The Underground City (12 page)

In the depths of the Underground City, the clouds of stifling, choking dust raised by the explosion had reduced visibility to zero and all Murdo, Wullie and Tammy Souter could do was head in the general direction of the blast and hope for the best. Coughing and spluttering, they ran, hands outstretched towards the vault.

Tammy, as it happened, had done his work well. The side of the vault had been torn open and as they stepped through the massive hole they stopped and, peering uncertainly through the swirling clouds of dust, looked with awe at what had once been shelf upon shelf of neatly stacked banknotes. They were neat no longer for the shelving that had held them was hanging off the walls at all angles and the place was littered with pile upon pile of notes that had flown everywhere with the force of the explosion.

“There must be millions here!” Murdo gasped, his eyes darting round the vault greedily. “Come on, boys, help yourselves!” Pulling thick bin liners out of their pockets they started to pile the money in and, had everything gone to plan, would have made quite a tidy haul and a considerable dent in the finances of the bank.

The Chief Constable’s hurried phone call, however, had paid dividends and even as the noise of the blast echoed through the tunnels, a stream of police cars zoomed up the Mound, sirens blaring. They came to a screeching halt outside the imposing premises of the Bank of Scotland and passers-by looked on in amazement as dozens of policemen tumbled out of the cars and
headed for the front door; a door held invitingly open for them by their own Chief Constable.

“There was an explosion a few minutes ago,” he said briefly to the Chief Inspector who headed the operation. “The bank’s security staff are just opening the vault up now.”

“Good, with any luck we’ll catch them red-handed,” answered the Chief Inspector as he and his men raced for the stairs.

Murdo and Wullie heard the sound of the vault door being opened and acted quickly. “The police!” said Wullie, totally flabbergasted. “How come they got here so quick?”

“Come on,” Murdo said. “Grab what you can!” So saying, he piled a few more armfuls of notes into his bags and hefting them over his shoulder, stumbled towards the hole in the wall. Tammy Souter followed close on his heels and together they took the steep slope of the little alley at a run.

Although they naturally assumed that Wullie would be following them, this did not actually happen, for Wullie, in his headlong flight from the ghosts, had managed to rip the side off one of his trainers and, in turning to follow the others, had stood on a loose shoelace. Not unnaturally, he tripped over his feet and in a spectacular effort to keep his balance, grabbed at some shelving. Several things then happened in quick
succession
. Firstly, the shelving fell off the wall; secondly, it knocked him unconscious and, thirdly, as a grand finale, countless
bundles
of banknotes cascaded downwards in slithering waves to bury him under a tidy pile that, at a vague estimate, could be reckoned in millions.

So it was, that the hoards of policemen and bank security men who barged through the vault door in a rush, did not actually notice Wullie, buried as he was under a fortune in banknotes. Naturally assuming that the crooks had flown, they made straight for the hole in the wall and then slowed in amazement
as the light of their torches revealed the dark, secret alleys of the Underground City. It took their breath away almost
literally
for not only did the vision of the old, deserted houses stop them in their tracks but the alley was still full of heavy clouds of dust that swirled eerily in the draught from the open vault. They looked at one another in apprehension as fear curdled their stomachs. No horror movie could have had a more spine-chilling opening. It looked a ghastly, awful place.

“Come on, let’s go!” choked the Chief Inspector, flashing his torch up the steep little alley that rose in front of them. “Sir Archie said they’d be in here somewhere!”

The policemen scrambled up the alley but, as they reached the top, came to a stumbling halt as they met a sight that would have made the bravest man quail; for they were just in time to meet the army of furious ghosts that were out to get Murdo and could only gape in horror as the host of weird, horrible figures swooped down the alleyway towards them.

The sudden appearance of the ghosts stopped the policemen in their tracks; their faces white and set. Never, in their lives, had they imagined anything like this. Talk about a nightmare gone wrong. Their torches shone right through the phantoms as they came at them from all angles — even through the walls! Accustomed as they were to facing up to hardened criminals on a daily basis, no one could accuse the police of cowardice but this … this was definitely something else. They clutched at one another in sheer terror and backed down the alley as the wailing, moaning, screaming ghosts descended on them.

