Essential are: something to do, something to love and something to hope for
Bill was considered an expert on the training of animals but, Mirabelle decided, some hours later, he had done no job at all on Panther. She kept catching sight of the dog ahead, splashing delightedly through the filthy detritus as he ran towards her, but she couldn’t quite catch him. She gave up calling his name. He would not come to heel. Slowly, she lost hope she’d ever catch up in the darkness, but then she’d hear him bark and push herself to follow the sound, and now and then she was rewarded with a glimpse of him, disappearing joyfully down one tributary and on to another main artery of the system, where he would bark encouragingly again. There must be miles of these passageways, she realised, reaching the very fringes of town. Miles and miles of them.
She was tired, hungry and cold when she caught up at last, lunging in the half-darkness and dropping the torch as she managed to grasp hold of his collar. He barked as if trying to shout her down. ‘No,’ she said firmly, picking up the torch. She no longer even considered what she must look like, or made any attempt to keep clean, as she reattached the leash and made sure the collar was tight enough to hold the dog in place. When she stood up the darkness crowded in. The bulb faltered. The torch must have got wet. ‘Oh no,’ she said, her voice breaking in desperation as the light guttered.
She switched it on and off but the sewer remained in darkness, so she shook it and tried again. ‘Panther,’ she complained. ‘This is your fault.’ The dog was still trying to pull her onwards and she stumbled after him in the dark. Then she had an idea. She reached out to feel the wall, keeping her hand on the bricks as they moved onwards. Perhaps she would feel a ladder. Eventually there would have to be one.
Several years ago, Mirabelle had rescued Superintendent McGregor and Vesta from an underground cellar. It had taken a while for Vesta to recover. She said she had lost all sense of time. Mirabelle understood that better now. She felt exhausted. It must be getting late. She tried not to think about the articles she’d read about archaeological investigations in Egypt. Howard Carter discovering Tutankhamun’s tomb. Damsels bricked up as a form of punishment.
Getting hold of herself, she pulled Panther to heel and fed him a biscuit from her pocket; then she bit into one of the biscuits herself, patting the dog’s coat as she made herself chew and swallow it. At last, she wound the leash around her wrist and sank on to the ground. The wider tributaries had a walkway running down the side. The ground was damp beneath her but Panther snuggled into her body and Mirabelle felt the dog’s hot tongue licking her hand. Things would look better, she hoped, once she had rested.
When she woke, Panther was breathing deeply next to her, out for the count. She sat up and checked her grip on the leash and then tried the torch once more, but it still wasn’t working. Determined not to give up, she decided to take it apart and slowly, by touch, she placed the components one by one, on her lap. The batteries were icy and slightly damp. She dried them on the lining of her jacket and reassembled the component parts. The torch flickered momentarily and then cut out again. Mirabelle shook it. She tried once more but it remained dead, so she twisted off the head and, once more, removed the batteries. This time she blew sharply up the barrel to try to dry it out, and slowly reassembled it, fumbling over the barrel. It still didn’t work. Panther stirred and gave a little sigh. Mirabelle rested her head on the brickwork and waited. Her leg ached from where she had fallen earlier. At length, the dog stirred. ‘Hello there.’ Mirabelle stroked his coat. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’ She sounded, she realised, more optimistic than she felt.
She got to her feet and tried to decide on a direction. She turned on the torch again. This time the light flashed, cut out and then shone once more. Mirabelle found she was laughing. The light didn’t make all that much difference, she realised. There was nothing to see. A river of sewage. A tunnel with no identifying features. But it made her feel better. Panther pulled on the leash. ‘Steady,’ she said, but she allowed him to lead. He was refreshed by his rest and bounded ahead. Mirabelle tried to keep up. He strained, wanting to lead her into another side tunnel. ‘No,’ she said firmly, pulling him back. ‘We should keep to the main tributaries.’ The ladders, she reasoned, were more likely to be placed on the larger sewers.
Panther was insistent, however. Mirabelle flashed the torch ahead down the cut-off, and what she saw stopped her in her tracks. On the left-hand side of the tunnel there was something caught in the filthy stream – a small piece of material. Clothing perhaps. She followed Panther, who sniffed it appreciatively and picked it up in his mouth. Mirabelle held out her hand and Panther delivered. It was only then she realised it was a nurse’s cap, just like the one that Nurse Frida wore. When she turned it over, the word ‘Taylor’ was sewn inside on a piece of muslin, almost obscured by the filth it had been sitting in.
Mirabelle flashed the torchlight further down the tributary. ‘Rita,’ she called. ‘Sister Taylor. Are you there?’ There was no reply. She hadn’t really expected one. She put the cap into her pocket and tried not to think how gruesome it was.
‘Go on,’ she said encouragingly to Panther, who continued ahead. The smaller tunnel connected to another and then another. The dog could be leading her round in circles, for all she knew, but Mirabelle stumbled on, the torch cutting in and out like some kind of fairground ride.
It was in the moment when it flashed brightest that Mirabelle saw the body. A wave of sadness washed over her as the light flickered; the only sound was the sewage guttering as it flowed across her feet. Sister Taylor had been dumped alongside the remains of another two or three people, all of them so decomposed it was difficult to tell. Rita Taylor was only distinctive because of her dark blue uniform, which was flecked with detritus from the stream of sewage and an inky smear of what, Mirabelle realised, was blood. Chris Williams would be able to tell what exactly had happened, but it looked as if her flesh was decomposing more quickly than her clothes. Mirabelle peered. The bodies were, she thought, all women, but she might be wrong. She’d have to describe this to someone, eventually. When they got out. If they got out.
