Darkside (15 page)

 

 

T
he streets were deserted, and the sound of Raquella's heels clicking on the pavement echoed around the great houses of Savage Row. Twice Jonathan – convinced that he could hear footsteps nearby – dragged Raquella into the shelter of the nearest driveway and crouched behind the wall. No one ever appeared out of the fog, and after the third time she told him that the weather was playing tricks on his senses. He wasn't so sure. In Darkside, there was
always
something out there.

Eventually Raquella stopped and pointed. Ahead of them the broad avenue ran on to a crossroads, and on the corner of the intersection there was a small, circular building that reminded Jonathan of an observatory. A murky light shone through the glass dome on top of the building, illuminating a sign that read “Savage Row”.

“What's that?”

“It's the Savage Row tube station.”

Jonathan's eye widened. “Tube station?”

“Yes. On the Dark Line.”

“Darkside has a tube line?”

“We're not
quite
as backward as you think we are. It would take ages to get up to Bleakmoor otherwise.”

“Bleakmoor? That sounds like a laugh.”

She laughed. “Once this is all over, I'll take you up there. You'd have to see it to believe it.”

Raquella strode up to the building and passed through the heavy revolving door. The room beyond was a large, circular room that looked like a posh hotel lobby. There were comfortable armchairs, thick rugs on the floor and potted plants. Beyond, a posh brass turnstile guarded a doorway marked “To the Trains”. Flaming torches lined the wall, lighting the room with a warm glow. Jonathan let out a low whistle.

“Very nice.”

“Well, this is Savage Row. Not all the stations in Darkside are as nice as this one.”

“I can imagine. Bit quiet though, isn't it?”

Raquella glanced around the deserted room. “Yes, well . . . the Dark Line has a pretty bad reputation. Not many people tend to use it.”

“A bad reputation in Darkside? What the hell goes on around here?”

“Oh, do stop fussing. I told you, this is the quickest way you're going to get home.”

She moved neatly past the furniture and dropped a small silver coin through a slot in the turnstile, then pushed through it. On the other side, she fished out another coin from her purse and tossed it to Jonathan.

“I don't suppose you have farthings in your part of London, do you?”

“What's a farthing?” he replied, and followed her through the turnstile.

The doorway led to a steep flight of stairs. Water seeped through cracks in the stonework above their heads, dribbling down the backs of their necks and making the steps treacherously slippy. Jonathan lifted a large torch from the wall and tried to light their way as best he could. They made slow, careful progress; Raquella clung to his arm as they went. As they went deeper and deeper into the earth, the temperature became colder and colder, and before long Jonathan could make out the white wisps of his breath on the air.

“It was much nicer upstairs,” he grumbled.

Raquella was too busy concentrating on where to place her feet to make any sharp replies.

Finally they reached the bottom of the steps, and came out into an enormous underground cavern. Two platforms were separated by railway tracks, a wrought-iron bridge allowing passengers to cross from one side to the other. After the awkward descent Jonathan was surprised to see that things down here were as plush as they had been upstairs. The floor was smooth and marbled, and the ceiling had been painted and covered with intricate decorations. There were chairs and tables for passengers to use while they waited for the train. At that moment in time, they were all unoccupied. The only sound was the ominous ticking of the huge gothic clock on the wall, which read quarter past two. So much had happened that it felt like a year had passed since Alain had fallen ill again, rather than a couple of days.

Raquella peered up the track for any sight of a train. “One should be coming in a minute,” she said. “They're pretty frequent this time of night.”

“Where are we going to?”

“Vendetta once told me that there's a couple of places where the Darkline brushes against your London Underground. This train goes past an old disused station called Down Street. If you can get there, you can make it back up to Lightside and get to the hospital.”

“What – I can get a
train
back home?”

She shrugged. “Not exactly. You'll see when you get there.”

“But it can't be that simple! There's loads of people who work on the Underground, drivers and workmen and stuff. Don't you think they'd notice if some strange ghost train kept going past?”

“What makes you think they don't?”

“But then they'd know about. . .”

