Mind the Gap

chapter Nine

the river flows

Time blurred, and Jazz did not know whether she stayed in the crawl space for long minutes or

hours. When at last she overcame her fear and tamped down her grief enough to act, her left arm had gone

numb and prickled with pins and nee-dles as she moved. Her neck and hips were stiff and ached to the

bone.

A foot from the ledge, she hesitated. The top of the lad-der was visible, and if she closed her eyes

she knew she would see Cadge's fingers being pulled away from the rungs. She kept them open.

Something shifted in the tunnel. She heard breathing, which stilled her own. For long moments she

considered her best course. The thugs who'd been driven mad by the Hour of Screams knew she had come

into the crawl space. They might not have been able to squeeze in there to come after her, but they knew

she was there. If they'd stuck around, surely she'd have heard them?

So whoever or whatever was out there was on their own and didn't know Jazz hid so near. She could

try to back up, but that might make enough noise to draw attention. Or she could inch forward just a bit,

enough to see who it was.

A low sigh came to her then, and a new thought rose in her mind. Cadge?

Jazz slid to the edge and looked down onto the platform. Her heart sank when she saw the bloody

figure lying there, limbs akimbo like some cast-off marionette. She drew in a shuddering breath.

Someone moved in the shadows on the other side of the tunnel. At first glance she thought it was a

ghost. An image crossed her mind of the magician's specter performing sleight of hand in the midst of old

London's echoes. She half-expected him to emerge, drawing colorful kerchiefs from the sleeves of his

jacket.

But the silhouette resolved itself, and she recognized him.

Stevie Sharpe.

He moved away from the wall, stepped over the old rail-road ties, and climbed up onto the platform.

Stevie pulled out a white rag and knelt to wipe some of the blood from Cadge's swollen face. One side of

the boy's skull had been caved in. Jazz put a hand to her mouth to hold in a scream.

There had been enough screaming today.

"Are you coming down?" Stevie asked, still gently wip-ing at Cadge's face.

He glanced up at her. She was surprised to see tears on his face. Stevie would not cry aloud; Jazz

knew that much about him already. His expression seemed carved in granite. But his tears gave him away.

"Jazz, come down," he said.

It took her a moment to realize that she was supposed to reply. But she couldn't open her mouth. She

crawled to the ladder and stared at the rungs where Cadge had tried so hard to hang on. Cadge, who had a

touch of whatever awareness Jazz had found here in the underneath. Cadge, who'd only ever been sweet,

who'd tried to make her feel at home.

"Jazz —"

Stevie stuffed the rag in his pocket and went to the ladder. He climbed up, boots clanging on the

metal rungs, and gently reached for her, putting a hand on her wrist.

"Come down," he said.

His eyes always seemed shielded. They were supposed to be the windows to the soul, and while Jazz

couldn't be sure she believed in souls, she did have faith in her ability to read someone's heart in their eyes.

But not Stevie. He hid himself down deep. She supposed they had that in common.

"I'm afraid," she whispered.

Stevie nodded. "Good. We should be afraid. But you can't stay here. The others will be gathering at



the ren-dezvous point soon, and we've got to check on Harry before we meet up with them."

Jazz wrapped her fingers around his wrist and they gripped each other's arms for a moment. From

the first, she'd seen that Stevie differed from the others in some in-tangible way. She still didn't know what

it was, beyond the age difference, but Jazz felt certain she had not imagined it.

The contact went on a beat longer than was comfort-able. Stevie pulled his hand back and averted

his eyes, then started down the ladder.

"Let's go."

Jazz took a breath and spun around. She scooted over the edge and began to climb down after him.

"Did you see them?" she asked as she came off the lad-der onto the decrepit old train platform,

purposefully avoid-ing looking at Cadge's body.

Stevie nodded. "I sent the others away, but I doubled back to see if I could help. After the Hour of

Screams went by, I heard them shouting and I knew what had happened. I hid when they ran past, then

came as fast as I could. Did you see anyone else?"

"Hattie. If she's still where we left her. And Harry. They did a job on him. We should check on

him."

They knew me, she wanted to say. They recognized me, and one of them I've seen before. They

were here for me. What they did to Cadge... it's my fault.

But she couldn't say any of that, no matter how true it felt. She'd sometimes gotten the feeling that he

didn't trust her, didn't want her there. If she told him the truth, he'd never let her stay with them.

"Let's have a look," Stevie said. "But quietly. No telling if they're really gone or if there might be

others. Nowhere's safe down here now, until we've had a proper look around to make sure it's clear."

