"Like silhouettes. Just flickers, really," she lied, though she wasn't sure why she withheld the truth. It felt personal to her. Intimate. "I thought they were ghosts."

"Perhaps they are. But either way, they're old things, whispering down here the way the beams and boards in an old house will creak when the wind blows. Nothing to con-cern yourself with."

Jazz hesitated a moment, then forged ahead. "You've seen them too?"

"A glimpse now and again," Harry admitted, still watch-ing her curiously. Then the moment passed and he waved a hand as though to erase the conversation. "Nothing to worry about, though. I don't talk about the echoes with the others. They've enough superstition among them already. But everyone knows what I'll be telling you now, Jazz girl.

It's the Hour you've got to be careful of. Just because things have been quiet down here doesn't mean they'll stay quiet."

Cadge led the way through the twisted steel door and into a huge circular tunnel, which had been ground into the rock and unlined. There were not even any supports built here for line and platform. It was unfinished rather than abandoned; this place had never formed a true part of the Tube. Perhaps a plan had been drawn wrong, or money had run out, but this was a route that led nowhere. There was graffiti on one wall, but it had faded with time, washed away by a continuous trickle of water penetrating the tunnel at its highest point and following the curve.

"We call it the Hour of Screams," Harry said. "Though it doesn't last an hour, and sometimes it's more a long sigh than a scream. It echoes through the Underground —at least, through all those places hidden away, where people aren't supposed to be or even know about. Or where there are people like us.

Because in a way, I suppose some of us are as lost as the spirits that make the scream."

"Spirits?" Jazz asked. "But you said you didn't think —"

"It's old London that cries out, young Jazz. You know the saying, If a tree falls in a forest and there's nobody there to hear it, does it make any noise at all? The Hour of Screams is a bit like that falling tree. It happens whether there's anyone to hear it or not, because it's just a part of how things must be. Trees grow, age, and die, and then they fall. So it is with history. History's all about rise and fall, you know that, girl?"

Jazz did not respond, because she thought it was a ques-tion that did not call for an answer.

"Everyone knows about the Hour of Screams," Cadge said from ahead, as if anticipating her thoughts.

"True," Harry said. "But not everyone knows not to lis-ten. To hear it is... painful. Perhaps damaging.

I've seen people driven mad, and some of them never get better, Jazz. It touches them and leaves something of itself in them; liv-ing people shouldn't bear the burdens of the dead. When I first came down here —before the United Kingdom came together, when I was on my own—the Hour screamed through one day. The lady I'd hooked up with for a while, Kathryn, she refused to cover her ears, refused to sing her song. Said she was proud. Well, proud she may have been, but after the screams she was mad as well.

She ran. Tried to catch her, but she ran faster than I. She went deeper than I ever had or have since, and for all I know she's still running and still going deeper."

"You said she'd be dead by now," Cadge said. Harry nodded and sighed again. "And I'm sure she is.

But still I wonder, and hope."

"But what is the Hour of Screams?" Jazz asked. "You say spirits, but what spirits?"

"Old London," Harry said. "The restless spirit of the old city, wailing in grief. In pain too. No one knows for sure, not even I. But perhaps it's the remnants of London's past not yet at rest: people, places, events, dark deeds, and there are plenty of those. The tiring soul of one of the world's old-est cities."

"What does it have to do with the... the echoes we've heard?" Jazz asked.

Harry studied her. "Perhaps nothing. And perhaps the Hour's what happens when the whispers wake up for a bit."

"Maybe it's just the sound of trains in the distance," Jazz said.

Cadge laughed. "If you'd 'eard it, you'd never say that."

"It's not just a sound," Harry said. "You mustn't listen, that's true enough —choose a song now, Jazz, and cover your ears and sing it when you know the Hour's coming. But it's everything else besides: the smell of age, the sight of weary shadows, the taste of rot, the feel of the scream rushing past your skin, the wind as though it wants to carry you away."

"But it doesn't last an hour?"

Harry shook his head. "Sometimes only seconds."

"Just feels like an hour," Cadge said. "Here we are. The way down."

