Mind the Gap

chapter Seven

the silent tree

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"Good. That's good. But why?"

"Because you're my mother, of course." Jazz didn't like the way her mum's conversation was going

this morning. They'd started out commenting on the architecture of Oxford Street, but now they sat in the

back corner of a cof-fee shop and her mother had embarked on one of her lec-tures. At least Jazz thought

it was likely to turn into a lecture. It had that feel: a difficult question, followed by a few moments of

silence, and soon would come her mother's sad expression and alert eyes as she started to speak of hid-den

dangers, covert groups, and the risks of trying to live a normal life. Life for us can never be normal, she'd

said during one of these discussions a couple of years ago, and Jazz had never forgotten that. Out of all the

advice her mother had given her, it was this statement that stuck most in her mind. Sometimes she hated

her mum for telling her that. Surely such harsh truths were something a girl should find out on her own?

"That's not good enough reason to trust me," her mother said. "Lots of kids trust their parents and are

in-evitably betrayed by them. It's a word bandied around too readily nowadays, like love, and fate, and

hate. But it's a pre-cious thing. Analyze your trust, Jazz. Study it. Does it have rough edges, or is it

thoughtless and complete? Because na-ture abhors sharp edges, so something with them can't be natural."

"You'd never betray me," Jazz said firmly. She was start-ing to feel upset and anxious at the way this

was going. Mum was her bedrock! Her solid pedestal from which she was starting to live life as an

adult!

Her mum smiled. "No, I wouldn't. But if I was someone else, just because I never have betrayed you

doesn't mean I never would."

"You're scaring me, Mum."

One of the coffee-shop staff paused by the next table, cleared away mugs and sandwich wrappers,

and started pol-ishing its surface. The silence was uncomfortable, and the young girl threw them a nervous

glance and hurried away, the table still smeared and dirty.

"Don't be scared," she said. "Be warned. You're the only person you can really, truly trust. You. The

only one. You'll need to be careful, Jazz, as you get older. Make sure you're certain of people's intentions

toward you."

"You mean boys?"

"I mean everyone." Her mother looked suddenly sad then, and Jazz was mortified when she saw

tears in the woman's eyes. "You can never really know someone."

"Mum?"

She shook her head and waved Jazz away, dabbing at her eyes. "I'm fine. I'm fine." But she didn't

look fine. And that brief, intense conversation about trust stayed with Jazz for a long, long time.



****

Harry was waiting for them below the surface, behind the grubby wall and bulky grate at the end of

the station platform. He was alone. He carried two heavy torches, and he gave them to Cadge and Jazz.

He trusted them to light his way.

"A good nick today, Jazz girl?"

Jazz produced the boxes of painkillers, plasters, cough mixture, and antibiotics. She kept the Beautiful

to herself.

"Nice!" Harry said. "Nice, my pets. I don't like the thought of my kids being ill, not when they're such

an honest bunch."

The word honest was a strange one, Jazz thought, as ap-plied to a bunch of thieves. But it also made

her proud. They might nick things, but they were all honest to one another. At least, almost all of them. The



image of Stevie Sharpe hid-den in the alley shadows had failed to leave her, and being down here in the

dark only seemed to make it more solid.

"It went okay," Jazz said. "Cadge had to do a runner too, but I had the stuff by then. And I left

without them even sus-pecting me."

"And what did you fetch, Cadge lad?"

"Nuthin'."

Jazz frowned —she remembered him running with a box of condoms in his hand. But she kept

walking and did not look at the boy.

"Nothing at all?" Harry asked.

"Dropped it," Cadge said. And I wonder how scarlet he is right now? Jazz thought. These

shadows are good for hiding a lot.

They veered left into a disused tunnel, walked for a hun-dred yards, and came to an abandoned

station platform. From there they made their way down an old maintenance staircase, hearing the rustle of

rats retreating before the wash of their flashlights. Cockroaches scurried out of sight. In the drier tunnels,

they were rarer, but in the damp, rot-ting places, cockroaches and other bugs were plentiful. Jazz forced

herself not to take much notice of them.