Jazz had been avoiding looking at Cadge too closely, but when Stevie turned to jump down from the

platform, she did not follow. Almost robotic, she forced herself to look.

This time her anguish did not rip into her as it had before. Her eyes did not burn with tears. Instead, a

cold fury spread through her. Slowly, she went and knelt by the ruined boy. He looked so small, and his

wrecked face was gruesome to behold. But she did not allow herself to look away. Cadge deserved that

much, at least.

"Let's go," Stevie said, though there was kindness in his urging.

She kissed the first two fingertips of her right hand, then pressed the kiss to Cadge's bloodstained

cheek. Something had shifted in her, just in those few moments. Jazz had had enough of grief and enough

of fear. Enough of running.

"Enough of hiding," she whispered to the dead boy.

She stood and turned to Stevie, holding out her hand. "Give me your jacket."

He frowned but slipped it off and handed it to her with-out question. Jazz placed Cadge's arms over

his chest, then covered his corpse with the jacket. The others might need her, and Cadge was beyond

anyone's help now. Beyond fear. Beyond the painful memories of his father's disdain.

Of them all, he was the only one who was safe.

"What are we going to do with him?" she asked, looking down from the platform at Stevie. "I won't

just leave him here."

The older boy —almost a man, really, though his dark, narrow features still had a child's

aspect—cocked his head, studying her. "You've been down here for a few months, but you haven't learned

much. We take care of our own, Jazz. You should know that."

For a moment they indulged their anger by glaring at each other. Then Jazz dropped down to the

remnants of the train tracks. So close to Stevie, she had to look up at him and felt his nearness keenly. An

awkward tension rippled be-tween them. She thought he might take her into his arms to comfort her, and as

much as her mother had taught her never to rely on anyone —especially a bloke—the thought gave her a

feeling of warmth inside.

But Stevie did not embrace her.

Wrapping her arms around herself, shivering now with the cold and damp of the tunnel, Jazz turned

and started re-tracing her steps. When she reached the metal door to the stairs that she and Cadge had

descended earlier, it hung partway open.

"Hattie was supposed to wait in there," she said.

Stevie pulled the door wide, revealing nothing but dark-ness within. He swore, but Jazz didn't waste

time staring at the emptiness of the stairwell. She picked up her pace, jog-ging around the bend toward the

entrance to Deep Level Shelter 7-K. The chemical smell of the gas the bastards used still lingered in the

air. From behind her, she heard the sound of the metal door closing tight —they'd been taught to leave as

little trace of their presence as possible—and then Stevie's footfalls as he pursued her.



When she came in sight of the door to the United Kingdom's lair, she staggered to a halt. Hattie knelt

on the ground where the thugs had beaten Harry. For the first time since Jazz had met her, the girl was

without a hat. The cute little cap she'd been wearing fashionably askew had been left behind, and Hattie

hadn't noticed.

Harry lay beside her on the ground. Jazz couldn't see his face —Hattie blocked her view—but the

man wasn't moving. Not at all.

Stevie caught up to Jazz but didn't slow. "Harry, no!" he shouted as he rushed toward the old thief.

Hattie spun around, eyes wide with fear. When she saw them, the girl shook with relief.

Then Harry moved. He reached up one hand to pat Hattie's arm, a gesture of fatherly comfort. His

legs shifted and he tried to sit up but couldn't. Stevie reached them and dropped down next to Hattie. Jazz

had been frozen with in-decision, not knowing where her life would go from here. But for the moment, at

least, such thoughts would have to wait. Harry had been kind to her. Cadge might be dead, but Harry was

alive.

Jazz ran to them. She stood behind Stevie, looking down at the bruised, bloody face of Harry Fowler.

"I thought..." she said.

"The worst," Harry said. "I thought the same, love. But I'll be all right. Need some rest. Cracked

some bones, I think. But a few weeks and I'll be right as rain."

"Think they'll be back?" Stevie asked.

Harry nodded. "Might be."

"So what do we do?" Hattie asked, her voice a desperate whine.

At that, Harry beamed, though he winced with the pain the smile caused him. "Why, Hattie, dear,

what do you sup-pose we do? When the big bad wolf blows down the house, the smart little pig moves

somewhere safer."

Hattie and Stevie nodded, but Jazz felt a darkness en-veloping her, a grim hopelessness that she

feared she could never escape.

"They caught Cadge," she said.

Harry frowned deeply. "Is he bad off?"

