Alan Gibbons

Alan Gibbons is a full-time writer and a visiting speaker and lecturer at schools, colleges and literary events nationwide, including the major book festivals. He lives in Liverpool with his wife and four children.

Alan Gibbons has twice been shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal, with The Edge and Shadow of the Minotaur, which also won the Blue Peter Book Award in the ‘Book I Couldn’t Put Down’ category. Scared to Death, the first of the Hell’s Underground sequence, won the 2008 Salford Teenage Book Award.

Acclaim for Hell’s Underground …

‘very definitely scary … builds tension slowly and cleverly and is ultimately a more rewarding read for it.’

Jill Murphy, thebookbag

‘entertainingly gruesome stuff’    The Daily Telegraph

‘A genuinely scary time-shift novel’    The Bookseller

‘Another gripping, action packed story full of mystery and excitement’    Primary Times

Also by Alan Gibbons

Blood Pressure
Caught in the Crossfire
Chicken

The Dark Beneath
The Defender
The Edge
Ganging Up
Hold On
Julie and Me … and Michael Owen Makes Three
The Lost Boys’ Appreciation Society
Not Yeti
Playing With Fire
Whose Side Are You On?

The Legendeer Trilogy

The Darkwing Omnibus

Hell’s Underground

1. Scared to Death
2. The Demon Assassin
3. Renegade

AN ORION CHILDREN’S EBOOK

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Orion Children’s Books.
This eBook first published in 2010 by Orion Children’s Books.
Text copyright © Alan Gibbons 2010
Illustrations copyright © Ian P Benfold Haywood 2007, 2008, 2010

The rights of Alan Gibbons and Ian P Benfold Haywood to be identified as the author and illustrator respectively of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act 1988.

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978 1 4440 0282 9

This ebook produced by Jouve, France

Orion Children’s Books
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper St Martin’s Lane
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An Hachette UK Company

www.orionbooks.co.uk

Prologue

‘ell me you will never forget me.’ The quill pen falters on the page. The author swallows hard and drags the back of his hand across his eyes. He doesn’t know whether anyone will ever read what he’s writing. ‘The dark heart of London is my home. Please think of me. In so many ways I’m closer to you than you think, but not in the only way that matters. I wish I could reach out and touch you …’ His attention drifts for a second, imagining faces printed in the darkness. ‘… but I travel alone. By an accident of birth, it’s my destiny to use evil in order to fight evil. That’s my burden.’

The writer of these lines twists in his seat and gazes across the candlelit room. There is a lead-lined box on the windowsill. He crosses the room to get it and places it on the table next to him.

His name is Paul Rector. He prays the specially made box will be his letterbox to the future, to the twenty-first century London he once called home. He imagines the people that will read the journal: Mum, Netty.

‘I am continuing my journey, both back in time and deeper into myself. Every day I struggle to cope with the things I discover about my true nature.

‘Do you want to know what it’s like here, in Hell’s Underground? Ask Netty. She’s seen it. It’s lonely and it’s frightening. There’s hardly a single moment I feel at ease. Every day I want to go home and hold you both, but I know what I have to do. Is that all it is, seven months? I wonder, do those two simple words have meaning any more? In that period, I’ve journeyed through almost four centuries. I’ve seen cruelty, horror and war. I’ve begun to realise that time doesn’t move in a straight line. It’s not just a sequence of events that are fixed, ordered and unchangeable. It’s a vast and complex structure, with many dimensions, many ever-changing faces and planes. Unpick a single thread of time here and countless events may unravel elsewhere.

‘I’m travelling towards a meeting with the monster who poisoned our lives. Sometime soon I am going to meet Lud, desolate king of a demon world. He’s here somewhere, imprisoned in his crypt. He orchestrates his disciples and plots to emerge from exile. Eventually he’s going to break free of his living death. Then it’s between him and me. One of us must perish.’

Paul opens the box and taps his teeth thoughtfully with his pen.

