Simon Green - The Man with the Golden Torc

"She has a point," said Girl Flower, glancing nervously about her.

"You do hear stories…Of things that have chosen to live down here, away from the light and the scrutiny of man. Awful, unpleasant things, darling. Not at all the sort of people you want to meet."

"Right," said Molly. "I’ve talked to people who work down here, and they all have stories to share that the civilised world doesn’t want to listen to. Not everything that gets flushed is gone forever. There are things down here that have learned to thrive in conditions like this, and they’re always hungry. Strange fruit grown from rotten branches, monsters grown out of discarded experiments, and some blighted shapes that might have been human, long and long ago. I’ll generate a low-level field to protect us from…contamination, but any stronger magic might call them to us."

"Maybe you should lose the witchlight, then," said Mr. Stab. "I’m almost sure I have a light about me somewhere…"

"No!" Molly said quickly. "No flames or anything that might generate a spark. Methane gas has a tendency to build up in pockets, and you can’t detect it through the general nasty ambience. Until it’s far too late."

"In the old days," Mr. Stab said conversationally, "the workers used to bring down canaries in cages. And when the canaries started to smoulder, they knew they were in trouble."

There was a pause, and then Molly said, "You’re really not helping, you know."

"Poor little birdies," said Girl Flower.

Molly conjured up her protective field, incorporating a simple directional spell that manifested as a glowing arrow floating on the air before us. We started off after it, slipping and sliding on the treacherous surface of the walkway. Our shadows leapt around us in the witchlight, huge and menacing. Sudden noises echoed away through the long dark tunnels, lingering on long after they should have died away. I kept a watchful eye on every shadowed tunnel we passed, and sometimes I thought I saw twisted, distorted shapes lurching away in the uncertain gloom ahead; but nothing ever ventured out into the witchlight to confront us.

The smell wasn’t getting any easier to take.

There were rats everywhere, scuttling and scurrying and pausing now and then to bare their yellow teeth at us. Many were bigger by far than any rat had a right to be, and they didn’t seem nearly scared enough of us to suit me. I’ve got a bit of a thing about rats. Most just watched us pass from their holes and lairs, dark beady eyes gleaming malevolently. Molly amused herself by pointing her finger at those who got too close, whereupon they immediately exploded wetly in all directions at once. Girl Flower squeaked loudly every time this happened and finally stopped to pick up most of a dead rat and hold it close to her bosom.

"Poor little ratty."

"Oh, ick," said Molly.

"I am flowers, darling," Girl Flower said stubbornly. "And all dead things are compost to my pretty petals."

She slipped the rat carcass inside the front of her dress, and it immediately disappeared. Molly looked at me. "Think about that, the next time she invites you to unbutton her blouse."

I looked determinedly in another direction. "If she starts coughing up owl pellets, she’s going back."

We moved on, into the darkness. Tunnel led to tunnel, twisting and turning deep under London’s streets. Others had been here before us, leaving their marks upon the brick walls. Some were hopeful; some were despairing messages to loved ones they never hoped to see again. There were arrows, pointing in varying directions, and even the occasional crude map scratched into the brick. Masonic symbols, odd phrases in old forgotten languages…I half expected to find Arne Saknussemm’s initials. Or Cave Carson’s. We pressed on, following Molly’s glowing arrow. Her protective field kept the filth at bay, even when we occasionally had to wade through the revolting waters to get to another tunnel. Pity it couldn’t do anything about the smell.

We stopped abruptly as Mr. Stab broke away from us to study a particular section of brick wall close up. I moved in beside him for a look, but it seemed no different from any other wall we’d passed. The curving surface ran with damp, as though sweating in the uncomfortable heat, and the original colour of the brick was lost under layers of accumulated filth and clumps of bulging white fungus. Mr. Stab ran his fingers caressingly over the surface, ignoring the thick residue that appeared on his expensively tailored gloves. My first thought was that it seemed there were definite limits to Molly’s protective field, and not to touch anything with my hands, but I was quickly distracted by the look on Mr. Stab’s face. He was smiling, and it wasn’t a very nice smile.

"I remember this place," he said, and something in his soft voice raised all the hackles on the back of my neck. "It’s been a long time since I was down here. I think they were still building this section then…I used to come here all the time, to get away from the bustle and noise of Humanity…Yes, I remember this place."

He pressed a particular brick, and it sank inwards with a loud click. Mr. Stab put all his weight against the wall, and a large section swung slowly inwards on concealed hinges. Only darkness lay beyond, and silence. Mr. Stab gestured sharply for Molly to come forward, and she thrust her illuminated hand into the new opening. We all crowded around, to see what was to be seen, but Mr. Stab couldn’t wait. He took Molly by the shoulder and urged her inside. They moved forward into the gloom, and Girl Flower and I followed close behind.

There was a room behind the brick wall, a very secret room. I stood still, just inside the entrance, held there by what I saw. I felt appalled, and sickened, and terribly angry. My first thought was that it looked like a ghastly doll’s house. The room had been fitted out as an old Victorian parlour. Heavy furniture, thick carpeting, stiff-backed chairs on either side of a long dining table, complete with heavy tablecloth, silver settings, and candlesticks. Even framed portraits on the walls.

Dead women sat in the chairs on either side of the long table, dressed in the fashions of widely varying times, all of the bodies in varying stages of decay. The enclosed setting had preserved them to some degree, but that only added to the horror. The dead women stared across the table at each other. Some had eyes; some did not. Some had faces; some did not. They all carried their death wounds openly, and there were so many of them…Some had the front of their dresses cut open, revealing bodies that had been hollowed out. A few held teacups in their clawed hands, as though they were all attending some hideous tea party.

"Hi, honey," said Mr. Stab. "I’m home."

Molly looked back at me. "I never knew about this, Eddie, I swear."

I stepped forward to stand between her and Mr. Stab. "This is sick! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now!"

"How many have you killed down the years, young Drood?" said Mr. Stab, not even looking at me. He moved slowly down the line of corpses, smiling slightly, trailing his fingers above the bowed heads, not quite touching them. "Could a room this size even contain all those you’ve cut down? I know; you were only obeying orders. You did what you did out of cold duty; at least I’m honest enough to enjoy what I do." He leaned over one gray shoulder to peer into a desiccated face. "I keep stashes of my victims all over London. In my secret hidden places, where no one will ever find them. I like to visit them, and…play with them. I enjoy the ambience, and the smell…Like coming home."

I looked at Molly. Her face was taut and strained, but the illuminated hand she held aloft was still steady. "What was that you said?" I murmured. "About monsters not being monsters all the time?"