Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance (14 page)

"This is it, Sasha. I can feel the energy pulling me down."

I re-fold the paper and slip it back into my pocket, satisfied that I'm winning the game but hesitant about climbing into the manhole. As I stare down into the darkness I imagine damp, slimy walls and scuttling creatures.

"Maybe we should wait for Zara and Aaron?"

I'm stalling and Dad sees right through me.

"Those workmen may be back at any moment and I don't want to lose this lead. Why don't you wait up here for Gordon and Hart?"

"No way!
I've already lost Mum, I'm not going to lose you too." Dad drops his head and I regret having mentioned her. "Besides … I'm the only one with a torch."

I wave my mobile at him, its bright screen acting as a
guiding light. Dad knows all too well that I won't budge when my mind is set. Whenever I hold my ground on things he sighs and mutters under his breath how I've inherited Mum's stubbornness. I wouldn't know: I can't remember much about her. I push those regretful thoughts out of my mind and focus on the task ahead.

Dad drops a stone into the hole; it disappears into the
darkness, then makes a shallow splash as it hits the floor of the tunnel below. I shine the mobile into the shaft to display a series of wide metal rungs built into its walls.

"It's not too far down. I'll go first."

As I lower myself into the shaft I feel a bit like Alice going down the rabbit hole. After everything that's happened so far, if I met a talking white rabbit it wouldn't surprise me. Dad follows me down and pulls the manhole cover across leaving only the smallest of gaps. If the workmen return, they should suspect nothing.

Water seeps through the cracks in the stonework, dribbling down the walls and making the ladder treacherously slippery. As we descend deeper, the stench of rottenness and stagnant water intensifies and the temperature becomes colder. Before long I can make out the white wisps of my breath in the air. When my feet hit solid ground I release my grip from the last iron rung.

Shining the mobile phone screen in a slow, circular movement, I inspect the subterranean surroundings. We're in the middle of a brick tunnel, about three metres in diameter, stretching off in either direction. A reeking, murky stream flows slowly down the centre of the tunnel floor. I pull my scarf over my nose so that I don't throw up. Dad produces a paper plan from his back pocket and unfolds it.

"I took this from the workman's tent." He examines it under the light of my mobile. "According to this plan, the
Tyburn is an underground river. It stretches as far as Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace, flowing deep underneath its grounds within these brick tunnels. It looks like it's now used as a sewer."

The thick, rancid odour drifts
upward, lingering under my nostrils and leaving a disgusting aftertaste in my mouth.

"Yeah, smells like that too."

"The plan shows that this tunnel extends for several kilometres in either direction. I'm being pulled in the direction of the Palace."

It feels like the tunnel belongs to a different world; invisible from the surface, as unnoticed as a heartbeat. W
e are in the bowels of London, literally; the pungent stench of human waste hangs in the air. It's bizarre to think that if we keep going far enough we'll be under the noses of the Buckingham Palace guards, and they'll never know. The tourists that flock to the home of the royal family will never see what we're going to see, even though it's only a few dozen metres below the home of the Queen.

As we walk cautiously along the tunnel we discover several side channels; some no more than a short recess leading to a manhole shaft, some connecting to
the side-street sewer lines, according to Dad's plan. The high walls are interspersed with sewer-pipe outlets, presumably linked to the buildings above the tunnel. Which makes me think: eventually, one of these outlets will lead from Buckingham Palace.

"Hey Dad, if we keep going, do you think we'll come across any of the Queen's
poo?"

Dad laughs. "I wonder, Sash. It would certainly be a more personal side of royalty than most tourists get to see."

As we continue, the passage opens up into a series of much larger galleries, like a honeycomb of vaulted caverns. Intricate brickwork curves upward into magnificent arches and high, slime-encrusted walls. The stream is little more than a trickle, carrying away the small channel of sewage down the centre of the dark tunnel.

Deep underground, it feels so detached from everyday life; just Dad and I trudging along. This is probably the first time in as long as I can remember that we're actually spending some time together. How ironic that this time spent in a sewer is our quality time. I seize the moment and decide to probe Dad.

"Zara seems pretty cool. Menzies Blake told me that she's a Precog and she can glimpse future events."

