The Song of the Underground

by Wendy Reakes

  “One moment, Prime Minister,” he said, with a whisper. Alice could hear the voices in the background fade and then the sound of a door closing. “My apologies, Mrs. Burton. I have just moved into a more secure environment.”

  “Alice, please! Henry, I need to talk to you about the Sous Llyndum project.”

  “You're not the first person this evening, Prime Minister.”

  "Oh?" She wasn’t expecting that.

  "Yes, in fact it was just a moment ago. A chap who wanted to know exactly what the Sous Llyndum project was."

  Alice pursed her lips. "Well, it couldn’t have been one of my team. I met with all of them earlier.” She recollected the meeting she'd had with her people earlier that afternoon. Kingsley wouldn’t have called him. She was a strong voice, but she was a follower, not a leader. She wouldn’t have taken the initiative to call English Heritage off her own bat. Besides, why would she? And J.R? Okay, he wasn’t happy, but Alice couldn’t really see the ambassador’s aide jumping the gun like that. "So, who was it? Did he have an American accent?”

  “No. He was English. He said he was acting for Charlotte Croft.”

  "Charlotte..." It suddenly occurred to her exactly who that was. “Why, that's Ben Mason's wife...Ben's one of my people working on the Sous Llyndum project."

  “He said he was acting for her. He sounded a bit flippant, in my opinion.”

  "Flippant!” Alice considered the information she had on Ben Mason and his family, and then she remembered. “Charlotte Croft’s brother is that internet vigilante fellow called ICE. It could have been him." Henry was quiet on the other end of the line.

  “That’s classified,” Alice rushed.

  “I’ve read about him, but I had assumed no one knew ICE’s identity.”

  "We know everything, Henry. You know that. Especially, when people like him are connected to our people." Alice pondered the notion of Charlie Croft finding out about Sous Llyndum. The implications of an underground city beneath London released over the net would be catastrophic. "What did you tell him?"

  "Nothing, of course. As you know, English Heritage is interested in preserving the city underground, as well as playing a crucial part in the negotiations of the project.”

  “Well, that’s why I need to talk to you. As you know there are some interested influential parties here. Namely the American President...promises were made you see..."

  “I understand.” Henry Radcliffe sounded suitably sympathetic to her underlying pleas. “But you are talking about destroying what could potentially be the biggest modern day historical discovery in the UK. Europe even! The implications of uncovering a city beneath London is monumental, Prime Minister.”

  “Henry, of course it’s important...” Alice liked to use a personal tone rather than a harsh one. Disarming the recipient worked every time. “I don’t dispute that and I’m on your side here. Really!” She emphasised the really, for effect. “As you know, English Heritage has always had my government’s utmost support, but I don’t want you or your people getting in over your heads here. We are using military tactics ourselves. This isn’t an Edwardian country manor we’re dealing with. It’s another world altogether. Sous Llyndum has its own ruling dynasty, a population of 3,500, and such valuable resources that the possession of such could potentially turn the tables on our country’s deficit.”

  “I understand, but...”

  “Henry, I need you to take the brakes off with regard to this matter. Your interest in Sous Llyndum is slowing us down and we need to move quickly. We have plans in place, you see.”

  “I see...”

  Alice jumped in. She wasn’t finished. “I am prepared to make it worth your while. We have documents...” She paused to give the effect of her being reluctant to impart such confidential information. “There are vaults beneath the House that English Heritage would be very interested in. There’s data down there, which would make your hair curl, Henry. If you think the Vatican holds secret archives, you should see our stuff. It’s explosive.”

  Alice gave herself a moment. She liked her turn of phrase. She had once taken an intensive, week-long course in creative writing when she was younger. Her tutor would have been suitably impressed with her natural use of a simile as she connected the gun powder plot, explosives, to the archives sitting below the Houses of Parliament. Suddenly she wished she had more time to write.

  “What about Charlie Croft? ICE!” Henry was beginning to sound interested. She could sense he was weighing up the pros and cons.

  “Don’t worry about him. I can handle that situation. I will contact Charlotte Croft. She’s in the media. I’ll get her involved somehow. That will put paid to that. Charlie ICE wouldn’t try to expose a situation his sister was involved in. Not if it meant endangering her.”

  “I will have to consider this, Prime...Alice. I have my position and my reputation.”

  Alice remembered her final words to him on the phone, yesterday.

  “Let me worry about your reputation, Henry. Trust me.”

  Now, Alice pushed the breakfast tray away from her work area. She opened the dispatches’ box and pulled out the top paper. For now, the Sous Llyndum project was taken care of. Ben’s wife would deliver the message ‘Abort’, and then Colonel Barnes would know to do the contrary: take out Sous Llyndum and put the city back in the hands of the English people. Right back where it belonged!