He trailed off as Raquella arched an eyebrow. She chuckled. “You really have a lot to learn about this. Listen! The train's coming.”

Jonathan could make out a faint huffing noise emanating from the tunnel, and a lone tendril of steam curled out from the darkness. The railway tracks began to quiver in anticipation as the sound of the railway engine began to get louder. Then, with a piercing blast of a whistle, a large black locomotive exploded into the station, its wheels clattering round at breakneck speed. Somewhere in the lead carriage the driver hit the brakes, and the train ground to an uneasy halt. The entire cavern was choked with thick smoke.

Each carriage was partitioned off into small compartments. As far as Jonathan could see, all of them were empty. He yanked open the nearest door, and helped Raquella up inside. Inside the compartment were a row of three seats facing each other, and a shutter that led off to a connecting corridor that ran throughout the train. He slammed the door shut behind them, and the train immediately pulled away from the station.

They sat in silence at first. Jonathan stared vacantly out of the window into the blackness. “This is really creepy. It's like we're the only people around here.”

“We probably are. There's quite a few gangs who travel up and down the Dark Line robbing people, and everyone knows how rich this part of town is. Most people on Savage Row won't risk coming down here.”

“Ah.”

“Of course, it gets a lot busier down towards the Grand. At Fitzwilliam Street, you have to step over corpses to get on to the train.” Raquella noticed Jonathan's worried glance, and giggled. “It's all right, silly. We'll be getting off before then.”

“Right. OK,” he replied, feeling a little relieved.

She frowned. “Of course, the real danger would be if the tunnel caved in. That'd kill us for sure.”

Jonathan rubbed a weary hand over his face and said nothing.

The train continued on its eerie journey, past Upper Croft St and The Wells. Left alone with his thoughts, Jonathan could feel the tension rising inside of him. But Raquella was right – now was not the time to get distracted worrying about Carnegie and Ricky. He had to be focused. He was getting close to Lightside, to his part of the city, where there was cable television and computers, astronauts and pop stars. There was also his dad. And Vendetta.

Raquella tapped him on the arm, interrupting him. “You should get ready. The train will pass Down Street any time now.”

“You're not coming with me?”

She looked down at her feet, and shook her head. “I'm sorry, Jonathan, but I'm a Darksider. Not many of us can make the crossing to your part of the city. I'm going to head back to Vendetta Heights and see if I can find Carnegie.”

“What will happen to you if. . .” Jonathan could barely bring himself to say the words. “. . .if I fail? If can't stop Vendetta, and he comes back?”

“I'm not sure. I'll have to tell him something about the glasshouse, at least. I'll be all right though. He's been angry with me before, and I'm still here.”

“How can you go back to that man? He's a murderer and a vampire!”

“What choice do I have?” She spread her hands. “There aren't many jobs that pay as well as this one. It means I can feed my family, Jonathan. What else am I supposed to do?”

A grim look settled on Jonathan's face. “I don't know. But I'll think of something.”

Raquella glanced away, to hide the fact that she was smiling. “Look, you need to concentrate. We're nearly there!”

“Can't be that soon. We'll still going pretty quickly.”

She looked slightly abashed. “Yes . . . there's a slight problem with that. This train goes
past
the Down Street platform. It doesn't actually stop.”

“So how am I supposed to get off?”

“Jump.”

Jonathan glanced at the steam tumbling past the window. “Are you crazy? Have you seen how fast we're going?”

“There's no other way. You have to jump.”

“I'll bloody kill myself! Why didn't you say anything sooner?”

“Because I knew you'd get angry!”

“And you were right! You're telling me this is how Vendetta gets across?”

“To be fair, you did say you wanted the quickest way back to Lightside.”

He swore under his breath, and flung open the door of the compartment. Immediately a thick pall of soot and steam flew into the carriage. The smoky mixture burnt his eyes and made them both cough. The train driver gave the horn another loud blast. Jonathan peered out into the tunnel, and saw the winding platform come into view. Pressing his feet against each side of the door frame, he braced himself for the jump. He was blinded by the steam, and deafened by the clanking of the train's wheels. Not for the first time that evening, he wondered if he was going to die.

