The Underground City Read online

Neil and Clara sat in subdued silence round the fire that evening. Mrs MacGregor, the school janitor’s wife, who had been looking after Mischief for the weekend, had brought her back and the little cat, glad to be home, was stretched out blissfully on the hearth.

  “If she gets any closer, I’m sure her fur will singe,” Neil grinned, looking up from a book.

  Mischief opened one eye and looked at him before shutting it again and stretching herself lazily.

  “I swear that cat understands everything we say,” mused Neil.

  A scrabbling noise made them turn and Clara got to her feet as Kitor nudged his ungainly way through the cat flap in the window and fluttered towards her.

  “Kitor,” she cried as he landed on her shoulder. “I wondered where you’d got to!”

  “I thought I’d just give the hill the once over in case there was anything your dad should know about. Especially while the MacArthurs are in Turkey,” croaked the crow, settling his wings and cocking a wary eye at Mischief who sat up, looked at him balefully through slitted, green eyes, and started to clean herself minutely.

  Although they had tried, neither Neil nor Clara had ever been able to work out how they managed to understand Kitor, for he certainly wasn’t speaking English as such. Somehow his croaks and caws formed words that they could hear in their heads but the sound, as Clara pointed out, didn’t seem to come through their ears.

  “School again tomorrow?” croaked Kitor, his bright, black eyes looking at the scatter of exercise books on the table.

  “Only in the morning,” Neil said. “I’ve got a school trip in the afternoon.”

  “So you have,” said Clara, looking up. “Mary King’s Close! I’d forgotten about that!”

  “Mary King’s Close?” queried the crow. “Does it still exist?”

  “It’s buried underneath the High Street,” Neil explained to the crow. “When the plague came to Edinburgh a lot of the old town was sealed off and new houses were built on top of the old ones. Miss Mackenzie was telling us that there’s a real network of old streets and alleyways under Edinburgh.”

  “An Underground City,” Clara breathed. “It’d be great to explore it.”

  “I don’t know about that,” frowned her brother. “Graham Flint said that there are closed cellars down there that still have skeletons in them and the Council won’t open them up in case the plague gets out and infects people.”

  Clara frowned doubtfully. “Trust Graham to come up with something like that,” she said. “It is supposed to be haunted, though, isn’t it? The newspapers were full of it when the Close first opened. Lots of people said they were pushed by invisible hands!”

  “I’d forgotten that,” said Neil, sitting up straight, his brown eyes gleaming with excitement. “I think I’ll wear my firestone tomorrow! Then, if there are any ghosts, I might be able to see them!”

  Kitor shifted uncomfortably on his claws. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” the crow said seriously. “Ghosts and magic don’t really mix. Ghosts are spirits of the dead, you know; they’re not magic people like the MacArthurs and they could harm you.”

  Clara looked at Kitor doubtfully but, even as she did so, she knew that Neil wouldn’t take the crow’s advice. The thought of being able to see ghosts had brought a sparkle to his eyes and although he laughed and said he didn’t believe in them, she was quite sure that he would wear his firestone to school the next day.

  3. Mary King’s Close

  “I tell you, he can see us,” Mary King snapped in exasperation. “His eyes have been following us around ever since he came into the Close.”

  The ghosts eyed one another uncertainly. “But, Mistress King, how can he see us? He’s just a boy and he’s human. How can he see us when the others can’t?”

  “How should I know?” Mary King replied. “I only know that he can.”

  “Could he help us sort out the other lot, do you think?” muttered a ghost, known to all and sundry as “the old Codger.”

  “You mean Murdo and Wullie?” Mary King looked serious as she turned her mind to this other, more pressing, problem.

  “Well,” the old Codger pointed out reasonably. “We’ve tried everything in our power to get rid of them, haven’t we? Pushing them around, freezing them solid, the lot … and nothing’s made any difference. They still come back every night.”

  A pretty, young ghost twirled a lock of hair around her long fingers. “At least this boy might be able to talk to them,” she pointed out.

