it becomes a part of you, you can’t get it out again.”
The guy had been drinking, Tom d
ecided. He didn’t know what he was talking about. Yet his words caused a hard lump to wedge in Tom’s throat and his heart picked up a fast, trippy beat.
In the distance came the thin wail of a siren. The emergency services were much quicker than Tom had expected considering the busy Friday night. He guessed they must have been on a job close by.
“Everything is okay,” he told the homeless guy. “An ambulance is on the way. You’ve probably got a head injury or something.”
The man looked at him and scoffed with laughter. “Don’t be stupid man. I’m fine. I mean, you were hardly moving.”
Tom’s mouth dropped open. “But, I hit you!”
“Well, that may be, but it takes two to make a collision.” He put out a weathered hand. “Now, help me up.”
“I don’t know if we should move you. Maybe we should wait for the ambulance to get here.”
“Ah, shut up and help an old man to his feet.”
Reluctantly, Tom leant down and grabbed the man’s hand. Strong fingers wrapped around Tom’s and he realised this was not the frail old man he’d originally thought. Tom hoisted the man up and the blankets fell around him and onto the road.
He was tall, well over six foot, and little taller than Tom. Tom had expected him to be a stumbling drunk, slurring and incoherent, but he held Tom’s eye with a steadfast, honest gaze, more so than any other adult had done in a long time.
“It is you, isn’t it?” the man said, his voice more gentle, even thoughtful. “I’d recognise those eyes anywhere.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Tom said, but his voice was little more than a whisper and, absurdly, tears pricked the backs of his eyes.
Traffic started to pull to one side as the ambulance approached, allowing the vehicle through. The siren switched off—sudden silence in this busy metropolis—but the ambulance’s light still swung around, bathing them in a blue, pulsating light.
A male and a female paramedic jumped out of the cab and ran up.
“I take it you called an ambulance?” the woman paramedic asked.
The young man who had called them stepped out of the small, gathering crowd, his mobile phone held up in one hand. “I called, but he seems okay now.”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” she said and the man melted back into the crowd. Tom wanted to thank him for his help, but, as quickly as the young man had entered his life, he disappeared again.
“What happened?” the paramedic asked, focusing her attention on the homeless man, now standing beside Tom.
“I hit him with my car,” Tom said, relieved to have someone else take control.
She stepped close to the homeless man and peered up into his face, a frown creasing her forehead. He smiled back at her.
“How are you feeling?” she asked him in a loud voice, as though she thought he was deaf.
He shrugged. “Bit bumped, but nothing worse than I’ve had in the past.” Then he gave a cheeky grin and his blue eyes lit up. “And how are you?”
She ignored his question. “I think we should get you down to the hospital, you need to be checked over.”
“Don’t be daft, I’m fine. I don’t need to go to hospital.”
Tom stepped in. “Don’t worry, he’s not hurt.” The words left his mouth before he even had a chance to think them through. “I’ll take him back with me and make sure he’s okay.”
He couldn’t believe what he had said. Abby would kill him. It was as if someone else had spoken the words for him. But he couldn’t let this man wander back into the night. Something about him caught Tom’s interest and it was more than just the man seeming to recognise him.
The paramedic narrowed her eyes. “You want to take him home with you?”
Her gaze travelled over him, as though she was trying to figure out if he was some crazy person who liked to pick up the homeless in the guise of a Good Samaritan, only to take them home and slaughter them in some imaginative and horrific way.
“Sure.” Damn. He had no control over his mouth. “Why not?”
She turned to the homeless guy and put a hand on his shoulder. “Is that all right with you?”
“Of course!” He grinned again, revealing his crooked, yellow teeth. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Not giving the paramedics time to decide that they should to take him in, Tom guided the man to the passenger side of his car. He could hardly believe his own actions.
As though the man were a date, he opened the door and helped him in. Walking back round to the driver’s side, Tom ran his hand across the silver bonnet, his fingertips tracing the slight indent where the man’s body had bounced. He shook his head, bemused. The man was more robust than he looked. Tom couldn’t believe he hadn’t been hurt.
Tom climbed in the car and started the engine. He would have to report the accident to the police on Monday, but, for some reason, he couldn’t see it happening. Even the thought of getting up for work on Monday morning seemed distant. Suddenly, his future felt even more uncertain and unpredictable.
