Lost

“Yes,” he replies, emerging again. He's holding a book in his hand. “That's my cubbyhole. Do you want to come in?”

“I don't think I'll fit. What have you got there?”

“A book. It used to be hers but it's mine now.”

“Can I have a look?”

He hands it to me reluctantly. The front cover is tattered and chewed at the edges but I can still make out the illustration of a mother duck and ducklings. On the inside cover there is a large label with a scrolled border. Written on it is “Michaela Carlyle, 41⁄2.”

The story is about the five little ducks that go out one day, over the hills and far away. The mother duck says, “Quack, quack, quack, quack,” but only four little ducks come back. The ducklings disappear one by one but on the final page they all return.

Handing the book back to him, I slide to my knees and put my head on the floor, peering into the gap between the boiler and the brickwork.

“It's dark in there.”

“I have a light.”

“Is that running water I can hear?”

“My dad says there's a river down there.”

“Where?”

He gives me a thumbs-down and I look at his feet. A sudden chill rushes through me, like ice at the roots of my hair.

Dragging aside half bags of plaster and cement, I find a frayed square of carpet, folded twice. Pulling it back I reveal a metal grate with perpendicular bars embedded into the stone floor. Pressing my face close, I try to peer between them. My eyes follow the bricks downward, along walls that seem to be weeping black tears. I can hear water gurgling below as if filling a giant cistern.

The boy is still talking but I'm no longer listening. We should have found this three years ago. We weren't looking for tunnels and the noise of the search would have drowned out the sound of water.

“What's your name?”

“Timothy.”

“Can I borrow your flashlight, Timothy?”

“Sure.”

Although not powerful, it illuminates an extra six feet of the shaft. I can't see the bottom.

Hooking my fingers between the bars, I try to lift the grate. It's wedged into place. Looking around for a lever, I find an old blunt chisel with a broken handle. Sliding it into the gap between metal and stone, I work it from side to side, pushing it deeper. Then I force the chisel sideways, leaning my weight against it. The grate lifts just enough for me to squeeze my fingers beneath one edge. Christ it's heavy!

Timothy gives me a hand as we push it past vertical and let it drop with a clatter. He leans over and peers into the square black pit.

“Wow! Are you gonna go down there?”

I shine the flashlight into the hole. Instead of penetrating the darkness the light seems to bounce back at me. There are U-shaped handholds down one side.

“I'm a police officer,” I tell the boy, taking my wallet from my pocket and giving him a business card. “Have you a watch, Timothy?”

“No.”

“OK, do you know how long an hour is?”

“Yeah.”

“If I haven't come to find you within an hour, I want you to give this card to your mum and ask her to call this number.” I write down the Professor's details. “Tell him where I went. Do you understand?”

He nods.

Tucking the flashlight into my belt, I lower myself into the hole. Within a few feet I am soaking wet and the sound of running water is constant. The boy is still there. I can see his head silhouetted against the square of light.

“Go upstairs now, Timothy. Don't come down here again.”

Fifteen feet down I pause, holding on to a metal rung with one hand and aiming the light below me. Nothing.

I descend farther, feeling the air grow colder, until my foot strikes something flat and hard. The light picks up a river rushing through a tunnel. A ledge seems to run along the edge, about ten inches above the water in both directions before the light beam disappears into the darkness. This is not a sewer. Large beams support the ceiling and the walls are worn smooth by the current.

I feel my way along the ledge by sliding each foot a few inches, expecting the stonework to collapse at any second and pitch me into the stream. I can pick up only small sections of the tunnel. Tiny yellow lights reflect back at me—the eyes of rats escaping along the ledge.

The moss on the walls is like slick black fur. Pressing my ear against the bricks I feel a slight vibration. Somewhere above my head is a road and traffic. The sound makes the tunnel seem alive, like some ancient, consumptive beast. Breathing. Digesting me.

Time and distance seem longer underground. I feel like I've been down here for hours yet I've probably only traveled a hundred yards. I don't know what I expected to find. Any evidence could never survive—not this long. The tunnel has been swept clean by seasonal downpours and storms.

I try to imagine someone taking Mickey through here. Unconscious she could have been lowered down the pit and then carried. Conscious she would have been terrified and too hard to control. Another possibility catches in my throat. What better way to dispose of a body? The river would sweep it away and the rats would pick it clean.

Shuddering, I push the thought aside.