Whispers Under Ground

underneath it, where the good clay is, lay the village of the Quiet People.
    They led us down a series of tunnels, all arched, all lined with smooth stoneware tiles. It could have been a particularly drab tube station, except for the lack of lights and CCTV cameras.
    The skinny white boys in Adidas hoodies who guided us were familiar if not particularly reassuring. Occasionally, I got a glimpse of pale hands with long fingers as they gestured in which direction they wanted us to go. The two of them flinched away from our torches, despite the fact that they were wearing wraparound shades.
    There was a noticeable breeze in one corridor, in another I swear I could hear the rattle of laundromat dryers – there was even the whiff of fabric softener.
    One thing was for certain. If they were the cannibalistic descendants of a lost tribe of navvies they were at least better turned out than the ones in the film.
    ‘They seem to be getting much more relaxed,’ said Lesley as one of the hoodies waved us to stop outside a doorway.
    ‘That’s because we’re in their ends now, said Zach.
    ‘Ends?’ asked Reynolds.
    ‘Manor,’ I said.
    ‘Patch,’ said Lesley.
    ‘Yard?’ I tried when Reynolds still looked blank.
    ‘Hood,’ said Zach.
    ‘Gotcha,’ said Reynolds.
    A hoodie leaned close to Zach and whispered in his ear.
    ‘He says we have to turn our torches off,’ said Zach. ‘Hurts their eyes.’
    We hesitated, all thinking the same thing. I felt Lesley and Agent Reynolds shifting their stance, making some space, freeing up their arms and in Reynolds’ case making sure her Glock was accessible. We couldn’t help it. We’re police – situational paranoia is a professional requirement. They make you sit an exam and everything.
    ‘Or we can just all go back,’ said Zach. ‘I’m easy.’
    I took a breath, let it out and turned my helmet light off, Lesley and Zach followed suit and finally Reynolds, muttering something under her breath, did the same.
    I was all right for the first couple of seconds and then suddenly it was like I was back under the platform at Oxford Circus. I heard myself beginning to pant, but even as I tried to control my breathing I started to shake. A firm hand grasped my arm and then finger-walked down to take my hand and squeeze – I was sure it was Lesley. I was so startled that I forgot to panic.
    The big doors in front of us opened to reveal a room lit with a dim green light and Lesley let go of my hand.
    The room was large with a high domed ceiling from which hung a chandelier in which chemical glowsticks had been used instead of candles. It was wall-to-wall Quiet People, packed in like commuters on a tube train. They came in all shapes and sizes – no children I noticed – but tended to the slender with long pale faces and big eyes. I saw at least two blondes but their hair was predominantly light brown. They were definitely a distinct ethnic group and I realised, belatedly, that I’d done a classic bit of racist misidentification when I’d assumed the guy I’d chased onto the train was the same one who shot at me. For a mixed-race Londoner who’s supposed to be a trained observer that was kind of embarrassing – I blame the bloody hoodies they were wearing.
    Zach warned us that the Quiet People would want to touch us.
    ‘Touch us where?’ asked Lesley.
    ‘Just think of them being like blind people,’ said Zach. ‘They’re very tactile.’
    ‘Great,’ said Lesley.
    ‘And you have to touch them back,’ said Zach. ‘Doesn’t have to be a lot just, you know, bit of brush, cop a bit of feel – just to be polite.’
    ‘Is there anything else you’d like to share?’ I asked.
    ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Don’t raise your voice. It’s considered a bit of a faux-pas.’ He turned and walked into the room.
    I followed him in and the touching started immediately. It wasn’t rough but there was nothing furtive about it. I felt fingers run down my shoulders, a hand briefly caught my thigh and the brush of fingertips on my lip made me sneeze.
    ‘Oh my god,’ I heard Lesley behind me. ‘It’s like being fifteen again.’
    To be polite I let the backs of my hands brush against people as I went past – that seemed to satisfy. They smelt exactly like everyone else, some of sweat, some of food, a whiff of beer and a hint of pigshit. At the centre of the room was a narrow Victorian oak table. It was made of real wood, too. After all the ceramic I could practically smell