Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman

Until that moment, she had never thought she could do it. Never thought she would be brave enough, or scared enough, or desperate enough to dare. But she reached up one hand to his chest, and she opened…

He gasped, and tumbled onto her. It was wet and warm and slippery, and she slithered and staggered out from under the man, and she stumbled out of the room.

She caught her breath in the tunnel outside, narrow and low, as she fell against the wall, breathing in gasps and sobs. That had taken the last of her strength; now she was spent. Her shoulder was beginning to throb. The knife, she thought. But she was safe.

"My, oh my," said a voice from the darkness on her right. "She survived Mister Ross. Well I never, Mister Vandemar." The voice oozed. It sounded like gray slime.

"Well I never either, Mister Croup," said a flat voice on her left.

A light was kindled and flickered. "Still," said Mr. Croup, his eyes gleaming in the dark beneath the earth, "she won't survive us."

Door kneed him, hard, in the groin: and then she pushed herself forward, her right hand holding her left shoulder.

And she ran.

"Dick?"

Richard waved away the interruption. Life was almost under his control, now. Just a little more time…

Gary said his name again. "Dick? It's six-thirty."

"It's what?" Papers and pens and spreadsheets and trolls were tumbled into Richard's briefcase. He snapped it shut and ran.

He pulled his coat on as he went. Gary was following. "Are we going to have that drink, then?"

Richard paused for a moment. If ever, he decided, they made disorganization an Olympic sport, he could be disorganized for Britain. "Gary," he said, "I'm sorry. I blew it. I have to see Jessica tonight. We're taking her boss out to dinner."

"Mister Stockton? Of Stocktons? The Stockton?" Richard nodded. They hurried down the stairs. "I'm sure you'll have fun," said Gary, insincerely. "And how is the Creature from the Black Lagoon?"

"Jessica's from Ilford, actually, Gary. And she remains the light and love of my life, thank you very much for asking." They reached the lobby, and Richard made a dash for the automatic doors, which spectacularly failed to open.

"It's after six, Mister Mayhew," said Mr. Figgis, the building's security guard. "You have to sign out."

"I don't need this," said Richard to no one in particular, "I really don't."

Mr. Figgis smelled vaguely of medicinal liniment and was widely rumored to have an encyclopedic collection of soft-core pornography. He guarded the doors with a diligence that bordered upon madness, never quite having lived down the evening when an entire floor's worth of computer equipment upped and left, along with two potted palms and the managing director's Axminster carpet.

"So our drink's off, then?"

"I'm sorry, Gary. Is Monday okay for you?"

"Sure. Monday's fine. See you Monday."

Mr. Figgis inspected their signatures and satisfied himself they had no computers, potted palms, or carpets about their persons, then he pressed a button under his desk, and the door slid open.

"Doors," said Richard.

The underway branched and divided; she picked her way at random, ducking through tunnels, running and stumbling and weaving. Behind her strolled Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar, as calmly and cheerfully as Victorian dignitaries visiting the Crystal Palace exhibition. When they arrived at a crossroads, Mr. Croup would kneel and find the nearest spot of blood, and they would follow it. They were like hyenas, exhausting their prey. They could wait. They had all the time in the world.

Luck was with Richard, for a change. He caught a black taxi, driven by an elderly man who took Richard home by an unlikely route involving streets Richard had never before seen, while holding forth, as Richard had discovered all London taxi drivers will hold forth-given a living, breathing, English-speaking passenger-on London's inner-city traffic problems, how best to deal with crime, and thorny political issues of the day. Richard jumped out of the cab, left a tip and his briefcase behind, managed to flag down the cab again before it made it into the main road and so got his briefcase back, then he ran up the stairs and into his apartment. He was already shedding clothes as he entered the hall: his briefcase spun across the room and crash-landed on the sofa; he took his keys from his pocket and placed them carefully on the hall table, in order to ensure he did not forget them.

Then he dashed into the bedroom. The buzzer sounded. Richard, three-quarters of the way into his best suit, launched himself at the speaker.

"Richard? It's Jessica. I hope you're ready."

"Oh. Yes. Be right, down." He pulled on a coat, and he ran, slamming the door behind him. Jessica was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. She always waited for him there. Jessica didn't like Richard's apartment: it made her feel uncomfortably female. There was always the chance of finding a pair of Richard's underwear, well, anywhere, not to mention the wandering lumps of congealed toothpaste on the bathroom sink: no, it was not Jessica's kind of place.

Jessica was very beautiful; so much so Richard would occasionally find himself staring at her, wondering, how did she end up with me? And when they made love-which they did at Jessica's apartment in fashionable Kensington, in Jessica's brass bed with the crisp white linen sheets (for Jessica's parents had told her that down comforters were decadent)-in the darkness, afterwards, she would hold him very tightly, and her long brown curls would tumble over his chest, and she would whisper to him how much she loved him, and he would tell her he loved her and always wanted to be with her, and they both believed it to be true.

"Bless me, Mister Vandemar. She's slowing up."

"Slowing up, Mister Croup."

"She must be losing a lot of blood, Mister V."

"Lovely blood, Mister C. Lovely wet blood,"

"Not long now."

A click: the sound of a switchblade opening, empty and lonely and dark.

"Richard? What are you doing?" asked Jessica.

"Nothing, Jessica."

"You haven't forgotten your keys again, have you?"

"No, Jessica." Richard stopped patting himself and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.

"Now, when you meet Mister Stockton tonight," said Jessica, "you have to appreciate that he's not just a very important man. He's also a corporate entity in his own right."

"I can't wait," sighed Richard.

"What was that, Richard?"

"I can't wait," said Richard, rather more enthusiastically.

"Oh, please hurry up," said Jessica, who was beginning to exude an aura of what, in a lesser woman, might almost have been described as nerves. "We mustn't keep Mister Stockton waiting."

"No, Jess."

"Don't call me that, Richard. I loathe pet names. They're so demeaning."

"Spare any change?" The man sat in a doorway. His beard was yellow and gray, and his eyes were sunken and dark. A hand-lettered sign hung from a piece of frayed string around his neck and rested on his chest, telling anyone with the eyes to read it that he was homeless and hungry. It didn't take a sign to tell you that; Richard, hand already in his pocket, fumbled for a coin.

"Richard. We haven't got the time," said Jessica, who gave to charity and invested ethically. "Now, I do want you to make a good impression, fiance-wise. It is vital that a future spouse makes a good impression." And then her face creased, and she hugged him for a moment, and said, "Oh, Richard. I do love you. You do know that, don't you?"

And Richard nodded, and he did.

Jessica checked her watch and increased her pace. Richard discreetly flicked a pound coin back through the air toward the man in the doorway, who caught it in one grimy hand.

"There wasn't any problem with the reservations, was there?" asked Jessica. And Richard, who was not much good at lying when faced with a direct question, said, "Ah."