Marie!"
But the voices weren't addressing Jazz. She could see in the faces of that spectral audience —many
of them in uni-form—that their focus was on the stage. Jazz turned just in time to see the tall blond woman
sashay suggestively onto the stage. A microphone awaited her. She ran her fingers down the smooth
contours of her body, over the sparkling material of her dress.
And she sang.
"I didn't like you much before you joined the army, John," Marie cooed, "but I do like yer cockie now
you've got your khaki on."
The audience erupted with hoots and applause.
Jazz fell to her knees and slapped her hands over her ears. She squeezed her eyes closed tightly. The
sound of her own breathing filled her head, and her heart thundered in her chest.
When she felt fingers on her shoulder, she screamed.
Scrambling away, she rose to a crouch, ready to flee. Blinking, she saw that the apparitions had
gone. She had left her torch on the tracks a dozen feet away, and the light shone off into the darkness.
Cadge stood staring at her, torch trained on her, his eyes wide with concern.
"Get that light out of my face," she said, but couldn't manage the scolding tone she'd attempted.
He lowered the torch, and they stood staring at each other in its diffused glow.
"You hear them too," he said.
Jazz cocked her head, staring at him doubtfully. "What are you saying? You heard that?"
Cadge moistened his lips. He hesitated a moment as though afraid to confess, but at last he nodded.
"A song, this time. And cheering. It's always different. Almost always."
Torn between relief that she wasn't mad and astonish-ment at this confirmation, she stared at him.
"Are we the only ones?"
The boy glanced away, shifting nervously. "Harry hears 'em, I think. Just echoes, he says. Echoes of
old times. But he told me never to mention it to the others. They'll think I'm a nutter."
"Echoes," Jazz whispered. Then she narrowed her eyes and studied him. "You see them too?"
Cadge gave a small shrug. "Sometimes. Like bits of fog. Used to think my eyes were going, the way
things would blur. Once... once I thought I saw a face."
Jazz swallowed and found her throat dry. He might have heard the phantoms lost down there in the
tunnels, the ghosts of old London that had manifested to her twice since her descent, but it was obvious
Cadge could not see them the way she did.
She didn't tell him that. Not yet. But she wondered about Harry. If he heard them, maybe he saw
them too.
"So, echoes?" she said.
"Like memories," Cadge said. "The city's memories; something like that."
They fell into step together, more cautiously this time, making their way deeper beneath London.
"Not ghosts?"
His eyes widened a little. "No, not ghosts."
"Why not?"
Cadge glanced away. "'Cause I'm afraid of ghosts."
"Just echoes, Cadge," she said, and she sensed Cadge more at ease beside her. It felt strange, her
trying to calm him, but though she seemed to hear and see much more, she could not find it in herself to be
frightened. There was something about the visions she'd just seen, a sort of sad in-nocence, that perhaps
had a little to do with the old times they were from.
"Hear 'em now and then," he said. "That's all. Now and then."
"So let's keep them between us for now, yes?"
Cadge turned to her and smiled, and she saw his plea-sure at their complicity.
"All right by me," he said. "Besides, there's plenty else to be scared of down here. Ask Harry to tell
you about the Hour of Screams sometime."
Jazz frowned. "What's that?"
"Told ya, ask Harry. Don't even like to talk about it myself." He shivered theatrically, to make sure
she got the point. But then he smiled. "We'd best get moving."
Jazz shook her head in amusement. "You are so odd."
Cadge offered a courtly bow, grinning, and then they walked on. Rats scurried out of their way,
avoiding the torchlight. Now and then they heard the rumble and rattle of a train in the distance, like the
Underground grumbling in eternal hunger. A wind pushed through the tunnel from ahead of them, carrying
stale scents of dust and despair. Jazz had always sensed that down here, every time she'd traveled
somewhere with her mother. London has more than its share of sadness, her mother had said once.
Like an old person, an old city can sometimes get wistful and melancholy.
Old city, Jazz thought. That's for sure. She sniffed the breeze and thought of so many people dead
and gone, and the sadness of growing toward death.
Her mother had been forty-four years old when she died.
Chapter Six
old news
Jazz had
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