No Other Darkness (28 page)

No sign of Marnie with the search team, and her phone had no signal.

Noah called Ron at the hospital. ‘How’s Merrick?’

‘He’ll live, by the look of it. How’s things on the Isle of Dogs?’

‘It’s going to be a long night . . . Has the boss been in touch?’

‘Nope,’ Ron said. ‘But she’s got better things to worry about than whether this bastard pulls through. We all have.’

Noah didn’t argue.

He called Colin at the station. ‘Have you heard from the boss?’

‘Yes, about an hour ago. I told her you were on your way, with the tunnel plans. I take it there’s no news yet? Of Terry and Clancy?’

‘Not yet.’ Noah rang off.

A hard breeze was blowing up from the water, chilling the back of his neck.

Where was Marnie?

Searching the walls, again. Fingertip search, the kind they taught her years ago. Cyclical fingertip search. Round and round. It made her wonder whether the boys had done this; not Fred perhaps, but Archie, the big brother, the one in charge.

How many times did Archie climb that ladder and try to get them out, before he became too weak to climb? How long was too long? When did you give up trying, and accept that there was no way out and no one coming to rescue you? She wanted to believe the boys didn’t die like that, in despair. But it was frightening how quickly despair crept up on you.

Noah was coming.

This wasn’t like the bunker where Fred and Archie died. She was in part of a tunnel system, she had to be. It was marked on the plans Colin gave to Noah. Right now, they were looking at the plans, figuring out how to find her. She had no reason to give up hope.

Had Archie given up? Or had he gone to sleep with his arms around his brother, believing he would try again tomorrow, or that tomorrow his mum or dad would come?
A false hope, but better than the alternative. Better than despair.

Ed was safe. Carmen and Tommy were safe. Noah was coming.

She was near water. She could smell the Thames, finally.

Not red or black, but brown.

She was under the river, in the tunnel system. There was a way out, into the tunnels. She just hadn’t found it yet. She’d figured it out, though.

An opening, high up on one of the walls. Like an inlet pipe, but wide enough to let a body through. When she had the energy, she’d search again.

She’d been concentrating on the floor, and the walls within easy reach. What she needed to do was stretch
up
the walls, maybe jump, high enough to find the opening.

It couldn’t be that high, or she’d have fallen when they pushed her through, broken something or picked up bruises at least. Her phone had taken a knock, but she was okay.

The opening had to be above the place where she’d been lying when she came round. She’d lost her bearings, though, no longer sure whether she was facing east or west.

Too easy to give in to the voice in her head whispering:
trappedtrappedtrapped.

How had Archie got beyond this point, enough to take care of Fred the way he must have done, to keep them both alive as long as he had? Brave, brave boys.

She wished she could have saved them. That she hadn’t been too late, the way she was always too late . . .

Enough. Get up. Get out.

Start looking. East, or west, it doesn’t matter. Cyclical search, remember?

Just work your way round . . .

It took twenty minutes, by her best estimate.

Twenty minutes of stretching as high as she could reach, inching the ends of her fingers across the stone for as long
as she could stand the pain of gravity pulling at her shoulders, her hands protesting the lack of blood circulation.

Inch, inch, inch.

Rest, let the blood back into your fingers, ignore the pins and needles.

Inch, inch, inch.

She sobbed when she found it.

A high ledge where her fingers caught and hooked, cooled by the slow curl of air from above.

A way out.

Seven or eight feet up the wall, nearly too high to reach. But she reached it, hooking her fingers there for a second before she started measuring.

Four feet wide, and flat. Easily wide enough for her to climb through, if she could get a grip and pull herself up. Assuming the gap was deep enough.

One way to find out.

She touched the ledge once more, for luck, then retreated to the other side of the box, keeping her stare fixed dead ahead, on the spot her fingers had found.

Ran, and jumped, fingers scrabbling for the ledge, slipping, not enough strength in her arms to drag herself through the gap. She ended up back on the floor, knees bruised where they’d smacked into the wall.

Picked herself up. Retreated again. Wiped her hands on her clothes to get rid of the sweat. Got her breathing under control. Measured the distance to the ledge. Visualised the gap as a letterbox but one large enough to fit her body through, out to the other side.

Ran and jumped, grabbing hold of the ledge with both hands and hauling her body up the wall, head down, chin tucked tight to her chest.

Her grip held.

She dragged herself on her elbows through the neck of
the aperture, until only her feet were still inside the box, for the few seconds it took to wriggle deeper into the pipe.

Six, seven feet of pipe, then a short, sharp drop down the other side.

Into the shallow, fetid water of the tunnel system.

She was looking at a microcosm of London, all the city’s litter and stink packed into fifty, sixty feet of subterranea. Enough light leaking through the brickwork here and there for her eyes to prick with returning vision.

The tunnel snaked ahead of her, each curve scaly with shadow, the last holding the light in its jaws like an egg. It had been used by people sleeping rough, or taking drugs. Litter was kicked into gutters, the walls burnt to black at intervals. Empty carrier bags and cardboard boxes lay in leaking layers.