Panther wagged his tail enthusiastically. The smell must be dreadful, Mirabelle thought, but she couldn’t sense it. Still, she bent over and vomited into the passing flow. Bad Luck Bone had dumped them here. Poor Sister Taylor. Mirabelle knew she couldn’t do anything – carrying the bodies was out of the question. There was no way to mark the spot. But she knew they were here now. She tried not to notice the creeping sense of horror that was overtaking her. This was a responsibility.
‘Come on, boy,’ she said. ‘We have to get out of here.’
Not much further on, the torch faltered again. This time the onslaught of darkness didn’t even break her stride; she just kept one hand on the brickwork and stumbled on. It might have been a mile. It might have been less or more, but when she felt bricks protruding from the wall, her heart sang. Her fingers fumbled above and below and, sure enough, they formed a ladder, just as before. Directly above, a pinprick of light twinkled through a tiny hole in the metal disc, like a star in a far-off constellation. Mirabelle scrambled to pick up Panther and secure the torch in her waistband, then she felt her way up the frets one by one. Halfway there, the torch dropped with a clatter, but she left it. At the top she tucked the dog under one arm and held him tightly as she pushed hard against the manhole. It wouldn’t budge. She tottered momentarily, trying to find her feet, and gave it another try, but the metal was too heavy.
‘Help,’ she called. ‘Help.’ She banged her fist against it so hard her knuckles began to bleed.
Then suddenly, Panther squirmed, Mirabelle swayed, almost losing her footing, and the dog slipped out of her grasp, dropping back into the darkness of the sewer.
‘Panther!’ Mirabelle called as she scrambled down the indented bricks to reach him. He was whining. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, feeling his body, checking him over by touch. As she put her hand on his back leg, he pulled away sharply.
Mirabelle scrambled for the lead and then, slowly, she felt her way around the rancid pool, searching for the torch. It was lodged at the side of the sewer, soaked. She picked it up and felt liquid seeping out of it. There was no hope of it working now. Still, she wound the lead around one of the frets to stop Panther slinking off, and climbed up again, this time using the torch to hammer on the metal. At least it was useful for something. An age passed. Her arm cramped. She began to cry. She stopped. She started again. She screamed. Then she climbed down. Above, a car rumbled over the manhole. She let out a cry of frustration and rubbed her arm as she pulled Panther on to her lap. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
The noise came hours later. It was easy to imagine it had taken days, but the tiny pinprick of light had turned to darkness only once. It’s Sunday, she thought. And then she heard it. Someone whistling. It sounded as if it was underwater, but it was distinctive – ‘Love Letters in the Sand’, just as if Pat Boone himself was up there. She scrambled up the frets and resumed banging with the torch. ‘Help! Down here! I‘m in the sewer!’ The whistling came marginally closer and then it faltered. A voice called nervously. ‘Hello.’ A man’s voice.
‘Help,’ she screamed. ‘Help.’ She couldn’t remember ever feeling so desperate. She pushed upwards but the metal still wouldn’t budge, so instead she hit it so hard she thought the torch might shatter. Then, miraculously, it shifted on its own. A wedge of light cut into the darkness from above and a man’s face peered down, his body behind at a strange angle, in policeman’s uniform. He put his arm over his mouth and nose. ‘Blimey,’ he said.
A fine mist of drizzle descended as Mirabelle emerged. The light on the street seemed blinding, though the sky was clouded over. She narrowed her eyes. A smile spread involuntarily across her face and she felt unaccountably grateful. ‘My dog is injured. He’s still down there. I dropped him when I was trying to get out.’ She babbled. She reeled. The look on the officer’s face betrayed his disgust but she didn’t care. As she looked down at herself, covered in effluent, she began to laugh. The light rain wasn’t strong enough to wash it off. She’d need to be hosed off and soaked in a light solution of bleach, she thought. Was that even possible? Then, from below, Panther barked and gave a little growl.
‘I’ll get him,’ Mirabelle said, and climbed back into the hole.
Panther, she realised, as she looked at him in the light, was in no better state than herself. As she climbed back on to the street, the officer had leaned over and was being sick into the gutter. Mirabelle hauled herself on to the pavement, patting Panther’s head. He whimpered a little and then started to lap at one of the puddles. Mirabelle thought that she was thirsty too. Drinking from a puddle seemed the least stomach-turning thing she had done in the last day, but she held herself back.
‘I want to speak to Superintendent McGregor. There are bodies down there. Dead people.’ She looked around. The street was familiar now her eyes had adjusted to the light. It wasn’t that far from the front. She could have sworn she’d walked miles. ‘Where is this?’ she asked.
‘You’re at the bottom of Kemptown, miss,’ the officer said.
‘Yes of course,’ Mirabelle replied. She was just round the corner from the garage – Vesta’s friend. She remembered the smell of the place – petrol and the whiff of something else they’d thought at the time smelled disgusting. She laughed again. It felt as if she’d never be able to smell anything again.
‘Are you all right?’ the policeman asked.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘It’s the dog that’s hurt. I expect we’ll need the services of a vet.’