  “Clarinda’s right,” agreed Mr Rafferty, a tall ghost who sported a curly white wig and a suit of elegant gold brocade. “I think we should ask him if he can do anything. Murdo and Wullie are getting just a wee bit too close to the Plague People for my liking!”

  This produced a fearful silence as they looked at one another in horror, for the Plague People were something else. Each and every ghost knew that should the drifting, boil-encrusted horrors escape from their sealed prisons in the Underground City, they would not only infect the people of Edinburgh with the Black Death but they themselves would be affected and fade away completely. The ghosts, shuddering at the thought of losing what was left of their substance, turned questioningly to Mary King.

  “As you say, Mr. Rafferty, they are getting too close,” she said, pondering the matter. “I suppose we could talk to this boy. At least it’s worth a try!”

  And with that, all the ghosts turned and looked at Neil speculatively.

  Neil looked back at them and shivered. He had seen their lips moving and although he was too far away to hear what they were saying, he could guess that they were talking about him. They must have realized that he could see them. He swallowed hard. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea after all to wear his firestone, for from the moment he’d stepped into Mary King’s Close, he had been able to see the ghosts perfectly and they scared the living daylights out of him. He hadn’t really given much thought to what it would be like to see a ghost, nor had he had any concrete idea of what a ghost might actually look like. He’d supposed, again vaguely, that perhaps they’d be the sort of drifting white shapes he’d seen in films but the reality took his breath away. They were awful.

  “Boooo!” Neil’s heart pounded and he gave the most enormous start.

  “Scared of ghosties, Neil!” crowed Graham Flint as his mates burst out laughing.

  Miss Mackenzie turned and at the sight of Neil’s white face, beckoned to Graham who sauntered idly up to her.

  “Do you wish to stay here and take the tour with the rest of the class, Graham?” she asked.

  “Yes, please, Miss.”

  “Then we’ll have no more … silly behaviour,” she said sternly. “Honestly,” she said to the tour guide, who had introduced himself as Stan, “I sometimes despair of this class!”

  Stan, dressed for the part in a black velvet coat, knee breeches, a ruffled shirt and buckled shoes, had already raised covert giggles and sly nudges from Graham Flint’s little gang and was on the alert for trouble. On the plump side, he had an engaging grin and looked kindly at Neil. “They all try it on,” he said, comfortingly. “Don’t let it worry you, laddie. If there are any ghosts here I’ll eat my hat, I promise you!”

  Two or three ghosts, who had been hovering angrily around Graham Flint, creased up at this remark and Neil gave a sickly smile. It was just as well, he reckoned, that Stan wasn’t wearing a hat.

  “You’re not looking very well, Neil,” Miss Mackenzie frowned, looking at him searchingly. “You can wait upstairs if you want. It’s really quite airless down here,” she added with a shiver. “To tell you the truth I feel a bit strange myself.”

  As two perfectly horrible ghosts were standing at her elbow, Neil wasn’t at all surprised that she felt a bit strange. They looked reasonably solid for ghosts but as they had just drifted through a brick wall he knew they were, as Kitor had said, spirits of the dead. The two men were dressed like Stan, in old-fashioned coats and breeches, but many of the others that were drifting in and out wore rags fit only for scarecrows. There were women, too, he noticed. Some were quite respectably dressed but many were thin hags that hugged tattered shawls round their skinny frames, their faces drawn and grey. It was their eyes that frightened Neil the most, however, for they weren’t proper eyes but black holes that had no depth.

  Neil gulped and shook his head. “I’ll be all right, Miss Mackenzie,” he assured her.

  Stan gathered them together and led them through a passage into the next house. As they followed him, Neil was glad that Miss Mackenzie had stayed beside him for there seemed to be more ghosts than ever drifting round the rooms and just as he was quite sure that they had come to see what he looked like, he also knew that he was the only one who could see them.

  The first indication Neil had that the ghosts were on his side was when a hefty ghost gave Graham Flint an equally hefty push that knocked him into a wall.