Water was running to her right. She could feel the tidal path of the Thames, responsible for the flooding that had closed off this part of the tunnel system. Except it hadn’t, not properly. People had been down here. Not just Ian Merrick. And recently; the floor was hazardous with broken glass and bricks, cigarette packets, empty bottles of Smirnoff Ice.

A sound made her look dead ahead, to the last curve in the tunnel, where the dark fell away like dirty water down a drain. ‘Hello?’

The air in here was flat and empty. If she shouted for help it would fall at her feet; no echo to bounce it about. Cement overhead, cement underfoot. She was out of the
box, but she was still stuck between layers of London, like the city’s dead, stamped all over the city.

Bones on bones on bones . . .

Nice. But enough. Move.

She started down the tunnel. Her brain didn’t like it, hissing at her to stop, to wait for the rescue team. But she’d had enough of sitting around, waiting to be rescued.

She pushed on, stooping to go into the space where the tunnel curved away.

Damp ran down the walls. Her feet splashed in standing water. She retreated to where it was dry, relying on the dull bleed of light through the bricks to show her what lay ahead.

The shallow water swallowed the light and spat shadows on the walls.

A square space, set to one side of the main track of the tunnel. Standing room for equipment in the event of repairs, she guessed.

She wished she had Colin’s map of the condemned tunnels. She was at the outer perimeter of the site, close to where the river passed overhead. Was she?

Damn, she was thirsty.

The blood beat blackly in her head and she reached for the wall, working her way down it until she was sitting. Easier to fight the sudden flush of dizziness down here.

That noise again . . .

But it was empty. The tunnel was empty.

Just her and the dark.

Wrong
.

Someone else was down here.

Two crouching yellow points of light.

Eyes, watching her.

She could smell him, through the blackness.

A heady mix of hormones and hate.

‘Clancy?’

‘Shut up!’ A hiss, like gas escaping under pressure. All it needed was a match and the whole tunnel would be alight.

‘Where is he?’ She kept it low, a whisper, but he moved at her, fast, angry. She kicked backwards, her feet slipping in the slick from the flooded storage room.

He was quick, getting in behind her at the last second, clamping a hand across her mouth so that she could taste him. Bitter and metallic, like a fired gun.

She twisted, trying to get free, trying to say his name.

‘Shut up!’ Clancy’s hand tasted of soil, and sweat. He was strong, easily holding her still with one arm across her chest.

He dragged her towards the wall, away from the trickle of light, dropping them into the dark so suddenly, Marnie yelped.

She fought the instinct to bite down, to find his eyes with her nails, because there was something scarier than Clancy down here. Something worse than a teenage boy with his dirty hand across her mouth. The pain was a footnote to the fear.

The fear paralysed her.

‘Be quiet,’ Clancy hissed. His body was rigid against her. ‘He’s coming.’

He’s coming . . .

Terry Doyle. Matt Reid.

She strained to hear above the beating of the blood in her ears and the thud of Clancy’s heart against her shoulder blades.

Light, first.

Yellow, from a torch searching like a dog’s snout, sending shadows scattering ahead of it, making the graffiti leap and scuttle up the walls.

Her head churned, sickeningly. She fought Clancy’s grip on her, but he held harder, his breath hot at her cheek. ‘
Be quiet!’

The shadows stopped, squatting at their feet.

Behind the shadows, torchlight ate everything, like looking into the sun.

Marnie strained against the boy’s hands.

Whatever was behind the shadows and the light, whatever was making Clancy’s palm sweat acid into her mouth . . .

She had to see.

Noah and the unit leader stood at the newly opened neck of the tunnel system, listening for sounds from inside. Their torches swept the empty space for eighteen feet or so.

No sign of DI Rome, or anyone else.

Colin said, ‘The tunnel runs south, under the river eventually. Lots of boxes and junctions. You’ll need to stick to the map. If she’s lost in there . . .’

Noah straightened, stepping back from the gap. ‘We’d better assume she’s with Terry, or Clancy. Or both of them. We need to get a rescue team together.’

‘DS Jake!’

Another member of the search party was coming at a jog from the south side of the site.

In his hand, a blue canvas duffle bag. Muddy, with scratches up the sides.

Noah took the bag and checked the contents.

Oyster card, cash, bottled water, a change of clothes . . .

It was Clancy Brand’s go-bag.

‘Where did you find it?’

The man pointed, and Noah started in that direction, until Debbie Tanner called him back.

She was running, out of breath. ‘Esther . . .’

‘She’s at St Thomas’s. Isn’t she?’

Debbie shook her head. ‘DC Barrow called from there. Esther gave them the slip.’

‘
Shit.
At this rate we’ll be organising search parties for half of London.’

‘Her mum thinks she’s headed back this way.’

‘What?’

‘Esther heard the boss talking on the phone, when they were in the car. She knows we’re at the Isle of Dogs and that we’re looking for Terry. For Matt, I mean.’

Debbie got her breath back. ‘Connie says it’s what she’s been wanting for the last fortnight. The chance to see Matt. She says Esther’s coming this way.’

The torchlight sat on Marnie’s feet.

Cold white light, like lymph from a wound, carving a hole behind itself where a boulder was wedged. Except it wasn’t a boulder, it was a man.

