by Unknown
‘I was just wondering where it came from, cos I didn’t see it before.’
‘Me neither.’ Phil pointed right. ‘This looks like a storm drain.’
‘Yeah. Kind of odd the way it fits in, though.’
Astral was right: When he shone his torch up Phil saw how the bricks of the sewer ended abruptly, some of them cut in half by the equally well-defined pipe. As Phil stepped into the pipe he realised he was holding his breath. He released it, wondering if the air here really was fresher, as it suddenly tasted. It should be: no sewerage here.
As they walked up the pipe, keeping to one side of the thin but slimy flow in the centre, Phil revised his opinion of how fresh the liquid was. The water seeped in through the cracks in the sides of the pipe in rivulets and drips, fanning out in narrow stains across the concrete and occasionally covering shiny, nodular growths.
The pipe became drier the further they went, then just came to a stop. If that meant a sheer drop or another grating they’d have to go back, something Phil was loathe to do, not just because of the risk of running into the law, but because it felt wrong, like reading a book from the end first.
When they reached the end of the pipe they found not a drop-off but steps, cast in the same rough concrete as the pipe. They appeared relatively dry and slime-free. It was not unlike one of the smaller staircases in the tube, albeit unfinished. Going down deeper wasn’t an enticing prospect, but it beat going back.
‘Hang on a sec,’ said Phil, and got his phone out. No signal. ‘Didn’t think so,’ he muttered. He had to try: his interest in the unexplained was that of an open-minded sceptic, but the more time passed in this place the less objective he was becoming. He put the phone away and they started down the stairs, hands brushing the wall for balance.
‘Hey,’ said Astral softly, ‘d’you reckon the door’s still back there?’
Phil murmured, ‘I wouldn’t give you odds on that.’
Astral gave a satisfied hmm at hearing his normally rational friend admit how odd this place was.
The steps brought them out at another T-junction, into a tunnel shaped like an inverted U. It appeared equally featureless in both directions, at least as far as their torch-beams went. The walls and ceiling were built of closely fitting square stone blocks, and the floor was beaten earth. It reminded Phil of the catacombs in Rome. ‘Let’s go right,’ said Phil, in the hope that if they always turned right then getting back to their entry point should be easier.
This passageway was more pleasant than the earlier ones, although cold enough that they could see their breath. No side turnings here. Just as he thought that Phil spotted a gap in the wall ahead. When they got closer he saw a high arch. This didn’t lead to another tunnel but to a set of three shallow steps. His torch revealed water at the bottom of the steps, and a rowing boat moored there.
‘That’s unexpected,’ he said, more to ground himself than because the comment needed making.
Astral just breathed, ‘Fantastic,’ and started down the steps.
‘Er, wait. That might be someone’s boat.’
Astral gave him a so what look. ‘So you’d rather check out the boring featureless tunnel than sail down the mysterious hidden river?’
‘Humour me.’ Phil was trying hard not to think of the word Styx as the dark water swallowed his torch-beam.
Astral shrugged and came back up the steps. Phil’s free hand had sneaked back to his pocket for warmth and when he found his phone he raised it and snapped a picture of the boat before he could think better of it.
Astral gave him a reproachful look, but said nothing. They carried on.
They had gone about a dozen metres when Phil glimpsed a flash behind them. A long way behind them, but enough to make him stop and turn. Astral followed suit.
‘Rozzers?’ Astral sounded dubious.
Phil was dubious too: they had ventured beyond the health-and-safety conscious arm of the law. Besides, this was a warm light, like a flame … or a lantern. Even as he thought that a faint whistling floated out of the darkness. Phil had an idea it was a hymn, or possibly an old folk tune. Hard to tell, as the music kept sliding in and out of phase. And now it wasn’t whistling, it was a voice, or perhaps several voices. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred, and for the first time since they’d climbed down the ladder, genuine fear tugged at him. ‘Not rozzers,’ he said, and by unspoken consent they turned away from the whistling and the flickering light.