"He's dead."

At those words Harry —who'd made himself both monarch and jester of the

Underground—began to cry.

And Jazz thought she loved the old man, just a little.



****

"What is this rendezvous point, anyway?" Jazz asked. "Nobody ever mentioned it to me."

Hattie led the way. Jazz and Stevie helped Harry as best they could, the old thief's arms around them

for support. At first he'd had to lean on them quite a bit, but as the minutes passed and some of his stiffness

retreated, he seemed to need them more for balance than anything else. Jazz stretched her own neck and

arms, glad to have his weight off her.

"Couldn't be sure about you at first, Jazz girl." Harry coughed, spat a wad of bloody spittle, and kept

walking. "If you were just passing through, it wouldn't do to give up all our secrets."

"And now? You're sure I'm not just passing through?"

"I'm not sure of anything except that those bastards at-tacked my family in my home, killed one of

my children, and are going to pay for it."

Harry stepped on a loose stone that shifted beneath him, and he stumbled a bit. Jazz and Stevie

caught him, but she saw the pain in his face and wondered how many bones were cracked or broken and

whether he had damage inside him that none of them could see. Losing Cadge had gutted her. She

wondered what would happen to the United Kingdom if Harry died as well and decided not to think about

it.

"As to the rendezvous, here we are. You'll see for your-self."

Jazz narrowed her eyes. Hattie had gone down into the bomb shelter and fetched one of the

heavy-duty torches. Its illumination shone into the tunnel ahead, but the dark-ness seemed to swallow it up.

There were no shafts here to bring light down from the surface. Jazz couldn't have said how long they'd

been wandering through the various tun-nels and corridors that made up the labyrinth of London's true

Underground, but she thought nearly an hour had passed.

The torchlight glinted on the tracks —there were still rails here—and on the walls and roof of the

tunnel. But after a few more steps, the darkness seemed to yawn before them and they stepped into what

had to be a vast subterranean cavern.

"What the hell?" Jazz whispered.



"Stevie, get the lights," Harry said.

The old thief released both of them, moving gingerly ahead. Stevie slipped off to the left, and Hattie

aimed the torch just ahead of him. Jazz saw a platform. She and Hattie kept up with Harry as they came to

a set of steps that led up-ward. At the top of those stairs, they stopped and waited.

"Stevie!" Harry called, one hand pressed against his side. "Let's have those lights."

"Give us a minute," Stevie replied, his voice floating to them from the darkness.

As promised, a moment later there came a loud clank and the hum of electricity, and lights began to

flicker on high above their heads. Jazz turned slowly, mouth open in amazement. She had never seen a

Tube station so beautiful. The pillars were marble and chandeliers hung from the ceil-ing high above.

Frescoes had been painted on that vaulted surface. It seemed to her more like a cathedral than a train stop

on the Underground.

"You've got to he joking," she said. "Who builds some-thing like this and then abandons it?"

Hattie laughed and pirouetted in the middle of the sta-tion. "Isn't it lovely, though? Wish we could live

here in-stead of just using it for emergencies."

"Why wouldn't you?" Jazz asked, turning to Harry.

He shook his head. "Too open. Can't heat it with a fire or a space heater. Never any direct light.

Hard enough to keep the electric working. And once every few years they let a bunch of professors come

down here and take pictures for their studies on the lost Underground."

Stevie appeared.

"They'd just finished building it when the war started," he said, strolling over to stand by Jazz. He

gazed up at the ceiling. "The track was meant to connect two other lines, with this as the axis. Crown jewel,

all of that. Then the bombing started. Used to be a ministry building up above. The whole thing came down,

collapsed onto the station, and the walls on the stairs caved in. The Germans buried the place and nobody

ever bothered to excavate."

"Why not?" Jazz asked.

Harry laughed. "Did a bit of research on it myself, once upon a time. See, on paper they said it was

too dangerous. The ground above's unstable, they said. Have a look at the crack up there."

He pointed to the ceiling, and for the first time Jazz no-ticed the jagged line that cut across the ceiling

on the far side, beyond the last chandelier.

"But it's stable enough they built a hotel on it," Harry continued. "Ask me, I'd say they just wanted to

forget the place existed. After the First World War, the ministry never spent a penny rebuilding the military.

When Hitler came to power, they hadn't the money or the army to fight him prop-erly, had to beg and

borrow to make a go of it. The last thing they wanted the people to see was how much money they spent

on vanity and opulence. Bombs burying this place was their good luck. They weren't in any rush to dig it up

again."