‘Do you remember those first days when I discovered my true identity? You were worried about me, Netty. You too, Mum. You probably thought I was going crazy. We just wanted those horrible events to go away. That was never going to happen, was it? It was always going to come down to this. The demon seed contaminates me as it has so many of the Rector men. It puts down roots and grows, choking any goodness out of us. My ancestors Samuel and Harry lost their souls to Lud. Then there was John, my brother, the son you’ve mourned all this time, Mum. He served Lud and he paid the price. Lud used them all, then cast them aside without a moment’s thought. They did terrible things, but none of it was really their fault. It’s him. It’s Lud.’

He clenches his fist and presses his knuckles to his forehead.

‘When’s it going to end? I’m on the trail of the latest of the Rector men to serve Lud. I’ve only got a name. The man I must find is called Nathanael Rector.

‘I hate what’s happened to me. I left you, Mum. Then, Netty, you left me. I don’t blame you. Who would choose to stay in Hell’s Underground? I can say it now. You’re the only girl I ever really cared about. I don’t want to be here. I want to be with you. I’m no hero. I’m so scared.

‘What am I doing telling you all this? Am I trying to hurt you? No matter how bad I feel, there is hope. I will find a way to complete my mission. Each step of the way, I’m getting stronger. Every day my powers seem more natural, more a part of me, like touching, like breathing. You know the first; I can instil mortal terror with a single stare. One day I will master my dual nature, part human, part demon.’

Paul snaps his fingers and watches the flames dancing from his fingertips.

‘You know I can control fire too. But I have a third talent, if that’s what it is. It’s given me the ability to move small objects with my mind, even to feign death, but there’s always a price to pay. If I want to take a demon’s power, I have to kill him for it. To make myself strong, I must turn into a killer. That’s what really scares me, you see, not the loneliness, not the danger, not even the thought that I may never make it home. It’s this thing inside, the demon seed. Each time I kill, each time I draw on the dark arts, my human side weakens and my demon self strengthens.’

He sees his face reflected in the mirror. Menace seems to seep through the shadows. This is the face his victims see.

Paul takes up his pen once more. ‘My mind opens to Lud. The nightmares flood in. He unleashes terrible visions of the white chapel in which he lies, preparing to return. Who knows? The next time I’m forced to use my abilities, it may cost me my sanity.’

He closes his eyes for a moment before completing the entry.

‘I’m not going to feel sorry for myself. I won’t give in. I will find a way back. Goodbye, both of you. I’m about to take the next step into Hell’s Underground. I will find my ancestor, Nathanael Rector, and destroy him.’

He closes the book and places it in the box. Then he says the words he couldn’t write to Mum and Netty. ‘Or he will destroy me …’

One

6 June 1645

race Fletcher smoothed down her grey dress, tucked a curl of raven-black hair into her bonnet, and went to serve the troopers with cheese, bread and a pitcher of ale. The men were rowdy, but they weren’t too much trouble.

‘What,’ the Cornet in charge of the men asked, ‘do we not get a smile, fair lady Grace?’

Grace forced a thin smile and tolerated his banter.

‘That’s better,’ the Cornet said. ‘Why, when a smile lights your face, you make yourself quite presentable, a rare beauty, in fact. You should do it more often.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Grace answered, resisting the temptation to pour the ale over the officer’s fat head. What made men like him think that every woman he met should simper for him? What made him think that her only ambition in life was to make herself ‘presentable’? She’d met King’s men and Parliament’s men and neither of them pleased her much.

There were a dozen men in the squadron. Rumour had it they’d been skirmishing with the King’s men up country. Their faces were smeared with the dust and grime of a morning’s hard riding and they had a raging thirst. The Swan was a regular watering hole for the men of the Eastern Association as they sallied forth to confront the Cavaliers. It was late May and there was hawthorn and elder blossom in the hedgerows. The fighting season had begun. Soon, there would be more broken bodies in the field. Wives would mourn husbands, and mothers their sons. As Grace made her way back to the kitchen, she shook her head and cursed man for his warlike nature. In this year of Our Lord, 1645, he still had nothing better to do than butcher his brother in a dispute over the divine rights of a single man.