The sound didn’t get any louder, though it didn’t die away either. After a couple of dozen more steps, he heard a new noise from ahead: a slow rhythmic pounding.
Astral paused and said, ‘That’s some fat bass.’ But Phil knew his friend was freaked, a rare occurrence that did nothing for Phil’s own state of mind.
‘Sounds like a machine.’ Something big, old and possibly steam-driven. But as he thought that Phil picked up a new smell on the air: car exhaust fumes. Now the image in his mind was of locked garages and tubes funnelling back into sealed cars. It wasn’t a good image, and the smell was getting stronger by the moment.
‘Look!’ Astral played his torch over a side passage up ahead.
A glimpse over his shoulder showed the wavering lantern still bobbing along behind them. Phil nodded, his breath catching. He and Astral scooted down the side passage.
It turned out to be remarkably similar to the first one they’d found, complete with moored boat.
Phil said, ‘Ever get the feeling you’re being herded?’
Astral nodded; but they still took the turning. As soon as Phil’s foot hit the step the exhaust stench disappeared, to be replaced by the damp vegetation smell that had greeted them when they opened the trapdoor. There was no taint of sewerage now; instead Phil caught a heavy floral scent that reminded him of lilies.
He was obscurely relieved to find that the boat was made of battered metal, and had oars rather than a pole. Astral shone his torch out across the water and Phil was further reassured to see a stone wall about five metres away. The river looked to be flowing from left to right. There were, he reminded himself, several rivers under London.
‘Shall we?’ asked Astral.
‘Yes, I think we probably shall,’ said Phil, a little grimly.
He had rowed a couple of times, so he climbed in first and sat on the bench. The boat had a flat bottom, and rocked as Astral climbed in.
‘Er, isn’t there meant to be a rope or something to cast off?’ asked Astral, peering into the gap between the boat and the stone quay. Phil had assumed the boat was moored but Astral was right: there was nothing there.
‘Usually, yes. But I don’t think we’re in the realm of “usually” any more.’
‘No shit.’
Phil nudged the shore with an oar and the boat slid out into the flow. The current wasn’t strong, but he knew better than to row against it. ‘Can you smell that?’ The floral scent was getting stronger; and was oddly reassuring, though it also made him feel slightly woozy.
‘Smells like incense. The proper Indian stuff.’
Phil didn’t disagree; Astral might well be smelling incense where Phil smelt lilies. Who was he to say?
The current was flowing faster and there was a faint noise which Phil initially found soothing, until he identified it as falling water. Alarm pierced his dreamy calm. He turned in his seat and saw a thin glimmer of white foam up ahead. ‘Can you see anywhere to land?’ he called.
Astral was looking past him, his torch-beam skimming over the dark water. ‘Already on it. Head for the far side … now!’
Phil rowed, trusting his friend’s sense of self-preservation.
‘Whoa, ease off!’
Phil raised the oars and a moment later the boat bumped up against a quay identical to the one they’d left. Astral jumped ashore as soon as they stopped, turning and bending to steady the boat while Phil climbed out.
As he straightened he saw steps leading upward. At the top was a faint glow which, against all logic, he want
ed to think of as daylight.
They started up the stairway. When Phil glanced back the boat was where they’d left it, which was reassuring in some ways – that was their way out of here – and disconcerting in others – an unmoored boat in a moving river should float away.
The light ahead appeared redder than he had first thought, and as they climbed higher he heard a thudding that initially made his heart trip. But this wasn’t menacing machinery; if anything it sounded like the fat bass Astral had joked about.
As a child, he remembered unwisely running up a moving escalator in a tube station: he’d felt the world telescoping, gathering momentum and rushing past him, as though each step carried him half a dozen paces. That was happening now and the illusion – he tried to think of it as illusion – was coming from the way the music – and it definitely was music – was getting disproportionately louder as they ascended. The lights were growing brighter too, and changing colour rapidly.
