The City of Secret Rivers

by Jacob Sager Weinstein

  I looked around. Mom, thank heavens, had been shielded by the iron column she was tied to. Sirion and JB weren’t so lucky – they were lying unconscious on the ground looking bruised, with large lumps of steel lying nearby.

  Oaroboarus, too, was unconscious once again. His side was covered with shallow welts where the fragments had hit him, but nothing had penetrated too deeply into his thick, bristly hide. He was going to be fine.

  We’ve won, I thought.

  And that’s when Lady Roslyn came running at me, a crazed look in her eye, wielding a long, sharp fragment of the Trowel as if it were a knife.

  CHAPTER 38

  She dove at me, blade held high, and knocked me to the ground. As her hand slashed down towards my neck, I grabbed her arm. Getting sucked up to the ceiling and then exploded down to the floor must have worn her out, because I was able to hold her arm a full two inches away from my neck.

  “You promised you’d let me go,” I told her as I pushed with all my might. “Remember the whole can’t-break-your-word-around-magic rule? Hello?”

  She didn’t answer except to snarl, completely incoherent with fury. OK. Looked like I wasn’t going to be able to reason with her. On the plus side, if she succeeded in killing me, thereby breaking her word, she’d probably get squashed when the building collapsed. That was kind of a consolation.

  I couldn’t consider it too deeply, though, since I was focusing all my energy on keeping a razor-sharp piece of steel out of my throat. Even in her weakened state, I couldn’t move her arm any farther away. In fact, I must have been even more exhausted than she was, because the blade was creeping closer and closer.

  I guess this is it, I thought. Great. The last thing I’m ever going to see is Lady Roslyn, and the last thing I’m ever going to hear is Inspector Sands’s head going clang. Or maybe clung.

  Wait. Clung? Why had the sound changed? Taking my eyes off the blade for just a moment, I stole a glance in Inspector Sands’s direction. He was still pounding his head against the iron column … but now the column was beginning to bend the teeniest bit.

  Clung. It bent more. Much more. As it happened, it was one of the columns that held up the mezzanine, and now that Inspector Sands had weakened it, the weight of the mezzanine began to bend it even more. He hadn’t been banging his head out of despair – he had been trying to bring down the building.

  Clung. The mezzanine tilted visibly.

  Clung. The column snapped in half.

  The mezzanine dropped.

  Everything that had been on the mezzanine began to slide downwards:

  Scattered tools.

  Bits of metal.

  Long, heavy chains.

  Little Ben, who grabbed on to a railing and held tight.

  Oh, and the giant industrial drill began to slide downwards, too, sending sparks flying everywhere as it scraped along the floor.

  In about two seconds, that drill was going to crash down on exactly the spot where Lady Roslyn and I were wrestling.

  Time for a massive gamble. I let go of Lady Roslyn’s arm for a moment. Since she was putting all her weight into pushing down on me, she toppled. Moments before the knife hit my throat, I used every last bit of strength I had and pushed her legs up with my knees, flipping her up in the air –

  and I rolled out from under her –

  – the blade went soaring through the air –

  – and by now the mezzanine was completely vertical –

  – and Little Ben lost his grip on the railing, crashing down to the ground –

  – and the drill tumbled down, too, dropping though the air –

  – right onto Lady Roslyn’s foot, pinning her to the iron floor. She screamed in pain, but she was trapped.

  I pulled myself to my feet and looked over to where Mom was tied up. Little Ben had landed next to her. He staggered to his feet.

  He looked at Mom, then at the steel blade, lying nearby on the ground.

  He picked it up. He lifted the blade high.

  My stomach twisted in sudden fear. Was he evil after all?

  I stumbled towards them, but before I could reach them, he brought the blade down –

  – and cut the ropes tying Mom to the pillar.

  “Thank you, small person I don’t recognize,” Mom said to him.

  “My pleasure, mother of my friend!” he said cheerfully. He dropped the blade and went over to try to wake Oaroboarus.

  Mom and I stood a moment looking at each other.

  Then we fell into each other’s arms, crying. I hugged my mother tight, and for a long time.

  CHAPTER 39

  When Mom and I finally let each other go, Inspector Sands, still lying on the ground, cleared his throat. “If you would be sso kind, I could usze a new pair of legss. Could you go get ssome mud for me, pleasse?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  By now, Oaroboarus was back on his feet. Inspector Sands gave him a significant look. “We have reczeived exsstenssive complaintss about a giant boar trampling carss. Asz an unlicsenssed magical creature, your pressencze above ground iss forbidden. It iss my duty to arresst you, no matter how heroic you have been today. Alass, asz long asz I have no legss, there iss little I can do to prevent you from esscaping. Hyassinth, pleasse be sspeedy with that mud. If you took, ssay, five minutess, the boar would get too far away, and there would be no point in my purssuing him.”

  “Message received,” I said.

  Little Ben and Oaroboarus accompanied me outside.

  “I’d better go with Oaroboarus,” Little Ben said. “It’s time I went back to my dad’s files.”

  So we hugged each other goodbye. I don’t want to spoil anybody’s reputation for toughness, so I won’t go into detail, but I’ll tell you one thing. It turned out that giant boars shed absolutely huge tears. It also turned out that Oaroboarus was as stubborn about letting go of a hug as he was about everything else. Finally, I shoved him away.

  “If we take any longer, Inspector Sands is going to drag himself out and arrest you, legs or no legs.”

  Oaroboarus nodded reluctantly.

  “Ooh! That’s right!” Little Ben said, beaming, “I know we will, because Troy said you were the key to me finding my answers, and that hasn’t happened yet, so we have to meet again.”

  He climbed up on Oaroboarus’s back and waved at me one last time.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you both for everything.”

