Michael Robotham - Lost

Mickey didn't ask to feed the ducks again. She didn't go to the park and soon she stopped going outside Dolphin Mansions. A year later she saw her first therapist.

The children's book that Timothy found in Mickey's cubbyhole in the basement was about five little ducks who go out in the world and return home again. Mickey knew from experience that not all little ducks come back.

Weatherman Pete brushes milk foam from his mustache and motions toward the river with his paper cup. “Sewers are no place for little girls.”

His van is parked up on a boat ramp in the shadow of Putney Bridge where eight-oared shells skim the surface of the river like gigantic water beetles. Moley is asleep in the back of the van, curled up with one eye open.

“Where could they have kept her?”

Pete exhales slowly, making his lips vibrate. “There are hundreds of places—disused tube stations, service tunnels, bomb shelters, aqueducts, drains . . . What makes you think he's hiding down there?”

“He's scared. People are looking for him.”

Pete hums. “Takes a unique sort of individual to live down there.”

“He is unique.”

“No, you don't get me. You take Moley. If he disappeared down there you wouldn't find him in a hundred years. You see he likes the dark, just like some people prefer the cold. You know what I mean?”

“This guy isn't like that.”

“So how does he know his way down there?”

“He's going from memory. Someone showed him where to hide and how to move around. A former flusher called Ray Murphy.”

“Saccharine Ray! The boxer.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah, I know him. Ray was never really the genuine article as a boxer. He took more dives than Ruud van Nistelrooy. I don't remember him working down the sewers.”

“It was a long time ago. After that he worked as a flood planner.”

A slow sweet smile spreads across Pete's face like jam on toast. “The old HQ of London Flood Management is underground—in the Kingsway Tram Underpass.”

“But there haven't been trams in central London for more than fifty years.”

“Precisely. The tunnel was abandoned. If you ask me it was a bloody silly place to have a flood emergency center. It would have been the first place under water if the Thames broke its banks. Bureaucrats!”

The Kingsway Underpass is one of those strange, almost secret, landmarks you find in cities. Tens of thousands of people walk past it and drive over it every day with no idea it's there. All you can see is a railing fence and a cobblestone approach road before it disappears underground. It runs beneath Kingsway—one of the busiest streets in the West End—down to the Aldwych, where it turns right and comes out directly beneath Waterloo Bridge.

Weatherman Pete parks his van on the approach road, ignoring the painted red lines and NO STOPPING signs. He hands me a hard hat and pulls out a construction sign. “If anyone asks we work for the council.”

The remnants of the tram tracks are embedded in the stones and a large gate guards the entrance to the tunnel.

“Can we get inside?”

“That'd be illegal,” he says, producing the biggest set of bolt cutters I've ever seen. Moley moans and pulls a blanket over his head.

Trying to curb Pete's enthusiasm I explain that Gerry Brandt is dangerous. He's already put Ali in the hospital and I don't want anyone else getting hurt. Once we know he's in there, I'll call the police.

“We could send a mole down the hole.” Pete nudges the bundle of blankets. Moley's head appears. “You're up.”

Trooping down the ramp we look like a trio of engineers on our way to survey something on a typical Saturday morning. The padlock on the gate looks secure enough but the bolt cutters snap it like balsa wood. We slide inside.

Although I can only see about twenty feet of tunnel it appears to open out and grow wider before the darkness becomes absolute. The most obvious feature is a pile of road signs stacked against the walls—street names, traffic controls, posts and paving slabs. The council must use the tunnel for storage.

“We should wait here,” whispers Pete. “No use us blundering around in the dark.” He hands Moley what looks like an emergency flare. “Just in case.”

Moley presses his ear to the wall of the tunnel and listens for about fifteen seconds. Then he jogs forward silently and listens again. Within seconds he is out of sight. The only sounds are my heartbeat and the throb of traffic forty feet above our heads.

Fifteen minutes later Moley returns.

“There's someone there. About a hundred yards farther on there are two Portakabins. He's in the first one.”

“What's he doing?”

“Sleeping.”

I know I have to call it in. I can talk directly to “New Boy” Dave and hopefully bypass Meldrum and Campbell. Dave hates Gerry Brandt as much as I do. We look after our own.

But another part of me has a different desire. I can't rid myself of the memory of Gerry Brandt holding Ali against his back, looking directly at me, as he fell backward, crushing her spine. This is just the sort of place I wanted to find him—a dark place, with nobody around.

The police will come charging in here, armed to the teeth. That's when people get hurt or get killed. I'm not talking conspiracies here, I just know the reality—people fuck up. I can't afford to lose Gerry Brandt. He's a violent impulsive thug who peddles misery in tiny packets of foil but I need him for Ali's sake and for Mickey's. He knows what happened to her.

“So what do you want to do?” whispers Pete.

“I'm going to call the police but I also want to talk to this guy. I don't want him getting away or getting hurt.”

The light from the entrance forms a halo around Moley's head. He cocks his face to one side and looks at me with a mixture of apprehension and expectancy. “He did a bad thing, this guy?”

“Yes, he did.”

“You want me to take you in there?”

“Yes.”

Pete gives it five seconds of contemplation and nods his head. It's like he does this every day of the week. Back at the van I call “New Boy” Dave. Glancing at my watch, I realize that Ali will be in surgery. I don't know the exact details but they're going to insert pins into her spine and fuse several vertebrae.

Weatherman Pete has collected some gear from the van—extra flares and his “secret weapon.” He shows me two Ping-Pong balls. “I make these myself. Black powder, flash powder, magnesium ribbon and a drop of candle wax.”

“What do they do?”

“Kerboom!” He grins at me. “Nothing but sound and fury. You should hear one of them go off in a sewer.”

The plan is simple enough. Moley is going to make sure there are no other exits. Once he's in place, he'll set off the flash-bangs and flares.

“We're going to scare the son of a bitch half to death,” he says excitedly.

Pete looks at me. “You got sunglasses—wear them. And don't look at the light. You only have a few seconds to grab him while he's disoriented.”

We give Moley a ten-minute head start. Weatherman Pete and I keep on opposite sides of the tunnel, feeling our way blindly along the walls and stepping in oily puddles and nests of leaves.

Slowly the tunnel begins to change in character. The roof slopes down where the roadway above has been cut into the old ceiling. The Portakabins are just ahead of me. I can see the faint yellow glow of the lantern, leaking around the edges of a window that has been covered up or taped over.

Crouching, I wait for Moley. He could be right next to me and I wouldn't know it. My mouth is dry. For two days I've been popping codeine forte and craving morphine, telling myself my leg doesn't hurt and it's just my imagination.