The Underground City, page 12
In the wings, the producer looked at his watch and turned to the Stage Manager. “Has the paint on that big mirror dried yet?” he asked.
“Should’ve done! I’ll just get Sandy and Alfie to bring it upstairs. It weighs a ton and a half!”
Neil barely heard them as he turned to go back to the dressing room. He hadn’t been made up yet and reckoned that Clara must be nearly finished. In his anxiety to get back, however, Neil missed a sight that would have set his pulses racing; for barely five minutes later, two burly stage hands carried a huge mirror up the stairs from the cellar. Casimir, the Sultan, the MacArthurs, Sir James — all of them would have recognized it immediately. It was over seven feet tall and its iron frame was decorated with carvings of flowers, birds and strange animals. It was a magic mirror!
The paint shop had done a grand job the Stage Manager thought as he looked it over; the drab frame, now covered in layers of gold paint, shone brilliantly and its mirrored surface, he reckoned, would reflect the stage lighting nicely. It had been a real find and just what was needed to give an extra buzz to the bazaar scene. Had he known just how big a buzz the mirror was going to give the bazaar scene, he would have sent it straight back down to the cellars there and then but, as he didn’t, he waved a casual hand. “Stack it in that corner over there,” he told Alfie. “We’re using it for the Lashkari Bazaar scene!”
“Sorry I’m late,” Jock MacPherson apologized as he squeezed along the row of people to sit beside his wife. “I got held up at the bank!”
Archie Thompson gave a wry smile as Jock settled in his seat with a sigh, glad he’d made it before the performance began. How often, thought the Chief Constable, had he been in the same position himself! He looked at his watch. “Still five minutes to curtain-up, Jock,” he said comfortably. “Busy, these days, are you?”
“Frantically,” was the reply. “Been doing nothing but sign papers all evening. We’re modernizing a lot of the branches at the moment and while it saves time to do them all in one fell swoop, so to speak, the amount of organization is tremendous. Got to stash the cash somewhere, eh!”
Sir Archie’s eyes sharpened and a stab of worry shot through him. “May I ask where you’ve … er … stashed it?”
Jock MacPherson turned in his seat and looked him warily in the eye. “Do you have a reason for asking, Archie?”
The Chief Constable nodded. “I do, as it happens.”
“In the vaults on the Mound.”
Archie Thompson paled and reached for his mobile. “How much?” he asked.
“Well … millions,” was the somewhat guarded reply.
“The devil there is,” muttered the Chief Constable as he got to his feet. “Come on, Jock. I’ll catch up with you at the bank! If my information is correct, we’re in for a busy night!”
The Chief Constable wasted no time. He flashed his ID at the pass door, headed back stage and collared the first person in authority that he saw.
“Where are the two kids that act as pages to Matt Lafferty?” he asked the Stage Manager.
Neil, however, had seen the Chief Constable. “Sir Archie’s here,” he whispered to Clara as the Stage Manager pointed in their direction.
“I think he wants to talk to us,” Clara said as the kilted figure strode towards them.
“Neil,” Sir Archie said, drawing them to one side and coming straight to the point, “what do you know about the bank robbers that are planning to rob the bank on the Mound?”
Neil looked startled. This was quite a different Sir Archie to the one they knew. He was using his official voice and it was obvious that the matter was urgent.
“They’ve found a way into the bank through the Underground City,” he replied. “They’ve got an old map that shows all the streets.”
“They get in through the cellars of Deacon Brodie’s Tavern,” Clara added, “and they’ve cleared all the alleyways down to the bank.”
“You don’t, by any chance, know who they are and when they plan to carry out this robbery, do you?” queried Sir Archie.
“Well, I think it might have been planned for tonight,” Neil said hesitantly, remembering what the old Codger had said. “But they won’t get anything, will they?” he added doubtfully. “Dad told me that the building’s a museum.”
“Can you describe the men to me?”
“There are two of them,” Neil answered. “Murdo and Wullie.”
“That pair!” muttered the Chief Constable.