As Jazz listened to the tale and gazed around, studying the station, others moved out of the darkness

down on the tracks and emerged from behind marble pillars and coun-ters. The grand staircase had

collapsed long ago, and the steps were strewn with rubble. From the shadows there, Gob and Leela

appeared.

"Mr. F., you all right?" Marco asked, as he and Faith ap-proached.

Bill and Switch stood by Stevie, all of them studying Harry.

"Gather round, pets. We've a lot of work to do and ought to do it quick."

Jazz noticed Stevie staring at her, but when she caught him, he looked away.

"Now, then," Harry went on. "Things have taken a turn, haven't they? Enemies have found us out,

and they may be back. We're going to have to move, of course. Don't like it one bit, and I'm sure you don't

either. But so it goes. I'm a bit bunged up, but I'll be all right. Stevie and I picked out a new place more than

a year ago, just in case. We'll show you the way, and then you'll have to go back to the shelter and start

moving our goods. Watch for trouble. Careful not to be seen. Anyone comes, anything starts, you run, and

what-ever you do, don't lead them back to our new home, right?"

They all nodded and grunted their agreement.

"First, we've got another task," Harry said. "A terrible task, indeed."

"Hang on," Leela said. "Who were the bastards? Got to tell us that much. They weren't police and

they weren't building no new tracks or anything. So why'd they bother with us?"

Harry had wiped most of the blood from his face, but now his expression darkened. He lowered his

head, face in shadow.

"The mayor's men, pet. Bone-breakers and life-takers," he said. "Running for reelection, isn't he? The

nasty bas-tards didn't say as much, but I'm no fool. I've been reading the papers, seeing the signs. Mayor



Bromwell said as he was gonna clean up the city, stop the thieving, protect British subjects and tourists

alike. I knew we'd have to be careful, but I never thought they'd come down the hole after us."

As much as Harry seemed to believe it, Jazz could not. They had come down here searching for her.

Someone must have seen her on the upside and followed her down, told the Uncles where she was. Jazz

still did not know why her mother had been murdered, but obviously they still wanted her dead as well.

She would have to tell Harry, but now wasn't the time. Not with all of the others there.

"Bromwell's corrupt as they come," Harry added, but he didn't say it the way a man in a pub might

complain about city government. It seemed more personal than that. "He sent these men down to clean us

up. But we'll get him, pets. I promise you that. We'll get him."

Harry shook with fury and a grief that Jazz knew the others didn't yet understand.

"Hey," Gob piped up. "Where's Cadge?"

Jazz turned away from them. She hugged herself. Hattie came over and slid her arms around Jazz.

"Harry?" one of the boys prodded.

"They caught him. The Hour of Screams caught up to them. They might've done it anyway, madness

or not, but they beat him. I'm sorry, pets. I loved him so. Sweet boy, swift of mind and hand. But he's dead.

That was the other task I mentioned —saying good-bye to Cadge."



****

Jazz heard the water before she saw it. The soft hiss and gentle burble echoed off the stone walls of

the old tunnel. Where they walked now, no train had ever run. This corri-dor seemed part of an ancient

structure, the cellar of an old London building that had been destroyed. No doubt some other edifice had

been erected in its place, but its roots re-mained.

Stevie led the way with the industrial torch Cadge had nicked that morning. Leela and Bill took up the

rear, also carrying lights. Jazz and Hattie stayed on either side of Harry, just in case he stumbled. More

than anything, he needed to rest and recuperate, but he refused to do so —re-fused even to let them begin

the process of moving to their new sanctuary—until Cadge had been seen to.

Marco and Switch had gone with Stevie to get the body. Yeah, the body. Not Cadge. It's not

Cadge anymore. Just the shell he left behind. Jazz figured if she kept telling herself that, she might stop

wanting to scream every time she had to be near his corpse. In the shelter, their old home, they'd managed

to find a suit bag —the kind business travelers carried—and zipped him into it. The sight troubled Jazz. It

might not have felt so wrong if it had been black, but the bag was a bright cobalt blue. Marco and Switch

carried it between them and, though the others offered to take a turn, they re-fused to share the burden.

They passed through a stone archway at the end of the corridor and emerged on a stone-and-earth

embankment. Stevie clicked off his torch, for enough light filtered down through grates above them to see

perfectly well.

A river flowed beneath the streets of London, thirty feet wide and deep enough that the water

churned as it sped by. Jazz stared at it in amazement, then looked around at the crumbling foundations of

the walls on either side, at the newer stone supports, and above at the concrete and steel in the roof that

hung above the river.

