Tunnels (11 page)
"Don't know yet. Let's check his desk first," Will said in a hushed voice.
As Chester held his flashlight for him, Will sifted through the piles of papers and documents. It wasn't an easy task; Dr. Burrows was clearly as disorganized at work as he was at home, and there was a mass of paperwork spread across the desk in arbitrary piles. The computer screen was all but obscured by a proliferation of curling yellow Post-it notes stuck around it. As they searched, Will focused his efforts on anything that was written on loose-leaf pages in his father's barely legible scrawl.
Finishing the last of the piles of papers, they found nothing of note, so they each took one side of the desk and started searching the drawers.
"Wow, look at this." Chester produced what appeared to be a stuffed dog's paw fixed to an ebony stick from among a load of empty tobacco tins. Will simply looked at him and frowned briefly before resuming his search.
"Here's something!" Chester said excitedly as he was investigating the middle drawer. Will didn't bother to look up from the papers in his hand, thinking it was another obscure object.
"No, look, it's got a label with writing on it." He handed it to Will. It was a little book with covers of purple and brown marbling and a sticker on the front that read
Ex
Libris
in ornate and swirling copperplate lettering, with a picture of an owl wearing massive round glasses.
"
Journal
," Will read. "That's definitely my dad's writing." He opened the cover. "Bingo! It looks like a diary of some sort." He fanned through the pages. "He's written something on quite a few of these." Pushing it into his bag, he asked, "Are there any others?"
They hurriedly searched the remainder of the drawers and, finding nothing else, decided it was time to leave. Will locked up, and the boys made their way toward the Forty Pits, because it was close by and they knew they wouldn't be interrupted there. As they slunk though the streets, ducking behind cars when anyone appeared, they felt alive with the thrill of the forbidden mission at the museum and couldn't wait to look at the journal they'd unearthed. Reaching the Pits, they descended into the main chamber, where they arranged the cage lights and made themselves comfortable in the armchairs. Will began to pore over the pages.
"The first entry is not long after we discovered the lost train station," he said, looking up at Chester.
"What train station?"
But Will was too engrossed in the journal to explain. He recited slowly, in broken sentences, as he struggled to decipher his father's handwriting.
I have recently become aware of a small and
…
in
…
incongruous grouping of interlopers coming and going among the general populace of
Highfield
. A group of people who have a physical appearance that sets them apart. Where they come from or what their purpose is I have yet to ascertain but, from my limited observation of them, I believe that all is not what it seems. Given their apparent numbers (5+?)
…
homogeneity of their (racial?) appearance
…
I suspect they may cohabit or at the very least
…
He trailed off as he scanned the rest of the page. "I can't quite make out the
rest,"he
said, looking up at Chester. "Here's something," he said, flicking over the page. "This is clearer."
Today a rather intriguing and baffling artifact came into my possession by way of a Mr. Embers. It may well be linked to these people, although I have yet to
…
substantiate this. The object is a small globe held in a cage of some type of metal, which, at the time of this writing, I have not been able to identify. The globe emits light of varying intensity depending on the degree of background illumination. What confounds me is that the relationship is directly inverse
—
the darker the surroundings, the brighter the light it emits. It defies any laws of physics or chemistry with which I am familiar.
Will held up the page so Chester could see the rough sketch his father had made.
"Have you actually seen it?" Chester inquired. "This light thing?"
"No, he kept all this to himself," Will replied thoughtfully. Turning the page he began to read again.
Today I had the opportunity to
…
scrutinize, albeit for a brief moment, one of the pallid men at close quarters.
"Pallid? As in pale? Chester said.
"Suppose so," Will answered, and then read out his father's description of the mysterious man. He went on to the episode with Pineapple Joe and the inexplicable duct in the house, and his father's thoughts and observations on
Square
"It says
Highfield's
History
at the top of the page, and it seems to be about someone called Sir Gabriel
Martineau
," Will read:
Born in 1673, he was the son and heir of a successful cloth dyer in
Highfield
. In 1699, he inherited the business.
Martineau
, Long & Co. from his father and expanded it considerably, adding a further two factories to the original premises on
Hooke
(1635 -1703) is generally credited with being the architect behind what is essentially the modern air pump, there are a number of historians who believe that he built his first prototype using
Martineau's
drawings.
In 1710, during a period of widespread unemployment,
Martineau
, a deeply religious man who was renowned for his philanthropic and paternal attitude toward his workforce, began to
emply
a substantial number of laborers to build dwellings for his factory workers, and personally designed and oversaw the construction of
Martineau
Square, which still stands today, and
Grayston
Villas, which was destroyed in the Blitz.
Martineau
soon became the largest employer in the
Highfield
district, and it was rumored that
Martineau's
Men (as they became known) were engaged in digging a substantial underground network of tunnels, although no evidence of these remains today.
In 1718,
Martineau's
wife contracted tuberculosis and died, aged thirty-two. Thereafter
Martineau
sought solace by joining an obscure religious sect and was rarely seen in public for the remaining years of his life. His home,
Martineau
House, which formerly stood on the edge of what is now
Highfield's
historic district, was destroyed by a fire in 1733, in which
Martineau
and his two daughters are believed to have perished.
