Free Six Days by Philip Webb

wedge the grapple hook round a bit of concrete. Which is a relief, cos I don’t fancy floating all the way into the West End – them old train tunnels are meant to go on forever this side of the river. I leave the maps in the dinghy and just take the flashlight before we head up to the surface.
    All’s quiet as we climb out onto the north bank – just a few foxes screeching. I spot one of them padding through the river mud, starving and wary. This end of the tunnel has got the same slag mounds, and we crawl up one ofthem for a butcher’s. To the south I can’t see much – just the leaning wreckage of Westminster Abbey and Big Ben blocking out the starlight. In the west I can make out the swaying tops of trees – St. James’s Park. North lies the yet-to-be-scavved buildings of Whitehall, shabby and stained but still managing to look important. To the east lies the approach to the river – the ripped-up canyons of mud and the bare stumps of Westminster Bridge, mostly pulled down now.
    It’s a risk to signal Wilbur, but I can’t leave the lad on tenterhooks. He’s got to know we’re safe, so I flash the flashlight three times.
    “Let’s get a lick on,” I whisper. “And keep your eyes peeled.”

THE SPIDER NEST
    W e hurry up to the Embankment road and move away from the river toward the Old Admiralty Offices. I want to stick to semi-scavved areas cos of the cover and cos it’s quicker than crossing mud and potholes. I scout out the way where it’s open, then give them the signal to follow one at a time. Peyto’s not bad at the commando stuff, but Erin’s a nightmare – running bolt upright like a goose, and what with her earmuffs on, her head’s about twice as big as it needs to be. Talk about give the Vlads a bit more of a target to aim at. And blimey, she’s clumsy – tripping over her own feet and making a proper racket.
    “Can’t you get down lower?” I hiss at her. “Might as well be waving a flippin’ flag the way you’re prancing about.” “I can’t help it,” she groans. “I can’t see anything!” “Just go slower, then. And d’you reckon you could get through London without kicking every bit of brick along the way?”
    “You could plant your feet where I plant mine,” offers Peyto.
    “Hey, if I need your advice on how walking works, I’ll be sure to ask you,” goes Erin.
    “All right, don’t flip your gimbals – it was just a suggestion.”
    They both eyeball each other, and Peyto looks stunned at what he’s just said, like he’s made it up.
    “
Flip your gimbals?
What planet are you two from?”
    They go blank as mudfish on me then, like I’ve just bad-mouthed the Queen. Which is just as well, cos I want to get on with minimum fuss.
    It’s right creepy round Horse Guards Parade with weeds scraping in the wind and not a soul about. I ain’t used to being in the scav zone at night like that without the crushers going hell-for-leather and the
chock-chocking
of picks and hammers.
    It’s all clear as we creep past the once-grand houses of Downing Street where the Lord President of London used to live. And in the dark and the silence, without the scav gangs swarming all over it, you can imagine this city as it once was. It don’t take much to think of the lights and the crowds, maybe folks like the Piccadilly Princess in the picture, rushing off to meet her fella, living it up.
    We get to Little Sanctuary safe and sound, and I’m starting to think the whole jaunt is a breeze. Past the silentcrusher, up five flights of stairs, and into the rooms we scavved earlier.
    Peyto scrabbles round in the dark for a bit, feeling along the edge of the skirting board.
    “Switch on the flashlight – I can’t find it,” he goes.
    “Where’d you stash it?”
    “I hid it just here. I’m sure it was in this gap.”
    “Come on, Peyto,” pleads Erin. “Don’t play around.”
    “I’m not! It’s not here, I’m telling you!” Peyto’s voice is getting panicky.
    “Hey, pipe