As she deposited her circular, wooden tray on the table, she saw a familiar crimson stain the size of a small leaf spreading on the dark material of her sleeve. She felt the old hollowness inside her. Must she forever be reminded of her loss? She frowned, then glanced at the door. Hurriedly rolling up her sleeve, she examined her forearm. It was as she had suspected. There was the three-inch scar, the wound that never healed. It had flared up and was leaking fresh blood. Around the open wound, Grace’s skin was so unbearably itchy that she started scratching, though she knew, from experience, that she risked making it worse. Stealing another look at the door, she rinsed the inflamed area with cold water from a jug before binding it with a clean cloth. That’s when she heard the door hinges creak behind her. Feverishly, she rolled her sleeve down to the wrist to disguise the tell-tale mark.

‘What are you doing over there, Grace?’ Beldam demanded. ‘Your customers are getting restless for another pitcher of ale.’

‘It’s nothing, Jacob,’ Grace replied.

‘If it’s nothing, you should be out there serving those troopers,’ Jacob said irritably. ‘They’ve coppers in their pocket and I aim to get my hands on as much of their pay as I can. Now, what’s wrong with your arm?’

Grace felt her heart flutter.

‘I have suffered a horsefly bite,’ she answered. ‘It’s no more than that.’

Try as she did to control the anxiety in her voice, she wasn’t sure she’d succeeded. Beldam wandered over. Grace flinched at his approach. The more she got to know the landlord of the Swan, the less she liked him.

‘Do you want me to take a look at it?’ he asked. ‘My wife may have a salve that will aid it.’

Something in his tone of voice told her he was less interested in helping than in finding an excuse to get close to her.

‘Thank you for your kindness, Jacob,’ Grace said, forcing herself to sound civil, ‘but it’s nothing.’

‘That’s what Elizabeth Clarke and all those other crones must have said out at Manningtree,’ Beldam mused.

At the mention of the Essex town and its notorious witch trial, Grace felt the skin on her neck prickle. England’s eastern counties were buzzing with the tale of Elizabeth Clarke and twenty-seven other women rotting in Colchester’s rat-infested gaol cells. The good people of East Anglia now fancied they saw witches crouching in every hedgerow. Grace was left in no doubt which way Beldam’s thoughts were turning.

‘You know how it is with these witch-hunters, Grace,’ Beldam continued, his breath hot on her neck. ‘They are too eager by half. Like hounds after a hare, they are. Once their blood is up, they will pursue any suspect female to her death. The moment they throw a wench in gaol, they will go looking for the Devil’s mark. We wouldn’t want them finding anything on your fair skin now, would we? That would be a great shame on such a comely wench.’

Grace was standing very stiffly, with Beldam immediately behind her. He made her skin creep. She could smell the heavy fragrance of ale on his apron.

‘You wouldn’t want to attract any unnecessary attention. You know full well that I set little store by the likes of Master Hopkins and his ilk. They treat their suspects cruelly, Grace. They strip them. Do you know what they’re after?’

Grace nodded, then gave him his answer. ‘They’re seeking the sign of the Devil.’

‘That’s right. They’re intent on finding a red spot,’ Beldam whispered, his whiskery chin brushing the top of her ear. He stuck his hand out in front of her face and made a gesture with his thumb and forefinger. ‘That’s all they’re looking for, a tiny red spot.’

‘Do you think it is seemly,’ Grace asked in a trembling voice, ‘that these witch-hunters should be allowed to strip a woman of her clothes and her dignity?’

‘I’m not the one who makes the rules, Grace,’ Beldam said, feigning a yawn. ‘I’m only telling you the way it is.’

‘Well, it’s wrong,’ Grace protested. ‘You failed to give me a proper answer, Jacob. Do you think it is fair that a woman should be examined without any right of appeal?’

Beldam ignored her question and pressed on with his speech. ‘The mark doesn’t have to be much at all, they say. Sometimes, it is just this little, red spot, like the bite of a flea’ – he let the word hang for a moment – ‘or a horsefly.’

Grace closed her eyes. Dear God, this man will be the death of me.

‘They say the spot is immune to pain,’ Beldam reminded her. He laid his large hands on her shoulders. ‘Do you know, when it is pricked, there isn’t even a trace of blood?’

Revolted by his presence, Grace seized on his words. ‘Then I have no need to worry, Jacob.’

On impulse, she thrust out her right arm. ‘Do you see my sleeve? Do you see the stain? Is that blood enough for you?’