Murdo heard the noise and grinned. “That’s given the police something to think about!” he said gleefully. “Come on, we’re nearly there!”

“Nearly where, Murdo?” groaned Tammy Souter who was gasping for breath. Exercise had never been his strong point and he was regretting it now.

“We’re going to see the pantomime,” Murdo said.

“We’re
what?”
Tammy Souter couldn’t believe his ears. “You’re having me on!”

“You’ll enjoy it,” Murdo grinned.
“Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves!”

Tammy muttered something unprintable and it was then that Murdo noticed that there were only two of them.

“Hang on a minute!” he said. “Where’s Wullie?”

They stopped and, breathing heavily, looked back down the eerie stretch of old houses that lined the narrow street. There was nothing and nobody there.

“We can’t go back for him,” Tammy muttered, looking at Murdo pleadingly. “We’ll run straight into the police if we do.
And
the ghosts!”

Murdo pressed his lips together. He knew that Tammy was right but Wullie was his buddy and he didn’t want to see him in Saughton Prison.

“They’ll have nicked him by now,” Tammy said. “Bound to have.”

“Aye, I suppose you’re right,” Murdo agreed, bitterness welling up inside him.

“Poor old Wullie,” Tammy Souter eyed him sideways. “Thick as two short planks but a good sort.”

As the sound of running feet echoed along the tunnel, Murdo moved quickly. “They’re onto us,” he hissed. “Up those steps, quick, and do as I tell you or
we’ll
be for the chop as well!”

The cellars of the Assembly Hall were empty as Murdo and Tammy, sweating under the weight of the bags they carried, made their way up yet another flight of stairs. Tammy’s eyes rounded in wonder as he saw the stacks of costumes, scenery and props that filled the place. Murdo hadn’t been joking when he’d mentioned the pantomime!

A quick glance down a corridor told Murdo all he wanted
to know. The door between the stage and the audience was locked and a burly security man was on guard. He ran
downstairs
again to where Tammy waited. “Dump the bags over in that corner and put on one of those costumes. Quick now, fast as you can!”

Murdo pulled a pair of baggy satin trousers over his jeans and added a matching tunic that hid his sweater. “Put your socks and shoes in your pocket, Tammy. We can’t leave
anything
behind!”

“I look a sight!” Tammy muttered. “And what about the cash? We can’t just leave it here. Somebody’s sure to nick it!”

“These laundry baskets look just the thing,” Murdo said, pointing to half a dozen tall, straw baskets. “Put the bags in them. If anyone looks in they’ll think it’s dirty washing! With any luck we can collect them later!”

Leaving the cellars, they strode purposefully towards the stage and were horrified when a little old woman grabbed at them. “You’ve ruined your make-up,” she scolded, peering up at the streaks of dirt on their faces. “Where on earth have you been to get your faces so dirty?” Murdo and Tammy looked at one another warily as the woman made an exasperated noise. “Come in here this minute! How could you ever think of going on stage with your make-up in that state! Really!”

It was fortunate for both Tammy and Murdo that by the time she had finished with them, they were more or less completely unrecognizable for, as she shepherded them towards the extras, milling in the wings for the next crowd scene, several
policemen
emerged from the cellars and looked around, completely thunderstruck at having landed bang in the middle of a
pantomime
!

Murdo managed to keep a straight face as they mingled with the rest of the exotically attired cast but his mind was in turmoil. How had the police got onto them so quickly? Could
Wullie have ratted on them?

It hadn’t been Wullie who had ratted on them, however. Wullie was still in dreamland under a fortune in used
banknotes
. No, it had been the ghosts that had given the game away, for Mary King had remembered Neil’s words and, to this day, the policemen present remember the look on their Chief Inspector’s face when Mary King had sailed into view and halted the rampaging ghosts.