“And there’s a third man now called Tammy Souter,” added Clara. “At least that’s what the ghosts said.”
“Tammy Souter?” exclaimed Sir Archie, “well, well,” he said, punching numbers into his mobile, “we know all about him!” Then he stopped and did a spectacular double-take. “That’s what who said?” he asked, in disbelief.
“The ghosts from Mary King’s Close,” Neil answered. “They’re not really worried about the bank but they’re afraid the crooks might let the Plague People out by mistake. The cellars that hold them are quite close to where they’re working.”
“It’s the Plague People they’re worried about,” Clara nodded, looking scared. “Mary King said that if they get out they’ll … they’ll bring the Black Death back to Edinburgh!”
20. The Big Bang
I won’t tell you what Murdo, Wullie and Tammy Souter said when they first clapped eyes on the ghosts but to say that they used very, very bad language is putting it mildly! Mind you, they were scared out of their minds, which I suppose is some excuse. Murdo, certainly, turned as white as a sheet and Tammy Souter looked much the same, if not worse.
Wullie was actually too scared to speak at all. He just looked utterly petrified as the ghosts, now visible, floated through the walls and drifted down the alleys in all their dreadful glory. Pressing himself against the wall of one of the houses, he covered his face with his hands and peered out between his fingers as the ghosts howled around them in freezing blasts of cold air. Murdo took a swing at them with his pick and Tammy tried walloping them with a shovel but it didn’t do any good, for although the ghosts looked solid enough, they were misty and insubstantial at the same time.
Wullie gave a horrified moan as an old hag screamed threateningly in front of him, her empty eyes staring and her clawed hands grasping at his face. It was too much. He let out a yell of terror and took off into the alleys at a speed that would have put an Olympic runner to shame. Murdo saw him go and with a muttered curse, dropped his pick and charged after him.
“Wullie, you fool,” he yelled, “Wullie, come back here, will you!”
Wullie, totally panic-stricken, took not the slightest bit of notice and streaked unseeing through the narrow streets of the Underground City. Such was his blind terror that he neither knew nor cared where he was going nor, as it happened, where he was putting his feet, and, as the rubble-strewn alleys were an open invitation to disaster, it wasn’t long before his headlong flight was brought to an abrupt end when he tripped over a scatter of bricks and fell flat on his face.
Murdo ran up, panting and cursing furiously. He grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and heaved him up. “You gormless idiot,” he panted. “You complete nutter! Where do you think you’re going? Get lost in these alleys and you’ll never find your way out!”
Wullie started to shake. “It’s the ghosts,” he snuffled tearfully. “I’m scared, Murdo!”
“We’re all scared,” Murdo confessed, “but, don’t you understand, we’ve got to stick together. If they separate us and get us on our own, it’ll be a lot more than scary, believe me!”
Wullie, six feet of shivering terror, stood undecided but it was the thought of being lost, alone and at the mercy of the ghosts that eventually served to concentrate his mind and, although petrified, he saw the point of what Murdo was saying. “Aye,” he quavered, “you’re maybe right at that!”
“I am right,” asserted Murdo grimly. “Now come on!” he urged. “We’ve got to stand by Tammy Souter or he’ll never help us do a job again!”
They found Tammy Souter curled up on the floor of the alley surrounded by a hoard of screaming ghosts. The noise they were making was something awful. Wullie stopped and seemed to change his mind about walking any further.
“Look,” Murdo said urgently, giving him a shake, “just look at them! They can howl and scream all they like but, think about it, Wullie; nothing’s really changed.”
“What do you mean?” moaned a petrified Wullie.
“The only difference is that we can see them and hear them,” Murdo said patiently. “I know they’re enough to scare the life out of anybody but they’re not able to do anything to us, are they? Look at Tammy! All they’re doing is screaming their heads off at him!”
And Wullie had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that this was, indeed, the case.
