One moment he was scurrying along the city bottom, the next he was lying face down on the concrete. A taste of copper told him that his lip had been cut in the fall. A sharp kick in his left side knocked the rest of the air out of him.
Dazed, Josiah found himself being lifted off the ground. A huge, leathery hand held him firmly by the scruff of his neck. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“Give us your money, and we might not have to hurt you,” growled the man who held him. He was very tall - well over two metres - with mismatched eyes, a chin covered in bristles and a stud through his lower lip. His nose was reddened by too much drink, his teeth burnt from too much smoke.
“I don’t have any money,” Josiah protested, struggling vainly.
“We think you is a liar but it’s more fun this way. We think we start with an ear or two. You ain’t using them, right?”
He chuckled to himself - empty and cold - and leered at Josiah, revealing blackened gums. A knife flashed in his hand.
And then he crumpled to the floor, part of his torso obliterated. Blood spray hit the walls - a sombre red against the psychedelic spray paint.
Josiah put his gun away and hurried off down the tunnel. He glanced from side to side. There was no one else around. That made his life a lot easier. He wanted to get off these streets as fast as possible and into the Lock. He quickened his step; kept his eyes fixed on the ground.
Then it hit him hard, like a blow to the chest. He had killed a man. Shot him with the gun he held in his hands. He had never used it before today. There had been no time to think, no choice. Him or me. Josiah’s guts twisted themselves into painful knots, the smell of blood still clung to his nostrils like a stain, the dying man’s eyes, suddenly and paradoxically alive with shock, filled his mind. I had no choice, he thought furiously, fighting down the urge to panic. I have to focus on my objectives. Where am I going?
Daylight never touched the filthy recesses of the city. This place, below the skyways, beneath the lights, had many names - the under-city, the darkness - but most called it the Deep. An amalgamation of ancient streets, disused sewers and abandoned railways, the Deep was spread like a mould across the ground of London. It was a twisted labyrinth of tunnels and darkened streets, and, even above ground, the sky was impossibly small.
Josiah had only descended once before but that time he had not been alone. Five, well-armed Security guards had accompanied him on his quest - the Circle did not send a Scientist alone into the Deep. It had all been for nothing anyway, they had all died, all but him, and now he was back - a rat in a maze.
The only light was from a decaying system of strip-bulbs, that cast the world in a ghastly orange glow. The air was thick with dust and heavy with the smell of alcohol and urine. Stepping carefully over heaps of rubbish, Josiah pulled his cloak tighter around himself and suppressed a shiver. Why was it always so damned cold? A neon sign, advertising a forgotten drink of the early twenty-first century, flickered just around the corner. He was nearly there. Turning down a narrow passageway, he emerged into a long, dark room. Once, this had been a basement for the towering blocks above, until the Deep had risen and consumed it. Before that, it may even have been a shop. Now the black walls were lit by a series of fluorescent bulbs.
This was it then, Camden Lock itself. Even from here, Josiah could smell it - an alien mixture of tobacco and burning incense, fetid meat and strange herbs, combustion-smoke with a trace of vomit. This place had been at the back of his mind for some time now, ever since he had realised that real science was more important than the Church. The Scientists of the Cathedral had often whispered the names of Camden Lock and the Square, some with awe, most with hatred or fear. The ones who dared to discuss revolution spoke as if the Square was a Promised Land, where thought was free and the intellect was master. An intellectual heaven on earth? Josiah doubted it. He had little time for thoughts of heaven and hell. All that mattered was that, if reports were to be trusted, the Square was the home of the Scientists that had been exiled from the Church. If the Square existed at all, that is. He had to try, though or he would never finish his machine. The trouble was that Josiah had no idea what he was looking for - they weren’t exactly going to put up a sign. Any science beyond the church was heresy by definition, and anyone caught practising heresy could be executed. The reach of the Church was long - even in the heart of Camden you were not free from their prying eyes.
Josiah emerged into a wide tunnel, linking various chambers together into an underground network. The lights, through some sort of miracle, were still functioning, but were supplemented by numerous braziers burning along the main street. Once, he supposed, this street had been above ground - he could only imagine what it might have been like. Better get on with it, don’t want to look like a stranger.
He couldn’t help it, though. Josiah stood out like a lost lamb in a pack of wolves. Gathering in the street, dozens of people were sitting, standing, smoking, drinking, laughing. There was a man, head shaved, his pale skin infested with grisly tattoos - black barbed wire coiled up a bare arm. Down the other were decomposing heads, knotted together by their hair. A woman, hair slime green, all standing on end, lips criss-crossed with silver chains. She snickered as the tattooed man whispered something into her ear. Was she laughing at him?
Hurrying through the street, trying not to notice the stares and the pointed fingers, Josiah searched for a sign. All manner of wares were for sale in the various stalls - iron masks, flick knives, guns, broken mirrors, gaudy clothing. Incense and smoke permeated everything. A small man in the corner of Josiah’s eye caught his attention. He was middle-aged, balding, and wore archaic spectacles, small and round, that perched on his nose, teetering on the edge - so out of place here. But just as Josiah noticed him, he was gone, lost in the shadows.
A haggard old man, slumped in a corner, wrapped tightly in an old sleeping bag, held out a hand.
“Spare a dollar for an old man,” he whispered.
Josiah dared not stop.
“Any change for a cup of tea?”
Josiah lowered his head and pressed on. In the Deep, you could never trust that everything was as it seemed. Stopping to give money to a stranger could bring a swift death. That didn’t help him feel less guilty. He ignored the twinge of pity and hurried on.
