Scratch Deeper

by Chris Simms

  He stepped into the freezing water, oblivious to it sloshing over his feet as he began the slow trudge back.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Her toes made contact with the tunnel when the floor of the plant room was level with her face. Sucking in air as if she was about to go under water, she dropped to her knees and looked along the thin passage.

  A light was bobbling about, no more than twelve metres in front. Ranjit. Iona started crawling after him. The dark stone of the tunnel seemed to suck away what little light the torch threw out. To her sides, she could see the grooves and ruts where the soft stone had been dug out. The light ahead winked and then disappeared.

  Now all she could see was its faint glow and that was quickly getting weaker. She tried to speed up, jarring the top of her head against some kind of protrusion in the tunnel’s roof. The pain seemed trivial, dulled by the adrenaline coursing through her. Every time she lifted the hand holding the torch, the tunnel felt like it was lurching from side to side. Her breathing and the scrape of her jeans against stone were the only sounds.

  Just as her resolve begin to waver, she felt brick beneath her hands. A ledge. She poked her head out into what seemed like a cavern. The torch picked out walls, curving inward to form a roof some eight feet above that was thick with pale and spindly stalactites. Deansgate tunnel, she thought. This must be the Deansgate tunnel. Just wide enough for a horse and carriage, like Hidden Shadow had said.

  The bobble of light was off to her right and the sound of Ranjit’s heavy breathing filled the dank, cold space. Iona swung her legs and was about to jump down when she registered how the floor beneath her glimmered and shifted. A puddle, she said to herself. Just a puddle. Keeping one elbow hooked on the ledge, she slid down into ice-cold, ankle-deep water. She splashed her way out of it, aware Ranjit’s light had disappeared from view once again. The water ended and she found herself stumbling over an earthy surface made bumpy by deposits of silt. A mound of broken bricks and red chunks of stone at her side. What they must have removed when they burrowed out in the direction of the Beetham Tower. Next to them, she glimpsed some tools – crowbars, short-handled spades, a stack of empty water bottles. Rucksacks.

  The floor was rising, white fragments of broken stalactites strewn across it. Her foot went into a dip and she staggered to the right. Stalactites snapped against her head and fell to the ground. Lifting the torch, she realized the two men had cleared a corridor of them from the ceiling: an upside-down path revealing their route. She started forward once more and by the time a bricked-off section loomed ahead, she was bent almost double.

  Spotting an opening in the partition, she looked into it. Ranjit’s light on the other side allowed her to gauge the thickness of the wall. Two metres, maximum. She clambered through and into the next section of tunnel. How far, she wondered, have I now come? Thirty, forty metres?

  Ranjit’s shadowy form was scrabbling up some kind of slope further along the passage. Loose stones were shifting beneath his feet, the noise reverberating all around her. Abruptly, his light contracted down to a small rectangle and, as she set off in its direction, she realized he’d crawled into another opening.

  Something dry and fibrous raked across her forehead. Another step and it began to snag in her hair. Shuddering, she tried to duck clear. More of it, these strands longer and thicker. It was now all around her face, tendrils of it brushing against her lips. Wanting to scream, she fell to the floor and pointed the torch up. A curtain of dusty tree roots hanging down. She crawled out from beneath them, ran forward and started climbing the loose fragments of stone up to an opening just below the ceiling.

  Not much bigger than an oven door, she thought. It veered off on a diagonal angle. She could see Ranjit, hear his grunts as he struggled to get out the other end. Five, six metres, she told herself, briefly closing her eyes. That’s all. You can do it. There was a scraping noise and she looked in again. Now only Ranjit’s feet were visible. They slid downwards from sight.

  She clamped the torch between her teeth, got her head and shoulders in and started forward on her elbows. When her legs were also inside, she was able to half-crawl, half-shuffle herself along. Midway, she started to feel the roof of the passage making contact with the curve of her shoulders. It was getting lower. She went on to her stomach and dragged herself on using her forearms. The other end wasn’t much more than an arm’s length away but she realized it was horribly narrow. Fighting back another urge to stop, she stretched out a hand and hooked her fingers over the lower part of the opening. Now she was able to pull herself across the remaining distance.

