Crawlers

Contents

Cover

About the Book

Title Page

Dedication

London

London Wall, EC2

Goswell Road, EC1

The Barbican Centre

Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children

The Swatham Academy for Girls

Acknowledgements

Also by Sam Enthoven

Copyright

Four boys and four girls are on a trip to the theatre. Little do they know that they will never see the play. They're about to be plunged into a nightmare.

Beneath the theatre lies a secret.

And now she has been released . . .

To Jack Finney, John Carpenter, H. R. Giger

and Valve Software, with thanks for

some of my very favourite nightmares

‘And soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase . . .'

Cecil Spring-Rice

from
I Vow to Thee, My Country

IN THE DARK
pit that had been my prison for almost three hundred and fifty years, Steadman's latest victim was regaining consciousness.

‘Mr Miller?' said Steadman's voice from the pit's wall-mounted speakers. ‘Mr Miller? Can you hear me?'

There was a groan. ‘Wh . . . what?' The voice was that of a young man, not much more than a teenager. ‘Where am I? What . . . what happened?'

‘I imagine,' said Steadman, ‘that the last thing you remember is lunch at my club. You spent most of the meal boasting about some trivial few million you made on the money markets this morning. For my part, I allowed you to imagine that the Corporation might be interested in you for a
purpose other than your present one – and drugged your wine.' He sighed. ‘Shocking way to treat a fine Margaux, I know. But then, so was wasting it on you.'

‘Mr Steadman,' said his victim, trying for reason, ‘Lionel, I don't—'

‘Kindly shut up and let me tell you what you're doing there.'

Miller fell silent.

‘I . . . hate you,' Steadman began. ‘I've never had the chance to say this to one of you before, but I've hated people like you my whole life. Ever since school, where my existence was made a misery by a smug, self-satisfied waster just like you, I have quietly dedicated my life to finding ways to revenge myself on your kind.

‘Something unpleasant is about to happen to you. But you can comfort yourself with two things. First, it will be over far more quickly than you deserve, and second, you're in a very privileged position. You, Mr Miller, are about to
serve the Queen
.'

I took my cue.

‘
Gah!
' cried Miller into the darkness when I first touched him. ‘What's that?'

‘What's what?' Steadman asked, amused.

‘There's something . . . crawling. Like a spider. It's . . . going up my legs. Now it's on my back! I can't . . . Oh! Oh,
God
!
GET IT OFF ME!
'

Mr Miller shrieked – a short, high note, his voice driven to that pitch by absolute terror.

The shriek stopped.

Then I spoke through his mouth.

‘I . . . like this one, Steadman.' The words were husky and thick at first as I worked the unfamiliar vocal cords. ‘He's young. Healthy. Much better than the sickly things you usually bring me.'

‘A treat for you, my Queen,' said Steadman. ‘And he's just the first of many. As of now, you no longer have to make do with those dregs I can steal from the streets without anyone noticing. As of this moment, you can take anyone you want.' He paused, then said: ‘You are free.'

Free
. More than three centuries had passed while I had been held captive in this pit. In the early days Steadman's predecessors had kept me here with spiked chains and armed guards. Behind those guards had stood more guards, their weapons trained on the first in case I did what I do.

Now, in Mr Steadman's time, I heard an echoing hiss and a whine of machinery. As the lid of my pit drew back I allowed myself a moment of triumph. From that first, blazing night when they caught me I had known this day would come. The reason was simple: they had not killed me. Even in 1666 the Corporation of London had recognized my . . . gifts.

‘You accept my offer then, Steadman?' I asked him, through the young man's mouth.

‘Not . . . quite.' Even through the speakers on the pit walls I could hear the smile in Steadman's voice.

‘To the left of your pit,' he said, ‘there is a door. Through it you could go anywhere you want, but the door is shut and the only one who can open it is me. To the right of your pit is a second door: that door is open. It leads to the building above us, a building known as the Barbican. There I've set up . . . a little bet.'

I waited. I had waited a long time. I was patient.

‘You've never seen the Barbican, of course,' said Steadman. ‘The Corporation completed it in nineteen sixty-nine – rather after your time. Then, it was the largest performing arts centre in Europe. Now . . .' He paused. ‘Well, you'll find out.

‘I'm giving you a chance to prove yourself, my Queen,' he went on. ‘If you show me that you can do what you claim, I'll accept your offer. The first door will open. We'll go through. Together, you and I will take charge of this world and run it the way it should be run.'

‘And if I . . . displease you?'

