Cuttlefish (5 page)

Outside the thick hawser-laid hemp rope of the airship's bow line was snagged by the ground team down on the new levels of the raised part of Hyde Park. The ship was slowly hauled in to anchor it to the mooring mast. In their cabin-prison Clara and her mother wrestled the two heavy armchairs across and wedged them between the door and the bed, and then they tied makeshift masks over their eyes and noses. They couldn't see very well through the varnish, but the greasy stuff from Mother's vanity case did keep the masks stuck tightly to their faces. They tied wet rags over their mouths.

Mother used her shoe to break a windowpane.

Clara thought that was a bit feeble. She used both her shoes. They were twenty feet above the ground by now, and the winch platform was already lowering the bags onto the trolleys. The rolling-stairs were just about to be attached to the gondola.

And then there came the part they hadn't expected. The hooting, rising howl of Klaxon horns.

“Do you think it's the police?” asked Clara looking out.

“I think it's probably the fire alarms.” The door lock opened and there was some shouting on the other side. Some heavy thumps.

Mother pulled Clara down on the far side of the bed. Just in time—because the men on the other side of the door had stopped kicking and began shooting. But that too didn't last long. Peering around the end of the bed Clara could see wisps of smoky stuff trickling through the holes in the door. Even through the wet rag—which had been torn from the dress they were abandoning—she
could taste the acridity of it. Mother got up and plugged the holes. “We'll give it another two minutes and then run.”

Clara risked a peep out of the window. “I think we could just go now. Everyone is running away and we're higher off the ground, I think.”

“Oh. They hadn't finished tethering. Then we'd better go fast.”

They hauled the chair out of the way and pulled open the door. The air in the stateroom was just about solid smoke and acrid stuff, and they ran as fast as they could, out and down the empty corridor to the first-class gangway. And that was fifteen feet above the stair…and rising. “Grab the edge and drop,” said Mother. “NOW!”

There are times to argue. This wasn't one of them, and so Clara did it and dropped. She hit the top of the roll-stair and nearly got knocked off it by her mother landing, petticoats and skirts billowing. They were caught and hauled upright by a gentleman with a handlebar moustache. “Anyone else on board?” he asked hastily.

“Don't know,” said Mother. “And we must run. If it burns…”

So they ran, tearing the masks off and joining in the throng that blue-uniformed bobbies were already trying to hold back.

The crowds wanted to watch.

Clara and her mother merely wanted to leave. They made their way to the Broadwalk Canal edge and found a boatman.

“Hit's going to burn up, hinnit,” said the boatman cheerfully, peering at the airship, slowly rising. “Did you come orf it, then?”

“No. But I'll give you five pounds to take us to Fleet Street. Well, Somerset House.”

“You one of them newspaper-reporter ladies? Not going to see an hairship burn again in a hurry, marm,” said the boatman, plainly tempted by the money, but wanting to watch.

“It's not going to burn. It's not on fire. That's the story. I'll make it ten pounds.”

“‘Cor Blimey. Ten quid! Right you are,” said the boatman. “Will yer mention me name in the story? I'm Ted Wilkins. I seen the smoke and people runnin'.”

“Can't promise what my editor will do. But the sooner I get there the more likely it would be,” said Mother.

The boatie nodded. “'op in then,” and he busied himself with his boiler.

So they did. The boat was narrow and rocked, but they sat down together on the holystoned slat-bench as the boatie fiddled with his steam levers and eyed the gauge, and shovelled on some more coal.

With a thump and clatter and hiss of steam, the stern paddle wheel began to spin. The little vessel wasn't ever going to win any races, but they threaded skilfully along Piccadilly Canal and down St. James, and into Pall Mall. If it hadn't been for Mother's anxious glances back Clara would have been having the time of her life, looking at all the places she'd only ever read about, with business going on almost as if the lower floors of every building weren't underwater. They passed through the throngs of sightseers in boats throwing bread to the gulls in Trafalgar Square.

They paid off the boatie, who made sure—for the fifth time—that they knew his name (Clara felt bad about that—and maybe Mother did too, because she gave him a tip on top of the vast sum of ten pounds), and took to the duckboards and then the pavements. It was busy, dirty, and very crowded, to a girl from Fermoy, County Cork, Ireland. There were probably as many people on this one street as there had been in all of Fermoy before the flood.