Instantly, she regretted her outburst. Sweet heavens, she thought, have I lost my reason? Her mark was so unusual, it would be bound to excite the witch-hunters far more than a mere flea bite. She had just made him more, not less suspicious.

‘Let me see that,’ Beldam commanded as he seized her wrist. He dabbed at her sleeve with his forefinger. ‘Why, the material is soaked through! This is no horsefly bite. Roll up your sleeve.’

Grace snatched her hand away. ‘I shall do no such thing!’

‘I will examine this mark,’ Beldam snarled, his mood changing. ‘You must give your permission this moment or I shall put you out of the door!’

‘Then I will leave your employment forthwith, Jacob Beldam,’ Grace snapped, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. ‘You have no right to command me in this. It is a private matter.’

But Beldam held her tight. ‘God’s blood, woman, you have a fiery temper. Have you not listened to me these last few weeks? If you did but learn to control it, you would be able to live a comfortable life in this town.’

‘Is that right, Jacob?’ Grace retorted, turning her head to get a look at him. ‘So tell me this, what would I have to do in order to secure this comfortable life you offer me? Speak straight, for I will have no more of your teasing and taunting.’

Taking her words as a sign of encouragement, Beldam softened his attitude. ‘All I seek, Gracie, is a smile now and then.’ He squeezed her shoulders, his fingers kneading her flesh. ‘I have no sympathy for those who would see the Devil’s mark in the slightest blemish. I have your best interests at heart, my flower.’ His fingers strayed over her cheek and throat. ‘Maybe you could show me a little kindness in return.’

With that, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against the nape of her neck. Grace responded by spinning round and slapping his face so hard it made his teeth rattle.

‘The only kindness I would show you,’ Grace cried, a little too loudly, ‘is the same kindness those troopers show to a horse with a broken leg, for you deserve no more, sir. Maybe I should tell your wife about the things you whisper in my ear. It is high time the old shrew saw you in a true light.’

She had her back to the door, but she felt a draught as somebody entered the kitchen. The quarrel had attracted the attention of the russet-coated Cornet.

‘Is the wench giving you trouble, landlord?’ the officer asked, an amused smile playing on his lips. He had spotted the telltale redness on Beldam’s cheek.

‘No more than usual, Cornet Leech,’ Beldam answered. ‘I am afraid Mistress Fletcher has the tongue of an adder sometimes.’

‘What is the cause of so hot a dispute?’ Cornet Leech demanded.

Beldam relished the information he now gave Leech. ‘There is a strange mark on Grace’s arm.’

Grace’s throat tightened. Did I anger him so much that he would put my reputation at risk? Does he now want revenge? She was beginning to regret the force she put into that slap.

Leech threw his head back and laughed out loud. ‘You’re talking to a soldier, landlord. I have had my fair share of cuts.’

‘You misunderstand, sirrah,’ Beldam weasled. ‘This is a strange thing, a wound that does not heal.’

Grace’s eyes widened in horror. He had known about it all along. He had been biding his time, planning to use it as a bargaining counter against her.

‘That’s right, my girl,’ Beldam gloated. ‘Though you have tried to disguise it, I have seen you tending to it often.’

‘What are you getting at?’ Leech demanded, the smile vanishing from his face. He was beginning to wish he had never allowed his curiosity to draw him through the door.

‘Are you blind to the ways of Satan?’ Beldam asked. ‘Mistress Fletcher has long harboured a most unusual sore on her forearm. It is always livid and raw and never does it heal.’

At last, the scales fell from Leech’s eyes. He was the son of a gentleman farmer from just outside Ipswich. He had heard about the spate of witch trials that had broken out across eastern England.

‘Landlord,’ Leech said gravely, ‘I would counsel caution here. They hang women for witchcraft. If this is no more than a quarrel between master and servant that has got out of hand …’

Beldam remembered Grace’s final insult and rubbed his cheek. A moment later, he smirked. His next words chilled Grace’s blood. ‘I understand the consequences of what I am saying. If there is nothing to it, then let Mistress Fletcher submit to a physical examination.’

‘I will do no such thing!’ Grace cried. She knew there could only be one outcome.