The stale smell of the homeless man quickly filled the car and Tom pressed the button to slide down both front windows. He shifted into first and the vehicle crawled forward into the London traffic. His heart pounded, his hands sweaty and slick on the leather of the steering wheel.
“So, are you going to tell me your name?” Tom said as they finally started to merge into the steady flow of traffic.
“Are you going to tell me yours?” the man rebuked, one bushy eyebrow raised.
Tom shot him a look. “There’s no need to be a smart-ass. I’m taking you in for God’s sake.”
“You ran me over,” the man pointed out.
“Yeah...Well...” He had a point. Tom couldn’t argue.
“My name’s Mack,” the man told him. “At least that’s what it is now. Whatever my name was in my previous life isn’t important.”
Tom guessed the man was talking about the life he had before he ended up on the streets.
“I’m Tom Young,” he said. “I’m thirty-seven and I’m married to Abigail. We have a boy called David.” He didn’t understand the compulsion to divulge all of this information to a stranger, but somehow it seemed important Mack know.
“You have a son?”
The question suddenly seemed too big for Tom, as though the whole balance of his life depended on the answer.
He nodded carefully, his eyes glued to the road ahead. “Yes, he’s seven.” Tom’s eyes flicked to the left and he found Mack staring at him intently. “What?”
“So he’s about the same age as you were back then?”
Tom slammed on the brakes and both men lurched forward in their seats, their seatbelts tightening painfully across their chests, compressing the wind out of their lungs. Horns blasted behind them.
“Jesus Christ, man!” Mack said. “Are you actually trying to kill me?”
Tom glared at him. “Why do you keep saying that? Saying stuff about ‘back then’? Who the hell are you?”
“I’m nobody,” Mack said. “Just a street guy. But I used to know you. You were only a kid—the same age as your son is now—but I remember you. You were with your mum, except she didn’t call you Tom. She called you something else...” Mack trailed off, gazing into the distance as if trying to remember the name.
“You knew my mother?” Tom said in a small voice.
“Sure.” Mack’s mouth twitched in a sad smile. “Boy, she was young. I was only nineteen or so, but your mother wasn’t much older. She must have been a kid herself when she had you.”
Blood rushed to Tom’s face. Never before had he heard someone speak about his mother. His childhood had been far from idyllic. He’d been found living on the streets at the age of seven and put into care. Tom knew nothing about where he’d come from. After a few false starts, a kind foster family took him in and he’d not been moved around like some kids in care. But, his life before that time remained a blank.
“I don’t remember her,” Tom admitted. “
I don’t remember anything from when I was a young child.”
Mack looked at him with pity in his eyes.
Tom jerked back in surprise. How could this man pity him, when he was the one living on the streets?
“We were down there” he said, nodding downwards. “Me, you, your mother. We lived down with the rest of them—the underground homeless. Whole communities live beneath the streets of London—in the old tube tunnels, in abandoned stations, old sewerage lines. Tunnels dug and forgotten about.”
“No,” said Tom, shaking his head. “I would remember. You must have the wrong person.”
“No way, man. I can see it in you. The darkness below ground is different; it gets into your pores. I can always pick out the ones who made it out—not that there are many of us.”
Tom remembered the dreams that haunted his nights; the thick, living black, the cold, and the utter loneliness. He shuddered.
Behind them, cars beeped and, reluctantly, Tom put the car into first and got moving again. He didn’t feel safe driving, but he was in need of a large shot of something strong.
“If you don’t remember anything,” Mack said gently. “How do you know I’m not telling you the truth?”
Tom gave his head a slight shake. “I don’t even understand what you’re telling me.”
Mack glanced down at his hands, his fingers twisting around each other. “I’m telling you about the life beneath the streets,” he said. “The Underlife. The homeless who found, for whatever reason, life was better beneath the surface than on top.”
“Why would people live underground?”
“Down there is shelter from the wind and the rain and the cops don’t keep moving you on.”
“Okay,” Tom said carefully. “But I still don’t understand what this all has to do with me? Perhaps my mother did live beneath London’s streets with me, and hell, maybe we even knew each other. But why are you telling me this now?”
“Something else in the tunnels wants out.”
Tom stared at him, taking his eyes off the road.
Paranormal After Dark: 20 Paranormal Tales of Demons, Shifters, Werewolves, Vampires, Fae, Witches, Magics, Ghosts and More Page 295
