With the show over, the Chinatown crew have gathered as foreseen at the dead end of the alley. The first of these street punks slips between the vent’s buckled bars. As soon as his boots touch the floor of the pit below, it flaps open and delivers him into a cellar. This little ragamuffin lands gracefully, moving quickly aside as the next one drops in to join him, followed by Billy and the rest of the kids from the street. If the floor was once used for storage, there’s nothing left of note in here now. Just empty cloth sacks and mousetraps, along with a bulging pile of refuse sacks that look like they’re waiting to be taken to the surface. What’s most striking about this subterranean space is the steel hatch embedded in the far wall. It’s fitted with a flywheel, like the kind you might find to gain access to a submarine. Mounted above the hatch is a security camera, sporting a status light on red. With a click, the iris opens wide. The light turns amber and the camera begins to sweep around.
“Let me go first!” Billy steps forward now to glare into the lens, which stops to fix on him. “Whoever was calling the shots from the Bridge needs to learn a thing or two about clear communication! Without it, we’d look like mugs not street magicians!”
From the back of the cellar comes another voice. This one sounds like it’s travelled from the Siberian wilderness to be here. “Why can’t you just obey orders with the same ease that you dish them out?” All the kids in this gathering turn and step aside, upon which a boy with pillar-box red spiked hair steps out into the space created for him. This is Mikhail. Judging by his half-smile, he isn’t taking Billy’s complaint too seriously. “Every time you’re in control of operations, we have to run around like lab rats. You really ought to learn to take instructions like you issue them.”
“I just like to run a tight ship,” Billy protests, “and that starts with all hands on deck. As soon as word went up to fleece the tourists—”
“The tangos,” Mikhail says to correct him. “You mean the tangos.”
“I mean the tourists!” Billy barks at the Russian boy, and then pauses to recover his composure. “Call them what you will. The fact is the newbies went absent without leave from the square, which meant I had to work twice as hard to prepare for the show.”
“Who’s missing?” asks Mikhail, as the crew here look to one another and shrug.
Behind him, the amber light above the camera begins to blink on and off. At the same time, through the steel hatch, and from a long distance away, the very faintest tap-tap-tap of footsteps can be heard approaching.
“All of them,” says Billy. “But I think we know who’s behind it.” He shoots his frilly shirt cuffs, as if preparing to play charades, and points to the trapdoor above them. “One night, right out of the blue, the boy I have in mind arrived here head first. Clean lost his memory as a result of the fall, but claimed to be fleeing from some big bad wolf of a man.”
“The brute!” chimes a moon-faced urchin behind him, and adopts a stony scowl just to play along.
“We took pity on him,” continues Billy, pacing the circle of space created by the rest of the crew. “We nursed him back to health, invited him to join our crew, and showed him the tricks of our trade. He’s half-Chinese, half-cockney, a nice lad at heart, but a little bit flighty.”
“Who can you be talking about?” enquires Mikhail, but the sarcasm is lost on this boy with the rollerblades for boots. As is the growing sound of activity behind the hatch . . .
“Here are some more clues, then.” Billy swings around to address everyone, his back to the flywheel now. “Slowly, our new boy began to remember more about himself, like the fact that his true home lay not under London but on top of it, leaping from building to building. Parkour was what he called this so-called urban sport, and to date, none of us have mastered it as he has. Isn’t that right, Spanner?”
A hand goes up from one of the smaller kids. Encasing the wrist is a plaster cast, which is covered in marker pen graffiti. “I was unlucky,” a little voice protests. “I took off without warning.”
“Indeed,” says Billy sourly. “On the strength of tonight’s turnout, it seems you’re not the only one. Our boy went missing a few minutes before the fireworks started. In fact, you might remember the last time he performed an unscheduled vanishing act, and showed up across the city in that Foundation for the freaky kids. If it wasn’t for our rescue mission, they’d all still be locked up inside.”
“I really wouldn’t call them freaky kids,” warns Mikhail. “They don’t like it if you call them freaks. Seeing that several of them chose to hide out with us, I’d call them guests.“
“Yeah, but those guys can pull tricks that defy all reasoning. They do stuff you and I could never hope to learn. When was the last time you set fire to a ball of paper just by touching it?”
“If you’re talking about the twins,” growls Mikhail, “you ought to show some respect.”
Billy No-Beard shrugs like that won’t be so easy. At the same time, the amber light over the security camera turns to green, and the flywheel begins to turn. “I’d never disrespect the twins,” he continues, oblivious to what’s happening behind him. “Scarlett and Blaize are red-hot. Their fire-starting stunts are sizzling. Really. I admire what they can do, and the same goes for their posh friend who’s convinced us all she can glow in the dark. All three of them can do some neat illusions on their own, and mystery boy’s high-flying acrobatics are certainly a sight to behold. I just don’t see why it means he should be allowed to bunk off with them when it comes to doing the groundwork for the team tricks. We all know you can’t make street magic without working as a team. What makes them so special?”
Nobody breathes a word in response, much to Billy’s surprise. He tuts in annoyance and then arches one eyebrow. For a commanding light sweeps across his audience, accompanied by a creaking noise. It causes a few to squint, or cup a hand to their brow. Most just avoid Billy’s searching face, as if too embarrassed to spell out who’s just appeared at the open hatch.
“The newbies are behind me, aren’t they?” He grins idiotically as this bright haze around him shimmers hotly at the edges, and then looks a little nervous when the seat of his breeches begins to warm.
Mikhail nods towards the source of the intense illumination, still building behind his flamboyant friend. “Looks like they’re all present and correct,” he tells Billy. “Including your mystery boy!”
“Yoshi!” All of a sudden, Billy’s grin becomes a little fixed at each end. He holds on to it as best he can, though the street punks in front of him can plainly see the alarm in his eyes. “Bunking off a mission is one thing, but ask your fine friends to cool it,” he pleads next. “This isn’t funny any more. C’mon, the twins listen to you . . . Ouch! Stop turning up the heat!”