Mother made it as hard as possible for anyone to follow them, by ducking into shops and going off down several alleys that really didn't smell too good. Eventually they made their way down a side alley off one of these, and back onto duckboards, and then along a raised walkway on piles. There were far fewer people here, and the houses showed more of signs of water, soot, and neglect. At last, when Clara's feet were killing her—she was still wearing her patent leather school shoes—Mother stopped and knocked at a black door. Number 14.

It seemed to take forever before someone opened the door a crack.
“We don't want any,” said the little gray-haired woman from inside. “Can't you read? It says no pedlars on the door. Or Jehovah's Witnesses. Or even,” she said, looking them up and down, “missionaries.”

“I'm looking for Clara Immerwahr,” said Mother, in what was barely a whisper.

The little woman's eyes opened wide. “Goodness. After all these years. Come in,” she said. “Quickly. Did anyone follow you?”

“I don't know,” said Mother tiredly as they entered the spartan little hallway with portraits of King Ernest at his coronation hung above the little scalloped half-moon table. “I think we had a tail, but lost them.”

“Well, I'd best to get you underground as soon as possible,” said the gray-haired woman.

That sounded threatening, especially after people had been shooting at them. But one couldn't get underground here. Underwater maybe.

The woman led them along her dark little hallway and into the kitchen. “Who are you, by the way?” she asked, waving them in. “I haven't heard the old lady mentioned in many years.”

“She was my mother,” said Mother, tiredly. “She said to come here if matters ever got out of hand.…Well, they are.”

The little old woman's eyes twinkled. “Now that you say it, I can see the likeness. I met her when I was just a little girl. She was quite a woman.”

“I never really knew what my mother was up to,” said Mother.

That, thought Clara, as she watched the little woman reveal a dark opening by swinging a seemingly solid flagstone aside, made two of them. Maybe it ran in the family. If she ever had daughters, she'd tell them all about what she was doing. Maybe.

And, on that thought, she began her climb down the rusty iron staples into the dank-smelling blackness.

O
nce, before the sea levels started their rise, the tunnels of the Underpeople had been the London Underground railway. Well, that and everything from sewers to drains. Under London had been layer on layer of tunnels and crawl-ways, going back centuries.

Like the streets, most of them had flooded, and been closed. But of course not all of the tunnels had become flooded. The higher ones had just been closed-off holes. They'd made a good hiding place for people who really didn't want to be found. And over time, the flooded network had been pumped out and opened up by those hiding. They'd even added tunnels, linking the underways. There were airlocks, pressure doors, and dangerous areas, of course. It was dark, smoky, and perpetually damp. But to Tim Barnabas it had been his world. It was where he'd been born and where he'd lived.

In some ways the submarine wasn't that different. It was all of those things, but it was also like the tunnels, most of the time—relatively safe from those who hunted the Underpeople. For the tunnel dwellers, that was the police, the army, and, most feared of all, Imperial Security. The tunnels were the home territory of the Underpeople, and down there, they had the advantage. Their enemies knew that, and didn't try too hard. Likewise, the submarines generally had the edge on the Royal Navy, and as long as they kept out of sight, they weren't hunted relentlessly.

It was not like that right now. It was almost as if once those two women had boarded, the old rules had been suspended. The navy was hunting the submarine hard, and into places that were outside
its normal run. Still, they'd bought time with the tick-tock. The sub had crept through the Canningtown Shallows on the electric motors. The big battery banks weren't going to last that long, but they were quiet. The Royal Navy ships were busy pounding the area of the tick-tock, and the explosions were at least some way off.

“New boy. You,” said the chief engineer, pointing, after every last one of the now-still pistons were carefully greased, and the new-washed coal-dust hoppers filled.

“Tim Barnabas, sir.”

“Barnabas. Leg it to the galley. See if Cookie has some food for us. We might as well give the lads a feed now, while things are quiet. Might not get a chance, later,” said the chief.

“Sir!” Tim turned to go.

“And don't run and make a racket, and put yer shirt on. We've got ladies on board,” said the chief with a half-smile.

Tim scowled in reply to that. Women had no place on a submarine. Except that these two were here already.