They had reached the end of the desolate tunnel, and Cadge aimed his torch at a rough hole in the wall to their left. It had been hacked into the concrete rather than formed, and there was a metal frame that held a heavy grille gate bolted in. The gate seemed to be closed, but Harry stepped forward and shoved it open. It creaked.

"Another way back to the United Kingdom?" Jazz asked.

Harry smiled. "There are several," he said. "It wouldn't do to live somewhere down here with only one way in or out."

Why not? she wanted to ask. But maybe she'd had enough information for now.

The Hour of Screams...

She'd seen things down here, heard them, and out of everyone she seemed to see and hear the most.

What that meant for her when the Hour of Screams came, she really didn't wish to know.

Maybe it would be best if she did not hang around long enough to find out.

The remainder of their descent passed in silence. Cadge went first, moving smoothly and easily along the flashlit tunnels, ducking under pipes and sidestepping pools of stag-nant water that reflected rainbows of grease. Jazz followed, marveling at Cadge's dexterity and grace. He was a natural down here.

Harry Fowler followed them both, trusting them to guide his way with their flashlights, and Jazz wondered how long he had been down here. He must have a history, a pro-fession, perhaps a wife and children somewhere above, tales to tell, people to avoid, crimes to forget, or destinies yet to fulfill. He was much older than all of them, and older people had more to tell, and perhaps more to fear.

Like Mum, she thought. She always feared more than me. Tried to make me as scared as her, but it took this to make that so.

They heard sounds in the distance, and Jazz froze at every one. But Cadge did not, and Harry always calmed her with a smile or a shake of his head. They knew the sounds of the Underground, which belonged and which did not.

Jazz knew that she had a decision to make. The time would come for the Hour of Screams to storm through her new home. She had to decide whether to wait for that to happen. And if she did wait, she had to decide whether she would choose a song to sing or open up her senses and listen.

In the final short tunnel that led to the shelter, Jazz paused. Cadge went on before her and Harry stood beside her, looking down.

I'm being watched, she thought, but she could not say that. "Need a minute."

"Of course," Harry said. "Cadge and I will ensure there's food being prepared. Time alone to think is good, Jazz girl. Time alone is fine. Part of the reason I came down here in the first place was for time alone."

"Don't get much of that now," she said, smiling.

Harry smiled back and shook his head, and she saw something then that didn't surprise her as much as it should: he was content. Perhaps more content than any adult she had ever known. Then he walked on, whispering something to Cadge. The boy turned and looked back at Jazz, and though she tried she could not give him a comforting smile.

Because I'm being watched!

As soon as Harry and Cadge disappeared through a blank doorway, Jazz scanned the tunnel around her, probing every nook and cranny with the powerful beam of her torch, chasing shadows away to reveal the truth of what hid be-neath.

She turned the torch off to see how much more she could see.

The tall, elegant man she had seen during her first hal-lucination stood at the end of the short tunnel.

He was look-ing just to her left, an enigmatic smile on his lips, tuxedo well fitted, and tall hat touching the ceiling without effect. His white-gloved hands rose before him, fingers flexing as if preparing for some infinitely intricate trick.

No voices, no crowds, no rowdy catcalls from a ghostly audience... This man was alone. He made no sound. She could smell a vague hint of lotion, something sweeter and more pleasant than the usual underground smell of dust and age. His expression was the fixed, tired smile of a per-forming magician, but as his hands closed together, his eyes shifted slightly until they were staring directly into her own.

Jazz shivered, nerve endings jangling as though a breath of freezing air had wafted through the tunnel.

The ghostly man pressed his hands together, and when he pulled them apart a chain of sparks hung between them. It swung low and heavy, ghost fire given weight, and he seemed to be trying to communicate something to her with his eyes.

And then he spoke.

All in the touch, the ghost said.

He brought his hands close together again, and just be-fore they met, Jazz saw the sparkles darken, and within them a dozen small forms danced and squirmed. All in the touch.

Jazz ran. She reached the shelter quickly, went to Harry, and hugged him, comforted only a little when he hugged her back. And an idea pounded at her, one that she could never, ever say.