“My good man,” she’d said imperiously. The Chief Inspector’s jaw had dropped in amazement and he’d straightened
instinctively
for, despite a difference of at least five centuries, he realized that he was being addressed by the equivalent of a Morningside lady of good family and a proper tartar at that. “My good man,” she continued, “we are just as anxious as you are to find the people who did this. We will help you all we can. My friends here,” she indicated the ghosts, “will show you where they might be hiding!”

The astounded policemen looked at their Chief Inspector in total amazement as he nodded and so it was that, five
minutes
later, a large, totally gob-smacked slice of the Edinburgh Constabulary found itself fanning out through the tunnels and alleys of the Underground City with ghosts as guides. The Chief Inspector gulped, hoped he’d done the right thing and, preferring not to think of what he was going to write in his report, set off with the old Codger leading the way, along a narrow street that apparently led to the Assembly Hall.

“That’s got rid of them,” Mary King said thankfully as she and the remaining ghosts watched the last of the policemen disappear. “Come now,” she said, looking at their fearful faces, “they’re probably still sealed up but we’ve got to be sure, haven’t we?”

The cellars of the Plague People, as she had told Murdo, were close by but although they had little more to do than
walk round a corner, the ghosts eyed one another sideways and moved with a strange reluctance. As it happened, they heard them before they saw them and were seized by a sudden dread as the faint bubbling, moaning noise that seeped through the walls into the alley seemed to grow louder as they approached. Clarinda gave a shriek of fear and Mr Rafferty clapped a hand over his mouth in horror — for the blast of the explosion had not only blown open the vault, it had drastically weakened the sides of the houses. Their walls were bulging, weak and
crumbling
and they gaped in horror as, poking out from amid the streams of dust trickling down into the alley, they could see long, white fingers groping frantically through the cracks in the stone-work, picking and poking away desperately, trying to get out.

The Plague People! There was no doubt about it! There was nothing they could do to stop them! They would surely soon be free! Suddenly a long, thin, pasty-white arm crept through a slit in the wall and groped at the air with long, crooked fingers.

It was enough! The ghosts fled in terror!

As Murdo and Tammy mingled with the crowd onstage, they gradually relaxed. Dressed as they were, they had managed to blend in quite well and if they kept their heads down, Murdo reckoned, then they might well get away with it. He winked at Tammy. No one, so far, had accosted them and although they both kept a wary eye on the increasing numbers of policemen that prowled the wings they were soon caught up in the action of the plot as Ali Baba attempted to rescue his beloved Morgana from among the exotically dressed slave-girls who were being paraded in the market before the tall, impressive figure of the Sultan.

Nevertheless, they almost jumped out of their skins when two huge, green monsters suddenly erupted from a tall,
gold-framed
mirror that stood nearby. It was only when the rest of the crowd shied away in fright that they realized that this wasn’t part of the act, for the wave of fear that rippled through the cast was genuine. Everyone stared in horror at the dreadful creatures, absolutely dumbfounded.

The Stage Manager clapped a hand dramatically to his forehead. “Where on earth did they spring from?” he hissed, furiously. “
They’re
not in the script!”

“What
are
they?” demanded the Chief Inspector who had been standing at his elbow, scanning the stage for familiar faces. He looked at the
monstrous
things in disbelief and saw problems looming. The ghosts were bad enough — but monsters as well! His heart sank. They were
never
going to believe him back at the station!

Matt Lafferty whirled round as the goblins landed with a thump in the middle of the stage, his nose instinctively
wrinkling
in disgust as the most awful pong hit his nostrils. “Help ma’ bob!” he muttered, totally astounded. He lowered his staff as if to protect the Sultan but could only stare at them in horror for the creatures that had appeared out of nowhere were not only unknown to science, but were also repulsive, stank to the heavens and looked totally ferocious!

