Going Underground Read online

  Ah, but the problem was: where to look? There was no one within the caravan park—that much had been established. The cemetery, as far as they could tell, was devoid of any living humans, and Knightsbridge was too well protected for their wicked brand of kidnapping.

  That night, the patrolmen were going to have to deviate from their standard route so as not to go back to the office empty-handed—and their victim would not be in any condition to argue his innocence.

  Chapter Three

  Once a rich area, South Kensington now resembled a ghetto, housing the working middle classes who couldn’t afford the over-inflated prices of properties elsewhere. It was just beyond Knightsbridge, and was the ideal place for the patrol to find their victim. No one would be missed if anything were to happen, as sentimentality had long been eradicated from the minds of those who occupied the rundown houses along Queens Gate.

  The patrolmen had moved away from Hyde Park, heading in the direction of South Kensington to claim their victim. They held their rifles to their chests and marched towards their destination in single file. The distinct thud of heavy jackboots on concrete could be heard in every household. Some, out of curiosity, looked out into the street to see what was going on. It was the first time that they had witnessed the patrols act in such a manner, and it brought a sense of fear to those who dared to look beyond the curtains. Thankfully the patrol passed through quickly, much to the relief of the residents.

  Queens Gate was within their sights. The leader of the patrol had stopped suddenly to contemplate his next move, pulling a list out of his trench coat pocket. He had made the original suggestion of deviating for only one reason: the very list he had pulled out. It contained the names of some known political activists the government felt the need to eradicate, and it was a well-known fact that at least one of them was hiding within Queens Gate. The task had been made all the easier for the fact that someone had pinpointed the radical’s position, informing the authorities of their victim’s whereabouts.

  The wanted man was rumoured to be hiding within the remains of the private school for girls. The school, which had housed the cream of society before the war, was situated north of Queens Gate on the corner of Cromwell Road. They had a third of a mile or so to march before they could get their nightly fix of violence.

  As the patrol made their way down the road, they became aware of the fact they were being watched from nearly every window as they passed by. This came as no surprise; they knew they would draw attention to themselves. The fact that they were being watched did not faze them as they approached the school, which sat a little bit further off the road.

  The intended victim hadn’t done himself any favours. Thinking he was safe from persecution, he had lit a fire within his refuge, unaware of the impending danger he was about to face. Quietly, the patrolmen entered the derelict building, following the light, and the smell from the burning embers. The lead patrolman stopped suddenly and turned to face his men.

  ‘The man we are about to arrest goes by the name of Joe Ryerson,’ he said. ‘Be very careful how you approach him. Reconnaissance indicates he has a firearm in his possession. Consider him armed and dangerous!’

  The patrolmen readied their rifles for a potential attack and continued to push forward towards the fire.

  Surreptitiously, two of the patrolmen approached their unsuspecting victim from behind and, without warning, bludgeoned him with the butts of their rifles. Beaten, bloodied and unconscious, Joe Ryerson was dragged from his sanctuary into the bitter night air, and unceremoniously thrown to the ground. The patrol leader made the call to the main office, requesting transport.

  ‘Five minutes!’ replied the gruff voice at the other end of the telecom.

  While they waited, one of the patrol members pulled a set of handcuffs from his utility belt and proceeded to make their reluctant prisoner even more helpless. No sooner had the cuffs gone on his wrists; the van came screeching violently to a halt, narrowly missing the downed prisoner’s head.

  The driver stepped down from the vehicle and made his way round to the back of the van to open the doors. Two patrolmen grabbed either side of the prisoner and hoisted him into the van for transportation to one of the labour camps, unceremoniously dropping him to the floor and slamming the doors behind him.

  ‘Take him to camp four!’ the patrol leader ordered. ‘I know there’s room there!’

  The van driver nodded in response and headed towards the driver’s seat for the hazard-ridden journey ahead. The fact that the camps were so close to the front lines made the journey a life-threatening endeavour, but the driver had been placed into similar situations many times before, and had managed to avoid getting caught on each occasion.

  As the van pulled away, the patrolmen were advised to make their way back towards Hyde Park, and continue on the assigned route for the remainder of their shift. They had had their fill of excitement for one night. Jen could count herself fortunate to escape their brutality that night.

  It was a game of chance as far as Jen was concerned; each day from that moment on had to be strategically planned for the sake of her survival.

  *

  The early morning sun began to filter through the grates of the mausoleum, as dawn broke over London. Jen had been awake for a little over an hour, watching as it got lighter.

  Jen had not eaten properly in days, and it was beginning to take its toll. She knew it was safe to move out of the mausoleum, but she knew she was now marked for arrest. This cruel fact would make it difficult for her to try and visit Myron, but then she thought to herself: why would I want to? By not following her the night before, Myron had proved to her that he had no backbone—opting to scuttle back to his unhappy and uneventful life within the academy. Myron had, on one occasion, expressed the wish to have a little excitement in his life, but when it came to it, he had slunk away with his tail between his legs.

