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The Madness Underneath
Maureen Johnson
When madness stalks the streets of London, no one is safe…There’s a creepy new terror haunting modern-day London.Fresh from defeating a Jack the Ripper killer, Rory must put her new-found hunting skills to the test before all hell breaks loose…But enemies are not always who you expect them to be and crazy times call for crazy solutions. A thrilling teen mystery.
For my friend, the real Alexander Newman, who would never let a tiny thing like having twelve strokes get the better of him. When I grow up, I want to be you. (Maybe without the twelve strokes? You know what I mean.)
Contents
Dedication
The Royal Gunpowder Pub, Artillery Lane, East London November 11 10:15 A.M. (#ulink_c0e49dc1-4e58-5bd6-84df-a7a5c2d424c7)
The Crack in the Floor (#ulink_da847850-4bc2-53a3-882d-c19cd49f2a7b)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_2e49d8ff-d82f-5ffa-8af8-e1a5403fb182)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_b086e891-3e78-5d42-97f8-ab784c710822)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_338cb44c-2972-5ced-ab94-0a7196917a3d)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_5cbdc362-064b-5d9f-97bf-bdd390a64f5d)
Chapter 5 (#ulink_6fd9401d-2e41-5f95-9da0-78c28c0abc47)
Chapter 6 (#ulink_2fa15340-9003-5f77-a86f-ed6c8926a9cc)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
New Dawn Psychic Parlor, East London December 9 11:47 P.M. (#litres_trial_promo)
The Falling Woman (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
THE ROYAL GUNPOWDER PUB, ARTILLERY LANE, EAST LONDON NOVEMBER 11 10:15 A.M. (#ulink_d29e6886-16f2-5eaa-bfe1-94cf912b5e90)
HARLIE STRONG LIKED HIS CUSTOMERS—YOU DON’T run a pub for twenty-one years if you don’t like your customers—but there was something about the quiet in the morning that pleased him to no end. In the morning, Charlie had the one cigarette he allowed himself daily. He drew on the Silk Cut slowly, listening to the satisfying sizzle of burning paper and tobacco. He could smoke inside when no one else was here. Good mug of tea. Good smoke. Good bacon on his sandwich.
Charlie switched on the television. The television in the Royal Gunpowder went on for only two things: when Liverpool played and Morning with Michael and Alice, the relentlessly cheerful talk show. Charlie liked to watch this as he prepared for the day, particularly the cooking part. They always made something good, and for some reason, this made him enjoy his bacon sandwich even more. Today, they were making a roast chicken. His barman, Sam, came up from the basement with a box of tonic water. He set it on the bar and quietly got on with his work, taking the chairs from their upside-down positions on the tables and setting them upright on the floor. Sam was good to have around in the mornings. He didn’t say much, but he was still good company. He was happy to be employed, and it always showed.
“Good-looking chicken, that,” he said to Sam, pointing to the television.
Sam paused his work to look.
“I like mine fried,” Sam said.
“It’ll kill you, all that fried food.”
“Says the man eating the bacon sarnie.”
“Nothing wrong with bacon,” Charlie said, smiling.
Sam shook his head good-naturedly and continued moving chairs. “Think we’ll get more of them Ripper freaks today?” he asked.
“Let’s hope so. God bless the Ripper. We did almost three thousand pounds last night. Speaking of, they do eat a lot of crisps. Get us another box of the plain and”—he sorted through the selection under the bar—“cheese and onion. And some more nuts while you’re there. They like nuts as well. Nuts for the nutters, eh?”
Without a word, Sam stopped what he was doing and returned to the basement. Charlie’s gaze was fixed on the television and the final, critical stages of the cooking segment. The cooked chicken was produced from the oven, golden brown and lovely. The show moved on to the next segment, talking about some music festival that was going on in London over the weekend. This interested Charlie less than the chicken, but he watched it anyway since he had a cigarette to finish. When he was down to the filter, he stubbed it out and got to work.
He had just started wiping down the blackboard to write the day’s specials when he heard the sound of breaking glass from below. He opened the basement door.
“Sam! What in God’s name—”
“Charlie! Get down here!”
“What’s the matter?” Charlie yelled back.
Sam did not reply.
Charlie swore under his breath, allowed himself one heavy post-smoke cough, and headed down the stairs. The basement stairs were narrow and steep, and the basement itself was full of things Charlie largely didn’t want to deal with—broken chairs and tables, heavy crates of supplies, racks of glasses ready to replace the ones that were chipped, cracked, or stolen every day.
“Sam?” he called.
“In here!”
Sam’s voice was coming from a small room off the main one. Charlie ducked down. The ceiling was lower in this room; it just skimmed his head. Many times he had almost knocked himself senseless on it.
