Darkside (7 page)

At least he had given them the slip. All he had to do now was work out how to get out of here. Jonathan wiped a sleeve across his dripping nose and peered into the gloom. In the corner of the room a set of crumbling stone steps led down into a wide, arched passage propped up at regular intervals by rounded pillars. Amid the stillness the only sounds were the dripping of water, the squeak and rustle of rats, and – somewhere in the distance – the low, throaty rumble of an Underground train.

There didn't seem to be any choice. Jonathan hurried down the passage, choking on the foul stench of decay that rolled in waves towards him: the smell of sewers, toilet waste and rotting rodent corpses. The floor was uneven and covered in a thin film of dank water, and the splashing sounds of his footsteps echoed off the curved walls. Jonathan clenched his fist in triumph when he spotted an iron spiral staircase at the end of the passage, flanked by a pair of gas lamps. Desperate for a taste of fresh air, he scampered up the steps. And with that, he came out on Darkside.

 

 

 

“
S
o then, Ricky Thomas. . .”

PC Ian Shaw burst into the briefing room slightly out of breath, spilling coffee from his polystyrene cup on to himself in the process. A crowd of people – a mixture of uniformed officers and plain-clothed detectives – were seated on chairs and perched on desks in an informal semicircle. The scene looked more like a sixth-form classroom than the heart of a massive police operation. At the front of the room, the Superintendent stood next to a whiteboard covered in various photographs. He was clearly in the middle of a speech, and stopped pointedly as Shaw entered the room. Shaw cursed himself under his breath. If only he hadn't made that blasted coffee! The Super didn't tend to forget things like that.

“Sorry, guv,” he mumbled.

The Super glared at him.

Feeling everyone staring at him, Shaw shuffled red-faced through the ranks of officers to the back of the room. Even the aroma of stale cigarette smoke and sweat couldn't mask the sense of anticipation in the air. Every policeman in the room knew that this could be the case that made their career. One lucky break, one discovery, one arrest: that would be all it would take. There was more than enough media attention surrounding the case to guarantee promotions for those who did well. Even on a dreary Tuesday morning, there was a gaggle of reporters and photographers gathered around the entrance of the police station. PC Shaw watched them from the window, chatting away on their mobiles under brightly-coloured umbrellas, and wondered what he would look like on television.

“Now that everyone's bothered to turn up. . .” said the Super. Shaw winced. “As I was saying, we're in a bit of a fix here, ladies and gentlemen. We need a quick result, or believe me, we're
all
going to get it in the neck.” He took a biro from his top pocket and tapped the first photograph. “This unfortunate young man is thirteen-year-old Ricky Thomas. He travels down to London on a school trip. In the middle of Trafalgar Square he wanders off. No one has seen him since. Broad daylight in one of the most popular tourist destinations in the country, and no one sees a thing.”

PC Shaw took a sip from his coffee. It was scalding hot. With a great effort he managed not to yelp out loud, but his coughs and splutters still made the Super shake his head in disbelief. He moved on to the next photo on the whiteboard. “This is the only clue we've got, for all the good it's done for us.”

Shaw leaned in closer, struggling to make the photo out.

“It was taken by a young Japanese woman at the scene. Now, she was in Trafalgar Square at the same time that Ricky disappeared, but she doesn't remember seeing him. However, if you look in the bottom corner of the photo, he's there.”

It was definitely Ricky. He was scurrying towards the steps that led out of the square. His face was pale and there was a hunted look in his eyes. There were people all around him, but no one was taking any notice of him.

“The lad's clearly terrified. It looks like someone's after him. Could be bullies from his school. Could be something much worse than that. The thing I want you to think about is this – why doesn't he ask for help?”

The Super paused, and then referred to a sheet of paper.

“And last night we came across a bad traffic accident on Upper Thames Street that had ripped the passenger seat door right off a car. The driver says it was done by a man who was chasing after the son of a friend of hers: a fourteen-year-old called Jonathan Starling. So far we haven't been able to track down the kid, but he's got a history of truancy as long as your arm, so be careful not to make any assumptions. We're checking it out to see if there are any links, but our witness is flaky to say the very least.”