Dad moves awkwardly and I'm not sure whether the tunnel or my conversation is to blame.

"Yes, that's right," he says tentatively.

"And Aaron is an
Empath," I continue. "He can draw emotion based on touch." Dad nods. I can tell he is torn over how much information he wants to share with me. "So what about your special powers?"

He bites his bottom lip as though he's weighing up how much I can handle.

"I'm what you might call a Clairist. Clair is from the French word for clear. I'm clairvoyant, meaning clear-seeing, and clairaudient, meaning clear-hearing. Basically, I can see and hear things that normal people can't."

My mind flashes back to the night I followed him to work and watched through the window of the old house. His actions, which at the time seemed so strange, now make total sense to me. He was searching for the Hangman Ghost using his special abilities.

"That's pretty cool."

I draw in a breath for the question I really want to ask, trying to work out how to put such a ridiculous idea into words. I decide to just go for it.

"So what about me; what's my special power?"

"Sasha, not now."

His rebuttal angers me and I feel my voice rise.

"But surely it's now more than ever! If I can help, you need to tell me how."

"It's complicated."

There he goes with that tired old line again, but this time I'm not having it.

"I already know about ghosts and The Agency. I know about everyone's special abilities, except my own. What harm can it do to tell me the rest? Dad, please, for once, talk to me."

He drops his head and takes in a deep breath.

"You've got your mother's stubbornness. You're just like her, Sasha."

He
smiles thoughtfully, then sets a hardened face once more. It's the first time he has mentioned her name in as long as I can remember. I only know I'm crying when he leans across to wipe my cheek.

"But you have my ingenuity."

"So I have some of your genes and some of Mum's; I understand genetics, Dad. But that doesn't answer my question, and I'm dying to know."

The gravity of my statement lingers between the both of us and I can see the moment he concedes. He doesn't reply for what feels like a long time, like he's trying to find the right words. I get the distinct feeling he's about to break some news, and not necessarily good news.

"Sash, maybe you've inherited some of my Clairist abilities, or maybe you've inherited some of your mother's."

I gasp. I'd never considered that Mum might have special abilities as well as Dad. I recall the folder with Mum's name on it in Blake's office. Now it makes sense why Blake had an interest in her. There's so much I don't know about her past.

"Your mother is what is known by most people as… a Witch."

He says the word cautiously, like he's handing me a dangerous explosive. I let out a short, high-pitched laugh, then realise he's being deadly serious. I never believed a single word could have such impact. I want to say something but my mouth simply hangs open. Every time I try
to speak, it's as if someone has released a trapdoor at the bottom of my mind and let all the words fall out.

"A White Witch," Dad adds.

As if that makes me feel better. All I can think about is pointy hats, crooked noses and cackling laughs. I've known my family was different than other families… but not this different. I'm completely overwhelmed with emotion. Was my mum really a Witch? Somehow, I gain enough composure to mutter a word.

"How?"

His revelation has reduced my vocabulary to monosyllables. Dad clears his throat and fiddles with his coat's zip, reminding me that the whole telling-me-things is still new for him.

"Her ancestors were
Witches, it was passed down generation to generation. I never knew she was a Witch when we met, of course. She was simply another member of The Agency back then."

"Mum was an Agent?" I'm bomb-shelled for the second time in succession. "You mean she was a Witch and a paranormal investigator?"

Dad nods, although he needn't have. I already know the answer. I've always known that Dad was hiding something about Mum, but her being a Witch and a former Agent is a double whammy of the highest proportions. Growing up, I was never close to Dad, but I was close to Mum. I sat next to her at the breakfast table every day for thirteen years and never once did I consider the possibility that she was anything more than a normal mother. How well did I actually know her?

"Sash, I'm sorry I've had to keep all this from you. There's so much more I need to tell you."

A sudden drop in temperature makes me shiver. It wasn't cold when we arrived here but it is now. I rub my arms to get rid of the goose bumps. Dad's head shoots up like a deer that has just detected the presence of a predator.

"Sasha, don't move."