Then Josiah saw a shop that was different to the rest, and he felt a touch of hope. Arrayed across the shelves must have been thousands of books, all in various states of decay, piled up to the ceiling, anywhere they would fit. This alone would have got his attention - who could read in the Deep? But it was the sign above the door that had made him stop. It was a rich orange-brown, letters picked out in purple - “The Unattainable π”.
Rather than think too long about it, Josiah immediately entered the shop. A soft chime of bells accompanied him as he closed the door. Trying to look nonchalant, he began to peruse the shelves. It didn’t take long before the storekeeper approached him. She was tall, with long dark hair and a thin face, constructed of several tight angles. Her clothes were dull and unassuming, and concealed much of her figure. Dark leather gloves hid her hands. But it was her eyes that caught and held Josiah’s attention - they were the colour of amber. If her appearance was intended to look mild and modest, her eyes betrayed the façade. They seemed to smoulder, as if holding back a flood of emotions.
“Can I help you with something?” she asked quietly. With a small flick of the eyes, Josiah knew he had been appraised. He could not tell what had been the judgement.
“I hope so,” Josiah said, trying to look relaxed, “I saw your sign and thought I should look for a book on geometry.”
“I don’t think I can help you,” her eyes narrowed, ever so slightly.
“Are you sure? Perhaps a book on the irrationality of pi? The impossibility of Squaring the Circle?” He was gambling a lot on this. If he had said too much, to the wrong person… The Circle were zealous in their witch-hunts, and richly rewarded informants.
“Hmm, perhaps I can help you after all.” She searched his face once more. “Yes, perhaps I can. We will have to go to my private collection.”
Josiah nodded. The woman gestured that they should leave, and she locked the door behind them. Warily watching the people hanging around on the streets, like flies on a decomposing corpse, Josiah followed the woman as she strode off. Somehow, she seemed to blend in here, despite her conservative dress sense.
After walking on for a few moments, the woman suddenly turned into a darkened alcove. Josiah followed her, to find the muzzle of a gun in his face. He almost shouted in alarm.
“From here on in, if you make one wrong move, I’ll put a bullet through your brain so fast you’ll have been dead since yesterday, understand?” Her words hissed like cold steel.
Josiah nodded, unable to speak.
“Good. In the Square we do not use our real names. That way if one of us is caught, it will be harder for Them to track us all down.”
Again he nodded.
“Amber,” she said, her voice softening.
“Merlin,” he responded, half-surprised at the name he had chosen.
“Well Merlin,” Amber said, tucking her gun back into her belt and covering it with her jumper, “welcome to the Square.”
Amber walked up to the wall, reached out a gloved hand and pressed a well-concealed button. A tiny green laser emerged from nowhere and moved silently across her left eye. The light vanished, and a door clicked open.
Josiah could not but be impressed. The tech-level of that retinal scanner was practically unheard of. In legends he had heard of such things but had never thought to witness anything like it.
His amazement obviously showed on his face as Amber laughed quietly. “Not only is there more,” she said, “but we are creating more.”
For the first time since the morning, Josiah felt himself relax and a silly, schoolboy grin spread over his face. Amber opened the door, beckoning Josiah to another life. He paused on the threshold for a moment, took a deep breath, and entered the Square.
* * *
As he lay in bed that night, Josiah tossed and turned in his sleep.
It was the depths of the Deep, like the first, like the last time. The weight of London pressed down on his shoulders, crushing him in the darkness.
No, this was not like the last time. He knew what would happen, he knew. This time he would succeed, he would find the artefact, the lost disc. He would return to the Church as a hero, a saint. Elijah would be so proud. Even Elisha would have to praise him.
His guards scouted the area, set up a perimeter, called in every ten minutes. Yes, it was all going to plan. But the Piranhas knew everything, all their plans. They had caught the scent of blood - now there was no hope of escape. No! He knew what was coming. He had to leave, right now, before…
The scout did not check in.
The radio played only static, dead air.
Josiah turned and ran but it was far, far too late.
Once the Piranhas start to feed, they go into a mad frenzy, an orgy of bloodletting. All the nearby fish gather to glut themselves and tear their prey limb from limb, bite by bite. They do not stop their feeding until the animal has been reduced to nothing but bones. Once they have the scent of blood, the Piranhas consume everything.
The rearguard was cut down by a hail of light.
Josiah turned and saw the leader of the team about to put his foot on a heap of rubbish.
“Wait!” He cried. Always too slow.
The team leader screamed in agony, as slime green plasma consumed his flesh.
Screaming and whooping in a frenzy, the Piranha gang made their full-scale assault, leaping out from shadows, sliding down girders, emerging from the narrow shops of Camden Lock.
Flashes of gunfire lit up the Deep like a thunderstorm. Josiah ran.
A man to his right was skewered by a long knife, that glittered in the darkness. The Piranha licked the blade clean of blood, and laughed like a demon.
The last to die was killed by a bullet through the chest, part of his torso simply obliterated. Blood spray hit the walls and covered Josiah in warm, dark liquid. And his eyes, those terrible eyes, accusing him - alive in death.
Josiah ran and ran. They were everywhere. No hope of escape. They had him surrounded and the circle was closing. He clambered over mounds of rubbish, steel cans, oil drums. Always the laughter pursued him, mocking his efforts. They enjoyed watching him flounder, they could kill him at any time; at any moment, he would be dead. No matter how fast he ran, they were still behind him, always there, still closing the gap. It was inevitable.
He felt a sudden stinging pain in his arm.
He touched it.
His hand was covered in blood.
So it’s not true what they say, he thought.
You can feel pain in dreams.
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