Seemingly upset by the unfairness of it all, the Super sighed. These really were unusual incidents. With most child abductions there was usually a host of witnesses clamouring to give statements, especially in public places. Parents and teachers tended to keep an eye on anything looking suspicious involving children. Not this time, though.

“So, to conclude: we're in a right mess. We've got two suspected abductions, neither of which we can be absolutely sure are actual kidnappings. They're also linked by the fact that a) both lads are roughly the same age, and b) there are no leads at all. We have to change b) in the next couple of days. The press are screaming for us to get a result, and saying that heads should roll if we don't. They have a nasty habit of getting their way, so keep your eyes and ears open for anything that might get our investigation going. It could be the smallest thing. The first thing I'm going to do is split you all into teams and send you back to the crime scenes. There's got to be something there, people!”

At that moment a young female officer stuck her head round the door. “Sorry, sir. Someone wants to speak to you. Says it's important.”

The Super threw his hands up in exasperation and left the room. Noting the dark coffee stain on his tie, PC Shaw slipped out after him, and headed to the toilet to splash some water on to it. He had finished dabbing at the stain, and had just nipped into a cubicle, when he heard two men entering the toilet. They were arguing, and with a jolt PC Shaw recognized the Super's voice.

“You're damn right we're going to talk about it here!” he roared. “This is a bloody disgrace!”

“If you insist,” a voice replied delicately. “There's not a great deal to talk about, though. The Chief's asked me to take over operational responsibilities for the case. You'll stand down. That's it.”

“And has the Chief been kind enough to explain his reasons for this change?”

“With all due respect, I wouldn't have thought he'd need to. Two disappearances in two days, and you don't have a single clue to go on.”

“That's because there
are
no clues to go on,” retorted the Super. “I can't make things exist that aren't there. But with a bit of good old-fashioned police work, we'll turn something up. I know it!”

“Personally, I've never been much of a fan of old-fashioned things.” There was a note of amusement in the other man's voice. “It is the twenty-first century, you know.”

“That's why you're perfect to lead the Special Investigations Unit. No appreciation for proper police work. Spend all your time mucking around on the internet and hobnobbing with the top brass. None of the coppers in this nick trust you, you know.”

“I don't need them to trust me. I only need them to do what I say. I think my results speak for themselves. I'm not sure that the Biloxi Brothers would have been banged up with just ‘old-fashioned police work'.”

“Everyone knows there was something fishy about that case,” hissed the Super. “Don't think that we don't know what happened there.”

“What exactly are you saying?” The amusement had abruptly disappeared from the man's voice. “That sounds remarkably like an accusation. A man in your position should be more careful about what he says, don't you think?”

The Super said nothing.

“Now, do you think we could go and tell your men about the situation? Or would you like me to personally deliver your letter of resignation to the Chief?”

“This isn't over.”

“You're quite right. It's just beginning.”

The two men left the toilet. PC Shaw got up and hurriedly buckled up his trousers. He shouldn't have heard any of that. Whatever was going on, it was pretty serious. The Super had never sounded that rattled before. He rushed out of the cubicle and back towards the briefing room, only to find himself late for the second time that morning. This time, the Super couldn't even be bothered to glare at him. Standing beside him was a sharply-dressed blonde man wearing a pair of sunglasses.

“Right, listen up! The Chief's demanded some operational changes. He's brought in the Special Investigations Unit to work alongside us.” He nodded at the blonde man. “Carter Roberts, the head of the SIU, will now be heading up the case.”

There was a murmur in the room. The SIU was an elite crime-fighting unit which had gained a fearsome reputation in the past couple of years. Big-name criminals, big-name busts. The capture of the Biloxi Brothers, three siblings who had been terrorizing South London for decades, had been a real feather in their cap. If it was difficult to like them personally, their results demanded respect.

Carter Roberts stepped in front of the Super and addressed the room. “Thank you, Superintendent. I realize that this is a bit sudden but I'm sure that we'll work things out quickly enough.” He gave a dazzling smile. “Oh, just one more thing, Superintendent. I'm going to need one of your men to personally assist me while I work on the case.”

The room automatically stiffened to attention.

“Is there anyone in particular that you had in mind?”