Underneath, Dr. Burrows had written:
Why is there no trace of these tunnels now? What were they for? I haven't been able to find any mention of them in the town hall records or the borough archives or anywhere. Why, why, why?
Then, scrawled with such gusto the paper was wrinkled and even ripped in places, were large, crude capitals in blue ballpoint:
FACT OR FICTION?
Will frowned and turned to Chester. "This is incredible. Have you ever heard of this
Martineau
?"
Chester shook his head.
"Very weird," Will said, slowly rereading the photocopied extract. "Dad never mentioned any of this, not once. Why would he have kept something like this from me?"
Will chewed his lip, his expression transforming from exasperation to one of deep preoccupation. Then he suddenly jerked his head up, as if he had been elbowed in the ribs.
"What is it?" Chester said.
"Dad was on to something that he didn't want anyone to nick from him. Not again. That's it!" Will cried, remembering the time when the professor from
Chester was about to ask what Will was talking about when, in a flurry, Will began flipping forward through the journal.
"More stuff about these
pallid
men," Will said, continuing on until he came to a part of the notebook where there were only the tagged stub of missing pages. "These have been torn out!"
He thumbed through a few more pages to the final entry. Chester saw him hesitate.
"See the date," Will said.
"Where?" Chester leaned in.
"It's from last Wednesday… the day he had the fight with Mum," Will said in a quiet voice, then took a deep breath and read aloud:
Tonight's the night. I have found a way in. If this is what I think it is, my hypothesis, wild as it may seem, will be proved correct. This could be it! My chance, my last chance to make my mark. My moment! I have to follow my instincts. I have to go down there. I have to go through.
"I don't understand—" Chester began.
Will held up his hand to silence his friend and continued:
It could be dangerous, but it's something I have to do. I have to show them
—
if my theory is right, they'll see! They'll have to. I am not just a bumbling curator.
And then Will read the final sentence, which was underscored several times.
I will be remembered!
"Wow!" Will exclaimed, sitting back in the damp armchair. "This is incredible."
"Yes," Chester agreed somewhat halfheartedly. He was beginning to think that Will's father had perhaps not been completely sane. It sounded to him suspiciously like the ramblings of someone who was losing it, big-time.
"So what was he onto? What was this
theory
he was talking about?" Will said, flipping back to the ripped-out pages. "I'll bet this is where it was. He didn't want anyone to steal his ideas." Will was buzzing now.
"Yes, but where do you think he's actually gone?" Chester asked. "What does he mean by go
through
, Will?"
This took the wind out of Will's sails. He looked blankly at Chester.
"Well," he began slowly, "two things have been bugging me. First is, I saw him working on something at home very early one morning — 'bout two weeks before he disappeared. I figured he was digging on the Common… but that doesn't stack up."
"Why?"
"Well, when I saw him, I'm sure he was pushing a
barrowload
of spoil
to
the Common, not
away
from it. Second thing is, I cant find his overalls or hard hat anywhere."
"
Oi
, Snowflake, I hear you old man's done a runner," a voice shouted at Will as soon as he entered the classroom. There was an immediate hush as everyone turned to look at Will, who, gritting his teeth, sat down at his desk and started to take books out of his bag.
It was Speed, a vicious, skinny kid with greasy black hair who was the self-appointed leader of a gang of similarly unpleasant characters.
"Can't blame him, can you? Probably got sick of you!" Speed sneered, his voice dripping with derision.
Hunched doggedly over his desk, Will did his best to pretend he was searching for a page in his textbook.
"Sick of his
freak
of a son!" Speed shouted, in that horribly guttural yet slightly squeaky way that only someone whose voice is in the process of breaking can do.
The fury welled up inside Will. His pulse raced and his face felt hot; he hated that it would be betraying his anger. As he remained with his eyes fixed steadfastly on the absolutely meaningless page before him, he experienced, just for a fraction of a second, a moment of incredible self-doubt and guilt. Maybe Speed was right. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he was partly to blame for his father's departure.
He dismissed the thought almost immediately, telling himself that it couldn't have been because of him. Whatever the reason, his father wouldn't have just walked out. It must have been something serious… something deadly serious.
"And
totally
over you
mental
mum!" Speed bawled on even more loudly. At this, Will heard gasps and the random giggle around him in the otherwise completely silent classroom. So it was already general knowledge about his mother…
Will gripped his textbook with such force that the cover was beginning to buckle. He still didn't look up, but he shook his head slowly. This was only going one way… He didn't want to fight, but the little creep was pushing it too far. It was a matter of pride now.
"Hey, Vanilla Ice, I'm talking to you! Are you or are you not fatherless? Are you or are you not a b—"
That did it! Will suddenly stood up, sending his chair shooting back. It scraped across the wooden floor and then toppled over. He locked eyes with Speed, who also rose from his desk, his face contorted with spiteful relish as he realized he'd hit the bull's-eye with his gibes. Simultaneously three of Speed's gang leaped excitedly out of their chairs with predatory glee.
"Has Snow White had enough?" Speed sneered, moving with a swagger between the desks toward Will, his cackling entourage in tow.
Reaching Will, Speed stood close to him, his fists clenched by his sides. Although Will wanted to take a step back, he knew he had to stand his ground.