Neil and Clara recognized the goblins immediately. So did Lewis, who remembered them from his trip to Ardray. Sir James, too, sat looking totally appalled for he had been responsible for them being in the
mirror
in the first place. He’d whopped them over the head and chucked them into the mirror the previous year when he’d been trying to get the Sultan’s crown back from Prince Kalman and had certainly never expected to see them again.

The goblins got rather shakily to their feet and peered around, blinded by the stage lights. They were bigger than the average man, a horrid, sickly, green colour with skin that looped in dry, knobbly folds over their bodies. Their eyes were red and savage and their hands and feet ended in huge, sharp claws that were even now opening and closing as they eyed the people round about as though wondering which of them they were going to attack first. The stench was
indescribable
and yet nobody ran off the stage. Everyone stared, held in a terrible thrall of horror as they watched the creatures grunt and slobber dreadfully from mouths that showed
fearsome
sets of wickedly curved teeth.

Neil and Clara looked at one another and, with sinking hearts, realized that they were the only ones in a position to do anything. Neil knew, too, that they’d have to try and kill the goblins for there was no way they could let them attack the cast. Their fearsome claws would tear people apart and they
wouldn’t stop. They’d attack everyone and everything on stage.

Like the Grand Vizier, Neil turned the staff he was carrying into a spear and gestured to Clara to do the same. The
ornamental
point was, he knew, made from steel and they’d both had to be careful whilst carrying them for fear of doing someone an injury. “We’ve got to kill them,” he hissed at her.

“Kill them?” Matt Lafferty heard him quite plainly and was horrified. “Are you nuts, or something!” he whispered, totally shaken. “You can’t
kill
people in the middle of a
pantomime!
The place is loaded with kids!”

Neil, his face set and determined, looked him in the eye. “We have to,” he replied. “These things aren’t people wearing costumes, they’re goblins! And … and actually, I think you’ll have to do the killing, Mr Lafferty,” he said. “Clara and I don’t have the strength but if we keep one of the goblins occupied, you could spear the other one!”

Matt Lafferty looked over at the two goblins who, recovering from the shock of being so suddenly ejected from the mirror, were making horrible noises and baring their claws and teeth at the crowd. It was the slavering mouths and the gut-wrenching stink of them that finally convinced him that the goblins were for real and, as he nodded to Neil, the jovial comedian of the pantomime, despite his turban, changed into a warrior straight from the film of
Braveheart
.

The goblins, meanwhile, had spotted the long table at the side of the stage that had been laid out for the village feast. The roast pig, turkeys, haunches of venison and great hams that the Ranger had made with such care, were actually all made of papier-mâché but they looked real and inviting and, as the goblins lumbered gruntingly towards them, arms outstretched hungrily, Neil and Clara ran in front of the table and held them off with their spears while the Grand Vizier made his approach from the rear.

Totally horrified at what was going on, Sir James made to rise from his seat and head backstage when there was a sudden flash, a puff of smoke and a crack of sound that sent the goblins jumping warily backwards. They knew immediately what it meant. It meant that a wizard of some sort had arrived and they stared around to see who, what and where, he was.

Sir James also knew what the crack of sound portended and, scanning the stage swiftly, felt a sense of disappointment creep over him as he saw that no one had appeared and nothing seemed to have changed. Then he noticed Matt Lafferty staring at the Sultan and as he, too, looked at the stately figure on the throne, noticed a subtle difference in him. The Sultan of the pantomime was a tall, thin man and although the clothes were the same, this was by no means the same person. He was
heavier
and bulkier and as he turned to look into the audience, Sir James sat back in his seat with a sigh of relief as he recognized the stern, dark face beneath the turban. He relaxed thankfully; the Ranger had obviously got to the hill in time and told his story. The Sultan was indeed a Sultan. Their Sultan; Sulaiman the Red.

From then on, the Sultan took charge. As the goblins rushed towards Neil and Clara, he stood up, stretched out his arm and, as an astounded cast watched in amazement, a beam of light crackled towards the goblins. The goblins gave frightful shrieks as the hexes struck home and disappeared in two puffs of vile, green smoke. Neil and Clara, still holding their spears at the ready, looked at the Sultan blankly but as he beckoned them back to the dais they met his eyes and almost laughed with relief. The Sultan had arrived! Everything would be all right now!

