Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City (16 page)

“Edmund, you’re not listening to me.”

The front door jangled. Somebody shouted, “Mr. Watson? Are you in? Mr. Birge wants to see you.”

Edmund winced. “Not again.” He turned to her. His grip on the doorknob tightened. “You’ll have to stay here.”

“Edmund, listen to me!” Rosemary grabbed his arm, then gasped as he pushed her back. She staggered and
fell against the landing wall, just catching herself before she tumbled down the stairs. She rushed the door, but Edmund pulled it closed. She piled up against it a second too late.

“Open this door!” she shouted, thumping on the wood. “Edmund, open up!”

“I am sorry, Rosemary.” His reply was muffled. A key turned in the lock. “I ... I am sorry.”

“Edmund!” She could hear his footsteps retreat to the hallway, then clop along above the basement ceiling. She would have followed, but there was no way she could see in the dark. She heard a muffled conversation, more footfalls, then the jangle of the front door, and finally silence.

Rosemary shook the door, but it held fast. She sank to the landing floor and put her head in her hands.

“That didn’t go so well.”

Both ends of the creek were now in sight. The southern tunnel had extended all but a hundred feet from the northern entrance, a sewer tunnel beneath Bloor Street. The icy mud of the construction site crumbled under dozens of feet hustling to meet the winter deadline.

Peter kept an eye out for signs of Rob’s gang, but nobody stayed long on the hills around the site. Then Peter heard a conversation that made his ears prick up.

“Will Farley!” called Tom Proctor. “You’re on diversion trench duty.”

Will was a boy in his early teens, wearing shabby clothes and a cap. He stopped in his tracks. “Mr. Proctor! Why me? My feet will get wet!”

Diversion trench duty was wet work. The creek had to be dug out into a new course so that the storm sewer’s floor could be laid.

Tom glared. “Because I saw you, Mr. Farley! Everyone hates the work, so everyone gets a turn. Now, who else?”

Peter raised his hand.

“See?” Tom shouted. “That’s the type of worker I like to see!”

Peter ignored the glares burning holes in his back.

Moments later, he grimaced as the brackish water seeped over his laces. Will Farley struggled to wield his shovel and at the same time stand on a dry patch of land. He swore when he stepped firmly into a mud puddle.

“Trouble?” asked Peter conversationally.

“It’s these darn boots,” said Will. “Holes in the sole. The water goes clean through. Chills me to the bone!”

“Time for new boots, I guess.”

“I
had
new boots,” said Will bitterly. “But then I lost them. I had to stick with these.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “That’s a shame.”

“Ain’t it, though,” said Will. Then he looked up, and saw who he was talking to. His gaze darkened. “None of your business.”

Peter kept digging.

Later, on break, Peter stepped close to Tom. “Tom, I need you to do me a favour.”

“What is it?” Tom whittled away at a piece of wood. He did not look up.

“I need you to keep Will Farley behind a few minutes after shift before sending him on his way.”

Tom stopped whittling. “What for?”

Peter smiled. “I just need to talk to him ... alone.”

Tom looked up, frowning. “Be careful, Peter. Will’s in with bad company.”

“I guessed that,” said Peter. “I think he was one of those people who attacked us that night.”

“What?” Tom stood up. “Where is he? I’ll throttle —”

Peter gripped his shoulders and shushed him. “That’s what I want to talk to him about. I’ll get him alone and make him confess.”

Tom shook his head. “The police should be told.”

“They will be,” said Peter. “As soon as I have something to tell them.”

Tom rubbed his chin, then nodded. “All right. But be careful!”

The crowds on College Street thinned as the sun set. Peter stood in the shadow of the Presbyterian church. He
watched as the shadows lengthened and the lamplighters darted down the street, setting the gas lamps aglow.

The crowds were gone now. The wind picked up. Peter blew on his hands and glanced at the gaslights, half-expecting to see that strange phosphor glow.

Then he heard quick, booted footsteps on the wooden sidewalk. He peered out on the street and saw Will Farley, huddled and muttering beneath his breath, limping on bad boots.

Peter tensed, eyeing the distance. When Will was almost past him, he leapt into the light, grabbed him by the collar, and shoved him into the church wall.

“Hey! What? G’off!” Will choked as Peter pressed forearm to throat.

“Easy now,” said Peter, smiling grimly. “Don’t yell. I just want to talk to you.”

Will glared up at him. “What about?”

“Actually, I want
you
to talk,” said Peter. “I see you’ve been having a little problem with your boots.”

“Yeah? What of it?”

Peter pressed down harder. “A few nights ago, Tom and I were attacked at the construction site. You know anything about that?”

“Yeah,” snarled Will. “I heard the mates talk about it. Mr. Proctor weren’t hurt, so what?”

