Page 22 of No Man's Land

“You mean reporters? I haven’t seen anyone asking questions but me. The copper had seen at least two cases. So had the girls on the ambulance crew. Oh, and one of them just happens to be pally with Alex. No coincidence, I reckon.”

“Who’s Alex?”

Damn. Josef’s face heated. “Lord Beaumont.”

“Oh, on a first-name basis, are you?”

“Not exactly.” Her penetrating gaze didn’t let up, and he sighed, giving in. “Alright, we had a tumble one night, is all. Back in Pops. That’s when he stole my bloody camera.”

May snorted a laugh. “Oh, so this is personal, too. Did he tweak your pride, Joe?”

“Something like that.” He smiled, although faintly. Ridiculous as it was, he felt unreasonably hurt by the wholebusiness. Perhaps because he’d enjoyed their time together so much—the fucking, yes, but also the lovely room and the cosy supper in front of the fire. And Alex’s gentleness in bed. You didn’t often find that in fleeting encounters, and Joe hadn’t had anything but fleeting encounters in all his twenty-six years. “But the fact is the man’s iffy as hell. And whatever’s going on here stinks—in all meanings of the phrase.”

“It would be quite a scoop,” May mused.“Government testing deadly gas beneath the streets of London.What’s your next move?”

Sitting back in his chair, he folded his arms and braced himself. May wouldn’t like this, which was fair enough because he didn’t like it either. “I reckon I’ve got two choices—track down Lord Beaumont and make him tell me the truth.”

“Unlikely to work.”

He inclined his head in agreement. “Or go down into the sewers and see what I can find out myself.”

Chapter Eight

What had seemed like a bad idea sitting in the office of theDaily Clarionthat afternoon felt like a bloody stupid one at eight o’clock in the evening. Nevertheless, Josef, armed with his army hand torch, snuck over the barriers around the sewage repair works and stared down into the deep dark pit.

“Fucking hell.” He directed the thin beam of his torch into the dark, watching it glance off the iron rungs of the ladder and glint dully on what looked like water—or worse—below. He wished he owned galoshes. He wished he was sitting by the fire in his room. He wished bloody Alex had just told him the truth instead of forcing him to resort to this.

But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Shoving his torch in his jacket pocket, its beam lancing awkwardly upward, Josef began his descent. The rungs of the ladder were rough and damp, cold biting into his fingers, but he moved slowly for fear of slipping. At least nobody was shooting at him, he consoled himself. No mortars were landing, and no machine guns were in range. It was a thin comfort as he descended into the dark.

He counted fifteen rungs before his foot scraped on brick and he found himself at the bottom. Looking up, he could see no light, only a faint square of lesser darkness. The recent air raids meant London was always semi-dark these days, and the fog had returned with nightfall to do the rest. Turning slowly, one hand still on the ladder for balance, Josef fished out his torch and flashed it around. His breath billowed in the thin beam of light, steamy in the dank air.

The first thing he saw were neat piles of bricks where the repairs to the damaged sewer were being made. Tools were left propped up against the wall: spades, a pickaxe, buckets, and trowels. From the dark he could hear the plink-plink of dripping water. The tunnel was narrow with an arched ceiling of pale brick, and it led off in both directions. To his right, the torch light illuminated a large iron door; to the left the tunnel ran at a gentle downward incline until it turned a corner. Beneath his feet, the ground was wet, but there were no puddles and nothing foul, thank God. He glanced back at the ladder, then along the tunnel, getting his bearings. That would be where the dead man had been found, and in all honesty, Josef could see how, if he’d fallen drunk into the hole, he might have been disoriented in the pitch black and wandered in that direction before succumbing to the effects of a blow to the head. No supernatural rat queen was required to explain that. It would be easy to get turned around down here, he realised with a pinch of anxiety. Perhaps he should have brought some breadcrumbs to mark his way.

Suddenly, his breathing sounded loud in the silence of the tunnel, harsh and rasping. Like he’d been running. And his fingers had a death grip on his torch. God, this was a bloody stupid idea, and he should have let May talk him out of it. But he hadn’t, and he was here now. Damned if he was going to scarper. He’d go to the turn in the tunnel, at least; he couldn’t get lost if he went so far and no further.

Keeping the torch aimed at the ground, so he could see where he was putting his feet, Josef started walking. His footsteps echoed loudly. If something sinister did lurk down here, it would certainly hear him coming—and he would hear it. That provided less comfort than anticipated.

Should he grab the pickaxe?

He briefly imagined trying to swing it at a giant rat woman in the confined space of the tunnel and dismissed the idea, of both the weapon and the woman. Easy, in the dark, to let your imagination run away with you.

By the time he reached the turn in the corridor, his heart was thumping louder than his boots. The sewer bent sharply, turning back on itself, and becoming a steep flight of stairs heading down. He flashed the light around, but there were no other turnings, no other ways to go. No way to get lost. If he carried on down, he’d be able to find his way back all right.

Swallowing dryly, breaths still rasping, he started down the stairs.

Down, down, deep down.

The air grew colder, but it wasn’t still—there was movement, drafts of air circulating. And distantly, a long bass rumbling. He stopped dead at the sound, mind darting helplessly back to the front and the devastating mines laid in long tunnels beneath enemy trenches. Sometimes the explosives caught them in the blast. Sometimes the tunnels caved in around the sappers, burying them alive. He caught a panicky breath and dug his fingernails into his palm. “Not there,” he whispered. “Not them.”

The rumbling faded, then returned, and he realised with a giddy sense of relief that it was the sound of trains running through the Underground. The District Line wasn’t far from here after all, and the sense that people and civilisation were soclose comforted him. He flashed his torch around and found the bottom of the stairs, which ended in a sharp T-junction.

And that’s when he heard it.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through the tunnel, the sound bouncing off the walls and making it difficult to determine direction. They couldn’t be behind him, though—there was nothing back that way.

Except the ladder.

---