Neverwhere

"You'll know," called the marquis. "And the rats will tell you what to do with it." And with that he was over the side of the building, slipping down, using drainpipes and ledges as handholds.

"Hope I never finds out, that's all I can say," said Old Bailey to himself. Then a thought struck him. "Hoy," he called out to the night and the City. "Don't forget the shoeses and the gloveses!"

The advertisements on the walls were for refreshing and health-giving malted drinks, for two-shilling day excursions by train to the seaside, for kippered herrings, moustache wax and bootblack. They were smoke-blackened relics of the late twenties or the early thirties. Richard stared at them in disbelief. It seemed completely abandoned: a forgotten place. "It is British Museum Station," admitted Richard. "But . . . but there never was a British Museum Station. This is all wrong."

"It was closed down in about 1933, and sealed off," said Door.

"How bizarre," said Richard. It was like walking through history. He could hear trains echoing through tunnels nearby, felt the push of air as they passed. "Are there many stations like this?"

"About fifty," said Hunter. "They aren't all accessible, though. Not even to us."

There was a movement in the shadows at the edge of the platform. "Hello," said Door. "How are you?" She went down into a crouch. A brown rat stepped out into the light. It sniffed at Door's hand.

"Thank you!" said Door, cheerfully. "I'm glad you aren't dead, too."

Richard edged over. "Um, Door. Could you tell the rat something for me?"

The rat turned its head toward him. "Miss Whiskers says that if there's anything you've got to say to her, you can tell it to her yourself," said Door.

"Miss Whiskers?"

Door shrugged. "It's a literal translation," she said. "It sounds better in rat."

Richard did not doubt it. "Um. Hello . . . Miss Whiskers . . . Look, there was one of your rat-speaker people, a girl named Anaesthesia. She was taking me to the market. We were crossing this bridge in the dark, and she just never made it across."

The rat interrupted him, with a sharp squee. Door began to talk, hesitantly, like a simultaneous translator. "She says . . . that the rats do not blame you for the loss. Your guide was . . . mm . . . taken by the night . . . as tribute."

"But—"

The rat squeaked again. "Sometimes they come back . . . " said Door. "She has taken note of your concern . . . and thanks you for it." The rat nodded to Richard, blinked her bead-black eyes, then leapt to the floor and scurried back into the dark. "Nice rat," said Door. Her disposition seemed to have improved remarkably, now that she had the scroll. "Up there," she said, indicating an archway effectively blocked by an iron door.

They walked over to it. Richard pushed against the metal, but it was locked from the other side. "Looks like it's been sealed up," said Richard. "We'll need special tools."

Door smiled, suddenly; her face seemed to be illuminated. For a moment, her elfin face became beautiful. "Richard," she said. "My family. We're openers. It's, our Talent. Look . . . " She reached out a grubby hand, touched the door. For a long moment nothing happened, then there was a loud crash from the other side of the door, and a chunk from their side. Door pushed against the door and, with a fierce squeal from the rusted hinges, it opened. Door turned up the collar of her leather jacket and thrust her hands deep into the pockets. Hunter shone her flashlight into the blackness beyond the doorway: a flight of stone steps, going up, into the dark. "Hunter. Can you take the rear?" asked Door. "I'll go on in front. Richard can take the middle."

She walked up a couple of steps. Hunter stayed where she was. "Lady?" said Hunter. "You are going to London Above?"

"That's right," said Door. "We're going to the British Museum."

Hunter bit her lower lip. Then she shook her head. "I must stay in London Below," she said. There was a tremble in her voice. Richard realized that this was the first time he had ever seen Hunter display any emotion other than effortless competence or, occasionally, tolerant amusement.

"Hunter," said Door, bewildered. "You're my bodyguard."

Hunter looked ill at ease. "I am your bodyguard in London Below," she said. "I cannot go with you to London Above."

"But you have to."

"My lady. I cannot. I thought you understood. The marquis knows." Hunter will look after you as long as you stay in London Below, thought Richard. Yes.

"No," said Door, her pointed chin pushed out and up, her odd-colored eyes narrowed. "I don't understand. What is it?" she added, scornfully. "Some kind of curse or something?" Hunter hesitated, licked her lips, then nodded. It was as if she were admitting to having some socially embarrassing disease.