Mind the Gap

chapter Five

a pocket or two

Holborn station stood at the juncture of High Holborn Street and Kingsway, the foot traffic a mixture

of hurried Londoners, business travelers, and enough casual tourists to warrant a map vendor on the curb

outside the station's en-trance. The facade of the building looked more like an old theater marquee than a

Tube station, but the red circle and blue band that marked the Underground gave it away.

On a pleasantly warm day —a workday, though she'd lost track of which one—Jazz stood near the

magazine stand across the street from the station and pretended to talk into a disposable mobile. The phone

had been fetched from the garbage in Tottenham Court Road station after having been discarded there and

made a useful prop. Jazz had never seri-ously entertained thoughts of becoming an actress, but her few

excursions onto the stage had come effortlessly. She'd been born to pretend.

"Can you believe it, Sally?" she asked into the inert mo-bile. "And he sent flowers the next day. He's

got no shame. I've half a mind to —"

She felt a tug behind her, on the hem of her skirt. Then Cadge whipped the back of her skirt up high,

revealing her lavender thong and far more of her than she would have liked. A breeze fluttered the skirt,

and then she forced it down, covering herself again and dropping the phone in the process. The mobile

cracked when it struck the pavement. She spun on him.

"You cheeky little bugger!"

Cadge laughed merrily, his cheeks flushed with excite-ment and embarrassment. Though older, he

looked no more than twelve.

"Nice arse, love. Let's have a look at the rest!" he cried. A man at the newsstand shot him an angry

glare. He'd just bought a magazine and now stuffed his wallet back into the inside pocket of his suit coat.

"Here, now!" the man said. "There's no call for that."

"Bloody right," Jazz snarled, and she started toward Cadge.

"Oh, tough bird, are we?" Cadge said. "Come on, give us a show."

"Right!" the man in the gray business suit said, catching hold of Cadge's arm. "That's enough. Leave

off now. Get out of here."

Jazz didn't hesitate. The man had gotten an eyeful of her backside, and she knew she looked good.

The skirt and blouse had come from the dress-up closet Harry Fowler's

United Kingdom had filched over time. Hattie had helped her choose the clothes and Faith had done

her hair. Harry'd even managed enough hot water so that she could shave her legs. No one looking at her

would have guessed that she'd been living in the Underground for an entire month.

Yes, she'd gotten the bloke's attention. Now the business suit had to be her knight in shining armor.

Couldn't resist a pretty girl.

"I'll have you, you little shit!" Jazz said, and she lunged for Cadge.

Businessman put himself between them —or at least later on he'd think he'd done that out of

chivalry. Really, Jazz made sure to catch the man between herself and Cadge. She cursed and damned him



and his relations and ancestors go-ing back several generations. Cadge kept laughing, egging her on.

"Jesus, girl!" the man said, now alarmed to be stuck be-tween them. "Get off."

As the businessman struggled to keep hold of Cadge and to prevent her from clawing the boy's eyes

out, Jazz put to use everything Harry and the United Kingdom had taught her over the past few weeks. The

fabric of his coat whis-pered as her fingers slid against it.

Finally she darted around him, spit at Cadge, shouted a final curse at him, and walked away.

"Someone's got to pay for that phone," she told Cadge. "You'd better hope you don't see me again!"

Jazz marched across the street and into Holborn station. She didn't bother thanking the man. Time

was of the essence now. She descended the stairs and felt the comfort of being enclosed again. It had been

good to go aboveground again, but she'd felt eyes on her everywhere, the breeze whispered about her, and

buildings stared down like sentinels.

Jazz went through the turnstile and took the escalator down. Leela waited for her on the platform.

The sign above them declared the next train to be two minutes away. Jazz and Leela stood near each other

for a moment, neither ac-knowledging the other. The Indian girl had downplayed her looks to be less

conspicuous, which had to be difficult for someone with such natural beauty. But Leela managed it. Her

right arm was looped through the handles of a big bag that seemed half purse and half briefcase, something

she'd snatched earlier in the day.

Stevie and Bill emerged onto the platform. From their smiles, Jazz presumed they'd also had a

successful day aboveground. The train arrived and all four of them stepped on through different doors.

At Tottenham Court Road station, Jazz got off. The other three would travel up to the next station.

"Mind the gap," a voice warned.

Jazz let out a long breath of relief as the doors closed and the train pulled away. She went to a bench

and picked up a discarded copy of that morning's Times. A few minutes later, Cadge darted onto the

platform.

Grinning, she got up.

"Right, give me the news. How'd I do?" she asked as Cadge approached.