Carter Roberts smiled and said, “I haven't worked with anyone here before, but I have been given one recommendation.” He flicked through a spiral-bound notepad. “Ah, yes. I'll take PC Shaw, if you don't mind.”

The Super gaped at him. “Well, of course . . . I mean, anything that you need if . . . you know . . . if you're sure that you want him.”

“Absolutely.”

PC Shaw gulped. Wherever the SIU went, danger followed hot on their heels. He was going to be close to the action, all right.

 

 

 

I
t wasn't what he had expected. It wasn't like anything he had ever imagined. Jonathan stood motionless, barely even breathing, and tried to take everything in. His senses were working overtime, struggling to make sense of the scene before him.

He had come out on to a narrow cobbled street that bubbled with a cauldron of voices: garbled shouts, throaty cries, squawks of protest and snarled threats. A procession of horse-drawn carriages filed past in front of him, and Jonathan's ears reverberated to the rumble of the wheels and the loud clopping of hooves on the cobblestones. On either side of the street, a row of tall, soot-covered buildings leaned menacingly towards each other like boxers. Above their high arched roofs, towering chimney stacks punctuated the skyline, bellowing dense clouds of smoke that turned the air into a permanent night. A milky full moon shone weakly though the acrid haze.

Jonathan began to cough violently – whether from the smoke stinging his lungs or the foul stench that pervaded the street he wasn't sure. No one around him seemed affected by the atmosphere. Despite the late hour, the pavements were thronged with a mass of people ebbing and flowing in every direction. They were all dressed in old-fashioned clothing: the men in suits, long cloaks and high stovepipe hats, and the women in ankle-length dresses and shawls. Jonathan couldn't help but gape at them. It was as if he had travelled back in time.

But as the passers-by hurried under the faint illumination of the street lamps, he realized that it wasn't just their clothing that was strange. Every now and then he caught a fleeting glimpse of something that unnerved him: a gentleman with red lipstick smeared over his mouth grinned at his companion, revealing a set of sharp, protruding front teeth; a woman with the vacant eyes of a sleepwalker wandered past, nails clawing at her exposed skin; from somewhere in the folds of a dress or the confines of a suit, a blade glinted evilly. Despite the pandemonium, the pushing and the jostling of the crowd, there were some whose path was always clear; space opened up magically around them. Jonathan realized that he was in serious danger.

It was tempting to go back into the passageway and hide, but he knew that somehow he had to find Carnegie. There was only one thing for it. He took several calming deep breaths and stepped out on to the street. Immediately the crowd swept him away. He fought to keep his feet, but at every step an elbow or a foot knocked him, and it was impossible to keep his balance. Shopfronts streamed by so quickly that he didn't have time to see what they were selling. Street-sellers tried in vain to shout above the din, clinging on to the street lamps to protect themselves from the swell of the crowd.

Jonathan's head spun as he tried to keep track of where he was. Two mongrel dogs began fighting in front of him, knocking him over as they rolled around in the dirt. He quickly tried to get up, but the crowd buffeted him, keeping him on the ground. Jonathan was starting to panic when a hand reached down and pulled him upright. A man dragged him into a quiet alleyway away from the dangerous undertow of the crowd. He was dressed in an immaculately pressed three-piece suit, and his hair looked like it had been slicked down with gel.

“You all right there, matey? Bit of a close one, that.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Jonathan panted gratefully. “I couldn't get up.”

“You look a bit lost, son. Can I help with anything?”

“I'm looking for a man called Carnegie. Do you know where he lives?”

The man's eyes narrowed, and Jonathan was suddenly aware that he was being held rather more firmly than necessary. “Carnegie? That name rings a bell. Hmm. . .”

As the man pondered the question, Jonathan felt a slight movement in his jacket. He looked down. To his horror, he saw that a withered third hand had appeared from inside the man's waistcoat, and was deftly rummaging through his pockets! Jonathan cried out with shock and tried to back away, but the man had him in a strong grip, pinning his arms to his sides. As the third hand dug around for valuables the thief's eyes glanced nervously left and right.

“You're a bit of a prize, aren't you?” he muttered.

As he loomed closer Jonathan could smell the air of the decay that hung off him. He shuddered, and again tried to wriggle free.