The stairs were slippery here, layered with a thin green slime, and at the bottom of the staircase a

curtain of water fell in a continuous waterfall. Harry produced a small re-tracting umbrella from his pocket,

opened it up, and di-verted the water far enough for Jazz and Cadge to step through. "One of the oldest

water-distribution systems in the world, down here," he said as he stepped through. "More water leaks into

the ground than reaches Londoners' taps." He brushed a few droplets of water from his coat shoulders.

"Lucky for us, eh? Free water whenever we want it. I only wish they could heat some of it for us. Then life

would be grander than grand, eh, Cadge?"

"Life's grand as it is, Mr. F."

"It has its moments, for sure."

Something rattled in the distance and Cadge spun around. They were at one end of a short

brick-lined tunnel, and the steel door at the other end was twisted open. The noise came from beyond.

Rats? Jazz wondered. A train in the distance? She was al-ready becoming familiar with how

strange the noises were down here.

"It's nothing," Harry said.

Cadge glanced at Jazz and smiled. "Really was a good nick," he said. "You're becoming an expert."

"I think she has the light hands and gentle touch of a thief, for sure," Harry said. He squeezed Jazz's

shoulder. "I think you'll go far."

"I'm still not sure..." she said, but she trailed off.

"Still not sure you want to stay," Harry finished for her. "That's to be expected, and I honor that, Jazz

girl. Honor it completely. If ever it's time for you to go, you'll go with our blessing. I tell that to all my kids,

and I mean it."

Cadge walked ahead of them, pretending to check out the open doorway.

"I'm certainly not going yet," she said. Cadge turned around and smiled.

Something screeched in the distance. It seemed to come in from a long way off. Jazz was already

learning to judge sound down here, and this one had lost many of its lower frequencies, swallowed by

concrete, brickwork, and the solid rock of London's legs.

The smile froze on Cadge's face. Harry cocked his head and frowned. "Mr. F.?"

The screech came again and Harry shook his head. "No, Cadge. I think it's just metal on metal.

Something collapsing somewhere far off, maybe. Or perhaps someone else taking a secret tunnel to

somewhere we don't know."

"Collapsing?" Jazz asked.

Harry nodded. "Old places down here, Jazz. And some bits are older than you believe. Sometimes it's

just time to fade away."

"Sounded like a scream to me," Cadge said. "And comin' closer."

Harry shook his head again. "I've heard it often enough," he said.

"Heard what?" Jazz felt scared and excluded, and she looked back and forth from Harry to Cadge.

"Hour of Screams," Cadge said.

The phrase chilled her, the echo of Cadge's voice fading away to nothing in her ears.

"You mentioned that the other day," she said, then turned to Harry. "Cadge told me I should ask you

about it, but I'd forgotten. Is that what we just heard?"

Harry frowned at Cadge. "Not at all." Then he turned to Jazz again. "Walk with us. Let's get back to



the kingdom. I wanted to tell you about this in my own time, in my own way. But it seems young Cadge has

preempted me."

"Sorry, Harry," Cadge said.

"Don't apologize, lad. It's good to be worried about the Hour of Screams. Good to be scared. It's

something not to be trusted."

Jazz thought of her mother's advice on trust, and how precious it was, and how easily it was given

out nowadays. I trust Cadge, she thought. And the idea gave her great com-fort.

As they shone their torches ahead and Harry began to talk, Jazz reached out and held the boy's

hand.

"It's something we've learned to live with," Harry said, "though no one was meant to live with it. I

would've told you about it earlier but, truth be told, it's been months since we've had the Hour of Screams

come through. I should've warned you sooner, Jazz. I've been meaning to. Just didn't want to scare you

off."

"But what is it?"

"It's a dead thing, the Hour. An old, dead thing." "I don't understand," Jazz said. "Is this about the...

echoes?"

Harry frowned, shot a glance at Cadge, and then refocused on Jazz. "You hear them too, do you, or

has Cadge just been speaking out of school ?"

"I hear them," she said, thinking how strange it was to be speaking so normally about something she

would have thought impossible not long ago. But her perception of the possible and the impossible had

changed radically of late. "Sometimes I see things too."

He studied her. "What things?"