  Chapter 48

  Charlotte regarded the American, Mark Buzzard, from across the room. Room! No such thing. It was a windowless cell that stunk of urine and vomit and old bleach and something else...Death. That was it. It smelled of death and misery and torture and people out of their minds.

  She watched him sitting there on the other side of the room, on a rusted metal cot with planks of wood over it where the metal springs should have been. There was no mattress, which was probably just as well as it would have been crawling with lice and God knows what else. Charlotte only briefly wondered why the springs had been removed. The American had his back up against a wall that was covered in graffiti and scratches, and cracked plaster, and bricks that looked as if they had been scoured out with a blunt instrument. She saw a name just above his head. It had been written in faeces, or blood. She couldn’t tell. It was dried and crumbled now. Rory Dark rots here. 1589.

  A voice made her jolt out of the feeling of panic that had begun to overwhelm her. “Are you as scared as you look?” he asked.

  “No I’m not scared, I’m bloody terrified,” she answered. “What’s your excuse?” She saw his eyes dart to the side of her. He was looking at something. “What?”

  She stood up, over a floor where dirty slabs had been smashed to reveal a crusted dirt base. Damp was rising from it in the far corner, where a water pipe jutted out of the ground with nothing to cap it.

  “Erm, you may want to move...” the American said.

  Charlotte needed no other prompt. She turned and saw a big hairy centipede shuffle across the wall towards her. She screamed and darted towards the bed, landing at Mark Buzzard’s side. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her head in his shoulder. As she trembled, she felt his hand smooth her back. “It’s okay,” he said.

  “I’ve got to get out of here. I have to deliver a message.”

  “Charlotte...it is Charlotte?”

  She nodded, focusing on a single light that was glowing from down the hall outside the cell. She couldn’t see where it was coming from, but she was thankful for its presence and that the wall in front was made of metal bars. Had it been solid she would have curled up and died, lying in the dark. The light and the man she was clinging to were her lifelines and she thanked God for them.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?”

  “I can’t. It’s...it’s classified.

  “Classified?”

  She nodded frantically. “What is this place? I was told it would be a city, all lit up and beautiful.”

  He shrugged. “They call it Bedlam.
”

  She clutched his arm tighter. “Bedlam? I’ve heard of that.” She pictured a map of the London underground. Before it was moved in 1675, Bedlam had been situated where the Liverpool Street Station now stands. She was quite clear on that. She had often used Liverpool Street, and remembered reading about its history while waiting for her train, which was almost always delayed.

  “Well that accounts for that dreadful roaring noise we can hear though the wall.” Charlotte said. She looked at the crumbling bricks on the other side of the room. The thought of an underground train from her civilisation passing by was a comforting notion, if a little terrifying too. And difficult to imagine, if the station, with its underground routes, had left this part of Bedlam undiscovered. “Wait, if this is Bedlam, it's miles from where the underground city is.”

  “Maybe not as the crow flies. I estimate we travelled just over a mile on the canal from Sous Llyndum to where we are now. Although, I could be wrong. I’m not a sailor, but if I was, I would have to say that that was the most stifling and claustrophobic voyage I’ve ever experienced.”

  It was true. The canal was more like a sewer, with low, arched ceilings bearing down on them as they'd kept their heads lowered, and the only light was the one shining from the little boat, which was a curiosity in itself, since it was propelled by steam.

  A piercing shriek made them both jump. It was a lunatic sound. It was a woman, out of her mind, screaming for a drink. Charlotte whispered “Oh, God.” Mark Buzzard turned to look at her; the light from outside their cell made his eyes appear tearful. He was scared too, but he was feigning bravery.

  “So who are you? What are you doing here?” Charlotte somehow trusted the man she had just met, which was just as well since she was cuddled up to him.

  He had a bemused smile on his face. “I’ve been asking myself the same question.” She waited for him to divulge more. “I was brought here by a girl. A beautiful girl. We’re in love. She belongs to this underworld place and I guess you could say at this point, in this cell, that I’ve just been put in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “What’s her name, this girl?”

  He lowered his eyes. “Wren! She’s the king’s daughter. She’s a goddamn princess!”

  Charlotte shook her head. She couldn’t help musing over his terminology. The G word and Princess in the same sentence just didn’t work.

  “So how did you manage to get yourself locked up in this place?”

  “Well, it was never going to be easy. You know, American guy meets underworld princess. I mean come on...it’s not your average couple here.”

  “No, I suppose it isn’t.” Charlotte suddenly had a notion. “What happens if we never get out of this place?” her eyes widened. “Do you think they mean to kill us?”

  “Nah, things like that don’t happen in the real world.”

  Charlotte contemplated his reply. “Since when is this the real world?”

  That scream started up again and as they both turned towards the light, Charlotte curled closer to Mark Buzzard and closed her eyes.

  Chapter 49

  They were about to begin their tour. It was only seven in the morning and yet the city was already bustling with activity. Ben stood next to the colonel who had two of his men at the other side of him. In front, the Bird Catcher waited for calm, so that she could speak.