“There you are!” piped up a girl's voice.

Both Jonathan and the pickpocket whirled round and examined the source of the voice. She was small, maybe fourteen or fifteen, with fiery auburn hair draped artfully over one shoulder, and swathed in a heavy black cloak. Ignoring the thief's startled gaze, she pushed her way past him and poked Jonathan in the chest.

“Where have you been? I've been looking all over the Grand for you!”

“I . . . er. . .” stammered Jonathan.

“Stop stuttering!” the girl yelled. She turned to the pickpocket, who was looking uncomfortable with all the commotion, and gave him a sweet smile. “Thank you . . . Yann, isn't it? I remember seeing you up at the house. You were visiting my master. You do remember who
he
is, don't you?”

The man nodded sullenly.

“Then you wouldn't dream of hurting me. Or my brother. Because you know what would happen then, don't you?”

She actually batted her eyelids. The pickpocket sullenly relented, releasing Jonathan from his grip. The third hand withdrew back into his waistcoat. With a malevolent glare, he sloped away.

“Wow . . . thank you,” said Jonathan. “That was incredible!”

When she turned round again, any trace of affection had disappeared from her voice. She spoke in a cold, urgent undertone. “Look, I don't know who you are, or what you think you're doing, but you're a dead man if you keep acting like that.”

“Keep acting like what?”

“Like you don't know your way around. Like you're a mug.”

“But I don't know my way around!” he replied helplessly. “What am I supposed to do?”

The girl was already striding away down the street. Jonathan raced after her.

“Hey . . . wait for me!”

She tutted with impatience. “Don't you have a home to go, or something?”

Jonathan grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop. “You know what? No, I don't. I've nearly been kidnapped, nearly drowned, and now I'm lost in this weird place where everyone wants to kill me. I could really do with a bit of help, you know?”

He was shouting now, past the point of caring whether anyone else was watching. The girl pursed her lips, and looked down at her feet. “And what do you think I can do to help you?” she asked finally.

“I'm looking for this guy called Carnegie. I've lost his address. Do you know him?”

“
Everyone
knows Carnegie.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

The girl squinted up at the moon. “This time of night, he'll probably be in his lodgings. Go down the Grand for five minutes. Turn left on Fitzwilliam Street. Carnegie's place is on the second floor. If I were you, I wouldn't bother him right now, though.”

“Thanks, but there's nowhere else I can go. I'm just going to have to risk it.” He stopped, suddenly feeling awkward. “Look, my name's Jonathan and. . .”

But she was already walking away, calling out airily over her shoulder. “Good luck, Jonathan. Try not to get killed.”

He thought about chasing after her again, but the little redhead had already melted away into the crowd.

 

The walk down the Grand was the longest five minutes of Jonathan's life. It seemed to him that danger haunted his every step. Red-rimmed eyes shot hostile glances at him. Ugly, scarred faces broke into vicious smiles. Jonathan drew the hood of his jacket tightly around his face and kept his eyes fixed on the dirty pavement. At one stage he slipped from the pavement into the gutter, and only just avoided being mown down by a horse-drawn carriage. The driver was whipping his steed furiously, and it whinnied and foamed at the mouth as it flew by.

By the time he came to a road branching off the Grand, Jonathan had been thoroughly shaken up. Above his head a battered signpost showed the letters “FITZ”. The rest was obscured beneath a coating of rust. A dirty poster had been stuck to the signpost, depicting two boys being savaged by a pack of dogs, underneath the heading “Incredible New Attraction: Last Animal Standing!”. From the other side of the street, there was a guttural roar and a scream. Jonathan took the hint, and hurriedly turned left.

If the Grand was a feverish dream, then Fitzwilliam Street was a brooding nightmare. It was a narrow, winding road barely wide enough for a carriage to travel down. Shabby houses reared up on either side. The shopfronts bore the battle-scars of war: their signs had been ripped down, the windows smashed and their doors kicked in. In one shop Jonathan could see the remnants of a small fire smouldering away in the back. None of the street lamps here seemed to work, and he had to rely upon the moon for what little light there was.

