Neverwhere

Impressive as the market had been to watch, Richard found the speed at which it was being dismantled, broken down, and put away even more impressive. All evidence that it had ever been there was vanishing: stalls were being taken apart, loaded onto people's backs, hauled off into the streets. Richard noticed Old Bailey, his arms filled with his crude signs and with bird cages, stumbling out of the store. The old man waved happily at Richard and vanished off into the night.

The crowds thinned, the market vanished, and almost instantly the ground floor of Harrods looked as usual, as sedate, elegant, and clean as any time he had walked around it in Jessica's wake on a Saturday afternoon. It was as if the market had never existed.

"Hunter," said the marquis. "I've heard of you, of course. Where have you been, all this time?"

"Hunting," she said, simply. Then, to Door. "Can you take orders?"

Door nodded. "If I have to."

"Good. Then maybe I can keep you alive," said Hunter. "If I take the job."

The marquis stopped. His eyes flickered over her, distrustfully. "You said, if you take the job . . . ?"

Hunter opened the door, and they stepped out onto the pavement of London at night. It had rained while they had been at the market, and the streetlights now glimmered on the wet tarmac. "I've taken it," said Hunter.

Richard stared at the glistening street. It all seemed so normal, so quiet, so sane. For a moment, he felt that all he needed to get his life back would be to hail a taxi and tell it to take him home. And then he would sleep the night through in his own bed. But a taxi would not see him or stop for him, and he had nowhere to go, even if one did.

"I'm tired," he said.

No one said anything. Door would not meet his eyes, the marquis was cheerfully ignoring him, and Hunter was treating him as an irrelevance. He felt like a small child, unwanted, following the bigger children around, and that made him irritated. "Look," he said, clearing his throat, "I know you are all very busy people. But what about me?"

The marquis turned and stared at him, eyes huge and white in his dark face. "You?" he said. "What about you?"

"Well," said Richard. "How do I get back to normal again? It's like I've walked into a nightmare. Last week everything made sense, and now nothing makes sense . . . " He trailed off. Swallowed. "I want to know how to get my life back," he explained.

"You won't get it back traveling with us, Richard," said Door. "It's going to be hard enough for you anyway. I . . . I really am sorry."

Hunter, in the lead, knelt down on the pavement. She took a small metal rod from her belt and used it to unlock the cover to a sewer. She pulled up the sewer cover, looked into it warily, climbed down, then ushered Door into the sewer. Door did not look at Richard as she went down. The marquis scratched the side of his nose. "Young man," he said, "understand this: there are two Londons. There's London Above—that's where you lived—and then there's London Below—the Underside—inhabited by the people who fell through the cracks in the world. Now you're one of them. Good night."

He began to climb down the sewer ladder. Richard said, "Wait," and caught the sewer cover before it could close. He followed the marquis down. It smelled like drains at the top of the sewer—a dead, soapy, cabbagey smell. He expected it to get worse as he went down, but instead the smell quickly dissipated as he approached the floor of the sewer. Gray water ran, shallow but fast, along the bottom of the brick tunnel. Richard stepped into it. He could see the lights of the others up ahead, and he ran and splashed down the tunnel until he caught up with them.

"Go away," said the marquis.

"No," he said.

Door glanced up at him. "I am really sorry, Richard," she said.

The marquis stepped between Richard and Door. "You can't go back to your old home or your old job or your old life," he said to Richard, almost gently. "None of those things exist. Up there, you don't exist." They had reached a junction: a place where three tunnels came together. Door and Hunter set off along one of them, the one that was empty of water, and they did not look back. The marquis lingered.

"You'll just have to make the best of it down here," he said to Richard, "in the sewers and the magic and the dark." And then he smiled, hugely, whitely: a gleaming grin, monumental in its insincerity. "Well—delightful to see you again. Best of luck. If you can survive for the next day or two," he confided, "you might even make it through a whole month." And with that he turned and strode off through the sewer, after Door and Hunter.

Richard leaned against a wall and listened to their footsteps, echoing away, and to the rush of the water running past on its way to the pumping stations of East London, and the sewage works. "Shit," he said. And then, to his surprise, for the first time since his father died, alone in the dark, Richard Mayhew began to cry.