Murdo strode through the ghosts and yanked a petrified Tammy Souter to his feet. “That’s enough, Tammy,” he said in a voice of steel. “These ghosts can make all the racket they like but haven’t you realized yet that they can’t hurt us? Now, you’ve got a job to do. Get on with it!” And with that, he pushed a fearful Tammy towards the massive hole in the red-brick wall where the metal casing of the vault gleamed dully in the dim light of the lantern.
“You get on with your job,” Murdo said abruptly, “and Wullie and I will stand at your back. We’ll no’ let the ghosts near you. Okay?”
“Aye,” said Wullie, trying to sound brave. “We’ll protect you, Tammy!”
“And the quicker you are, the quicker we’ll be out of here!” snapped Murdo.
Now, Tammy Souter had always prided himself on his quick, neat work. He was a pro and valued his reputation. Not only that, he could already hear himself boasting in the pub for years to come about the night he did a bank job with ghosts howling at his elbow. The thought of the pub did much to calm his trembling nerves and helped him bring his mind to bear on the vault. Shutting out the fiendish howls of the ghosts, his nimble fingers went to work until the explosives were in place. “Nearly finished,” he muttered, “just the fuse and the detonator to go!”
Mary King, when she appeared, did not notice the detonator and, indeed, wouldn’t have known what it was, even if she had.
Murdo knew that something was going on when the ghosts stopped their banshee wailing and fell quiet. He looked up the alley and saw a little group of ghosts approaching. The leader was a woman wearing a long dress, a shawl and a bonnet. She stopped about three feet from them and all the ghosts crowded in behind her.
“My name’s Mary King,” she said.
“Really?” Murdo looked at her in surprise. He had heard of Mary King’s Close. Indeed, it was marked on his map.
“I must ask you to leave the Underground City,” she said sternly. “You don’t know it but you are very close to the cellars where the ghosts of the Plague People are imprisoned.”
“The Plague People?” Murdo stiffened and looked at her in dawning understanding. He had wondered at the meaning of the tiny skull and crossbone drawings that decorated part of his map.
“They mustn’t get out,” she said. “They sense that you are close to them, you know, and are desperate to be free! If they do get out, they will infect you and the city with the Black Death. Do you understand?”
Murdo nodded uneasily. The plague! His blood ran cold at the very mention of the word. “Look, lady,” he began. “Er, I mean, look, Mrs King, we’ve nearly finished here and we’ll be gone in about half an hour. We won’t disturb your Plague People, I assure you and we won’t come back!”
“I have your word on that?”
Murdo nodded. “You have my word,” he said.
Murdo’s word was not, however, what you might call the word of a gentleman. He and Wullie had spent many long hours clearing the alley of rubble and no way was he going to leave the Underground City without the money that lay in the vault.
Mary King, who had inspected the alleyway on her way down, now looked at the hole in the red-brick wall with a sigh of relief. There really didn’t seem to be much damage at all. She nodded. “In that case we will leave you,” she said and, with a wave of her hands, she dispersed the ghosts — leaving Murdo, Wullie and Tammy to watch in awe as they drifted off along the dimly lit passages and through the walls of the houses until not one remained.
“Right,” said Tammy when they were on their own once more. “You’d better take cover while I blow the charge!”
“Er, how much damage will it do?” queried Murdo, mindful of the mention of the Plague People. He gestured to the ceiling above his head. “It won’t bring this lot down on us, will it?”
Tammy looked at him. “Do me a favour, Murdo!” he said. “What do you take me for?”
The explosion was more of a dull thump than a big bang but the shock waves that swept through the Underground City, blew the startled ghosts in all directions. The houses in the narrow alleys quivered and shook under the force of the blast and here and there, cracks appeared and walls crumbled.
The ghosts gathered in fury as they realized what must have happened but Murdo, Wullie and Tammy Souter had forgotten all about them as they waited for the dust to settle before they rushed towards the bank.
