Whispers Under Ground

anything. Including getting out of bed.’
    ‘At least bring me my laptop,’ I said.
    ‘Fine,’ said Lesley.
    ‘And some grapes,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been in hospital overnight and nobody brought me any grapes.’
    After Lesley had buggered off, I checked in the waste-paper basket and found not one but two flimsy plastic containers with denuded grape stems in them. I then spent a happy half an hour plotting a series of increasingly bizarre revenge pranks on Lesley before Nightingale arrived with a change of clothes. This being Nightingale, he’d brought my fitted M&S navy suit that was, strictly speaking, reserved for funerals and court appearances.
    I told him my theories about the Faceless Man and Crossrail and it started sounding thinner the longer I talked. But Nightingale thought it was worth checking out.
    ‘At the very least,’ he said, ‘we need to eliminate the possibility.’
    We were interrupted by a surprisingly young registrar with stumpy brown fingers and a Brummie accent who took my blood pressure and another blood sample. I asked after Dr Walid and was told that, since I wasn’t in any danger, he’d left for Scotland the night before.
    ‘Amazingly undamaged,’ said the registrar. ‘But he wants you to stay overnight for observation. You’re suffering from exposure so you need to rest, take on fluids and stay warm.’
    I told him that I had no intention of getting out of bed and he wandered off, content. Nightingale said I did look tired and that he was going to leave me alone to get some sleep. When I complained I was bored he left me his copy of the Daily Telegraph and suggested that I try the crossword. He was right – fifteen minutes later I slapped it down on the bed.
    ‘Twelve down,’ said Tyburn. ‘To owe much to others – six letters.’
    She was standing in the doorway wearing brown slacks and a snowy-white lamb’s-wool rollneck jumper.
    ‘Aren’t you going to wait for me to recover before calling it in?’ I asked.
    She entered and sat primly on the end of my bed and looked around the room – frowning.
    ‘Why haven’t you got any grapes?’ she asked.
    ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question,’ I said. ‘You didn’t bring flowers, either.’
    ‘Do you think there’s people living in the sewer system?’ she asked.
    ‘Do you?’ I asked.
    ‘I think it’s a possibility,’ she said. ‘And if it’s true it’s an issue that will have to be addressed carefully.’
    ‘And you think you’re just the woman for the job?’
    ‘I’m the goddess on the spot, so to speak,’ she said. ‘If not me, then who?’
    I wanted to say that me and Nightingale had it all under control but under the circumstances I didn’t think she’d believe me.
    Tyburn leant forward and gave me her sincere look.
    ‘How long do you think the status quo can last?’ she asked. ‘If there are people living in the sewers wouldn’t it be better to bring them into mainstream society?’
    ‘Put them on social security, get them a council flat and send their kids to school?’ I asked.
    ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps we should regularise where they live now, get them access to healthcare and education. Give them a stake – at least give them a choice.’
    ‘ If there are people down there,’ I said.
    ‘All I want,’ said Tyburn as she stood up and prepared to leave, ‘is for you to give this some thought.’
    I gave a noncommittal grunt and she went. Truth is, I was getting really peckish and was considering getting up and hunting down some food when my parents turned up with a day’s worth of jelof rice, hot beef and, best of all, a freezer container full of freshly cooked deep-fried plantain. My mum, alarmed by the recent E. coli outbreak and having a professionally low opinion of hospital cleaning standards, had decided I shouldn’t eat hospital food. Obedient son that I was, I dutifully stuffed my face and promised faithfully that, no matter what, I would be turning up for Christmas at Aunty Jo’s.
    Eating the best part of a kilogram of rice would slow down a hippopotamus, so after Mum and Dad had gone I lay down and dozed off.
    I opened my eyes to find Zachary Palmer with his hand in one of my Tupperware boxes.
    ‘Hey,’ I said.
    He stopped scoffing up the deep-fried plantain and grinned at me.
    ‘Your mum’s a bare wicked cook,’ he said.
    ‘That’s mine, you thieving git,’ I said and snatched the box off him. Unperturbed, he moved on