‘Perhaps we can resolve the matter quickly,’ Leech suggested. ‘I am sure you have nothing to fear, mistress. If you would just roll up your sleeve …’

‘Let me be,’ Grace pleaded. ‘I have done nobody any harm.’ She pointed at Beldam. ‘He is the one who harbours wicked thoughts, not I. Sir, I am innocent.’

Beldam chuckled. ‘So that’s the lie of the land. Now you’re trying to transfer the guilt to me, hussy. But I am not the one with an unexplained sore on her forearm, am I, Grace?’

Leech reached out to take Grace’s wrist. She drew away. ‘Stop this foolishness immediately,’ he ordered, the look of indulgence vanishing from his face. ‘If you would but permit me to take a look at your arm, then we can have done with this tomfoolery.’

But Grace’s voice was now laced with panic. ‘Please, sir, just let me leave.’ She gave Beldam a sideways stare. ‘That man is wicked to the core. He means me harm.’

‘But do you not see?’ Leech said. ‘Now that an accusation has been made, I must ascertain whether there is any evidence of the Devil’s mark.’

Grace shook her head fiercely. ‘Why must you?’

Leech allowed his arms to flop by his side. ‘You see, my father is a magistrate.’

At that, Grace swallowed hard. She detected that the officer was a fair-minded man with little time for the witch-hunters, but here he was, the son of a magistrate, being confronted with an allegation of witchcraft, an offence punishable by death. He had no choice but to see the matter through.

‘Pray roll up your sleeve, mistress,’ Leech said.

Grace shook her head.

‘Then I regret I must use force,’ Leech said. ‘Ruddock, Cate, come in here this minute.’

Grace tried to bolt for the inn door, but the troopers had her pinned by both arms before she could lift the latch. The soldiers would remember later that she had raised her hand as if to throw something, then thought better of it. For a moment or two, she struggled in vain and then her body sagged in despair. Leech drew back her sleeve.

‘What is this?’ he asked, seeing the strip of bloodstained white cloth.

Grace maintained her silence. Leech peeled back the hastily applied dressing and gasped. The wound reminded him of a sword slash. It was deep and angry. ‘How do you explain so grave a wound?’ he demanded.

Grace’s eyes burned with indignation and resistance. ‘I don’t.’

‘Put away your pride, for pity’s sake,’ Leech said, uncomfortably aware of Beldam looking over his shoulder. ‘Do you not understand that I am trying to help you?’ He was willing her to provide a rational explanation. ‘Did you perhaps cut yourself with a knife?’

‘You’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you?’ Beldam said, catching the trooper’s eye. ‘She has had the wound ever since she turned up at my door, asking for work, and that is three months since. What, do you have a soft spot for a fair-faced doxy?’

‘I am no doxy,’ Grace retaliated, ‘as you know only too well.’

‘Then what are you?’ Beldam spat back. ‘Are you a witch, a servant of Satan? Do you consort with the Prince of Darkness? Is that why you refuse to explain this mark?’

‘You must speak,’ Leech implored Grace. ‘You must say something in your own defence or suffer the consequences.’

‘But you can’t, can you, Grace?’ Beldam said, seizing on Leech’s words with glee. ‘Because you have no defence. You see, I got talking to one Master Sudley the other day. He is a shoemaker from out Framlingham way.’

Not for the first time that day, Grace’s heart missed a beat.

‘Did you see that, Cornet?’ Beldam chortled. ‘When I mentioned Framlingham, she looked like I had struck her in the stomach. Now why’s that, Grace? Could it be because he told me the tale of Mistress Grace Fletcher who left the town in mysterious circumstances? Three months have elapsed since she vanished.’

Grace struggled against the troopers, who were still restraining her.

‘Tell the officer why you fled Framlingham in such haste,’ Beldam continued. ‘No? Very well, I will.’ He turned to Leech. ‘The story is, you see, that Mistress Fletcher flew the coop in some haste so she didn’t have to explain her daughter’s disappearance.’

Leech, who had been sympathetic until now, stared at Grace.

‘That’s right, Cornet,’ Beldam crowed, ‘Mistress Fletcher has committed the most demonic act possible. She gave up her only daughter to Satan himself. Remind me of the child’s name, mistress.’

Grace dropped her gaze. ‘Susanna.’

She saw the trooper’s gaze grow cold. In that moment, she knew she was lost.