He took a few steps past the bottom landing and looked around. The gloom intimidated him, threatened to suffocate him. Ahead and to his right pinpricks of weak yellowish light displaced some of the gloom and defined the areas through the maze, but murkiness filled the majority of the expanse. He moved slowly, his feet gliding over the rough ground, his hand skating over the wall. His fingers touched the bumps and small protuberances, skimming over them as though he were reading Braille.
He passed a small chamber on his right. A mannequin dressed in the uniform of a foul clenger, a person who cleaned plague-infested living quarters, gazed out from behind his spotlight. McLaren started at the life-like dummy, disquieted at his first encounter with the tableaux. He dropped his hand and wiped his forehead of sweat before rounding the corner and joining the group.
There were more people than he’d thought, perhaps one and a half dozen. The darkness made it difficult to get an exact count. It didn’t matter. He was certain Lanny Clack was among them.
McLaren stood in the back, hoping his arrival hadn’t been noticed. The guide was explaining about the creation of the underground city and held everyone’s attention.
“These stacked ‘skyscraper’ buildings ran uphill, giving each one a slightly different ground level. Because they could not continue building upward, due to the unsafe foundations of the buildings, the poor people burrowed into the side of this hill. By digging horizontally into the base of the building, they created rooms at right angles to the building. As more and more people burrowed into the underground, they connected their one-room dwellings to each other via underground “streets.” Again, imagine being underground and living like this—an entire family confined to one room, no windows, no fresh air, no light. The smoke from their cooking fires, odors from the bucket in the corner… They lived their entire lives below ground, died below ground for the most part, going outside to work or beg or empty the bucket, which was allowed only twice a day at specific times.”
McLaren glanced around the group. He could make out individual faces in the ochre light, distinguish clothing. Lanny Clack stood near the guide, the white skull on his jacket nearly glowing in the light, his tattoo easily discernable.
As the guide moved to the doorway, the group shifted to follow. Instead of darting out the door and waiting, McLaren hugged the back of the party, turning with them as though directed by a sheepdog. He kept to the shadowy section of the chamber, for the first time thankful for the dim light.
Several chambers on, the guide gestured to a tableau of a family. The woman mannequin held a small child in her arms. A young boy lay on the bottom mattress of a bunk bed. “If a family member caught the plague, the mother had a heartbreaking decision of whether to keep that member with the family—thereby practically ensuring the entire family would catch the plague and die—or seal that member in a separate room, still here underground, confining the person to the dark, locked in area so that the rest of the family could survive. Most times it resulted in a certain death for the quarantined victim, although food and drink were brought to the room. One young girl even had her doll with her, her only bit of comfort as she died.”
The tour emerged into a wide alley. The low, cramped quarters of the rooms gave way to multi-story-high space hewn from the bedrock and, with it, the darkness of that confined area. The light, though still not daylight, was brighter here. At least one story above them a line of wash stretched across the alley, the bed linen looking oddly ghostly with outstretched arms. Another line of wash hung one or two stories above that, nearly indiscernible in the dimness. The light lessened at the top of the structure, plunging the upper-most windows into near blackness.
McLaren clung to the back of the group, feeling vulnerable in the half-light, praying Lanny wouldn’t see him. The group inched along, listening to the guide and craning their necks to gaze at the nebulous roof of this subterranean world. Puffs of breath floated upward, vanishing into the murkiness above. He bent forward slightly and made his way slowly up the steep incline. The guide talked of the last inhabitant of the close, pointing out the man’s dwelling and stating he resided there until approximately 1900. He talked of the children used as chimney sweeps who often got stuck in chimneys. Of the cows and other animals that were boarded below ground with the inhabitants. Of the unbreakable cycle of poverty. Of the perfect criminal hideout the twisting alleys, tunnels, ill-lit chambers, and black recesses became for the thousands of people who resided and hid there.
At the top of the enclosed alley they turned, ducked through an arched doorway, and instantly plunged back into the blackness of the cavernous city. The group paused as their eyes readjusted to the dark, then the shuffling feet increased their pace. The sound mingled with the murmured comments of the group. McLaren still kept to the back. As they came into the original passageway, McLaren realized Lanny Clack was no longer in the party.
McLaren hung back, trying to recall when he had last seen the man. Had he left the group in the first few minutes? He couldn’t have; that would have necessitated lagging behind so the tour guide wouldn’t see him leave. And McLaren had been in the rear of the group the entire time. Which meant…
McLaren fell farther behind, letting the group walk on. The guide’s voice faded to a low-pitched drone. Left alone in one of the chambers, the walls and darkness seemed to close in on him, the sound of distant footsteps turning into the imagined scurry of dozens of mice. He sagged against the wall, his heart rate galloping, his forehead beading with sweat. The voice and footsteps were nearly inaudible. If he didn’t move now, he’d be alone in the blackness.
He took several deep breaths, then forced himself forward. He passed a group of mannequins when one appeared to move. In the near dark his childhood fears transmuted into monsters. A faint stirring of air hinted that the group had recently passed this point. He pushed himself past the display, heading toward the voices at the bottom of the steps and the sanity of light.