  Oaroboarus nodded, and with a few mighty bounds, he was out of sight.

  Back inside, I handed Inspector Sands an armful of mud and watched him shape it into new legs for himself. A thought occurred to me. “When you started banging on that pillar – how could you know it would end up saving my life?”

  “I am pleaszed I ssaved you, but that wass not my intention. I ssimply wisshed to break the magzical ssircuit Lady Rossslyn wass ussing, and sssending the drill craszhing down ssseemed the besst way to do sso.”

  He put the finishing touches on his new toes and stood up. His new legs squelched a bit, but they held his weight.

  Then, somehow – I never quite figured out how – he summoned reinforcements. A new squad of Saltpetre Men marched up from the basement and scooped up Sirion and JB. As they lifted the industrial drill off Lady Roslyn’s foot, Inspector Sands led Mom and me towards the exit. “I have reported your cooperaszion to my ssupervissor, and szhe hass authorizsed me to releasze you,” he said, and gestured to a black cab idling outside.

  I ran to it and peered in the window, but the driver was just a driver. I had never seen him before.

  Mom and I climbed into the back and rode off. I turned to wave goodbye to Inspector Sands. He saluted, then melted away into the ground.

  The cab drove off, and I watched the Crossness Pumping Station fade into the distance.

  We had a long drive ahead of us. I used it to tell Mom everything that had happened.

  I had just reached the part where Lady Roslyn stole the oven that had started the Gre
at Fire when I realized that the taxi driver was talking, too. We were stopped at a light, waiting to turn right, and he had rolled down his window to chat with another taxi driver.

  I looked over at the other cabbie. It was Newfangled Troy.

  Quickly as I could, I rolled down my own window. The light in the other direction was turning yellow, and Troy was in the left-hand lane. As soon as the light changed, we’d be heading in opposite directions. We only had a few seconds, and a million questions banged around inside my head.

  The one that finally popped out through my mouth was “Whose side are you on?”

  “Maybe that depends on who’s got the most money,” he answered.

  “Nice try, but that ‘maybe’ means you’re going around the glasshouse,” I said. “And if you just care about money, why didn’t you tell Lady Roslyn that you did own the Trowel? It would have been worth a million pounds.”

  He grinned. “I think you’re getting the hang of this,” he said. “Next time we meet, you’ll be the one bailing me out … maybe.”

  The light changed, and when he drove off, I had no idea where he was headed.

  But I knew where I was going. Mom had been right. As long as she was with me, anywhere I went was home.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I started writing this book nearly nine years ago. Along the way, I’ve been lucky enough to have the help of many kind and generous people. My heartfelt thanks to:

  Matthew David Brozik, Kristin Grey, Miriam Halahmy, Teme Ring, Emily Rosenbaum, Simon Rosenbaum, Courtney Rubin, and Kate Strauss, who offered feedback and encouragement on early drafts;

  My agent, Ammi-Joan Paquette;

  My editors, Diane Landolf at Random House and Gill Evans at Walker UK, as well as the entire teams at both houses;

  All my children’s teachers and caregivers, especially Laura and Lore;

  My whole family, especially my wife, Lauren, and our children.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I made up much less of this book than you might think.

  There really are a number of lost rivers flowing beneath the streets of London. If you know where to look, you can see the ones that haven’t been diverted into the sewers emptying out into the river Thames. Or you can go to the Sloane Square station on the Underground and when you’re standing on the platform, look up. The big metal tube over your head carries the river Westbourne.

  This shows the river Westbourne aqueduct over Sloane Square station in the 1920s.

  There really is a monument in the parking lot of Charing Cross station that looks like the very tip of a giant underground cathedral. It’s actually a Victorian replica of a thirteenth century memorial that King Edward I put up in memory of his wife, Eleanor. (Of course, that’s just what I’d say if I wanted to help keep the giant underground cathedral a secret, isn’t it?)

  The Mount Pleasant Mail Sorting Facility is a real Royal Mail facility. It’s built on the former spot of the Coldbath Fields Prison, and prisoners there were forced to walk on a treadmill as a form of punishment. The treadmills aren’t there anymore – but by the time this book is published, a new Postal Museum at Mount Pleasant should be open for visitors.

  The Monument to the Great Fire of London really is 202 feet tall, and it really does stand 202 feet from where the Great Fire of London began. You can visit it and climb to the top most days of the year. Personally, I’ve never seen it topple over onto its side, but maybe you’ll be luckier than I’ve been. Directions and opening hours are at themonument.info.

  The Monument

  A close-up reveals the birdcage-like railing that forms a roof over visitors.

  Unless you have a magical umbrella to carry and a magical tune to whistle, you can’t get access to most of London’s sewer system. But you can visit the Crossness Pumping Station once a year during Open House London, which takes place on a weekend in September. Visit openhouselondon.org.uk for more information.

  Inside the Crossness Pumping Station

  Jacob Sager Weinstein has written for the New Yorker, McSweeney’s, HBO and the BBC. He lives in London with his family, close to where the Westbourne flows underground, but his sink mixes hot and cold water nonetheless. He apologizes in advance for any Great Fires this may cause. Visit him at www.jacobsagerweinstein.com, or follow him on Twitter: @jacobsw.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.

  First published in Great Britain 2017 by Walker Books Ltd

  87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ

  Text © 2017 Jacob Sager Weinstein

  Cover art and illustrations © 2017 Euan Cook

  Photograph credits: The Print Collector/Alamy Stock Photo;

  Tim Whitby/London GVs/Alamy Stock Photo;

  Jacek Wojnarowski/Shutterstock;

  Tupungato/Shutterstock;

  Eric Nathan/Alamy Stock Photo

  The right of Jacob Sager Weinstein to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data:

  a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-4063-7535-0 (ePub)

  www.walker.co.uk