Further down the road he caught sight of a group of boys maintaining a sullen guard outside a shop marked “Doonesbury's Funeral Parlour”. Although they were dressed in the old-fashioned clothing he had seen on the Grand, Jonathan guessed that they must have been about his age. They were taking it in turns to throw lit matches into the gutter, and there was an aggressive swagger about them that spelled trouble. As Jonathan scanned the scene, he caught sight of a sign hanging above the funeral parlour that said simply “Elias Carnegie”. Great. If he wanted to get up there, he was going to have to get past the gang.

As he approached, a scuffle broke out as one of the boys decided to flick a match at one of the others. Jonathan tried to take advantage of the fracas to slip past, but they spotted him immediately, and circled him like hyenas. The smallest boy – whose cocky manner suggested that he was the leader – reached up and poked him in the chest.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I'm Jonathan.”

“You're on our patch. People who come on our patch get hurt. Are you looking for a fight?”

Jonathan pointed to the sign above the funeral parlour. “I'm just going to see Carnegie,” he said.

There was an audible intake of breath. The boys glanced at each other doubtfully.

“You don't know him,” one of them sneered.

“Actually, he's a friend of mine.”

“You're lying! He hasn't got any friends!”

“I'm going upstairs to see him. D'you want to come up with me and find out?”

Jonathan left the challenge hanging in the air. No one said anything; then the leader of the gang slouched away down the road. “Come on. This is boring.”

The rest of the boys followed him, elbowing their way past Jonathan. It seemed that knowing Carnegie's name wasn't such a bad thing round here. Now all he had to do was meet the man himself.

Jonathan slipped in through the ground-floor entrance and crept up a tired staircase. At the end of a landing there was a heavy red door that was covered in deep scratches. On the wall near it a brass plaque had been engraved with the words “Elias Carnegie. Private Detective”. Jonathan rang the bell but couldn't get any response, nor could he raise anyone by knocking. Eventually he tried the handle. It turned, and he entered the room.

Carnegie's lodgings were spare to say the least. No lights were lit, but Jonathan could make out two chairs and a low sofa positioned on a threadbare rug, and a rickety bookcase clinging to the wall. The fire had burnt out in the hearth, and the room was deathly cold. Behind a long wooden desk there was a man slumped in a chair. He was facing away from Jonathan, staring out at the moon. Even in the gloom it was clear he was a broad, bulky man. When he eventually spoke, however, his voice was hollow and strained.

“What are you doing here?”

“I'm sorry . . . I did knock.”

At the sound of Jonathan's voice, Carnegie turned around. His bulky silhouette seemed to fill the room. “I didn't say ‘come in'. Basic manners, boy.”

“Do you want me to wait outside?”

“I want you to go away.”

Jonathan couldn't believe it. This was the person his dad had sent him to, the person he was relying upon to save his life. And now he was telling him to go away!

“But I need your help!”

“Not tonight, boy. Things are only going to get worse if you hang around.”

“I've got nowhere to go!”

Carnegie leapt out of his chair and leant over the desk. In the moonlight Jonathan could see that his eyes were filmy and bloodshot. “Do you not understand?” he hissed. He pointed at the window. “Have you not seen the moon? Do you want me to hurt you? Leave now!”

“I need your help!” Jonathan tried again, desperately. “My dad sent me here . . . he says he knows you!”

Carnegie had fallen back into his chair, and was cradling his head in his hands, moaning. He seemed sick. Then his shoulders began to shake, and Jonathan wondered whether he was crying. He edged towards him, his arms outstretched.

“Mr Carnegie? Are you OK?”

He placed a hand on one of his broad shoulders. A low chuckle escaped from Carnegie. “Feeling better, boy,” he muttered thickly. “Much better.”

Carnegie's head suddenly snapped up towards Jonathan, who recoiled in horror. His face had undergone a terrible transformation. A grey matting of fur covered his skin, and his teeth had grown long and sharp. Where before his eyes had been those of weak human's, now they were the blank, hungry eyes of an animal.

Jonathan backed away to the office door. Carnegie rose and moved powerfully after him. “I did tell you to leave.”

“I'm going . . . I'm going!” Jonathan shouted.

He grinned, revealing the full horror of his incisors. “Too late now. . .”