Chapter Seven
Lanny wasn’t among the group members ascending the stairs, nor was he in the gift shop. McLaren dashed out the door and into the courtyard. No one lingered in the area or in the doorways. He hurried back into the shop, thinking he might have missed Lanny, but the room was square, devoid of alcoves or person-wide columns. Admitting Lanny had eluded him, he left the Close.
He got a table in The Elephant House, a combination café/gourmet coffee and tea shop on George IV Bridge. Lunch for him usually was something grabbed and eaten on the run, but after his experience in the Close he needed to sit for a while. Plus, he wanted to think through the Lanny Clack connection.
He ordered a chicken burger, green salad, and a concoction of hot chocolate and Cointreau crowned with whipped cream. Although the list of gourmet coffees and beers looked good, he wanted something hot to chase off the cold that penetrated his body. Creeping about underground had done nothing to placate the city’s wintry temps. The Chocolate Orange was a necessary indulgence.
Lanny’s agitation at seeing McLaren chasing him on the High Street seemed as good as verbally confessing he was the driver who killed Hurd Dowell. Why else run off and hide? Or was he afraid he’d be recognized and ultimately linked to something bigger than the hit-and-run? What could be worse than killing someone?
He brought up Lanny’s photo on his mobile phone. There was no hint of a smile in the lips pressed together; the eyes glared at the viewer, conveying disdain for anyone outside the gang and smugness with his position. All in all, the snap showed a young man who saw himself superior and invincible.
****
Fowler Ritchie made the phone call as he swallowed a spoonful of his barley soup. He’d made it the previous weekend, expressly to take to work. But events had progressed faster than he had anticipated and he was now home, trying to keep his blood pressure from soaring and his head from splitting. His boss hadn’t pried into the reason for the immediate request, and Fowler suspected the man had no desire to become a bosom chum or want to kn
ow anything personal of his life. Fowler knew he wasn’t popular, but he assumed it was jealousy that kept his cohorts at arm’s length. Same held true for his boss. Working with Fowler was probably as close as the man cared to get. There were no fishing trips or nights out at the pubs.
“Hello?” The voice was soft from a near-whisper.
“It’s Fowler.”
“I thought you knew to ring me up only in an emergency.”
“Yeah, I know.” Fowler laid his spoon in the soup bowl and leaned over the table. His heart thudded against his rib cage. “Don’t get excited.”
“Excited? What the hell’s that mean? What’s going on, then?”
“Bit of a cock-up, but nothing unfixable.”
“Then why waste my time and phone? If you can fix it you better. I’m not paying you if the job’s not complete. That was our deal, or do you need reminding?”
Fowler’s finger curled around the table’s wooden edge. There was something about the man, something in addition to the anger in his voice that hinted he wouldn’t be pleasant if he were crossed, so Fowler steeled himself. They’d never worked together before, but he was already marking this as their last joint effort. The man needed handling with kid gloves. “I just thought I should inform you of what’s going on. In case you want to give different orders.”
“Look. I’m paying you to be the man in charge up there. You know what the situation is. You know the people. I could’ve come up and done it, but for various reasons it’s best that I stay here right now and be seen. If you can’t handle the situation or the people, I’ll get someone who can.”
“Sure, sure. I just thought you’d like to know about the glitch, so you don’t come back at me later and say I should’ve done something else.”
“What does that mean? It got there, didn’t it?”
“Got here and already gone. With no one the wiser.”
“So the package arrived at its destination.”
“I observed the arrival myself.”
“And?” The voice on the other end of the phone turned threatening.
“And after a bit of debate about its acceptance, it was rejected. Return to sender, you could say.”
A deep exhale blasted Fowler’s ear. The voice took on a bored tone. “So, what’s the problem, then? You said there’d been a slight cock-up.”
“It occurred afterwards. The following day. One of the drivers had an encounter of a rather unpleasant nature. The package turned up unexpectedly and we’re wondering if we should depart from the schedule.”
“Why? Is it still returnable?”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that, sir. Maybe the box will be a bit dented, but nothing to damage the value.”
“Not yet. This minor damage…do you have everything you need to…ship the item?”
“Not an issue at all. Even if it’s a bit worn around the edges I’ll firmly stamp it myself.”
The voice dropped slightly in pitch. “Any idea when this will be sorted out? I’ve left it up to you, if you need reminding.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist…sir.” Fowler added the title as an afterthought, hoping he wasn’t sounding too familiar to his employer. After all, he’d not been paid yet. “Nothing to worry about. You know our reputation.”
“That’s why you were recommended to me.”
“Well, then, you should know we always deliver. Whatever shipment you want, we deliver.” Fowler hesitated momentarily as he wondered if he should up the price.
The question on the other end of the phone line came forth slowly as Fowler considered the consequences of the pay hike. “Same as we spoke about previously, right?”
“Sure,” Fowler answered hurriedly, feeling he should let well enough alone. “Unless you’ve changed your mind, sir.”
“Why would I do that in the middle of the transaction? You don’t change horses in mid-stream, Fowler. If the package is going to meet its final destination in a day or so, that’s what I want, what I paid you for. I’m not changing a thing.”