How do I hide from ghosts?

Chapter Eight

the appointed hour

"Why don't we ever nick anything from the Tube? Seems like easy pickings down here, with people waiting for the train, minding their business."

Cadge's face grew serious, his wide eyes narrowed with an expression that seemed almost an imitation of wisdom, like a small boy mimicking his father.

"Harry hasn't given you that speech yet? Surprised at that," he said. "Can't ever nick from the station platforms. They're our doors and windows, like. Hard enough for us to come and go without drawin' too much attention. We start snatching bags and wallets down here and too many people will remember our faces, be on the lookout. An easy place for the law to keep watch for us too. That's why we gotta go topside."

"Right. Of course," Jazz said. "I should've realized. Sort of a stupid question."

Cadge shook his head sagely. "Nah. Not stupid. You've only been at this a couple of months. You've got good 'ands and all. Scary good. Stevie said Harry's got big plans for you —"

"What plans?"

Her face flushed, and she couldn't decide if the reaction came from knowing Harry was impressed with her or that Stevie had been talking about her. He kept to himself so of-ten, but sometimes she caught him watching her with a kind of veiled curiosity that made her breath catch in her throat. He almost never came over to talk to her but seemed always to be hovering nearby, as though he couldn't decide if he was protector or predator.

"Plans," Cadge repeated, as though that was an answer. "Mr. F.'s got grand ambitions for you. For all of us, I guess. You've inspired him, like. Says we ought to move up in the world, now we've some of us got good enough to do more than nick a purse here and there."

Jazz wasn't sure how she felt about that. It sounded like Harry's grand ambitions —as Cadge called them—-would mean engaging more with the upside world, and that didn't sit well.

"Anyway, what I was saying is, there ain't any stupid questions, yeah? Down here's got a whole different set of rules from up above. And nobody trained you to think like a thief, so you got to learn."

Jazz uttered a soft laugh as they reached the bottom of the steps and strolled into the Tube station.

Over her shoul-der she carried a heavy bag she'd nicked from a tourist foolish enough to put it down while paying for a newspaper. Inside it were two wallets she'd also filched, as well as a nice linen jacket, a small sack of groceries, and a plastic bag from Waterstone's with a few suspense novels inside. All stolen. Cadge carried a small duffel bag he'd brought upside with him that was now stuffed with fruit, drinks, and a heavy in-dustrial torch he'd grabbed when some workmen had wan-dered off for lunch and left their tools unattended.

They'd had a very successful day.

"I think I'm doing all right," she said.

"More than all right," Cadge said, with such warmth in his voice that Jazz looked at him. Face a bit flushed, he glanced away.

On the train platform, Jazz scanned the waiting com-muters. Her constant lookout for the Uncles and their BMW men had become almost unconscious by now. Half the time she caught herself looking around warily and only then realized what precisely she'd been looking for. Yet she felt more at ease in the Tube station than she did above-ground, and the deeper she went, the more comfortable she became.

She worried that she was becoming too comfortable, down there in the dark. But the upside world held only dan-ger for her, and up there she would be on her own. Better by far to be safe and in the company of friends. And if she had ever had any real friends, certainly Cadge fit the bill.

The train slid into the station. The exhilaration of thiev-ing and the threat of capture still prickled her skin as she stepped on and took a seat, setting the bag on the floor be-tween her feet. Cadge sat beside her, and they kept silent for the brief ride to Holborn.

They stepped out onto the platform. Before the rush of disgorged passengers could subside, they slipped over the rail at the end of the platform and down to the shadows be-side the tracks. When the train left the station, they ven-tured into the dark.

"What about that torch?" Jazz asked.

Cadge grinned like it was Christmas morning. She knew he'd been itching to try it out, but he waited until they'd left the main track, following an abandoned branch out of sight of anyone who might be in Holborn station, and then un-zipped the duffel. When he clicked the torch on, the light sent rats scurrying and picked out some of the rust and scabrous growth that covered old piping along the walls and ceiling.

"Maybe less light is better," Jazz said.