Cuttlefish by Dave Freer Page A

Rothschilds for the first two submarines. Got the Hollanders in to help us and train us. I'll take you along to Southwark. What are you needing? A boat to Kerry?”
    Her mother laughed bitterly. “A lot farther than that. We seem to have both Imperial Security and the Russians wanting to catch us. So, if you please, as I know the Underpeople do business with the Russians, and there are informers everywhere, even here, I'd rather not say.”
    Mick nodded slowly. “True enough. I'll take you to Southwark as quickly and quietly as possible, then. Come along, follow me.” They'd gone down a metal stairway into yet another echoing hall lit with gas flares. Here men were off-loading long lidded barges that bobbed below the quay. Mick went over to a foreman who was overseeing the line of pale-faced stevedores off-loading, by the smell of it, tea. “Tug. We'll need a bobber. These coves need to get to Southwark, sharpish.”
    â€œOne over at platform seven. I'll get someone to hook it up to a dragline for you.” Clara realised that the “dock” was actually the railway station, with the track area flooded so that the barges were floating in it. They crossed two little makeshift bridges and came to a hanging faded sign that read P LATFORM S EVEN E ASTERN LINE .
    Floating there was a little capsule sitting deep in the water—it looked rather like a barrel, made of wooden staves with iron bands, and a round manhole-like screw-opening. On either end there were metal staples and a cable drooping away into the water.
    â€œIt's a bit of a tight fit, ma'am,” said Mick, who was easily twice Mother's size. “But it'll save you a few hours of tunnel walking and a lot of the risks.”
    So they'd squeezed into the barrel thing. Mick almost had to pour himself through the opening. It was dark inside, and the wooden walls were covered in quilted padding. “You and the galbetter find a hanging strap, ma'am,” said Mick. “Feel about on the roof.”
    Clara had found one, as someone outside closed the hatch and screwed it in place. It was dark and airless, and then they started to move.
    â€œWhy is it all closed up like this?” asked Clara, curious as they bumped and swayed. She was very grateful for the handle.
    â€œTunnel dips right underwater,” said Mick. “We knock about a bit too, so hold tight.”
    They did, indeed. Clara was very glad to get out of the dark…into another gaslit drowned station, with the thrub-thrub of pumps underlying everything. Here Mick took them to what must have once been the ticket office. And to her disgust Clara got to kick her heels outside while her mother went into an office to talk to people. Time passed very slowly. She didn't even have Mick to ask questions about the clanking and hissing machinery in the distance, or the people who came and went, dropping parcels into a chute in the arch. It was all very mysterious, and very poorly lit, and damp smelling. Damp and coal smoke would always colour her memory of Under London. Eventually her mother came back, with as near to a smile as Clara had seen since they'd managed to give the count the slip. She squeezed Clara's hand, and her voice had some relief in it. “I've been able to send a Marconi message to a prominent scientist I know of in the United States of America. We have had a reply already. He obviously has more government connections than I knew of, and it seems that they also knew the Russians and Imperial Security were up to something. They've agreed to give us both asylum, darling.”
    â€œDoes that mean we're safe?” asked Clara, wondering if she maybe was somehow in an asylum already, and all this was some kind of illusion.
    Mother sighed. “Not yet. It means that we have somewhere to go. And the alternative was staying here, and that, I gather, would not be safe. It seems that they're still looking for us. The Underpeoplesay that collecting our