"Where the hell did this come from?" she asked.

"Didn't come from nowhere," Stevie said, staring at the water. "River came first. Y'know Fleet

Street? Named it af-ter the Fleet River. Once upon a time it was aboveground, but they buried it. Must run

for four or five miles under the city."

Harry stepped between them, reaching out to put one hand on Jazz's shoulder and one on Stevie's.

"True, Mr. Sharpe. The River Fleet's got a great many stories, some of them full of mystery and some of

sorrow. This part of the river here used to be called the Holbourne, which meant hollow stream or some

such in the old Anglo-Saxon. That's where modern Holborn originated, with the river. But like so many

other pieces of London's history, the river has been buried and forgotten."

Silence descended. The kids all gathered on the river-bank. Marco and Switch set down the suit bag

with Cadge's body in it.

"Take a moment, my friends," Harry said at length, his voice a rasp of emotion. "Cadge was a good

lad. One of the sweetest boys, one of the kindest hearts we'll ever know. The world above might have

forgotten him, but we never will."

"Never," Hattie agreed.

"Never," the others all echoed, Jazz included.

Her chest tightened and she wiped moisture from the corners of her eyes.

"We won't forget what Cadge did for us nor what was done to him."

Jazz glanced at Harry, wondering if he would cry. But instead his face was grim and cold. He did not



look like the kindly old thief she had always seen him as. Just then, Harry Fowler looked dangerous.

"All right, lads," he said, and nodded.

Marco and Switch picked up the suit bag, swung it once, and launched it as far out into the river as

they could. It struck the water and went under, dragged by the weight of the dead boy inside, but then

bobbed up again, moving swiftly in the current.

"Where —"Jazz began, but her voice broke. She cleared her throat and looked at Harry. "Where

does the river come out?"

The old thief reached into his pocket and came out with a * handful of coins. He shook them in his

fist and they clinked together.

"Depends what you believe. The River Fleet goes along under the city, all the way to the Thames,

and spills out there. But I figure there's another river here, and that's the Styx, Jazz girl. Runs beneath the

surface of everything, all the way to the underworld."

Harry hurled the handful of coins into the river. They plinked into the water and were gone.

"What was that for, Mr. F.?" Gob asked, wiping at his eyes.

"To pay the ferryman, lad. Always got to pay the ferryman."

Several minutes passed in relative silence, each of them saying good-bye to Cadge in their own way.

Jazz found it hard to accept that he was gone —that she would never see him again. Only hours ago he'd

been smiling shyly at her, stealing a momentary touch of her hand. But she'd seen him brutalized, seen the

broken, hollow thing that they'd made of him.

Death came swiftly. She'd seen it with her mother and now with Cadge. Before that, when she'd

been just an in-fant, her father had been taken from her just as abruptly. It was a lesson she wished she had

never had to learn.

Stevie began herding the others back into the corridor. Time for them all to see their new home, and

then the process of moving would begin. But as they moved back into the ancient cellar, heading for the

labyrinth of the forgotten Underground, Harry touched her shoulder.

"A moment, love."

Jazz watched Stevie disappear through the archway, then studied Harry's face. "What is it?"

"Curiosity, really. You've been quiet. I wondered if that meant you'll be moving on now? Many do,

you know. Some let the Crown care for them, others live on the streets. No way to live, really. I won't stop

you, of course. Godspeed and all that. But I hope you'll stay with us."

Jazz turned from him and stared at the river, watching it churn away and disappear into darkness and

stone.

"Cadge said he heard you talking, that you had big plans for me. Grand ambitions."

"You've quite a talent, there's no denying it. You're a natural. I think we could accomplish great

things together."

"Would any of those things involve hurting the men who killed Cadge?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. His face betrayed no trace of his usual smile. What she saw now was a

different man, per-haps a man he had been in his mysterious past.

"Thieving is what we do, Jazz. We steal to survive. To live. We make a life for ourselves that others

would deny us, and we do no real harm. But you have such a gift that it makes a man ambitious. It may be

possible to do better than merely survive, and I'd like to provide those opportunities for all of you. But

there's a way to do that and to hurt Mayor Bromwell and his lackeys along the way. I swore I would make

the bastards pay, and I will. To our benefit, and their detriment. And so yes, there is a role for you to play in

all of this."

The river seemed too loud in her ears. Jazz nodded.

"Then I'm not going anywhere."