“Jonathan!” Raquella suddenly blurted out.

He looked back at her.

“Good luck.”

He nodded grimly, and then set himself. The horn sounded again, and he could sense the train flying past the platform. There was no time to think about it, no time to turn back. With a defiant yell he sprung out of the train. For a few seconds there was nothing, only the void, and then he hit the platform with a sickening thud.

 

 

 

J
onathan lay still, covered in dust and dirt, moaning softly under his breath. The impact of the landing had reopened the wound that Carnegie had inflicted upon him, and there was a sharp pain in his left arm that made him wonder whether he had broken it. Eventually he was able to raise himself up into an awkward sitting position. His clothes were ripped, and there was a patch of blood on his knee. Coughing from all the dust in his lungs, Jonathan tried to move his arm, only succeeding in sending a shockwave of pain through his system that made him cry out loud.

Slowly his eyes began to adjust themselves to the lack of light, and could make out certain shapes and objects around him. It was clear that the platform at Down Street hadn't been used for many years. Dust covered the floor and the wooden benches like a blanket of grey snow. Water was dripping listlessly into a puddle somewhere. In the distance large rats scuttled noisily to and fro, dominant and assured in their own private kingdom. Even though Jonathan's nostrils had become accustomed to the stench of Darkside, the reeking odour of the platform still made him gag.

Still, in a strange way it was tempting just to sit with his back against the wall and drift off to sleep: anything to get away from the pain of bruises and broken bones, to escape from savage weremen and hungry vampires. The squeaking of the rats had a lulling effect on his weary mind. Jonathan felt his eyes beginning to droop. Just a few minutes' rest, and then he would be all right. Everything would be all right. . .

The image of Alain lying on his hospital bed flashed through Jonathan's mind, waking him up as if a bucket of cold water had been flung in his face. If he was going to save his dad, he had to get out of here. Gritting his teeth and using his good arm as a prop, Jonathan forced himself upright. The movement set off another wave of pain through him, but this time he refused to cry out. The rats squeaked loudly at one another.

He staggered towards a warren of corridors heading off in different directions. It seemed hard to believe that, many years beforehand, crowds of ordinary Londoners had hurried through these tunnels, going shopping or heading home after a long day at work. Then there would have been lights, a comforting hustle and bustle, people chatting and laughing. But now it was just him and the rats. At that moment, many feet beneath the surface of the city, Jonathan had never felt more alone.

He was beginning to despair of ever getting out of the station when he glanced down at the floor and saw a set of footprints leading off down one of the corridors. They looked fresh.
Someone
had been here recently – maybe a man working for the Underground. Jonathan shook his head. No. He knew who it had to be. Someone else who had made the jump from the Dark Line. Someone else who had risked their life in order to make the fastest crossing from Savage Row. Clearly Vendetta was desperate to feed. A new burst of energy overtook Jonathan, and he set off in the direction of the footsteps. At one point a yellow danger sign ordered people to “Keep Out”. Jonathan smiled grimly as he headed past it. That meant he had to be going in the right direction. As he climbed up steps, he came across more modern signs of life: a plastic bucket filled with murky water, a rusty spanner, and a workman's hard hat.

Then the stairs came out into an empty shop with boarded-up windows. The door facing him was ajar, allowing a bright orange sliver of street light into the room. Jonathan could hear the rumble of traffic – modern cars, not carriages and hansom cabs – from the street outside. He should have been elated, but he wasn't. Whoever had made those footprints had opened that door. It could only be one creature, and he had a head start on Jonathan.

 

The first thing that hit him as he stepped back out into London was the air. The thick clouds of smog that hung over Darkside had gone, and the atmosphere felt fresh and renewed in a way that it never had before. The chimneys and factories had been replaced by skyscrapers and massive advertising signs that pumped a dazzling light out into the night. Instead of rattling carriages, squadrons of taxis motored along the roads, ferrying people back to their homes. Everywhere he looked Jonathan saw human faces and modern clothes. The clubs and pubs may have shut, but young people still stood around in groups, eating fast food and joking with each other. The air was filled with their laughter.