21. The Lashkari Bazaar
The first act of the pantomime had been a stunning success and as the curtain rose for the second act, there were gasps from the audience and a spontaneous round of applause, for the set of the Lashkari Bazaar was a glittering confection of oriental splendour. Against a background of blue sky, palm trees and the odd minaret, gold glittered everywhere. Colourfully-dressed vendors hawked their wares from stalls heaped high with goods and pedlars in satin waistcoats and baggy trousers, wandered among them, selling ribbons, trinkets and scarves. The bazaar was also a slave-market and as the curtain rose, the throne on a raised dais to the right of the stage, was being draped in cloth of gold in preparation for the imminent arrival of the Sultan himself.
Matt Lafferty, gorgeously attired in turban, black boots, breeches and the dark purple robes of the Grand Vizier, was in charge of this operation and strode the stage commandingly, staff in hand, his cloak swirling dramatically behind him. His pages, Neil and Clara, armed with wicked-looking, tall spears, wore turbans, tunics and trousers striped in purple and gold.
Matt Lafferty, by this time, had the audience in the palm of his hand; they loved him, roared with laughter at all his jokes and, despite the fact that Ali Baba was supposedly set in Turkey, found nothing unusual in his broad Scots accent.
“Where are they then, ye great oaf?” he shouted, waving his fearsome staff of office at the huge figure of the slave-merchant. “His Magnificence will be here ony minute! Move it, will ye! Get thae lassies ower here, pronto,” he thundered.
It was while the slave-girls were being dragged on that Clara, her eyes roving idly round the stalls in the bazaar, spotted the magic mirror. Her eyes widened in amazement and her heart started to pound. Despite the paint job, she knew it immediately for what it was. A magic mirror! Neil was standing on the other side of the dais and she longed to attract his attention. But she daren’t! She had to stand quietly, looking straight ahead of her during this bit of the scene. Where on earth had the mirror come from, she wondered. She could have sworn it hadn’t been there during the dress rehearsal. And as Ali Baba nipped among the stalls in the market-place, looking for a way to free his girlfriend, Morgana, from the wicked slave-merchant, she wished the scene were over. The MacArthur had to be told about this as soon as possible. And the Sultan, she thought, for wasn’t he due to arrive this very evening from Turkey? Her thoughts were in turmoil.
It wasn’t only Clara who had spotted the magic mirror, however. Casimir homed in on it right away and got such a shock that Lewis sat bolt upright in his seat.
“Are you all right, Lewis?” his mother asked in concern.
“I … I think I have to go to the loo,” he whispered to her. It was Casimir speaking, not him, but since his mother thought he had spoken, he more or less had to go.
“You should have gone at the interval,” she said a trifle crossly at the thought of him having to push his way along the row, disturbing people who were comfortably settled.
“I have to go, Mum. It … it must have been something I ate!”
“Don’t be long, then. You’re missing the show!”
Lewis nodded and apologizing profusely made his way along the row and out into the corridor.
Once in the Gents he headed straight for the mirrors. “Show yourself, Casimir!” he demanded.
Casimir immediately appeared, his normally rather grumpy, old face shining with a mixture of hope and excitement.
“Look, Casimir,” Lewis told him frankly, “if it’s another Shadow thing, I don’t want to know about it! Let the police deal with it for a change. I want to watch Ali Baba and right now I’m missing one of the best bits!”
“Didn’t you see it, Master? Didn’t you see it on the stage?”
“Didn’t I see what on the stage?”
“The mirror, Master! The magic mirror. How could you miss it?”
Lewis frowned and heaved a sigh. He could see from his face that Casimir was in raptures. He was almost crying, blast him! What a time to see the magic mirror! “For heaven’s sake,” he said, “couldn’t you have waited until the end of the act to tell me? We can’t do anything just now, Casimir, not in the middle of the show, we can’t! You’ve dragged me out here for nothing!”
Sir James, as it happened, had spotted the magic mirror as well and as the shock wore off, wondered frantically what he was going to do. Like Clara, he knew that the MacArthur and the Sultan should be told as soon as possible but he found himself in an awkward predicament. He just couldn’t get up and walk out in the middle of the act — it was his production, after all, and would cause comment. People would gossip!