He made his way up to the galley. Cookie and his assistant were already hard at work in what was not enough space to swing a tunnel rat in, let alone a cat. Cookie had obviously anticipated the crew needing food. Heaped plates of sandwiches, and mugs of strong Himalaya tea were ready on pewter trays at the hatch. The cook looked Tim up and down, took in the grease on his face. “Engine room. That one. The chief's mug's the one with the teaspoon in. He don't take sugar,” Cookie said in his odd, slightly nasal accent.

Tim could barely imagine the idea of not wanting to take sugar in your tea. It was such a treat! But he grabbed the tray.

“Thanks!”

Cookie waved at him with a butcher's knife. “No worries, mate. And if the chief can spare you, this tray needs to go to the bridge.”

Tim nodded and sped off. His mam was right. They ate well on the submarines. And real tea too! Mind you, he could have stopped and eaten the whole lot right there, himself. And the chief could
spare him, he soon found. Worse, could spare him before he'd got a sandwich.

The bridge got tea in a huge pot. Cups, not mugs, and thinner-cut sandwiches.

Huh! thought Tim, looking at it. Not everything was better about being on the bridge.

Captain Malkis was busy with his charts, while one of the submariners clicked the periscope through the quadrants. “One vessel, south-southeast, seventeen. She's under way, sir. I can see sparks. She's heading up-channel towards Greenwich. About six knots, I'd say, Captain,” said the man on the periscope.

You could still feel the tension up here on the bridge. In the engine room there were a few jokes starting to be made. Not here. It was still deadly serious, and they were all intent on their tasks.

No one noticed Tim, standing holding the tray. The periscope clicked round one more sector. The submariner peered intently into the eyepiece. Tim cleared his throat. He felt quite guilty doing that, but the tray was heavy. He'd drop it any minute.

“Ah. Food.” The captain smiled wryly. “Cookie thinks we're out of the worst, and he's got more experience than most submarine captains. Put it here, boy. Fergal has one more sector to do with the scope, and then you can relieve him on the periscope while he has a cup of tea and a bite.”

So Tim got to peer through their only window on the upper world. The submarine was running, neutrally buoyant, and near silent on her electric motors, using the tide to carry them away from the half-drowned city of London. Tim looked back at the gaslights of the city. He looked for running lights on other vessels, while the others ate. He tried hard not to think about his home, under the city's waters. He also tried hard not to think of his stomach. It wasn't listening to him. The captain must have heard the gurgles.

“Back to work, Fergal,” he said. “And Barnabas, we've eaten all of this. Take the cups back and tell Cookie I said to feed you, and use
you. Unless we have more action we'll have breakfast at oh six hundred. We'll need him to send a message to our passengers. My compliments, if they would care to eat with us. Dr. Calland may not.”

So Tim got to eat. And then to wash dishes. And to feel the coal-dust-fired engines begin their slow thumping vibration. They must be far enough from any Royal Navy ship for that to be considered safe. They were running north but still keeping below the waterline, using some of their precious stocks of washed and desulphured coal dust, instead of getting the gossamer sails up.

Hunger, added to fear, kept Clara awake. She hadn't realised how well water carried sound. And she'd always imagined that a submarine would have portholes, through which she could watch the fish swim past. Why didn't anyone come and tell them what was happening? The answer to that of course was “why should they?” but that didn't stop her wanting to know. Ever since they'd climbed down into the darkness under the little house in Brunel Close, her life seemed even more confined and confused. The staple ladder in the wall of the hole under the floor had led into a large, dark, reeking tunnel, wet underfoot.

Their guide had lit the little oil-burning Davy lamp that she took down from a hidden ledge just inside the tunnel, and led them on down, through several airlocks, down stairs, and another sequence of ladders, down, down, into the underwater bowels of London. The walls oozed and dribbled down between the bricks. The silence, except for their footsteps, was scarily not complete. Besides the sounds of dripping, there were distant scamperings and rustles. And they were not alone in their little pool of light, going down into the dark. At certain points along the way for no obvious reason that Clara could see, their guide had stopped and whistled a snatch of a tune. “I hope my memory isn't failing me,” she said, turning back to
smile secretively at them. “If I get it wrong, they'll flood the tunnel, and it would take hours to pump this out again, by which time we'd be long drowned.”