  Freeing one arm, she directed the torch about. The opening she was looking out from was about a metre and a half above a floor made of tiny bricks. It was some kind of room. The stone walls had been rubbed smooth and, at some point long ago, painted white. Now they were peeling and she could see the remnants of black wedge shapes staining the surfaces. Smoke marks, she guessed, from where candles had once burned. Ranjit’s escape route was given away by the glow coming from an archway in the opposite wall.

  Sensing she was close to the point where he must have entered the tunnel network, she squirmed her way forward, leaning to the side in order to drag her other arm free. Now she could reach down to the cold floor and start walking herself forward on her hands. Her torso was almost out when she came to a halt. Something was catching at her waist. By wriggling from side to side and using the weight of her upper body, she advanced another few inches. But the pressure across the base of her back grew too painful. The utility belt, she realized with dismay. The one I put on back in the basement of the Beetham Tower.

  She arched her body, reached back and tried to seek out the belt’s buckle. But it was pressing into her stomach which, in turn, was jammed tight against the edge of the opening. She tried to rock her hips but it was no good: her waist was trapped.

  Panic fluttered across the back of her neck like a moth trying to land. No! Do not lose control, she told herself. Breathe. Keep breathing. Now, take your weight on your arms and walk yourself back into the opening. She had just straightened her elbows when the glow filling the archway seemed to alter.

  She stopped moving and stared. Had it? Did it really change? She turned her own torch off. Blackness immediately engulfed her and she blinked her eyes, focusing on the dimly lit arch. The weak shine coming from beyond it could only be caused by Ranjit’s light. It was getting stronger. Oh, no, she thought. He’s coming back.

  She turned her torch back on and started kicking frantically with her legs. She could hear soft footsteps now. Scrabbling desperately at the floor, she felt her nails beginning to splinter and snap. The muscles in her shoulders and arms were screaming out and she stopped for a moment to listen. She could hear his breathing. She pushed back with all her might and the leather belt began to squeak. But still it refused to budge.

  And then she heard the scrape of a shoe. Fearfully, she lifted her chin. He was standing in the doorway, a torch in one hand and a knife in the other.

  FORTY-NINE

  Blotches of red broke out, merging with each other to cloud the sight of him as he stepped into the small room. She started bucking her torso up and down while thrashing her legs. The base of her spine popped and creaked, sending darts of white pain down the backs of her knees. ‘No,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘No! No! No!’

  Her heart was racing so fast, sounds were now being drowned out. Her scream of frustration seemed to come from so far away.

  Then his wet trainers appeared before her. Their edges were clogged with damp soil. Gasping for breath, she sagged on to her elbows, too exhausted to support her body weight any longer. She knew the back of her neck was exposed and, crying tears of anger, she wondered if he would jam the knife in there. Would it be quick, to die like that?

  One of the trainers slid closer and she saw that a section of lace was twisted where it came out of an eyelet. The wet and grimy canvas buckled slightly as his toes flexed. This is it, a
voice inside her calmly said. She saw her father’s face; safe now. Everyone is safe. Her mum’s twinkling eyes. Her sister and the babies she would never see. Everyone is safe.

  A sense of peace was settling over her. For a moment, she thought, maybe the knife’s gone through the top of my spine already. No pain, just a gradual numbness. A gentle drift into sleep.

  She could hear him breathing. Sounds, she realized, were coming back. I can hear again. Why isn’t he doing something? She wished she was able to look up at his face. Is he changing his mind? Hope, like a candle in the dark. If I could make eye contact and say something, maybe he would . . .

  A hand roughly cupped her chin and started to lift her head. She could see his shins, then his knees, then the hand holding the knife. Still he forced her head back, pressing her lower teeth against her uppers, constricting her airway, making it harder to breathe. My throat, she realized. He’s going to cut my throat. She tried to say something but, unable to open her mouth, only a strangled moan came out.