Then, as though they had passed through an invisible barrier, the lights became blinding and the music deafening. They came out under another arch. About three metres below them, in a huge circular room, a massive party was in full swing.
Astral, who had drawn ahead, shouted, ‘Fucking A!’
‘Certainly gives a new meaning to the term “underground party”.’ Phil raised his voice as he drew level with Astral but his friend was staring down into the revellers, and gave no sign of having heard him.
There were hundreds of them, masked and costumed, dressed as everything from beggars to fabulous beasts, dancing like their lives depended on it. The music was compelling, but hard to place. Phil thought “baroque ‘n’ roll”, but then it changed into a frenetic folk mash-up. A chill went down his spine as he caught a hint of the melody that had spooked him earlier, but it was a distant apprehension.
‘Astral!’ he called, ‘I’m not sure any of this is real.’
His friend turned and smiled at him, then shouted. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing!’
Phil looked up from the dancers. Given the lightshow, he would expect to see a professional lighting rig in the high ceiling. No he wouldn’t. The fact that there was only darkness up there wasn’t really a surprise.
Astral poked him in the ribs, then pointed down, indicating steps leading off their ledge into the throng. ‘Shall we?’ he mouthed, grinning wider.
Phil shook his head, but his friend was already creeping down, taking exaggeratedly careful steps. He paused halfway and said, his voice coming through unexpectedly clear. ‘You can’t come this far then turn round!’
Astral was right. Phil had spent his life looking for this level of strangeness. He followed Astral, even more cautiously.
Without looking their way or missing a beat, the dancers parted, allowing the two of them onto the floor.
Phil paused, taking a look at those around him. They were people, with no extra heads or wings or suchlike. Their costumes were amazing though, many of them perfectly recreating past ages. Beside him a Roman soldier danced jerkily with a voluptuously swaying Victorian ‘lady of the night’. The soldier had a red cloth tied over his eyes, with no obvious eyeholes; the tart wore a lace-fronted black mourning bonnet. They moved to one side, acknowledging him. Phil shuffled forward. He was already nodding his head in time to the music. Dancing was an attractive option. Although he avoided the sort of places Astral went for fun, a traditional R&B or decent indie band in a pub would often get him up and boogying.
Remembering Astral he looked round and saw his friend’s blond, dreadlocked head bobbing to the beat a few metres away. As he watched, Astral raised his hands, pumping the air. Astral was fine. Phil began to move with the music, lifting his shoulders and sliding his feet, letting the rhythm get into his blood. When was the last time he’d danced? Not since Emily was born, unless you counted rocking her to sleep.
More of the dancers noticed him. Some of them smiled. Phil smiled back. This was crazy, but in a good way. It might be a dream, or something stupendous that was going to seem like a dream later, but while he was here he may as well make the most of it.
Out the corner of his eye he saw a dancer with no mask. His heart caught, in fear at first and then in something far more pleasant. He turned. Helen was shimmying her way through the crowd towards him.
It couldn’t be her. That was ridiculous. Even as he thought that she smiled at him, her eyes full of recognition and love. Everything else about this situation was unreal, so why shouldn’t his wife be here? Yep, just go with the flow.
He was about to ask where Emily was – although the music was too loud for the question to be heard – when she reached out and put a finger to his lips. When she leaned across to kiss him he let her. The flow felt good to go with.
It was a fantastic kiss, although she tasted odd: a bit earthy. As she pulled back his vision of her wavered for a moment but that was less important than the here and now. The only thing that mattered was the fact that it had been too long time since he and Helen had—
Past her shoulder he glimpsed the blond woman from the tube platform. Unless he was mistaken—
No. This was all wrong.
He turned, fending off the woman-who-looked-like-Helen. He had to catch Astral’s eye, to tell him they needed to leave, now, before it was too late.
Astral had his back to him. Beyond Astral, a figure on a raised dais at the far side of the room who he’d somehow missed seeing up until now was standing up.