  They all seemed more interested in the bartering going on near the edge of the central market place. A man, dressed like a Victorian pauper, with a flat cap on his head and a peacock feather threaded through it, was standing upon a wooden crate; the sort that once held brown bottle beers. About him, a crowd of Llyns had gathered, chatting and joking with indistinct voices. Their accents were indefinable, but Ben thought it sounded like a type of old English with a slight cockney twang. The man was holding up a disposable yellow plastic lighter. He was offering it for the price of a bronze. He was loud and animated, like the market traders in Bishopsgate.

  As the Bird Catcher failed to get Ben and the Colonel’s attention, she turned to look at the man bartering as he balanced upon his wooden box. “Our people trade with items salvaged from the London Underground. You would be surprised what your people discard that we consider valuable.”

  Ben nodded. “What is a bronze exactly? Money?”

  She nodded her assent. “Not like yours. Ours has been circulating through the city for centuries. No one gets rich on it; they simply earn it and trade with it, like tokens.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a coin. She handed it to Ben, and just as he took it from her hand he noticed her fingers protruding through her fingerless leather gloves. Her nails were manicured and atop each one, pale blue stones sparkled.

  He inspected the coin and saw immediately it was an old half-penny, worn and dented, circa 1666. Ben had once been a collector of old coins; something he didn’t often divulge. He laughed as he held it in the palm of his hand to show the colonel. “You know these have a value of £25 in today’s market.” Barnes was disinterested. Ben tossed it between his hands and then offered it back to Byron.

  “So how many of these little bronzes do you need to buy a loaf of bread around here?” Ben asked.

  The Bird Catcher put it back into her pocket. She seemed on edge, impatient at the enormity of the task of showing them around the city. “You have a lot to learn about our ways. We don’t have bread, like you know it. Yes, we make a type of bread but it is made from...”

  “Dried okra,” the colonel interrupted.

  She scowled at him. “Yes, okra is our staple diet. But what you don’t realise is that our people have no need to buy bread. Everything we eat is made centrally. The only restriction is that everything is rationed, but it is shared and enjoyed by everyone at Sous Llyndum.”

  “What about luxuries, like wine and... a certain weed I saw your people smoking?” Ben’s brows were raised and his eyes were teasing.

  She was unperturbed by the reference to the weed. Clearly, dope was legal in Sous Llyndum. “It is made here, like everything else. The weed as you call it is grown and ground by the pharmacist. It is a healing herb, mainly smoked by our elderly and infirm.” She waved her gloved hand towards the bridge leading from the area they were standing in. “Come, I will show you.”

  Chapter 50

  Wren watched them from the balcony of her quarters within the palace. As the man called Mason walked alongside the Bird Catcher, he looked up and saw her standing there. Her shoulders were pulled back and her chin was held high, angled to the left. Her eyes followed him as he walked towards the bridge.

  She was motionless, willing herself not to cry. She had cried all night and her eyes were red and swollen, making her pale skin seem whiter and her lips redder. Her hair was wild about her shoulders and her limbs were aching from the tension building up in her body. She was miserable as she yearned for Mark and his protective embrace.

  She watched them disappear from view and, just to make sure they really had gone, she inched forward and then bent her body over the balcony’s metal balustrade to see. She caught the back of Byron’s green robes as she and the men went into the tunnel leading to the west end. Then with a toss of her head and an about-turn, Wren fled the balcony into her rooms, with her skirts flying behind her.

  She ran down the corridors of the palace and past the quarters belonging to her father, until she came to a halt outside a door. She stopped to look about, pushed it open, and then slid through the opening to the room inside.

  The chamber was dark and stifling and it smelled, as it always smelled when her brother was in residence. She went to the window and pulled open the shutters covering it. The flickering lights from the city outside filtered in, and a dazed muffled voice came from the bed. “Hey, what’s going on? What’s happening?”

  She rushed across the room and flung herself onto his form. She took hold of his shirt with two tight fists and shook him. “Wake up. Wake up, Heron.”

  He sat up and pushed her off. She fell of
f the bed onto the floor with a thud, but she got herself up again and threw her tiny body upon the mattress at his side. She slapped his face with her small hand but he didn’t flinch. Then, “Hey, what was that for?” he said.

  “Brother, I need your help.”

  “Huh, go away.”

  She slapped him again, until he grabbed her wrist and pinned her down. “Do ya want a good hiding, sister?”

  “Yuk, your breath smells. Get off.” She wriggled and pushed him away. He fell back upon the mattress once more and pulled the coverlet over his head. “Didn’t you hear me, you fool? I need your help,” Wren shouted.

  He leaned up on one elbow and squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again. Wren got down on her knees upon the floor and leaned onto the mattress with her arms resting on the bed.