  At the lower edge of her vision she could see him reaching below her chin with the knife and, as she closed her eyes, a voice began to bellow.

  ‘Put it down! Put it down or I will shoot you in the fucking head!’

  EPILOGUE

  ‘I feel like one of those dogs. When they’ve been to the vet and had a plastic cone shoved over their head,’ Iona mumbled, probing at the neck brace.

  Wasim and Fenella smiled at her from the side of the hospital bed. Iona could see the distress still lingering in her father’s eyes.

  ‘Dad? Stop looking at me like that. I feel fine.’

  He nodded and tore his eyes away.

  ‘So that’s it, then?’ Muriel said, adjusting the small row of cards on the window sill. ‘You cricked your neck falling off a mountain bike?’ She turned round, feigning outrage. ‘That’s the best they can come up with? My daughter practically saves the country and I have to keep my trap shut about what really happened? Oh, hen.’ Her hands twisted in a knot. ‘I can’t bear this.’

  Iona suppressed a giggle. ‘I didn’t save the country. And don’t make me laugh, it hurts.’

  Wasim took her hand gently between his. ‘We know the truth. That’s enough.’

  Not everything, she thought. Not how close Ranjit came to cutting my . . .

  ‘Her bosses know too,’ Muriel corrected him. ‘Big gold star. Big, big, big bloody gold star.’ She moved Wasim’s copy of the Guardian so she could sit down.

  Iona took in the front page headline yet again. Terror Plot Foiled. She knew the official line without reading the story below: Vassen and Rhanjit Bhujun had been intercepted the moment they tried to access the plant room of the Beetham Tower via the exterior door from the underground car park. Security forces had been aware of their movements all along. A quantity of suspicious materials had been seized from an address in Bury that had been under surveillance for weeks. There were no tunnels involved in the plot.

  Wasim lifted the newspaper off the bed. ‘The leaflets the elderly man was throwing down from the gallery get a brief mention on page seven. Red faces all round, it seems.’

  Iona had been unable to elicit any clear answers from the senior officers in the CTU who’d debriefed her first thing that morning. ‘What do you mean, red faces all round?’

  He opened the paper at the modest article. ‘Tory and Labour – they were all complicit in the scandal. Decades of systematic deception about the islanders and their rights.’

  ‘Wasim,’ Muriel cut in. ‘Now is not the time to talk about those people.’

  ‘No,’ Iona said. ‘I have to know. Who were they really after then? Was it Blair?’

  ‘More likely Tevland,’ Wasim responded, sending an uneasy glance at Muriel, who had now crossed her legs and looked away. ‘When the Law Lords made their final ruling, Labour was in power and he was in charge at the Foreign Office. It was him who represented the government.’

  ‘You mean when Reginald Appleton decided against the islanders?’

  ‘Yes. In its simplest form, it was Tevland versus the Sagossians – with Appleton’s vote tipping it in the government’s favour.’

  So that was driving Ranjit, Iona thought, mind returning for an instant to the chase through the dark tunnels.

  ‘Will this plot have ruined their chances of getting their island back?’ Fenella asked, hands cupped round her stomach.

  Wasim gave a sad shake of his head. ‘They were never going to get it back. The present government is declaring the area around it a Marine Reserve. The only people who’ll be permitted on and off the island are the Americans – it’s their main base for bombing targets throughout the Middle East. And, as we’re learning, a very useful stopping point for extraordinary rendition flights—’

  ‘Can we not change the subject?’ Muriel snapped irritably. ‘They were planning on killing thousands of innocent people, including you and your daughter.’

  Just as the silence was getting painful, a knock sounded on the door. Iona looked up gratefully. It opened a crack. Jim’s face appeared.

  ‘Come in!’ Muriel jumped to her feet. ‘Come in, you gorgeous man, you!’ She was around the bed in a flash and yanking the door fully open.

  Jim stood there looking mortified, a bunch of flowers clutched before him. Iona couldn’t help beaming in his direction.