He remembered a picture he’d seen at school, a painting of the aged Queen Elizabeth the First, prim white face floating in a swathe of brocade. A Queen this certainly was, right down to the uncertain gender, though the clothes were a garish motley of red and green and gold, and her face was more sulky than serene. As Phil watched she raised one be-ringed finger, as though about to conduct an orchestra.
The party halted in mid-beat. The music shut off as though a switch had been thrown and the revellers froze in their tracks. The lights continued to play across the unmoving figures.
‘How delightful of you to join us, boys!’ The voice was low but probably female, and carried easily across the dance floor. Her expression was somewhere between welcoming and predatory.
For a moment Phil thought Astral was frozen too. Then he realised his friend was also staring at the Queen. Astral twisted to look over his shoulder, his face flushed with exertion. He grinned at Phil, as though this was the best part of the show.
Phil wanted to mouth a warning – of what he wasn’t sure – but Astral had turned back to the Queen. ‘Nice one, your majesty.’
Phil winced, but the Queen smiled.
‘So you are enjoying your evening?’ she asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity.
‘Shit, yeah!’ said Astral.
‘And your taciturn companion?’
Phil swallowed and said, ‘It’s an honour to be here.’
The Queen did not reply at once. Phil wanted to move closer to Astral, but his path was blocked by a pair of dancers, a lanky street urchin wearing a papier-mâché cat’s head and a petit girl in a sari and peacock-feather mask. They had stopped in mid twirl, the girl with one leg delicately upraised, baring his way. He saw faint eye movements behind their masks, like a sleeper’s eyes when they dreamed.
The Queen said, ‘A shame you chose not to accept all the night’s possibilities. I fear you’ve brought the evening to a premature end.’
Phil felt suddenly cold. She must mean not-Helen. Perhaps he should have given into his desires.
The Queen sighed, then continued, ‘Which means it is already time to pay the price.’
Astral was frowning over his shoulder at Phil. Phil made himself meet the Queen’s gaze. ‘The price?’
‘Oh yes. There’s always a price.’
For not giving into temptation? Or for nearly doing so?
But that wasn’t the issue. This was bigger than any personal failings. ‘For being here, you mean? Being here and seeing all we’ve seen.’<
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Astral was nodding: he got it too.
‘Precisely.’ The Queen clipped the word. ‘One of you must stay, and play.’
Astral raised a hand and chirped, ‘That’d be me then.’
‘What?’ Phil stared at his friend. As evenly as he could he said, ‘I’m sorry, your Majesty. Can I just have a word with my companion?’
‘If you must, although time marches on.’ She gave a dismissive gesture, then focused on them again. ‘Obviously you won’t try to leave.’ The snatch of a whistled tune and the whiff of diesel fumes floated across the frozen revellers.
‘No. Of course not.’ Phil pushed past the dancers to his friend; they yielded but didn’t overbalance. ‘Astral, you can’t do this!’ I was the one who was about to fuck up. But he hadn’t, when it came to it.
‘One of us has to, and you’ve got family.’
‘But you might…’ Phil couldn’t say the word die. He wished he’d warned his friend about the vision on the tube platform. The same vision that had saved Phil from giving into temptation.
‘…have the party of a lifetime. Look, either this isn’t real – in which case what a fucking trip. Or it is, in which case no one has ever seen what we’re seeing.’
‘Not and come back to tell the tale, no.’
‘Phil, mate, I don’t think we’ve got the choice.’
‘I…’ Phil glanced at the impossible scene around them. ‘I guess not.’
The Queen cleared her throat.
Phil looked at his friend, all out of rational explanations or useful suggestions. He leaned across and gave him a hug. ‘Thanks. Just … take care, alright?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Astral, disengaging himself. ‘Really. See you later.’
Phil turned away, not letting himself look back as he threaded through the unmoving dancers.
When he reached the steps, the party restarted, music fading in rapidly, revellers jerking and uncoiling into motion. He felt himself being pushed up and out of the mob, excluded and ejected.
He took a last look from under the arch, but Astral was lost in the gyrating mass.