  Jen was still disappointed by his lack of commitment to escaping the colourless, regimented world of the academy, but she wasn’t about to give up on the idea of Myron finally having the gumption to do the right thing. Her main concern at that moment was to find food—anything that looked remotely edible. Jen was beyond fussy, to the point of eating road kill raw, if she had to. But whether or not she would go that far was another matter entirely. I talk tough, she scolded herself, but like Myron, when push comes to shove, would I have the guts to go through with it?

  Jen walked across to the concealed exit of the mausoleum, pulling away part of the bindweed that covered it to see if the coast was clear. So far, so good. Jen walked back towards her little crevice to retrieve Oscar Saracen’s coat to alleviate the early morning chill, still thinking of the poor sod’s fate as she put it around her shoulders. Making her way back towards the exit, Jen contemplated her day. As a wanted woman, keeping out of public view was paramount. In addition to food, water was another essential Jen lacked. Her mouth was dry; the thirst was too much to bear. Within the caravan park there was an external, communal tap that everybody had used to fill their kettles or drink from, as the water in the caravans themselves wasn’t potable and was really only suitable for bathing.

  *

  Jen left the serenity of the mausoleum and headed straight for the caravan park to find the tap, hoping the water would still flow. But like everything else, the likelihood of the water mains still being on in that desolate place was very slim.

  Slowly and stealthily, Jen made her way through the hole in the wall and then headed down the well-worn footpath toward the tap. Apart from the pipe being slightly bent, the tap seemed to be intact.

  With a few feet to go, Jen threw caution to the wind and ran over to the dripping tap. The drip was a good sign; it meant that there was water—even if only a little. Jen turned the tap on urgently, but the lack of water pressure produced only a trickle. Jen didn’t mind that it was going to take her twice as long to get a decent drink, as long as she got one. She cupped her hands and scooped the ice-cold, refr
eshing water into her mouth, dousing her sun-dried skin with the reviving liquid as well. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted an old pop bottle covered by grass. She reached for it and rinsed it out as best she could, thinking it wise to take some water for the rest of her journey.

  *

  Jen scurried towards Hyde Park, hoping to find something edible after rummaging through the many bins that the park harboured. Again, as on the day of Oscar Saracen’s arrest, there was a gathering, but this one seemed different: a lot angrier—a lynch mob kind of angry. Jen crept closer to the root of the commotion.

  Every now and again, the government would parade the recently arrested collaborators and war criminals through the park. To many, they were one and the same: they were both the enemy and deserved the same fate. The government frowned upon collaborators; many thought they were worse than the enemy and treated them very differently in terms of punishment.

  Jen made her way towards the front of the parade, looking at the beaten faces of the prisoners, male and female alike. She gasped when a familiar face stood out from the rest. Lavinia had been rounded up for being a collaborator! Lavinia had pleaded her innocence throughout her interrogation, but her pleas were not heard. She had been sentenced to time in one of the labour camps, with her execution pending. She would spend up to three years in the camp before her execution ultimately occurred.

  For once in her life, Lavinia was scared of what lay ahead. Jen appeared emotionless as she watched the angry mob pelting her mother and the others with small rocks and rotten fruit. She only watched for a moment before turning away from her mother—for what may have been the last time.

  Careless about her own safety, Jen made her way towards the perimeter of the park to continue her quest for food. She was in as much danger as the people being paraded like animals, but she couldn’t care less, as profound hunger overrode her common sense. Myron had been among the crowd, watching the parade and catching sight of Jen in the process. He left to follow her a short time later.

  *

  Jen found a sausage roll that had been opened, but had only one bite taken out of it. It appeared to still be fresh. Whoever had put it in the bin had covered what was left with its wrapper. Jen checked it over hastily, but her hunger took over and the whole roll disappeared into her mouth to be consumed in one joyous bite. Jen closed her eyes, savouring the taste of the delicious morsel in her mouth before it journeyed to her famished stomach.

  Myron watched the scene with amusement. He approached Jen from behind and placed his hands playfully over her eyes. Jen somehow knew that it was Myron, and remained calm, taking hold of his hands and pulling them across her chest.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Myron,’ she said softly, without turning around. ‘What happened last night? I thought you were coming with me.’

  Myron tightened his arms and placed his chin on Jen’s right shoulder. ‘I couldn’t do it,’ he sighed. ‘My father would have had me hunted down, and God knows what would have happened to you!’

  Jen understood his predicament, being in a similar situation. Myron needed to know where she had made her new home. He knew that she was no longer living at the abandoned warehouse, as he had overheard colleagues saying the patrols were looking for the owner of a tracking bracelet. They also said they were waiting for that person to return to the warehouse to collect a bag. The academy was full of gossipmongers, desperate for anything that would brighten up their days—no matter how trivial.

  ‘Everybody knows about the tracking bracelet, but I don’t know how they got the information,’ said Myron. ‘You need to keep lying low; it isn’t good for you to keep coming out into the open.’

  Myron’s voice was full of concern, but Jen laughed it off. She found being on the lam exciting—and highly amusing.