  ‘Er,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back later.’

  ‘You bloody well will not,’ Muriel said, taking his arm and practically dragging him in. ‘We can’t thank you enough, Jim. Really.’

  Fenella was grinning up at him as Wasim got stiffly to his feet. He extended a hand towards the other man. ‘Thank you.’ His voice quivered.

  The atmosphere in the room tightened as all eyes turned to Jim. Blushing, he took a step closer to Wasim and shook his hand. Iona quickly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

  ‘I . . .’ Jim faltered, hand still being clasped tightly by an earnest-looking Wasim. ‘This is really embarrassing.’

  Muriel planted a huge kiss on the side of his face. ‘Bless you,’ she said, gesturing to Wasim and Fenella. ‘Come on, let’s give the pair of them some peace.’

  Once they were alone, Jim turned round and let out a relieved sigh. ‘That seemed to go OK.’

  Iona smiled. ‘I’ve never seen Dad so emotional.’

  ‘Or as pleased to see me.’ He looked over at the row of cards. ‘Anything from Wallace?’

  ‘Funnily enough, no.’

  ‘I hear he’s not in the office.’

  ‘Gardening leave,’ Iona stated. ‘The Chief Super who was in here earlier said he’ll be putting in for early retirement.’

  ‘They should cut him off without a penny.’

  ‘I hear Tristram Dell has retired from his own company.’

  Jim shrugged. ‘He’s made plenty to keep himself comfortable.’ He started to read the various inscriptions, stopping at one and looking across at Iona with a smile. ‘Is this from the CTU?’

  She nodded as he looked at the card again.

  ‘To the Baby-Faced Assassin.’ He chuckled. ‘See? I’m happy with them calling you that now. They’ve earned the right. Not before, but they have now.’

  Iona shifted her legs to one side, grimacing slightly as she did so. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Still hurts?’ Jim asked with a concerned look as he perched carefully on the edge of the bed.

  ‘I did kick the crap out of that tunnel’s walls,’ she said. ‘My ankles are one big bruise.’

  His eyes went to her hands resting on the bedcover. All her nails were jagged and torn.

  She could tell where his mind was: back in that freezing little room with its smoke-blackened walls. ‘How did you find me down there?’

  ‘I heard your scream.’ He looked up. ‘So I ran back up the tunnel to where it was sealed off by new bricks. Just before it, this massive puddle stretched from one side of the tunnel to the other. Halfway across was a little alcove in the side-wall. I couldn’t figure out why
their tracks just vanished at the water. Anyway, it led round to a flight of steps. You were in the room at the top.’

  She was silent for a second. ‘What happened to him?’

  Jim frowned. ‘Ranjit?’

  She nodded.

  ‘They didn’t tell you earlier?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to hear it from them.’

  ‘Belmarsh.’ He shrugged. ‘No one will see him for weeks.’

  ‘Vassen too?’

  ‘And the old man – the uncle. He might be released sooner; it seems he didn’t have a clue what they were really up to in his house.’

  ‘Harish has been in touch.’

  ‘Really?’ Jim looked pleased. ‘He rang here?’

  ‘He left a message for me at work. Euan brought it in along with the card and grapes.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Harish? He was apologizing, believe it or not. After all that digging around he did.’

  ‘Why was he sorry?’

  ‘Ranjit Bhujun’s background,’ she said with a pained expression. ‘The Creole thing.’

  ‘I thought that’s what they are.’

  ‘Not really: he missed the fact they were originally from Sagossia. They’re like a sub-class on Mauritius. Fallen through the cracks. Some have become Mauritian nationals, some are holding on to their Sagossian nationality in the hope they’ll be allowed to return one day. They live in the worst parts of Port Louis. Harish had gone over Ranjit’s police record in more detail. His mum was found floating in the harbour when he was four. In an area used by prostitutes. No other immediate family. He grew up on the streets—’

  ‘Iona, do not – whatever you do – start sympathizing with the bloke.’