"Perfect," he said, clapping softly. "Like you were born to it."

She felt herself swelling with pride, and it took her by surprise. Jazz had been reluctant at first. Of all

the things she had one day imagined she might become, thief had never been on the list. But Harry and his

tribe — your tribe too now —had persuaded her otherwise. Topsiders were all about money and

merchandise. They lived for the illusion of suc-cess. And the rich bastards, the ones with more than they

needed—if their wallets were a bit lighter at the end of the day, most of them would barely feel it. That's

why it was so damn easy to steal from them, to pick their pockets or con them on the street. They were

hardly aware of what they carried, because they could afford to lose it.

And how else were they to survive down there in the Underground? The rich, Harry insisted, would

happily pick their bones. He did not pretend to be some modern-day Robin Hood, robbing from the rich to

give to the poor, but Jazz figured the same rules applied. If she was to hide down beneath, she had to

survive. A little petty thievery from the arrogant and rich did not trouble her overmuch.

And the way she'd been raised —weaned on paranoia, caution, and suspicion—had laid the

groundwork for a life of thievery. She'd learned to be stealthy and to blend in a crowd, and with her natural

agility it almost seemed as though her past had been the perfect preparation. Jazz knew she shouldn't take

pleasure in discovering a talent for steal-ing, but the thrill was undeniable.

"Well, what's your haul, then?" Cadge asked.

Jazz glanced around. By now the mark would have noted the theft, but unless he'd done so quickly

enough to follow Cadge, there would be no way they would be caught. She plunged her hands into her

pockets and drew out their contents. In her left hand she held the man's wallet. She hadn't checked to see

how much money he'd been carrying and it wasn't safe to do that here, but it felt thick with cash.

In her right hand she held his mobile phone. Down there in Harry's United Kingdom, they hadn't any

need for phones. No one to call. And it would be turned off by morning. But there was no telling when

they'd find a use for it, so when her fingers had brushed against it in the right-hand pocket of the man's

jacket, she had liberated it.

"Well done, you," Cadge said.

His own hands were empty. Today had been her first time hitting the street with them, and Cadge

had been as-signed to work the mark, not to do the actual nicking.

Jazz glanced nervously at the entrance to the platform. "We should go."

Cadge nodded. "Wait for the train."

Two minutes ticked past with excruciating slowness un-til the train pulled into the station. People



were disgorged and others got aboard, and then it rumbled away again. In moments, they were alone.

Cadge led the way to the edge of the platform. He glanced both ways along the tunnel. According to

Stevie Sharpe, there were other ways to get to the unused plat-forms at Tottenham Court Road, but the

tracks were fastest. With great care, they picked their way along the side of the tracks, retrieved their

torches from a nook where they'd stashed them, and fifty yards along they split off along a section of

unused track. The abandoned tunnel ran past the old platform, but they didn't slow. It wasn't the moldering

platform they wanted but this lonely, abandoned track. Fol-lowing it would take them back to Holborn

station, and from there they could descend to one of the older, deeper stations that had sheltered air-raid

refugees during the Blitz. They would meet up with the others and make their way back to Deep Level

Shelter 7-K, their sub-subterranean home.

Home.

A chill went through her. It was the first time she'd thought of the underground refuge as home, and

something about it felt very wrong to her. She knew she had to hide, knew that if she ever tried to return to

her real home, ugli-ness and murder awaited her there, perhaps along with truths and revelations she had no

interest in ever learning. But to think of the shelter as home was to submit to the idea of living there forever,

and that she could not do. Silently, she promised herself she'd never think of it that way again.

Ever since the moment Cadge had yanked up her skirt, Jazz's heart had been racing, adrenaline

pumping through her. Now, at last, far away from any chance of discovery, her pulse slowed and the thrill

began to lessen.

And then she heard the music, distant and tinny at first, then growing in volume. A plinking piano, a

jaunty violin, a tooting horn... and then a sudden chorus of wolf whistles and lecherous howls so loud that

Jazz felt surrounded.

"Oh, Jesus," she whispered, and clapped her hands to her ears.

Frantic, she whipped around, shining her torch into the shadows on both sides of the old track. With

the light shin-ing, she saw nothing at all, but when she swung the torch away, she saw spectral images in

the darkness left behind. The piano player, the violinist, and the trumpeter, who swayed his hips to get a

laugh. And the audience roared.

Jazz spun and saw them there, rows and rows of them, applauding. They were dressed not in the

thirties' garb of the spirits she'd encountered before but the clothing of an earlier era. Still wartime, though.