  “Who did that?” he yelled. “Miss Mackenzie! Somebody pushed me!”

  Miss Mackenzie looked round. “But Graham,” she said, “the only people near you are your … er … best friends …”

  This was very obviously true, even to Graham. He glowered at them accusingly. “Which one of you was it?” he demanded furiously.

  “It wasn’t me!” they all chorused together.

  Miss Mackenzie’s lips twisted as she hid a smile. “The standard response!” she said to Stan, who was standing beside her, looking puzzled. Now, Stan, who had in his time, taken many school groups round the Close, had immediately written Graham down as a troublemaker and had been keeping a wary eye on him in case he tried to nick any of the exhibits. It so happened that he had been looking in Graham’s direction when he had thumped against the wall and was quite ready to swear that nobody had pushed him.

  Nerves tingling and senses suddenly alert, Stan continued taking them round but it wasn’t long before he realized that this tour was definitely something else. There was nothing he could put his finger on, for the kids looked perfectly normal and attentive; he just knew within himself that something weird was going on. He looked round apprehensively, visited by the oddest notion that somehow they’d travelled back in time; even the set displays seemed to owe more to the seventeenth century than the present day.

  By this time, Neil had discovered that the ghosts were cold. He’d noticed it when he’d walked through one by mistake and then felt a fool as he’d muttered “sorry.” Although he was quite sure that no one else could see them, there was no doubt, he thought, that they were affecting the atmosphere of the place. Stan was no longer as bright and cheery as he had been when they’d started and without being consciously aware of it, the class had drawn together in a tight-knit group as though they could sense the spirits drifting around them.

  Neil saw to his amusement that six burly ghosts were standing firmly round Graham Flint who looked as though he was about to freeze solid. His face was white with cold, the tip of his nose shone red and his eyes were desperate. Then the unthinkable happened. Graham Flint — the tough guy, the bully of the school for as long as Neil could remember — Graham Flint began to cry.

  Miss Mackenzie looked flabbergasted, as well she might. Neil hid a grin and the rest of the class looked alarmed and excited at the same time. We’ll be texting one another about this all evening, thought Neil.

  “It is cold, isn’t it!” Stan tried to make light of the wrenching sobs that emanated from Graham in heaving, hiccupping snorts. “No central heating in those days, I’m afraid,” he announced, rubbing his hands together and deciding there and then to cut the tour short. “Now, we’ll just go through this door here and you’ll be in Mary King’s Close itself.”

  Neil gasped as he stepped into the gloomy, lamp-lit close that curved steeply downhill. A vague mist curled eerily round the houses and the atmosphere was strange, heavy and oppressive. The ghosts were there, too; some clustered in the doorways of the narrow, cobbled alley while others peered at him through the barred windows on either side of the close. He shivered as the grim reality of the seventeenth century curled about him; for although picturesque, it was an old, old street that spoke of grinding poverty and deprivation. It petered off into distant darkness and, looking up between the high walls, Neil saw that there was no strip of sky to lighten the gloom; just the dark outline of beams and stones.

  “Those are the foundations of the City Chambers,” Stan said quietly, thankful that the tour was over at last. “They didn’t bother to demolish the old city in these days. They just built right over it.”

  It was time to go. Miss Mackenzie fussed around counting them all. Never, she thought, had a class formed a neater, straighter line faster than this one. They all looked cold, pinched and, like herself, desperately anxious to leave. Neil stood beside Stan at the end of the line and was just about to move off when he saw the writing on the wall and froze as he read what it said.

  “Come on, laddie. It’s time to go,” Stan gestured encouragingly as the rest of the class moved off.

  Neil didn’t hear him. He stood rooted to the ground for, written in huge letters in a blood-red, glowing script that covered the walls of the houses, was a message. A message for him.

  Neil. Come again. We need your help.

  Mary King.

  4. The Well at Al Antara

  Lewis Grant bumped over the sand track in the 4x4 feeling excited and, if the truth be told, more than a little scared. Despite his boasts, he wasn’t nearly as confident about driving on his own as he’d let on to Peter and the gang. So far, however, all had gone well. He’d often been to Al Antara in the past and he more or less knew the route — anyhow, there was no way he was going to get lost.

