William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

in it.
    “There’s been a cave-in. I have to go,” he told her.
    “Injuries? Can—” She stopped.
    He gave her a quick smile. “No. Your place is here with Scuff.” He kissed her quickly, harder perhaps than he meant to. Then he turned and went back down the stairs again, took his coat from the hook in the hall, and followed Orme out into the street.
    There was a hansom waiting. They climbed in and shouted to the driver to hurry back to the tunnel. He needed no urging.
    They clattered through the streets. The long whip curled over the horse’s back, and water sprayed from the wheels on either side. It took them nearly half an hour to get there, even at this time of night, when there was no traffic. As Orme scrambled out, Monk paid the driver too generously, then followed Orme into the darkness and the rain. Ahead of them, a maze of lamps was moving jerkily as men stumbled over rubble and broken beams as carefully as they could to avoid falling.
    Monk was aware of shouting, the sting of wind and rain, and—somewhere, though he could not see where—the thrum of one of the big engines for lifting the rubble. Beyond the periphery of the disaster area there were carriages waiting, and ambulances.
    “Bloody awful mess!” Crow emerged into a small pool of light. His black hair was soaked. If he had ever had a medical bag, he had lost it. His hands were covered with blood. Judging by the gash on his left forearm, at least some of it was his own.
    “How can we help?” Monk said simply. “Can we get anyone out?”
    “God knows,” Crow answered. “But we’ve got to try. Be careful, the ground’s giving way all over the place. Watch where you put your weight, and if it goes, yell! Even in this noise, someone may hear you. Throw yourself flat—that’ll give you at least some chance of finding a beam or a piece of something to hang on to. Stand straight and you’ll go down like an arrow.” As he spoke he was leading the way towards a group of lanterns about a hundred yards further on, which were swaying as the men carrying them picked their footing to go deeper into the cave-in area.
    “What happened?” Monk asked, having to raise his voice now above the thud and grind of the machine digging and unloading the rubble.
    “Must have dug too close to a small river,” Crow shouted back. “London’s riddled with them. All this burrowing and digging around, and some of them have moved course. Only takes a couple of feet, a change from clay to shale, or striking an old culvert, a cellar or something, and the whole thing can turn. Sometimes it just goes around it and back to the—Watch your feet!”
    The last was a shout of warning as Monk’s foot sank into a squelching hole. He pitched forward, only just catching Orme’s arm in time to pull himself upright and haul his foot out. His leg was now coated in sludge up to his knee. Shock robbed him of breath, and he found himself gasping even after he had regained his balance.
    Crow slapped him on the shoulder. “We’d better stay together,” he said loudly. “Come on!”
    Monk leapt up with him. “Someone must have known this was going to happen,” he said.
    “Sixsmith?” Crow asked, keeping moving.
    “Havilland, actually,” Monk replied.
    Crow stopped abruptly. “Murdered because of it?” There was surprise in his voice, and but for the wavering lights his expression was invisible. “I don’t know. If he had sense enough to listen to some of the older toshers, maybe. Some of them knew things that aren’t written down anywhere. Just lore passed from father to son.”
    They were at the edge of the crater, which seemed a fathomless pit. Monk felt his stomach clench, and his body shook even though he tensed every muscle to try to control it.
    A little man, broad-shouldered and bow-legged, came towards them. He had a lantern built into his hat, so both his hands were left free. There was too much noise of clattering earth and the thrum of the great machine for him to try to be heard. He waved his arms for them to follow, then turned and led the way down.
    Monk lost all count of time, and finally of direction also, even of how deep he was and the distance he would have to go upwards to find clean air or feel the wind on his face. Everything was wet. He could hear water seeping down the walls, dripping, sloshing under his feet, sometimes even the steady flow of a stream: a sort of thin, wet rattle all the time.
    Someone had given him a short-handled