Always wartime. The mu-sic hall had phantom walls and curtains, a stage, and above her hung a ghostly

chandelier.

For a moment the whole room flickered and became a tavern full of men locked in serious debate,

and on the plate-glass window at the front she could read the reversed let-tering of the name of the place

—the Seven Tankards and Punch Bowl. Then the moment passed, the tavern blurred, and the music hall

returned, accompanied by laughter and those wolf whistles.

Voices called out a name. "Marie!"

"Marry me, Marie!"

"Get yer knickers off, Marie!"

But the voices weren't addressing Jazz. She could see in the faces of that spectral audience —many

of them in uni-form—that their focus was on the stage. Jazz turned just in time to see the tall blond woman

sashay suggestively onto the stage. A microphone awaited her. She ran her fingers down the smooth

contours of her body, over the sparkling material of her dress.

And she sang.

"I didn't like you much before you joined the army, John," Marie cooed, "but I do like yer cockie now

you've got your khaki on."

The audience erupted with hoots and applause.

Jazz fell to her knees and slapped her hands over her ears. She squeezed her eyes closed tightly. The

sound of her own breathing filled her head, and her heart thundered in her chest.

When she felt fingers on her shoulder, she screamed.

Scrambling away, she rose to a crouch, ready to flee. Blinking, she saw that the apparitions had

gone. She had left her torch on the tracks a dozen feet away, and the light shone off into the darkness.

Cadge stood staring at her, torch trained on her, his eyes wide with concern.

"Get that light out of my face," she said, but couldn't manage the scolding tone she'd attempted.

He lowered the torch, and they stood staring at each other in its diffused glow.

"You hear them too," he said.

Jazz cocked her head, staring at him doubtfully. "What are you saying? You heard that?"

Cadge moistened his lips. He hesitated a moment as though afraid to confess, but at last he nodded.



"A song, this time. And cheering. It's always different. Almost always."

Torn between relief that she wasn't mad and astonish-ment at this confirmation, she stared at him.

"Are we the only ones?"

The boy glanced away, shifting nervously. "Harry hears 'em, I think. Just echoes, he says. Echoes of

old times. But he told me never to mention it to the others. They'll think I'm a nutter."

"Echoes," Jazz whispered. Then she narrowed her eyes and studied him. "You see them too?"

Cadge gave a small shrug. "Sometimes. Like bits of fog. Used to think my eyes were going, the way

things would blur. Once... once I thought I saw a face."

Jazz swallowed and found her throat dry. He might have heard the phantoms lost down there in the

tunnels, the ghosts of old London that had manifested to her twice since her descent, but it was obvious

Cadge could not see them the way she did.

She didn't tell him that. Not yet. But she wondered about Harry. If he heard them, maybe he saw

them too.

"So, echoes?" she said.

"Like memories," Cadge said. "The city's memories; something like that."

They fell into step together, more cautiously this time, making their way deeper beneath London.

"Not ghosts?"

His eyes widened a little. "No, not ghosts."

"Why not?"

Cadge glanced away. "'Cause I'm afraid of ghosts."

"Just echoes, Cadge," she said, and she sensed Cadge more at ease beside her. It felt strange, her

trying to calm him, but though she seemed to hear and see much more, she could not find it in herself to be

frightened. There was something about the visions she'd just seen, a sort of sad in-nocence, that perhaps

had a little to do with the old times they were from.

"Hear 'em now and then," he said. "That's all. Now and then."

"So let's keep them between us for now, yes?"

Cadge turned to her and smiled, and she saw his plea-sure at their complicity.

"All right by me," he said. "Besides, there's plenty else to be scared of down here. Ask Harry to tell

you about the Hour of Screams sometime."

Jazz frowned. "What's that?"

"Told ya, ask Harry. Don't even like to talk about it myself." He shivered theatrically, to make sure

she got the point. But then he smiled. "We'd best get moving."

Jazz shook her head in amusement. "You are so odd."

Cadge offered a courtly bow, grinning, and then they walked on. Rats scurried out of their way,

avoiding the torchlight. Now and then they heard the rumble and rattle of a train in the distance, like the

Underground grumbling in eternal hunger. A wind pushed through the tunnel from ahead of them, carrying

stale scents of dust and despair. Jazz had always sensed that down here, every time she'd traveled

somewhere with her mother. London has more than its share of sadness, her mother had said once.

Like an old person, an old city can sometimes get wistful and melancholy.

Old city, Jazz thought. That's for sure. She sniffed the breeze and thought of so many people dead

and gone, and the sadness of growing toward death.

Her mother had been forty-four years old when she died.