Then they'd come to a place where the tunnel had been bricked up. Narrower pipes came in from the sides, dribbling red-brown slimy fluid down the glistening walls. Their guide counted bricks and then knocked on one. It looked just like any other brick. Then they waited.

A little later a platform slowly came down from the roof. It was nothing more than three planks with a brick facade underneath, and ropes at the corners.

“I'll go up first,” said their guide, “to explain. Duke Malcolm's sappers have been a little problematic lately.” She took her lamp with her, and left them standing in utter darkness, with nothing but dripping and the sound of their breathing.

“Mother. What's happening? Where is she taking us?” Clara had asked, trying in this pause to make sense of a world that kept turning upside down around her. A world that showed that there were more secrets all around her than she'd ever imagined.

“Hopefully to catch a submarine to America,” said her mother. “My mother set up an escape route, oh, twenty years ago. Mind you in those days, the submarines had an easy passage. Half of London's tea came in by submarine, tax free. It's got harder.”

America. Clara swallowed. That was a long way from Cork. “Will…will we be safe there?”

“I hope so. Hush. The platform is coming down again.”

It did, with their little gray-haired guide and her lamp. She was smiling. “Arranged. Up you go, dears.” She hugged them both and helped them onto the platform.

“My things. Our bags. My mother's notes…,” said Mother.

“They'll send someone for them. If they're not watched and can be brought safely, they will be. We have friends in very odd places. Don't you worry now,” said the gray-haired woman.

Up they'd gone. The ragged, dark-haired, and white-skinned man waiting there looked as if he'd never seen the sun. He looked them over, coolly. “Come along then.” There were a number of pipes, passages, and tunnel-mouths up there, and he led them into one of them—much narrower than anything they'd been along before, and this time made of iron, too low to walk upright along—leading down.

Stooped, they walked on. And eventually came to what was obviously another checkpoint, and an airlock. And that led out into a large underground space, the shadowy roof latticed with iron rafters. It was sparsely lit by gas flares, but busy with people and even a few donkeys, hauling carts. Somehow, that could only be a market there, by the voices touting wares. Coal, eels, and tea were being offered by the barkers. Set into the walls there were doors and even windows. It smelled of smoke and people, and was noisy with them, unlike the damp reek of the emptinesses they'd been led through.

“Welcome to Charing Cross,” said their guide, dryly. “Passengers for Southwark or Temple Station should alight here.”

“But we do not have a ticket,” said her mother. “Where may we procure one?”

It was obviously the right thing to say, even if it sounded quite mad. “Old Madge vouched for you, but you never know,” their guide said, putting back into his sleeve a narrow-bladed knife Clara had not even seen him draw. “Mick'll see you right, ma'am.” He pointed to another broad man, standing in the shadows. “He's the Irish conductor.”

Clara was not sure if the conductor was Irish or if they were supposed to be. Both, it turned out, were the case. Mick detached himself from the wall. “Word was you were using a very old code, ma'am,” he said in a high, slightly lilting voice, at odds with his big square body. “I'd need to be knowing just who you are and what you'd be wanting. And there's a price.”

“A price on ideals,” said her mother, dryly. “My name is Dr. Mary Calland. This is my daughter Clara. My mother was Dr. Clara Immerwahr. She told me to say that she'd bought a season ticket for us.”

Square solid Mick blinked. “Well now. Jack Calland's wife and the old dragon's daughter. It's believed she got money out of the Rothschilds for the first two submarines. Got the Hollanders in to help us and train us. I'll take you along to Southwark. What are you needing? A boat to Kerry?”

Her mother laughed bitterly. “A lot farther than that. We seem to have both Imperial Security and the Russians wanting to catch us. So, if you please, as I know the Underpeople do business with the Russians, and there are informers everywhere, even here, I'd rather not say.”

Mick nodded slowly. “True enough. I'll take you to Southwark as quickly and quietly as possible, then. Come along, follow me.” They'd gone down a metal stairway into yet another echoing hall lit with gas flares. Here men were off-loading long lidded barges that bobbed below the quay. Mick went over to a foreman who was overseeing the line of pale-faced stevedores off-loading, by the smell of it, tea. “Tug. We'll need a bobber. These coves need to get to Southwark, sharpish.”