‘This room, along with the whole of the Barbican, is rigged with explosives. At midnight precisely they will detonate. The entire building will be destroyed, erasing all evidence of
tonight's events – including, if I have not opened the first door,
you
. Do we understand each other?'

‘Yes.' I understood him better than he knew.

‘Then go, my Queen,' said Steadman. ‘You have less than six hours. If you're as powerful as you say, you'll know what to do. And I can hardly wait,' he added, ‘to see you do it.'

Already my hands were moving. All of them. The pit resounded with soft, crawling sounds.

My wait was over. Now, at last, I could begin.

BEN FREEMAN LOOKED
out at the passing streets and thought how much he hated his school.

The Walsingham School for Boys was a smart, fee-paying boarding school in Sussex. Ben hated that his days and even his nights there were strictly scripted and timetabled; he hated the school's relentless focus on ‘excellence' which, at Walsingham, meant sport, exams or both – and nothing else. But there was a third reason.

Ben was the youngest in his family: he had two older
sisters. He'd grown up in a female-dominated household, so Ben supposed that his parents had sent him to Walsingham in the hope he would make friends with other boys. It was a good theory. Ben's two abiding loves in life – games and horror films – were things his sisters, his mum and lately even his dad all seemed to find somehow regrettable. So when Ben had first arrived at Walsingham the previous term, he had hoped to meet people who shared his tastes – some like-minded guys he could get on with.

Instead, Ben had met the people in the minibus.

‘Here's an interesting fact for you, boys . . .' said Mr Clissold.

Each student at Walsingham was put into a small tutor group, looked after by one of the teachers. The idea was to provide a less formal support network outside main school hours, someone the students could go to if they had stuff to discuss. Tutors also organized outings for their groups, like tonight's to the theatre. Mr Clissold, Ben's tutor, had bad breath. Also his definition of ‘interesting' wasn't the same as Ben's – or, Ben reckoned, most people's.

‘You know that London's divided into boroughs?' said Mr Clissold. ‘Well, technically the City
isn't actually one of them
.'

He paused. Ben and the three other boys in the tutor group did not reply.

‘It's because of the way the City is run,' Mr Clissold explained,
undeterred. ‘It's very unusual. Unlike the rest of the country, instead of a local council the City is governed by a special self-appointed body of officials: the Corporation of London.'

‘It's been that way for centuries,' said Josh Compton-Smith. ‘Isn't that right?'

‘That's right, Josh,' said Mr Clissold, surprised. ‘Since eleven forty-one, in fact, when—'

‘The Corporation's not terribly famous, it's true,' said Josh, ‘but it's extremely influential. They own some of the most valuable land and property in the world, including five of London's bridges and most of the City itself. They've got their own special police force – the City of London Police. They've even got a private
power station
, so the City keeps on running no matter what.'

‘That's . . .' said Mr Clissold, taking his eyes off the road for a second. ‘Actually, Josh, it seems you know more about this subject than I do.'

Josh Compton-Smith gave his most dazzling grin, shrugged and said: ‘Of course. My dad works for them.'

Ben rolled his eyes and went back to looking out of the window.

Josh was old for their school year, almost fourteen. He had floppy blond hair, and perfect teeth, and clear skin tanned by expensive holidays. Josh owned the latest gadgets. He was
captain of the football team. His exam results were excellent. He even managed to make the school uniform, with its nasty maroon blazer, somehow look good on him. Everyone at Walsingham liked Josh. Everyone, in turn, wanted Josh to like them.

Ben, four months off fourteen himself, was dark-haired, pale and freckled. On Ben's narrow shoulders the maroon jacket looked ridiculous. And Ben thought Josh was an arrogant prick.

BRAAAAAAAAP
. The warm air in the minibus was tainted by a pungent waft of semi-digested sausages.

‘Hugo,' said Josh mildly.

‘Sorry, mate,' said Hugo Walsh, grinning.

Massive, square-headed, broad-shouldered, with bristly red hair, Hugo gave off a constant whiff of body odours of various kinds. He was destined to be an officer in the army, just like his father had been. He was Josh's right-hand man and he loved it, hanging on Josh's words, laughing at his jokes. Hugo himself only had one joke: he didn't tell it with his mouth but he told it again and again, and every time he did, everyone except Ben acted like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

‘Mr Walsh,' said Mr Clissold, ‘I do believe you produce more greenhouse gases than this minibus.'

‘That certainly was a particularly noxious emission, mate,' said Josh with approval – making Hugo's grin widen.

‘He's a one-man ecological catastrophe!' said Robert Cubbage.

Josh looked at Robert and raised an eyebrow. Hugo's grin froze. The minibus fell silent.