Sam was near the wall, cowering between two shelving units. There were two shattered pint glasses, as well as a roughly drawn X in chalk on the stone floor.
“What are you playing at, Sam?”
“I didn’t do that,” Sam replied. “Those weren’t there a few minutes ago.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m telling you, those weren’t there.”
This was not good, not good at all. The glasses clearly hadn’t fallen off a shelf—they were in the middle of the room. The X was shaky, like the hand that had drawn it could barely hold the chalk. No one looked healthy in the basement’s faintly greenish fluorescent light, but Sam looked particularly bad. The color had drained from his face, and he was quivering and glistening with sweat.
Maybe this had been bound to happen. Charlie had always known the risks, but the risks were part of the agreement. He had gotten sober, and he trusted that others could as well. And you needed to show that trust.
Charlie said quietly, “If you’ve been taking something—”
“I haven’t!”
“But if you have, you just need to tell me.”
“I swear to you,” Sam said, “I haven’t.”
“Sam, there’s no shame in it. Sobriety is a process.”
“I didn’t take anything, and I didn’t do that!”
There was an urgency in Sam’s voice that frightened Charlie, and he was not a man who frightened easily. He’d been through fights, withdrawal, divorce. He faced alcohol, his personal demon, every day. Yet, something in this room, something in the sight of Sam huddled against the wall and this crude X and broken glass on the floor . . . something in this unnerved him.
There was no point in checking to see if anyone else was down here. Every business in the area had fortified itself when the Ripper was around. The Royal Gunpowder was secure.
Charlie bent down and ran his hand over the cool stone floor.
“How about we just get rid of this,” he said, wiping away the chalked X with his hand. In cases like this, it was best to calmly get things back to normal and sit down and talk the issue through. “Come on, now. We’ll go upstairs and have a cup of tea, and we’ll talk this out.”
Sam took a few tentative steps from the wall.
“Good, that’s right. Now let’s just get rid of this and we’ll have a nice cuppa, you and me . . .”
Charlie continued wiping away the last of the X. He didn’t see the hammer.
The hammer was used to pry open crates, to knock sticky valves into action, and to do quick repairs on the often unstable shelving units. Now it rose, lingering just long enough over Charlie’s head to find its mark.
“No!” Sam screamed.
Charlie turned his head in time to see the hammer come down. The first time it did so, Charlie remained upright. He made a noise—not quite a word, more of a broken, gurgling sound. There was a second blow, and a third. Charlie was still upright, but twitching, struggling against the onslaught. The fourth blow seemed to do the most damage. An audible cracking sound could be heard. On that fourth blow, Charlie fell forward and did not move again.
The hammer clattered to the ground.
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Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
—Alfred Lord Tennyson,
“The Lady of Shalott”
(#ulink_27d19512-d4d2-5307-95f4-0da7211e9d40)
ACK AT WEXFORD, WHERE I WENT TO SCHOOL BEFORE all of this happened to me, they made me play hockey every day. I had no idea how to play hockey, so they covered me in padding and made me stand in the goal. From the goal, I could watch my fellow players run around with sticks. Occasionally they’d whack a small, very hard ball in my direction. I would dive out of the way, every time. Apparently, avoiding the ball isn’t the point of hockey, and Claudia would scream, “No, Aurora, no!” from the sidelines, but I didn’t care. I take my best lessons from nature, and nature says, “When something flies at your head—move.”
I didn’t think hockey had trained me for anything in life until I went to therapy.
“So,” Julia said.
Julia was my therapist. She was Scottish and petite and had a shock of white-blond hair. She was probably in her fifties, but the lines in her face were imperceptible. She was a careful person, well spoken, so achingly professional it actually made me itch. She didn’t fuss around in her chair or need to change over and cross the other leg. She just sat there, calm as a monk. The winds might blow and the rains might fall, but Julia would remain in the same position in her ergonomic chair and wait it out.
The clock in Julia’s office was hidden in plain sight; she put it behind the chair where her patients sat, on top of a bookcase. I followed the clock by watching its reflection in the window, watching time run backward. I had just managed to waste a solid forty-five minutes talking about my grandmother—a new record for me. But I’d run out of steam, and the silence descended on the room like a vague but ever-intensifying smell. There was a lot going on behind her never-blinking eyes. I could tell, from what now amounted to hours of staring at her, that Julia was studying me even more carefully than I was studying her.
And I knew about her relationship with that clock. All she had to do was flick her eyes just a tiny bit to the left, and she could see both me and the time without moving her head. It was an incredibly small move, but I had started to look for it. When Julia checked the time, it meant she was about to do something.
Flick.
Time to get ready. Julia was going to make a move. The ball was heading for my face. Time to dodge.
“Rory, I want you to think back for me . . .”
Dive! Dive!
“. . . we all learn about death somehow. I want you to try to remember. How did you learn?”