Fowler murmured that the man made a wise decision. “We charge extra for change of plans.”
“You’re costing me an arm and a leg already, mate, so I’m not about to cancel or change a thing. Just get it done.”
“You know our company guarantee: one hundred percent satisfaction with the delivery or you don’t pay us a bleedin’ quid.”
“And this will be concluded…”
“Tonight or tomorrow. Next day at the latest.”
“It better be. Stick to the timeline we agreed upon. Your schedule has to coincide with mine in order for my alibi to work. If you do a cock-up you ruin more than the simple package delivery. You deliver me into the hands of the authorities. And if that happens, I’ve got mates who will see to it that you join me before your next meal. Got it?”
“You’ll be notified of the destruction of the package very soon, sir. Think of that and have a good night’s sleep.”
Fowler rang off over the man’s muttered “Hell”, wondering if he would be able to sleep come night. He was that nervous.
****
McLaren played the tourist for two hours before stopping at a pub for dinner. The building was in keeping with the Old Town section, a blackened stone edifice squatting on the street corner. Its leaded windows glowed yellow against the night and threw strangely warped rectangles onto the outside pavement. He pushed open the wooden door and immediately felt embraced by the aromas of hot meat pies, fried chips, and coffee. The atmosphere of the establishment sang to him above the mix of music and conversation, appealing to his mood—restrained camaraderie.
He sat at the bar, a heavy wooden rectangle that showed its age via its dark mahogany and dented surface, and perused the list of beers on tap. They were listed in two columns of type on large sheets of cream-colored paper, and given alphabetically. Near the bottom Rannoch Heavy seemed to leap from the encompassing black frame, its name bolder and shinier than the others. The beer was the original beverage Ian MacLaren had developed three hundred years ago, the beer on which the family brewery was based. Other eighty-shilling beers had been developed and their recipes either forsaken or added to the growing number of products under the Strathearn label. Whether heather-based, heavy, or export varieties, many brews proved popular and were widely available in Scotland: Kilsyth Export and Devil’s Tub Heavy deserved the awards heaped on them. But tonight he needed the link with the past. He ordered a pint of Rannoch from the publican, ignored the conversations and music, and munched on his fish and chips as he thought about his grandfather.
The older man was fiercely proud of their clan association and of the brewery. Both deserved his admiration. But McLaren thought his grandfather acted more like the chief than he should. Traditionally, a clan included everyone living on the chief’s territory and on territory of anyone owing loyalty to that chief. Other families, even without the tie of surname or fidelity, could join the clan if the chief wished. But he also had the lawful power to bar anyone from the clan. Even members of his own family. Which grandfather’d done to McLaren.
It hadn’t been his fault he’d been reared in England, he thought as he sipped his pint. His parents had seen to that. But he could’ve moved back to Scotland when he finished school, could’ve joined the police there instead of in Staffordshire. Why hadn’t he? Because he didn’t want to leave his mates? Because he was afraid to become Scottish, didn’t want to imply his parents had been wrong in leaving their ancestral country?
The song ended under a smattering of applause. The musicians propped their guitars against the back wall of the alcove and picked up their pints at the bar before sagging into chairs at a corner table. Now that the competition for being heard had been removed, talk lowered to a buzz.
McLaren glanced at the instruments, thinking better guitars would improve the group’s sound and possible future bookings, then paid for his food and left the pub.
The thick oak door thudded firmly behind him, abruptly cut
ting off the pub chatter. He paused outside the door and breathed deeply. The cold evening air hit him nearly as sharply as his grandfather’s scathing words had done.
He rearranged the muffler around his neck and jammed his fists into his jeans pockets. The coldness subsided slightly but still seeped through his jacket. Hunching his shoulders slightly, he headed for the guesthouse, his footsteps as hollow sounding as his hopes of ever reconciling with the older man.
He turned onto the main road and passed sleeping buildings, their darkened windows shielding their silent interiors. Passageways between buildings loomed black and threatening, squatting in the areas where the street lamps’ light couldn’t reach. He hurried past these holes, knowing what could lurk in their gloom. His quick pace offered no safety from the odors that wound downwind to him, however. Damp stones and cigarette dog ends, stale beer and urine, wet newsprint and gravel pronounced their presence in breath-holding assaults. He hurried on, his gaze fixed on the next stretch.
The blocks reached as far as he could see, merging with the darkness to the west. Storefronts and street corners had a sameness that only distinguished themselves by different names: MacDougall’s Electrical, East Meets West Grocer, Dusty Treasures, Montague Street, Lufton Place, Nicolson Square.
Cars sped to their destinations, buses lumbered toward the town center, their headlights bringing fleeting life to the blackness. The silence and gloom settled at their leaving, making McLaren feel more isolated for the withdrawal of the light. He hurried past a passageway between the shop row, aware of the stillness. Nothing moved, not even the abandoned newspapers scattered on the pavement and bunched at the bases of the building. The street wallowed in the appearance of neglect.
The stretch of buildings ended abruptly at the outdoor seating section of a cafe. He’d passed it each day on his walk or drive into the city center, but he hesitated before walking past. It held a sense of foreboding or danger.
An Unfolding Trap Page 7