The audience had been quick to react to the uncertainty on stage and Sir James could feel the rustle of unease that permeated the theatre. He started to clap loudly and as people half-heartedly
joined in, the Sultan bowed low and sent another spell sweeping over the audience. It was a warm, comfortable, reassuring spell that took everyone back to the days of their childhood and the magical thrill of the theatre. As the spell took hold, the clapping became a positive storm of applause and when the pantomime reverted to its original script, everyone settled back happily to enjoy it.

Sulaiman the Red, however, still sat on the throne, overseeing the proceedings with a wary eye. Given the fact that the magic mirror was still on, he was ready for surprises but even he had no idea that Prince Casimir was curled, worried and uncomfortable, inside the magic lamp. Casimir had watched the Sultan hex the goblins and was both disappointed and fearful. Fearful because the Sultan was there at all and disappointed beyond belief because the mirror had not, after all, held his son.

Lewis sat in his seat, absolutely stunned. What on earth was going on? He tried to remember what Casimir had told him about the MacArthurs and the Sultan’s crown but it was all rather mixed up in his mind. He knew, though, that what he had just observed was no stage trick. The Sultan had used magic to make the goblins disappear and surely, he thought, the Sultan in the first act had been thinner?

From then on he sat quivering in his seat knowing that although Casimir had left him, the world of magic still had a few tricks up its sleeve and that perhaps some of them had yet to be played. In this he was quite correct for, as the pantomime progressed, it suddenly dawned on Lewis that the magic lamp, into which he’d so casually deposited Casimir, was actually going to be used and, indeed, seemed to have an important part to play in the plot. And his heart sank as he realized what it would be …

On stage, a relaxed Clara had recovered from the shock of the
goblins and was now following the action with amusement. The scene that was coming next, where Ali Baba rubs the lamp and the genie appears, was her favourite part of the show. She was well aware that Alec Johnston was already in place behind a huge pottery jar that stood near her. He was busy hooking the ends of his blue, silk cloak over his fingers so that it would flare out as he made his fabulous leap in front of Ali Baba, when he rubbed the lamp. Eyes sparkling with anticipation, she watched as Ali Baba wandered over to one of the stalls and looked casually at the lamp.

Lewis cringed in his seat and Casimir almost had a heart attack. Surely not, he thought. It couldn’t be. Someone was picking up the lamp!

“Only five piastres, effendi!” the stall-keeper urged brightly, holding out the lamp for Ali Baba to see.

“
Five piastres!
” Ali Baba repeated in mock horror. “It’s not new! In fact it’s just a battered, old bit of scrap. I’ll give you two piastres for it!”

“Three, effendi,” the stall-keeper pleaded. “Three and it’s yours!”

Ali Baba fished in his pockets and threw three coins down on the stall. “It’s a deal,” he said, taking the lamp and holding it up, “but you might have given it a bit of a polish before you tried to sell it,” he grumbled, breathing on it and rubbing it with his sleeve.

Although the audience had been ready for a bang of some sort they hadn’t reckoned on the roar of sound that resounded throughout the Assembly Hall. They almost leapt from their seats and those on stage jerked backwards, watching in alarmed fascination as a huge puff of smoke spiralled upwards in
billowing
clouds from the narrow mouth of the lamp. It swirled
fantastically
and gradually took both shape and form. And there he was, thought Lewis. Old Casimir, himself! The genie of the
lamp. And he was absolutely breathtaking!

At much the same time, Alec Johnston had made his less than spectacular entrance; leaping forward, his cloak billowing out nicely behind him, to land at Ali Baba’s feet.

To tell you the truth, nobody much noticed him; for all eyes were fixed on Casimir who, amid billowing clouds of smoke, was now ten feet tall and growing!