  Nevertheless, as the track wound its way steadily across stretches of open desert, he started to worry for it was turning out to be a much longer journey than he’d remembered. But then, he supposed, when they’d been on desert picnics, he’d always been with friends; talking all the way without really looking at the scenery.

  He drove on, clutching the steering wheel tightly and wishing that he’d never agreed to the ridiculous dare but when he topped a rise and saw before him the long, low, black tents of a bedouin encampment, he triumphantly punched the air with both hands; for beyond it he glimpsed the palm trees that marked the oasis of Al Antara.

  He’d forgotten about the Arabs but wasn’t particularly bothered about them as he knew they never went near the village at night. Most of them worked for the oil company anyway. Nevertheless, he took care to bypass the tents at a distance so that no one would see that it wasn’t a man in the driving seat. The bedouin, however, are noted for their razor-sharp eyesight and as the sheikh of the tribe watched the vehicle bump its way towards Al Antara, he looked thoughtful. The driver was a boy — in itself disturbing — and he was heading for the oasis.

  “Ya, Hassan,” he beckoned to one of his sons. “Take the pick-up and go to the office of Mr Williams. Tell him that this vehicle …” he wrote the number on a piece of paper and handed it to him, “this vehicle, driven by a boy, is heading for Al Antara. He is on his own and I am worried for him. It’ll start to get dark soon …”

  Hassan’s face suddenly changed to one of alarm. “Father, look! A shimaal!” He pointed a quivering finger in the direction of the distant township.

  Sheikh Rashid swung round and let out a yell that echoed round the tents.

  “Shimaal! Shimaal!” His words rang round the camp. Sand was hastily thrown over the fires and children, animals and anything moveable was grabbed and thrust into the relative safety of the tents as the sandstorm swept down on them, the billowing clouds of dust and grit shutting out the sunlight as it rolled in a furious, swirling mass across the desert, carrying everything before it.

  Lewis drove on towards Al Antara and so anxious was he to get there before darkness fell that he forgot to look in his rear-view mirror, thus missing the dreadful sight of the approaching storm billowing in behind him. The first hint that something was wrong was when the palm trees at Al Antara disappeared. He blinked. It was impossible. They had been there, just a few hundred yards away, as clear as crystal, and now they had gone. Then a burst of wind hit the car and within seconds the vehicle was surrounded by whirling clouds of sand that quite successfully blotted out both desert and sky and reduced his world to the inside of the 4x4. Driving was impossible. He put on the brakes hastily and switched off the engine. Now what was he going to do?

  The shimaal hit the oil-company township just as Brian was preparing to take the boys to Al Antara. He grinned at them as they loaded their gear into the jeep and hid a smile at the stuff they’d brought. He actually had no intention of letting Lewis stay in Al Antara all night and once the boys had had their joke, he’d get Lewis to follow him back to the township. But if they really thought they were going to scare him with their collection of Halloween masks and ghost costumes, they were, he reckoned, doomed to disappointment. Stuff like that wouldn’t faze Lewis for a minute.

  At that moment, a strong gust of wind swept through the garden, bending the palm trees and blasting them with a wave of choking, dusty grit.

  Colin grabbed at Peter in an effort to stay on his feet. “What’s happening?” he gasped, hardly able to see as the sand got into his eyes and up his nose.

  “It’s a sandstorm,” gasped Peter. “A shimaal.”

  “Quick, everyone,” Brian snapped. “Back into the house. There’s no way we can travel in this!”

  Once inside, they watched from the window as the shimaal howled and screamed round the house like a banshee with whooping cough. Brian looked worried and reached for the phone. His mother and father were visiting friends but he knew he had to tell them what had happened so that the company could send out rescue teams. His heart sank. What they were going to say when he told them that Lewis Grant, of all people, was stuck out in the desert in the middle of a shimaal, he didn’t know — but he could guess.