  Myron spun Jen around to face him. ‘Why are you laughing?’ he demanded. ‘You do realise you’re on a wanted list?’

  Jen frowned; her laughter turned to frustration at Myron’s annoyance of her reckless handling of her situation.

  ‘Yes! I know I’m on their soddin’ list—but they can’t stop me from living,’ she retorted defiantly. ‘Don’t worry about me, Myron—I’ll be fine,’ she added more calmly.

  Myron hid his fear for her safety by throwing a wry smile.

  In the few moments since they had met again, Jen hadn’t once mentioned the fact that her mother was among those being paraded—she had no intention of sharing this information with Myron. She showed no emotion that would prompt Myron to ply her with questions. As far as she was concerned, her mother was already dead. All she wanted to do was concentrate on the present and her time with Myron, putting out of her mind the fact that she was on a wanted list, and the danger that came with it.

  *

  Jen took hold of Myron’s outstretched hand, wondering where he intended to take her. Myron had been re-evaluating the situation regarding absconding the academy and making a life with Jen. He ran through the pros and cons in his mind, and the cons outweighed the pros considerably. One of the foremost problems was that they would be breaking the law as far as class relationships were concerned. Myron’s father was another formidable obstacle. But all things considered, he would rather spend time with Jen than waste another minute within the academy. Myron shared his thoughts with Jen, making her deliriously happy, as it was what she had wanted in the first place. Yes, they had only been together for the briefest of moments, but there was a connection—something that couldn’t be denied.

  ‘I’ve found us somewhere else to live,’ Myron told Jen. ‘Come, let me show you.’

  Myron pulled her away from Hyde Park, and they headed towards South Kensington. Myron told Jen of a derelict school that lay at the north end of Queens Gate. Jen, never having had a reason to go that far, wasn’t familiar with this part of London—and the fact that she would not have been allowed to set foot upon middle-class or upper-class ground without a permit. Jen was excited by the fact that she would be rebelling against the system even further—breaking another one of the inane rules that she had been forced to abide by. She was quite eager to arrive at their new dwelling—the weather had taken a sharp turn, and she couldn’t wait to get out of the cold.

  In the distance, the prisoners were being forced into the transport that would take them to the camps. Neither Myron nor Jen turned to look. Myron suggested that they separate in order to avoid suspicion. He let go of Jen’s hand and walked fifty yards ahead. Jen could just about make out Myron in the distance as she followed him at a leisurely pace. He had given her directions to the school, if by some chance they did lose sight of each other.

  Again, suspicious eyes peered from behind curtains as Myron made his way down Queens Gate. He sensed the disapproving stares but chose not to look towards any windows to satisfy his curiosity. Jen looked up at certain windows, but the curtains fell back into place the instant she did. Jen had nothing to be concerned about; for one, it was still daylight, so she couldn’t be reported for breaking curfew; and for another, the people living down that street were just as much at risk as she was, as it had already been proven. The Queens Gate residents were being vigilant after the previous evening’s activities; none of them wished to end up in the same place as Joe Ryerson.

  *

  Myron entered the school to the smell of damp, and of deadwood from the fire that had obviously been burning until the early hours of that very day. He followed the smell of burnt wood, expecting to find someone nearby, but all he found upon arrival was a blanket and a trail of blood leading back the way he had come. Myron had figured out what happened, remembering his father’s accounts of the methods patrols would undertake just to fill an evening’s quota. It sickened him to think that they had the power to get away with it, but it was the likes of Sir John Cutter that were agreeing to this barbarism—which grated at Myron even more than the fact it was being done in the first place.

  The area was in a bad state, but it would do for now. Myron started doing a bit
of housekeeping in preparation for Jen’s arrival, trying to make it look a little less like a slum. A sudden crash in the distance forced Myron to stop momentarily, but instead of hiding, he assumed it was Jen approaching, and nobody else. Who else but Jen could it be? Myron’s concerns were put to rest as Jen peered around the corner, holding her hands over her face to overcome the smell of damp and burnt wood.

  Jen appeared relieved she had made it to the school at all. The residents of Queens Gate had given her cause for concern as they stared down at her from their bedroom windows.

  ‘Is there any other way to get here?’ Jen asked, shuddering. ‘I don’t like coming down that road, it gives me the creeps!’

  ‘There is, but it’s a longer trek,’ Myron replied. ‘I’ll show you tomorrow.’ He saw the distress in Jen’s eyes and added, ‘Don’t worry, Jen, everything is going to be fine. I won’t let any harm come to you. I promise.’

  Jen smiled. There was something in his newfound confidence that made her believe him.

  While Jen explored their surroundings, Myron started to build a fresh fire out of chair legs that he had found lying around, and propaganda leaflets, which would at least be useful as kindling.

  Jen hadn’t found anything of great importance on her expedition either, but on returning to Myron, she noticed that he had found some of the same leaflets that she had in her pockets.

  ‘I found exactly the same leaflets in the mausoleum—maybe there is a ring of political activists,’ Jen speculated. ‘See this coat I’m wearing? It belonged to the guy who was arrested that day in the park.’