My mobile screen goes out. The darkness is immediate and total. I press the buttons desperately, willing the mobile light to come back on. Nothing. I can't even make out the vague outline of the walls around me. I'm blind.

"Dad?"

My voice is shaking. There's no reply.

"Dad?"
I ask again, pleading. "Where are you?"

I walk cautiously forward, arms outstretched like a sleepwalker, hoping to feel my way to him. I know somebody else — something else — is here, watching me. I freeze, feeling
a rising terror which threatens to consume me. I can't move my body, only turn my head slightly, straining to see through the darkness.

"Sasha," says my dad with a strained voice. "RUN!"

My mobile screen comes back on. I can see Dad. He dangles three feet from the ground like a puppet in an invisible grip. And then, at his left shoulder, there's another shape; a hooded shape. It's the Hangman Ghost. My heart starts pounding violently in my chest. I let out a scream which echoes along the tunnel walls. I'm not sure whether I close my eyes as something tightens around my throat…

Chapter 18

Wednesday 18 September 10:40am

I try to breathe but my throat is too tight. My airway has constricted; the shock of what I've seen initiating an asthma attack. I've already started to hyperventilate, gasping for air, but unable to stop myself. I feel the darkness of a blackout consuming me. Sinking to my knees, I pray that Dad is okay and curse myself for being so helpless. My only chance to help him is to stop the asthma attack, and the only way to do that is to get my medication quickly.

Clutching my chest, I realise that the asthma has taken hold and I'm losing the fight. I roll to one side in a coughing fit, my lungs desperately craving air. I'm blind and breathless and can only rely on my hearing for any indication of what's happening to Dad. It's eerily silent; a silence so loud it hums in my ears. The silence is broken by the sound of footsteps splashing
torward me.

"Sasha, what
happened? We heard a scream."

I can't see her, but I recognise Zara's voice. She kneels at my side, one arm supporting me, the other frantically padding my pockets.

"Sasha, where's your inhaler?"

It's in my bag, in the car.

I wheeze heavily as Zara helps me into a sitting position with my knees pulled up to my chest.

"Let's get her out of here," says a second voice urgently.

It's Aaron. The sound of his voice washes over me and helps me to relax just enough to speak.

"No
… can't… leave… Dad," I beg between drawing breaths, knowing the dilemma Zara and Aaron face.

If we stay, they can try to save Dad, but they can't save me.

Aaron shouts Dad's name futilely, hoping for some response as his words echo off the curved walls of the tunnel. "I can't feel his energy whatsoever. It feels like he's disappeared."

"Your dad's not here," says Zara. "We've got to get you some air."

"Medicine… " I strain to speak. "Car."

Aaron picks me up gently in his muscular arms. Despite the critical situation, I feel safer than I have in a while.

"I'll run ahead and get her bag," says Zara.

I drift in and out of consciousness as Aaron carries me back along the tunnel. Every agonising second is long and drawn out. Is this how the final moments feel?

"Focus, Sasha," instructs Aaron. "Stay with me." He chants these encouraging words over and over. "Take long, slow breaths."

I know things are pretty bad when Aaron is being serious. Wheezing, I try to suppress a coughing fit which threatens to explode. Is it going to end here, in this dark, dirty tunnel, deep below the streets of London? We come to a stop and Aaron lays me on my side, the best position for my lungs. I have to admit that Aaron is a really good guy when he isn't playing the joker.

"Quickly Zara, the bag!" Aaron shouts upward.

Cold, muddy water splashes over me as the rucksack thuds onto the tunnel floor, dropped from the manhole shaft above. Aaron burrows through my bag, spewing out clothes. He rolls something soft underneath my head as Zara appears, taking hold of my hand and squeezing it gently. After what feels like an eternity, the inhaler — my little plastic saviour — is held to my lips.

"Now, breathe," says Zara softly.

The cold gas fills my lungs. It takes two inhalations followed by several deep breaths to calm my throbbing chest. I want to say something to the two faces that hover over me. Thank you. Sorry. I want to beg them to leave me and go and find Dad. Zara seems to read my eyes.

"Don't speak, Sasha."

I'm alive, just. My breathing is erratic; snatched rather than steady.

"Can we get the hell out of here?" asks Aaron.

