When the lanterns in the passage start to sway, Julius Grimaldi turns to the ragtag procession behind him and says: “What you can hear is just a tube train. The rail tunnel runs just a couple of feet through the clay from here.”
“That’s a strange-sounding locomotive,” comments Livia, who’s the only one with no need for a head torch.
Yoshi follows behind, and nods in agreement. “It sounds more like a peal of thunder.”
“Or a whole pack of animals on the loose,” adds this strange angel with the luminous aura. “Just listen to those brakes squeal! That’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard!”
Bringing up the rear, Mikhail glances cautiously over his shoulder. “I don’t know if I’m going to like this,” he whispers. Behind him, the crescent-shaped glow from the Map Room continues to shrink, and then slips from view as they round a gentle corner.
“We’re in good hands,” Yoshi assures him, having been this way before. The first time, Julius had escorted him on a tour of the city’s hidden levels that finished at the summit of the Seven Dials. From this central London monument, the boy had looked out full circle over the rooftops and counted seven steeples. It had been a still and star-crossed night, which helped Julius point out seven corresponding planets twinkling brightly in the heavens. Such a clear pattern, stitched into the jumble of streets, squares, parks and courtyards, had charged the boy with awe and wonder. It meant when Julius revealed that each steeple marked a point in a sacred force field, Yoshi hadn’t simply dismissed him as a dreamer. Indeed, on witnessing that mile-wide shadow unfurl out of the void, and sweep over London like some sinister bird of prey, he had returned to ground level convinced that forces of both good and evil were preparing to battle for control of the capital.
And if the old man’s hunch is correct, laying claim to the seventh waypoint in the ring could decide the future of the city for generations to come.
Right now, as Julius pushes open a hatch in the side of the passage, and leads them into a narrow corridor, that waypoint seems like a world away. Yoshi is the last to come through. As he does so, he catches the old man’s eye.
“I feel lost already,” he says, eyeing the row of doorways. Each one is covered by silk drapes embroidered with oriental symbols. “Where are we now?”
“In the labyrinth,” Julius tells them, squeezing past Mikhail and Livia to lead the way once more. Somewhere in the near distance, the sound of harp strings can be heard. This is punctured every now and then by the clash of blades and high-pitched shrieks, as if some kind of ceremonial sword fight is taking place. Above all, the heady scent of incense fills the air. “The whole of Chinatown is linked in this way,” he continues, swishing through the corridor now like an over-efficient guide. “It dates back hundreds of years, to when the first settlers from the Far East lived in fear of persecution. There was a time when the place wasn’t just out of bounds to tourists, but to anyone who valued their lives. Opium addicts, spice smugglers, money launderers and warring gangs were said to have made this place a no-go zone. Nowadays anything goes. It’s like a taste of the old country, right here under London.”
As they skirt one of the chambers, Mikhail dares to part the drapes. He takes one peek inside, only for someone to babble at him angrily. To back it up, a playing card slices through the gap. It connects with his forehead, bouncing into his clutches. “My apologies,” he stammers, showing his palms. “As you were, gentlemen.”
“What did you see?” whispers Yoshi, as the young Russian catches up.
“A bunch of Chinese guys playing cards around a table,” he tells him. “With a lot of money stacked up there, too.”
“Most likely a poker match,” Julius calls back.
“I guess so,” replies Mikhail, turning the card face up. “You don’t need the joker to play poker.”
“And we don’t need a joker on this mission,” the old man is quick to add. “Now please do keep your voices down. By rights, we shouldn’t be here at all. I only use it as a short cut to the river.”
“So we’re on our way to the Thames?” asks Livia. “I don’t mean to be blunt, but wouldn’t it have been easier to hail a taxi or jump on a bus?”
Julius pauses in front of several packing crates that block his path. He turns into the light cast by the girl’s aura. “If we were heading for Father Thames, I would’ve taken us by one of the culverts that drain in under the bridges. It’s kind of boggy underfoot, but you never know what treasures and trinkets you might come across. In a bus or a taxi you’re more likely to encounter someone else’s chewing gum on the seat. As for the river I have in mind, there’s only one way to reach the shores, and this is it.” He stops there to shove the crates from their path. But instead of clearing the way, it reveals a hole in the clay floor the size of a dustbin lid.
“What’s down there?” asks Yoshi, peering forward with the others.
Together with Livia’s aura, the beams from their head torches drop down into the void and pick out a free-flowing current of water.
“My friends,” announces Julius, “you’re looking at the Walbrook. One of London’s eleven lost rivers.”
Livia is the first to break the silence, as the three youngsters observe the dark water. It courses at a right angle to the passage they’re standing in, through a cylindrical brick tunnel scored by moss and tidemarks. “What a pong!” she complains, crinkling her nose.
“Sadly, that’s because it’s been smothered by the advance of time and the demands of a growing city,” says Julius. “Over the years, they’ve all been redirected to suit the needs of architects and city planners, and practically squeezed out of existence. But even if these ancient waterways are out of sight and out of mind, you’ll never stop them from flowing. Like the ley lines, you’ll find all kinds of energy coursing under London. This one is a treat, as we’ll find out if you follow me.”
“Wait a minute!” Livia stops the old man in his tracks, as he prepares to drop down into the void. “You want us to climb into the water?” She gestures at her long clinging dress. “I’m hardly prepared for it!”
“It isn’t that deep, my dear. And I can safely say there are no alligators on this stretch.”
Mikhail turns to Yoshi. Under his breath, he says: “Did I just hear that correctly? There are alligators under London?”
“That’s the least of our worries,” Yoshi replies, wondering if they’ll ever get further than here.
“I don’t mind getting wet,” Livia tells Julius. “But I do object to stinking like a drowned rat for my troubles.”
“Hey,” says Mikhail, trying to be helpful. “We’ll all be in the same boat.”
“If we had a boat,” she replies icily, “I’d be happier about going down there.”
Just then, Yoshi finds Julius looking across the hole at him. The old man doesn’t need to tell him what’s at stake, and it’s more than a wet pair of feet.
“Livia,” the boy says, “we have Julius to thank for our freedom from the Foundation. I trust him when he says this is something we must do for the sake of the city. If we succeed, maybe we’ll all come up smelling of roses.”
Livia sighs, grabs the hem of her black dress, and rips it to the thigh. “Very well,” she agrees, preparing herself for the drop. “But hear this, Yoshi, I’m doing it for you.”
“Dude!” This is Mikhail, cutting in with yet another whisper for Yoshi that everyone can hear. “She worships you!”
“Not exactly,” replies Livia. “It means if we mess up, Yoshi will have to answer to me!”