"Like silhouettes. Just flickers, really," she lied, though she wasn't sure why she withheld the truth. It

felt personal to her. Intimate. "I thought they were ghosts."

"Perhaps they are. But either way, they're old things, whispering down here the way the beams and

boards in an old house will creak when the wind blows. Nothing to con-cern yourself with."

Jazz hesitated a moment, then forged ahead. "You've seen them too?"

"A glimpse now and again," Harry admitted, still watch-ing her curiously. Then the moment passed

and he waved a hand as though to erase the conversation. "Nothing to worry about, though. I don't talk

about the echoes with the others. They've enough superstition among them already. But everyone knows

what I'll be telling you now, Jazz girl.

It's the Hour you've got to be careful of. Just because things have been quiet down here doesn't

mean they'll stay quiet."

Cadge led the way through the twisted steel door and into a huge circular tunnel, which had been

ground into the rock and unlined. There were not even any supports built here for line and platform. It was

unfinished rather than abandoned; this place had never formed a true part of the Tube. Perhaps a plan had

been drawn wrong, or money had run out, but this was a route that led nowhere. There was graffiti on one

wall, but it had faded with time, washed away by a continuous trickle of water penetrating the tunnel at its

highest point and following the curve.

"We call it the Hour of Screams," Harry said. "Though it doesn't last an hour, and sometimes it's

more a long sigh than a scream. It echoes through the Underground —at least, through all those places

hidden away, where people aren't supposed to be or even know about. Or where there are people like us.

Because in a way, I suppose some of us are as lost as the spirits that make the scream."

"Spirits?" Jazz asked. "But you said you didn't think —"

"It's old London that cries out, young Jazz. You know the saying, If a tree falls in a forest and

there's nobody there to hear it, does it make any noise at all? The Hour of Screams is a bit like that

falling tree. It happens whether there's anyone to hear it or not, because it's just a part of how things must

be. Trees grow, age, and die, and then they fall. So it is with history. History's all about rise and fall, you

know that, girl?"

Jazz did not respond, because she thought it was a ques-tion that did not call for an answer.

"Everyone knows about the Hour of Screams," Cadge said from ahead, as if anticipating her

thoughts.

"True," Harry said. "But not everyone knows not to lis-ten. To hear it is... painful. Perhaps damaging.

I've seen people driven mad, and some of them never get better, Jazz. It touches them and leaves

something of itself in them; liv-ing people shouldn't bear the burdens of the dead. When I first came down

here —before the United Kingdom came together, when I was on my own—the Hour screamed through

one day. The lady I'd hooked up with for a while, Kathryn, she refused to cover her ears, refused to sing



her song. Said she was proud. Well, proud she may have been, but after the screams she was mad as well.

She ran. Tried to catch her, but she ran faster than I. She went deeper than I ever had or have since, and

for all I know she's still running and still going deeper."

"You said she'd be dead by now," Cadge said. Harry nodded and sighed again. "And I'm sure she is.

But still I wonder, and hope."

"But what is the Hour of Screams?" Jazz asked. "You say spirits, but what spirits?"

"Old London," Harry said. "The restless spirit of the old city, wailing in grief. In pain too. No one

knows for sure, not even I. But perhaps it's the remnants of London's past not yet at rest: people, places,

events, dark deeds, and there are plenty of those. The tiring soul of one of the world's old-est cities."

"What does it have to do with the... the echoes we've heard?" Jazz asked.

Harry studied her. "Perhaps nothing. And perhaps the Hour's what happens when the whispers wake

up for a bit."

"Maybe it's just the sound of trains in the distance," Jazz said.

Cadge laughed. "If you'd 'eard it, you'd never say that."

"It's not just a sound," Harry said. "You mustn't listen, that's true enough —choose a song now, Jazz,

and cover your ears and sing it when you know the Hour's coming. But it's everything else besides: the

smell of age, the sight of weary shadows, the taste of rot, the feel of the scream rushing past your skin, the

wind as though it wants to carry you away."

"But it doesn't last an hour?"

Harry shook his head. "Sometimes only seconds."

"Just feels like an hour," Cadge said. "Here we are. The way down."