“I wanted to report it to the police,” said Peter. “He wouldn’t let me. He said we didn’t have enough evidence, though I was able to grab a boot off one attacker.
Size eight. Common enough, apparently. But here’s the thing: you start complaining about old boots.”

Will’s eyes narrowed. He stayed silent.

Peter leaned back. “How about we go back and see if the shoe fits. If it doesn’t, I apologize; if it does, we call the police. I think that’s fair. So, really, the question is ...,” he leaned forward, dropping his voice an octave, “do you feel lucky ... punk?”

Will blinked at him. “What?”

“Look, I know you were there, so answer me straight: what were you doing there?”

Will pushed away from the wall. “Yeah, I was there, but I weren’t going for Mr. Proctor!”

“So, what were you doing, then?”

“Inspectin’ for His Nibs.”

That phrase again, thought Peter. “How did you get in?”

Will sneered. “The river tunnel.”

“I knew it!” Peter punched the air. “You’ve got a network in there, don’t you? You’re using the sewers to smuggle things right under the noses of the police!”

Will chuckled. “Noses. Feet, too.”

“Why are you so interested in the construction site?”

Will shrugged. “It’s a link, i’nnit? When the tunnel’s finished, we reach the north end of the city.”

That explains the construction site, not the watches, thought Peter. Maybe “His Nibs” found more than he was looking for. “Last question: I think I know
already, but I want you to spell it out. Who is this ‘Nibs’ character?”

Will shrugged. A smile touched his lips. “Dunno. Just me and my friends work for him and his friends.”

Peter scowled at him. “Would your friends know him?”

Will grinned. “Ask.”

Peter whirled around. Three young men surrounded him, fists raised. There were the two boys he’d gotten fired, and Rob Cameron. Rob’s nose was out of the bandage at last, but was still purple and crooked.

Rob’s teeth flashed in the twilight. “Stool pigeon?”

“Yeah,” said Will. “Wants to see His Nibs.”

“That can be arranged.”

Peter lunged at Rob, knocking him down, but Will and one of the other boys tackled him. Then everybody was on him, punching and kicking. A boot caught his chin. He tasted blood, and that was all he knew for a while.

After Will had left, complaining loudly about having to re-stack a pile of bricks that had been mysteriously knocked down, Tom had casually brushed brick dust off his hands, closed the gate, and walked to his cabin and lit his lantern. Hoisting it, he stepped back out into the construction site and did his rounds, following the perimeter to ensure there were no gaps in the
hoarding, no new way for thieves to sneak in and pilfer his materials.

At the north end of the site, he paused at the remnant of the river, now a carved trench holding a trickle of slimy water. The sides had been denuded of vegetation. The bare earth was bright in the setting sun. The two tunnel mouths gaped at each other, rushing to kiss at a hundred feet apart. Tom took a deep breath and sighed. Then he turned away to return to his hut.

A splash made him turn around.

He found himself staring back at the river, but it was just as he’d left it. There was no ripple on the surface, no shifting shadows that suggested intruders. After a moment of watchful silence, he turned away again.

He heard a singing of line, a light plosh, then a thrash of flailing water. Tom whirled around and looked about wildly.

He
knew
that sound. Someone was fishing. Someone had
caught
a fish! But as he peered through the deepening twilight, there was nothing but the two tunnels, and Taddle Creek’s last dying breadth. More silence.

Hardly surprising, he told himself. Nobody had fished the Taddle for twenty years. Only a fool would try today.

But ...

As Tom watched, the water began to glow. The light stretched out along the short surface of the stream, and beyond. Tom followed the glow as it obscured the southern
tunnel mouth, and he caught ghostly images within it. His mouth fell open as the glow filled the horizon.

Before him stretched an expanse of glowing green. Ghostly reeds waved in the wind. The air twittered with birdsong and hummed with the drone of lazy bees. Flowers and ferns furred the creek’s banks, and there was the pond, water black with leaf tannin and smelling of autumn.

Then he heard the singing of line again, the light plosh, and he turned. Across Taddle Creek, a young man stood on the bank, swinging his fishing line into the water. He peered at the surface of the water and swung his line again. There was a pause of anticipation, then the line jerked. The young man laughed and hauled a trout to the surface.

Hoisting his trophy in triumph, the young man looked across the river at old Tom. Their eyes met. Tom stared back at a face that hadn’t stared at him out of a mirror for thirty years.

The young man smiled and tipped his hat.

Tom burst out laughing. He waved back, then looked around at his glowing surroundings. He breathed it in deep. Then, with the exuberance of a schoolboy, Tom ran, following the ghostly river along its bank as the glow eased downstream.