"No!" I protest.

I try to fight him feebly as he lifts me gently from the damp tunnel floor. My asthma isn't the reason I don't want to move; Dad is still in the tunnel, somewhere. And so is the ghost of Jack Ketch.

"Dad
. . ." I groan, barely audible.

"Don't move her yet, Hart." Zara is still breathless from her race to the car and back.
"At least not until she's fully recovered. Maybe we can find Agent Hunter?"

Aaron shakes his head, thinking I didn't notice. Zara frowns, then looks down at me and fakes a smile to hide her concern.

"Sasha, I promise we'll find your dad, but we need to get you some fresh air."

"Fancy a piggy back?" says Aaron, trying to make light of the situation.

"Are you serious?" I ask.

"Totally.
It's a serious piggyback."

I don't have the strength to argue. I know I'm too weak to climb the rungs of the manhole shaft unaided. Aaron gently lifts me up and rotates my weak body onto his back. He lifts me without difficulty and holds onto my legs with his hands. I knew he was strong; I didn't know how strong until I feel it myself, the muscles in his back tightening against my chest. I rest my cheek between his shoulder blades, inhaling the scent that I will forever associate with him.

"Ladies first," says Aaron to Zara.

"You're too kind," she replies acidly.

"She likes me really," Aaron whispers out of the corner of his mouth.

I bet the crimson tint to my eyes is now a little green. It irritates me that he's flirting with her again.

Zara leads the way up the shaft, followed by Aaron with my arms wrapped around his neck. I look up to see the small crescent shape of daylight shining through the gap in the manhole cover.

"Stop!"
Zara shouts; a whispering kind of shout. "I can hear someone."

We freeze mid-climb and strain to listen as a conversation echoes down from above. The voices are not those of the workmen: one is a well-spoken male voice and the other a female. Zara pulls a mobile phone from her pocket and activates the voice recorder to capture the conversation.

"What now?" asks the female in a harsh, foreign accent.

"Well, the plan seems to have worked," replies the male. His posh accent is unmistakable: it's
Menzies Blake. "Hunter and his girl climbed down here, exactly like I thought." Blake chuckles satisfyingly. "I have delivered Hunter to Ketch, so my side of the bargain is complete."

"What will happen to him?" asks the female.

"Jack Ketch will take Hunter to the place he's most powerful, I suppose. It's not my concern."

"And what about the two Agents who've been helping the girl?

"I'll deal with them later. A straightforward cleanup job for Ludvig, I think."

I feel a sudden tickling sensation in my blocked nostrils, an
aftereffect of the asthma attack. I release one hand from around Aaron's neck and clamp it over my mouth to stifle a sneeze. The conversation between Blake and the woman halts abruptly. I grip onto Aaron, not daring to breathe. There's a long, wary pause.

"So what about the Hunter girl?" asks the female
eventually.

"She's too powerful to ignore. Ketch will take care of her in his own unique way. Of course, it will all look accidental: a teenager climbs down a manhole shaft, suffers an asthma attack. It won't be a pleasant ending for her."

"Good," says the female, cold and clinical. "What now?"

"Time to collect our winnings," says Blake. "
Ludvig is waiting. Let's go."

Their voices drift off into the distance as they leave the work tent.

"I'll kill him!" says Aaron in a combustible mixture of hate and adrenaline. He makes an effort to climb past Zara as if he's forgotten I'm still clinging onto his back.

"Hart, no!" protests Zara, motioning Aaron to stay where he is. "Sasha's not well enough for us to do anything right now. Don't blow our cover!"

Zara climbs up the remaining rungs then waves us up when it's safe to do so. We crowd inside the small work tent, peering through a gap in the plastic walls. Two double-decker buses move along Oxford Road with an accident-damaged black Mercedes sandwiched between them. Aaron's face reddens with anger.

"So Blake is behind all this.
It was a trap. Hunter was lured into the tunnel where Jack Ketch was waiting. How could Blake do such a thing to another Agent?"

In the underground tunnel I needed Dad and he was there for me. But now he needs me and I'm not there for him.

"We'll make Blake pay," says Zara, composed as ever. "But first, we'll need some help to find your dad."