They had reached the end of the desolate tunnel, and Cadge aimed his torch at a rough hole in the

wall to their left. It had been hacked into the concrete rather than formed, and there was a metal frame that

held a heavy grille gate bolted in. The gate seemed to be closed, but Harry stepped forward and shoved it

open. It creaked.

"Another way back to the United Kingdom?" Jazz asked.

Harry smiled. "There are several," he said. "It wouldn't do to live somewhere down here with only

one way in or out."

Why not? she wanted to ask. But maybe she'd had enough information for now.

The Hour of Screams...

She'd seen things down here, heard them, and out of everyone she seemed to see and hear the most.

What that meant for her when the Hour of Screams came, she really didn't wish to know.

Maybe it would be best if she did not hang around long enough to find out.

The remainder of their descent passed in silence. Cadge went first, moving smoothly and easily along

the flashlit tunnels, ducking under pipes and sidestepping pools of stag-nant water that reflected rainbows of

grease. Jazz followed, marveling at Cadge's dexterity and grace. He was a natural down here.

Harry Fowler followed them both, trusting them to guide his way with their flashlights, and Jazz

wondered how long he had been down here. He must have a history, a pro-fession, perhaps a wife and

children somewhere above, tales to tell, people to avoid, crimes to forget, or destinies yet to fulfill. He was

much older than all of them, and older people had more to tell, and perhaps more to fear.

Like Mum, she thought. She always feared more than me. Tried to make me as scared as her,

but it took this to make that so.

They heard sounds in the distance, and Jazz froze at every one. But Cadge did not, and Harry

always calmed her with a smile or a shake of his head. They knew the sounds of the Underground, which

belonged and which did not.

Jazz knew that she had a decision to make. The time would come for the Hour of Screams to storm

through her new home. She had to decide whether to wait for that to happen. And if she did wait, she had

to decide whether she would choose a song to sing or open up her senses and listen.

In the final short tunnel that led to the shelter, Jazz paused. Cadge went on before her and Harry

stood beside her, looking down.

I'm being watched, she thought, but she could not say that. "Need a minute."

"Of course," Harry said. "Cadge and I will ensure there's food being prepared. Time alone to think is

good, Jazz girl. Time alone is fine. Part of the reason I came down here in the first place was for time

alone."

"Don't get much of that now," she said, smiling.

Harry smiled back and shook his head, and she saw something then that didn't surprise her as much

as it should: he was content. Perhaps more content than any adult she had ever known. Then he walked on,



whispering something to Cadge. The boy turned and looked back at Jazz, and though she tried she could not

give him a comforting smile.

Because I'm being watched!

As soon as Harry and Cadge disappeared through a blank doorway, Jazz scanned the tunnel around

her, probing every nook and cranny with the powerful beam of her torch, chasing shadows away to reveal

the truth of what hid be-neath.

She turned the torch off to see how much more she could see.

The tall, elegant man she had seen during her first hal-lucination stood at the end of the short tunnel.

He was look-ing just to her left, an enigmatic smile on his lips, tuxedo well fitted, and tall hat touching the

ceiling without effect. His white-gloved hands rose before him, fingers flexing as if preparing for some

infinitely intricate trick.

No voices, no crowds, no rowdy catcalls from a ghostly audience... This man was alone. He made

no sound. She could smell a vague hint of lotion, something sweeter and more pleasant than the usual

underground smell of dust and age. His expression was the fixed, tired smile of a per-forming magician, but

as his hands closed together, his eyes shifted slightly until they were staring directly into her own.

Jazz shivered, nerve endings jangling as though a breath of freezing air had wafted through the

tunnel.

The ghostly man pressed his hands together, and when he pulled them apart a chain of sparks hung

between them. It swung low and heavy, ghost fire given weight, and he seemed to be trying to

communicate something to her with his eyes.

And then he spoke.

All in the touch, the ghost said.

He brought his hands close together again, and just be-fore they met, Jazz saw the sparkles darken,

and within them a dozen small forms danced and squirmed. All in the touch.

Jazz ran. She reached the shelter quickly, went to Harry, and hugged him, comforted only a little

when he hugged her back. And an idea pounded at her, one that she could never, ever say.

How do I hide from ghosts?