Although it was another world away, the sense of ever-present menace that had infected him in Darkside was hard to shake off. Jonathan still expected a gnarled hand to reach out from the throng for his throat, or a dagger to dart towards his face. He cut quickly through the crowds, his senses on overload. With his Darkside clothes in tatters and cuts and bruises all over his body, Jonathan knew that he looked a state, but it didn't matter. He was back on the streets of London, the city he knew, this huge sprawl where nobody knew him and nobody cared. He was invisible again. Occasionally an adult caught sight of Jonathan and frowned in surprise, but he was gone before they could say anything. On the busier roads there were policemen dressed in high-visibility green jackets, and Jonathan made a particular point of staying out of their way. If they saw him they would stop him for sure, and ask a host of questions that he didn't have time to answer.

After a twenty-minute sprint Jonathan raced panting through the grounds of St Christopher's. It was quieter here, and only the presence of lights in a couple of windows suggested that anyone was awake at all. He dashed through the courtyard and reached the entrance to Alain's ward. Mercifully, the door wasn't locked. Upstairs, in the reception area, there was one nurse sitting quietly behind the desk, her face illuminated by a reading lamp. She was deeply engrossed in a stack of medical reports, and didn't notice Jonathan until he had nearly crept past her.

“Hey!” she called, but he was already running down the corridor. There wasn't the time to argue, and anyway, the more security on their way to Alain's room the better.

He ran from memory now, cutting left and heading through one of the wards. The lights were off here and most of the patients were asleep. Jonathan could hear their troubled murmurs as they dreamed. In the background he heard another nurse shout with surprise, and then a loud alarm was echoing through the building. It woke up the patients in the next ward, and as Jonathan dashed through it a small man with a wild look in his eyes set upon the patient in the bed next to him. The room disintegrated into a wild mess of fighting and screaming. Over his shoulder Jonathan could see the first wave of white-coated orderlies struggling to regain order. It was going to take them a long time.

Outside the ward he took a skiddy right turn, nearly slipping over on the slick surface of the linoleum. Then he was on his dad's corridor. Most of the rooms were locked shut, but at the end one door was open, and light streamed out from it on to the corridor. Jonathan's heart skipped a beat. It was his dad's room. No noise was coming from inside it. He stopped running and walked slowly towards it, sweat running down his forehead and his breaths coming in snatches. There was nowhere to run – nowhere to hide now. In some detached part of his brain, Jonathan realized that he didn't have any sort of weapon. If Vendetta was in there, Jonathan would probably soon be as dead as his father. Clutching on to the door frame with his good arm, Jonathan looked inside.

The bulb above the bed cast a pool of light inside the room, and instantly he could make out the figure of Alain Starling stretched out in the bed, as if he hadn't moved since the last time Jonathan had been there. Next to him a man had pulled up one of the visitors' chairs on the far side of the bed, and was leaning in towards him.

“No!” cried Jonathan, and rushed forward.

The man in the chair turned, revealing a round, friendly face with a startled expression, and Jonathan was stopped in his tracks.

“Jonathan?” the man said.

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

The man flipped open his wallet, revealing an identification card. “My name is PC Shaw. We've been looking for you, Jonathan. Everyone's been very worried.”

“What are you doing here?” Jonathan asked suspiciously.

“We received a phone call tonight from a friend of yours. Mrs Elwood. She said that you'd told her your dad was in danger. So. . .” He waved a hand around the room. “Here I am. I was just checking he was breathing. I've never seen a coma like this before. Do you want to tell me what's going on, Jonathan?”

Jonathan felt his shoulders begin to relax. Mrs Elwood had understood after all. His dad was safe. They were all safe. Suddenly he could feel his arm begin to throb again. Even so, he began to laugh. “I would, but you'd never believe me. It sounds crazy.”

“Well, it's a crazy world,” came a voice from behind him.

Jonathan whirled round. A figure was standing in the corridor, swathed in the shadows.

“Ah, Jonathan, this is my superior,” said PC Shaw. “Carter Roberts, head of the Special Investigations Unit.”

The figure walked into the room, and Jonathan gasped. It was Vendetta.