"How can you be so sure we will?" I ask.

Zara puts an arm around my shoulder and squeezes me lightly.

"Because if we don't, it will be the end of us all."

I only hope her words are not based on any future vision.

+ + +

We head out of central London and onto the M25; a most appropriate place for lost souls. Our first priority is to stop at a service station to wash and buy a few items of new clothes. No amount of hand-soap and scrubbing could save my jeans from the stench of Tyburn. Zara reluctantly lets Aaron drive so she can sit alongside me on the back seat. I hug my knees to my chest and wrap my arms tightly around my legs. It's the best position for recovery, but it's also kind of comforting. I feel like the smaller I become, the safer I am.

We cruise along the circular motorway like goldfish in a bowl; going round and round with no better plan. With Dad missing, our team has lost its leader and this feels like a retreat.

"Where to?" asks Aaron.

Zara stares intensely out of the window, her face smouldering underneath her stony expression.

"Head south, Hart. Take us to Cane Hill."

Aaron hesitates and turns from the driver seat.

"Cane Hill, the mental asylum?"

"Do you know any other Cane Hill?" she snaps.

Aaron shrugs, mumbles to himself and releases his frustration on the accelerator. I lean my head back and close my eyes, going over my last conversation with Dad: he said Mum was a Witch and was part of The Agency. Dad had opened up to me for the first time and was on the verge of revealing so much more when the ghost of Jack Ketch appeared. The timing of what happened in the Tyburn tunnel wasn't a coincidence. Being superstitious, I believe that everything happens for a reason and coincidences don't exist.               

As Rover weaves between the motorway traffic, I go through the post-attack breathing exercises that Dad taught me. Zara was thoughtful enough to pack a bag with my asthma kit from my room at The Agency. I wouldn't have had the foresight to be so prepared. That said
, it's a whole lot easier to make preparations when you can actually see into the future.

I run the peak flow test to measure how well my lungs are performing. The meter shows an orange warning light at first which then fades to green. I try sniffing in
air, but my nose is blocked too. If the old attacks are anything to go by, the sniffing and coughing will last for days.

I'm not so wrapped up with myself not to notice the atmosphere in the car. Aaron is hunched over the wheel, fiddling with the radio and occasionally opening the window for a blast of fresh air. He's trying to keep himself awake; after all, it's been a long time since any of us had any decent sleep. Zara isn't faring much better than Aaron. Since we left
Tyburn it feels as though she's gone into some kind of personal lockdown. It's Zara who eventually breaks the long silence by firing an order at Aaron.

"Take the next exit, Hart," she
instructs.

Aaron gives an exaggerated sigh.

"Zara, I've got two little requests. Number one: can you please stop bossing me around? And number two: Call. Me. By. My. First. Name."

The words are forced through his clenched teeth.

"I can do one of those," she replies.

"Well, which one?" asks Aaron, clearly
irritated.

"Just do as I say and I'll let you know."

I get the feeling Zara enjoys their little duels, although she seems a little off at the moment. Who could blame her? Thanks to me, we've all had a death sentence cast upon us. Aaron grunts as he pulls off the motorway; he's clearly able to handle ghosts better than insults.

"Welcome to Cane Hill Mental Asylum," says Aaron as he pulls up on a gravel car park. "Home to some of the most deranged loonies in London."

"Home to my mother," says Zara, dead-pan.

Aaron drops his head onto the steering wheel with a thud.

"Zara, I'm so sorry, I had no idea."

"Why would you?" she says, brushing off the apology. "Don't worry about it. It's my business. You know how it is at The Agency: work and personal life stay separate. Wait here, I won't be long."

Zara steps out and paces toward a grim looking Victorian building. Her suit jacket flaps around in the strong winds which whip around the hilltop location.

The old building may have been a vision in its day. Now, the large, ornate windows are barred and the grounds surrounded by harsh chain-link fencing. I feel sorry for Zara that her mother is here. I recall Blake's words about her being "detained by the authorities", as he had put it. Then Zara's own confession that her mother had fallen victim to D-Day Hysteria. I didn't think for one minute she would be at a place like this.