19
Ladbroke Grove
‘We’ve got to go now,’ said Agent Reynolds. ‘I’m right behind them.’
There are some questions you have to ask even when you don’t want to. ‘Right behind who?’
‘There’s somebody down here,’ she said. ‘And it isn’t you, me or some guy from water and power.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Kumar. ‘And who are you?’
‘Because they’re moving about without using a flashlight,’ she said. ‘And I’m Special Agent Kimberly Reynolds, FBI.’
Kumar extended a hand over my shoulder which Reynolds shook.
‘I’ve never met an FBI agent before,’ he said. ‘Who are you chasing?’
‘She doesn’t know,’ I said.
‘If we don’t follow now we’re going to lose him,’ said Reynolds. ‘Whoever it is.’
So we chased because they were, allegedly, running away and that’s just the way the police roll – even when they’re special agents. I made it clear that post-chase there were going to be some explanations.
‘Like what brought you down here in the first place,’ I said.
‘Later,’ said Reynolds through gritted teeth as she splashed ahead.
I say chase, but there’s a limit to how fast you can go when you’re knee-deep in icy water, not to mention how bloody knackering it is. After watching Reynolds flounder in front we persuaded her to follow behind and grab hold of my belt so that I could half pull her along. We were too breathless to talk and by the time we reached a dog-leg a couple of hundred metres further up I had to call a breather.
‘Fuck it,’ I said. ‘We’re not going to catch them.’
Reynolds screwed up her face, but she was too winded to argue.
Where the sewer turned through a dog-leg its builders had briefly doubled its width. Halfway up the walls a number of moist brick apertures periodically gushed fluid around our feet. Underneath, one in particular was a heap of vile yellowish white stuff.
‘Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,’ said Reynolds weakly.
‘What do you think it is?’ I asked.
‘I think it’s cooking fat,’ said Reynolds.
‘That’s what it is,’ I said. ‘You’re in the famous fat caves of London – a major tourist attraction. Smells a bit like a kebab shop, don’t it?’
‘Since we’ve lost the FBI’s most wanted,’ said Kumar. ‘Do we go forward or back?’
‘Are you sure you saw someone?’ I asked Reynolds.
‘I’m positive,’ she said.
‘Let’s at least see where this goes,’ I said. ‘Because I do not want to have to come back down here later.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Reynolds.
We pushed on, literally, up the sewer pipe which got gradually narrower until I was walking hunched over. I also started to suspect that the water level was rising – although it was hard to tell, what with the changes in pipe size. To be honest I think we kept going out of misplaced machismo, but by the time we reached the junction we were ready for any excuse. One branch carried on straight ahead while a second branch curved off to the right, both equally narrow, cramped and full of shit.
And like the last temptation of Peter Grant there was, on the left, a slot in the wall less than a metre wide that contained stairs going up.
‘Much as I love standing knee-deep in shit,’ said Kumar. ‘It would be a really bad idea to hang around here much longer.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
‘The water level’s rising,’ he said. ‘In fact, as the senior officer here I think I’m going to insist.’ He stared at us, obviously expecting one of us to object.
‘You had us at “the water level is rising”,’ I said.
We squeezed up the narrow staircase into a rectangular landing where a ladder, which I noted was much more modern than the Victorian wall it was attached to, led two metres up to what was presumably the underside of a manhole.
‘Listen,’ said Reynolds. ‘Can you here that?’
There was a drumming sound from the manhole. Rain, I thought, heavy rain. And also the sound of rushing water, faint but distinct, coming from the opposite corner of the landing. I turned my head and my helmet light illuminated a shadowy rectangle in the floor – the top of a vertical shaft.
Kumar took hold of the ladder. ‘Let’s hope it’s not welded shut,’ he said.
I stepped over to the hole in the floor and looked down.
There, less than a metre below, a young man was staring up at me. He was hanging from a ladder that led down into the darkness of the shaft. He must have been frozen there hoping we wouldn’t look down. I didn’t get more than a glimpse in my helmet light, of a pale face with big eyes framed by a black hoodie, before he let go of the ladder and fell.
No, not fell. Slid down the shaft, hands and feet jammed against either side to slow his descent. As he went, I heard a noise like a room full of whispered conversations and felt a burst of imaginary heat as if I’d stepped out into hot sun.
‘Oi,’ I yelled and went down the ladder. I had to. What I’d felt had been
I heard Kumar call my name.
‘He’s down here,’ I shouted, trying to skip rungs and then jumping the last metre. The impact of my landing drove the accumulated water in my wellies up into my groin – fortunately it was warm.
Another short narrow corridor. I saw movement at the far end and followed. The air was full of the sound of rushing water. Common sense made me skid to a halt at the end, just in case the guy was waiting around the corner with an offensive weapon. The corridor opened into a barrel-vaulted tunnel. To the right, water cascaded down a weir and to the left I saw my guy, bent under the low ceiling, water up to his hips – wading away as fast as he could.
I jumped into the water behind him and the current swept my legs out from under me and landed me on my back. What can only be described as highly diluted poo washed over my face and I shoved myself back up fast enough to crack my head on the ceiling. If I hadn’t been wearing a helmet I probably would have killed myself.
I staggered forward, vaguely aware of splashing behind me which I hoped was Kumar or Reynolds. Ahead, the man in the black hoodie was making for what looked like another intersection. He glanced back, caught sight of me, and suddenly turned, raising his right hand. There was a flash, a painfully sharp retort and something zipped past my ear.
The big difference between green and experienced soldiers is that until you’ve actually been shot at once or twice, your brain has trouble working out what’s going on. You hesitate, often for only a moment, but it’s the moment that counts. I was green as snot but fortunately Special Agent Reynolds was not.
A hand grabbed the back of my coverall and yanked me off my feet. At the same time there was a bright flash just to my right and a bang that was so loud it was like being slapped in the ear with a telephone directory.
I went back down – shouting. There were three more flashes, three more bangs, mercifully muffled by the water this time. I came back up spluttering and froze.
Reynolds was kneeling beside me, shoulders square and a black semiautomatic pistol held in a professional two-handed grip aimed up the sewer. Kumar was crouched down behind me, his hand on my shoulder in an effort to restrain me from leaping up and making a target of myself.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I asked Reynolds.
‘Returning fire,’ she said calmly.
Her pistol had one of the little back torches slung under the barrel and I followed its beam back to the intersection eight or so metres ahead. I remembered the first flash and bang.