Terry Doyle.

Matthew Reid.

Marnie knew him by the shape of his right wrist, the unravelling red jumper he’d worn the last time she saw him. She was trapped, held hard by Clancy’s hands at her mouth and chest. She recognised the taste of the boy’s hand. Clancy was the one who’d put her in that box, just like he’d put Carmen and Tommy in Cole’s house. Out of harm’s way.

‘Where are they?’ Weird acoustics fractured Terry’s voice, the words falling like spears into the shallow light at their feet.

Clancy was shaking at her back, his hand so wet it slid across her lips, her teeth.

‘Where are they?’ Another volley of spears.

Marnie cringed into the boy in a bid to shield him from Terry’s wrath.

‘
Where?
’

The torchlight flushed up Marnie’s thighs, to her face.
She blinked through it, shaking her head at Terry to stand down. Her head was bursting with pain.

Clancy let her go, suddenly. He was going to make a run for it, she knew. There was nowhere to run except straight into the wall of Terry’s anger.

‘Terry . . . Mr Doyle . . .’

He swung the torch away from her, hitting Clancy with its beam.

Marnie heard the boy hiss in terror.

‘Terry!’ She snapped it, needing the man’s attention on her. ‘Carmen and Tommy are safe. They’re with their auntie. Beth’s sister.’

The words didn’t reach him, no echo to bounce them past the wall of his rage.

If she put out her hand, she’d feel it. His rage. Solid, impassable. It would bruise her fingers. Words wouldn’t help. She could snap all she wanted. Nothing was getting past.

‘Stay still,’ she told Clancy. ‘Stay still.’

The boy whimpered, his anger eclipsed by Terry’s.

Not good. She needed him angry.

Angry kept you alive.

Torchlight hit her face like a hand, cold. Her chest was cold too, where Clancy had taken his arm away. She wanted it back. The boy’s anger and his heat, the way he’d held her hard against him, keeping her upright, keeping her quiet.

‘Where are they?’

No echo. The words didn’t bounce, but they jarred enough to put cracks in the cellar walls. Something was going to break, bury them . . .

She reached behind her for Clancy’s wrist, holding the boy still, and stared into the dark behind the torchlight, the place where the man was standing. ‘They’re safe. Carmen and Tommy are safe. They’re with their auntie and their mum—’

She’d used the wrong words.

Light cracked so savagely that for a second she was sure he’d hit her, her head snapping to the left, but it was just the beam from the torch.

Was that what he’d used to fracture Merrick’s skull?

Where are they?

She wasn’t even sure he was asking about Carmen and Tommy. She didn’t recognise this furious man, not as Terry Doyle. But she knew him. Knew his rage and loss. Gut recognition, like looking in a mirror. He was the father of their boys. Esther’s husband, broken into a thousand pieces. He was Matt Reid.

She kept hold of the boy behind her, wanting Clancy wide of the man’s retribution.

Matt smashed the torch at the wall, cracking the glass so that light leaked out everywhere before it slunk back to his feet.

He was nothing like the man she’d left at the safe house.

Safe house
.

What a joke. Life was just limping from one disaster zone to another, decamping, taking your dead and injured with you, blowing bridges as you went, if you had the ammunition, and the sense, to spare.

Anger flooded her sweetly, like relief.

‘What?’ she demanded. ‘What’re you going to do? Beat us up? Bury us here? You can’t dig in cement, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a detective inspector. You’ll be in prison for a long time. Your kids won’t recognise you when you get out.’ She winced as she said it.

‘What do you know?’ Matt’s voice was in the pit of his throat. ‘What do you know about my kids?’

‘I know you loved them, the way you love Carmen and Tommy. That’s why we’re getting out of here. All of us. Back to the children. They’re waiting for you—’

Smash of the torch into the wall.

Light guttering on the ground again, before crawling back to his feet like a wounded dog.

He keeps this up, he’s going to break the torch, and then it’ll be him and me in the darkness, and how the hell can I keep Clancy safe . . .

‘They’re waiting for you,’ she repeated. ‘Carmen and Tommy are waiting for their dad.’

Like Fred and Archie, waiting for five years until you found them, God help you, you found them . . .

‘We need to go back up. Back to Carmen and Tommy . . .’

Clancy said, ‘You can’t let him. He’s crazy. He was crazy before and he’s getting worse.’

Matt made a hard sound. ‘Get out here.’

He pointed the nose of the torch at his feet. ‘Hiding behind her . . . Get out here!’

Clancy would have done as he was told, from bravado if not obedience, if Marnie hadn’t held him back.

‘I’m not scared of you.’ The boy’s voice shook as he said it.

‘Get. Out. Here.’

Each word colder and harder than the last, like rocks coming loose from the walls.

Marnie had to get them out. She had to get Clancy out.

She pushed the boy behind her, moving to the left in a bid to prompt Matt to do the same; hoping it would clear at least a little space between him and the only exit.

Not much of a chance, but better than nothing.

Matt stayed standing, his shoulders squared, his shadow like a cobra’s hood, death in his eyes.

So much of it that Marnie couldn’t see a way past.