Neverwhere

Door opened her eyes. The door was opening, quietly, quietly; she held her breath. Footsteps, quiet on the stone. Perhaps he won't notice me, she thought. Perhaps he'll go away. And then she thought, desperately, I'm hungry.

The footsteps hesitated. She was well hidden, she knew, under a pile of newspapers and rags. And it was possible that the intruder meant her no harm. Can't he hear my heartbeat? she thought. And then the footsteps came closer, and she knew what she had to do, and it scared her. A hand pulled the covers off her, and she looked up into a blank, utterly hairless face, which creased into a vicious smile. She rolled, then, and twisted, and the knife blade, aimed at her chest, caught her in the upper arm.

Until that moment, she had never thought she could do it. Never thought she would be brave enough, or scared enough, or desperate enough to dare. But she reached up one hand to his chest, and she opened . . .

He gasped, and tumbled onto her. It was wet and warm and slippery, and she slithered and staggered out from under the man, and she stumbled out of the room.

She caught her breath in the tu

"My, oh my," said a voice from the darkness on her right. "She survived Mister Ross. Well I never, Mister Vandemar." The voice oozed. It sounded like gray slime.

"Well I never either, Mister Croup," said a flat voice on her left.

A light was kindled and flickered. "Still," said Mr. Croup, his eyes gleaming in the dark beneath the earth, "she won't survive us."

Door kneed him, hard, in the groin: and then she pushed herself forward, her right hand holding her left shoulder.

And she ran.

"Dick?"

Richard waved away the interruption. Life was almost under his control, now. Just a little more time . . .

Gary said his name again. "Dick? It's six-thirty."

"It's what?" Papers and pens and spreadsheets and trolls were tumbled into Richard's briefcase. He snapped it shut and ran.

He pulled his coat on as he went. Gary was following. "Are we going to have that drink, then?"

Richard paused for a moment. If ever, he decided, they made disorganization an Olympic sport, he could be disorganized for Britain. "Gary," he said, "I'm sorry. I blew it. I have to see Jessica tonight. We're taking her boss out to di

"Mister Stockton? Of Stocktons? The Stockton?" Richard nodded. They hurried down the stairs. "I'm sure you'll have fun," said Gary, insincerely. "And how is the Creature from the Black Lagoon?"

"Jessica's from Ilford, actually, Gary. And she remains the light and love of my life, thank you very much for asking." They reached the lobby, and Richard made a dash for the automatic doors, which spectacularly failed to open.

"It's after six, Mister Mayhew," said Mr. Figgis, the building's security guard. "You have to sign out."

"I don't need this," said Richard to no one in particular, "I really don't."

Mr. Figgis smelled vaguely of medicinal liniment and was widely rumored to have an encyclopedic collection of soft-core pornography. He guarded the doors with a diligence that bordered upon madness, never quite having lived down the evening when an entire floor's worth of computer equipment upped and left, along with two potted palms and the managing director's Axminster carpet.

"So our drink's off, then?"

"I'm sorry, Gary. Is Monday okay for you?"

"Sure. Monday's fine. See you Monday."

Mr. Figgis inspected their signatures and satisfied himself they had no computers, potted palms, or carpets about their persons, then he pressed a button under his desk, and the door slid open.

"Doors," said Richard.

The underway branched and divided; she picked her way at random, ducking through tu

Luck was with Richard, for a change. He caught a black taxi, driven by an elderly man who took Richard home by an unlikely route involving streets Richard had never before seen, while holding forth, as Richard had discovered all London taxi drivers will hold forth—given a living, breathing, English-speaking passenger—on London's i

Then he dashed into the bedroom. The buzzer sounded. Richard, three-quarters of the way into his best suit, launched himself at the speaker.

"Richard? It's Jessica. I hope you're ready."

"Oh. Yes. Be right, down." He pulled on a coat, and he ran, slamming the door behind him. Jessica was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. She always waited for him there. Jessica didn't like Richard's apartment: it made her feel uncomfortably female. There was always the chance of finding a pair of Richard's underwear, well, anywhere, not to mention the wandering lumps of congealed toothpaste on the bathroom sink: no, it was not Jessica's kind of place.

Jessica was very beautiful; so much so Richard would occasionally find himself staring at her, wondering, how did she end up with me? And when they made love—which they did at Jessica's apartment in fashionable Kensington, in Jessica's brass bed with the crisp white linen sheets (for Jessica's parents had told her that down comforters were decadent)—in the darkness, afterwards, she would hold him very tightly, and her long brown curls would tumble over his chest, and she would whisper to him how much she loved him, and he would tell her he loved her and always wanted to be with her, and they both believed it to be true.

"Bless me, Mister Vandemar. She's slowing up."

"Slowing up, Mister Croup."

"She must be losing a lot of blood, Mister V."

"Lovely blood, Mister C. Lovely wet blood,"

"Not long now."

A click: the sound of a switchblade opening, empty and lonely and dark.

"Richard? What are you doing?" asked Jessica.

"Nothing, Jessica."

"You haven't forgotten your keys again, have you?"

"No, Jessica." Richard stopped patting himself and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.

"Now, when you meet Mister Stockton tonight," said Jessica, "you have to appreciate that he's not just a very important man. He's also a corporate entity in his own right."

"I can't wait," sighed Richard.

"What was that, Richard?"

"I can't wait," said Richard, rather more enthusiastically.

"Oh, please hurry up," said Jessica, who was begi

"No, Jess."

"Don't call me that, Richard. I loathe pet names. They're so demeaning."

"Spare any change?" The man sat in a doorway. His beard was yellow and gray, and his eyes were sunken and dark. A hand-lettered sign hung from a piece of frayed string around his neck and rested on his chest, telling anyone with the eyes to read it that he was homeless and hungry. It didn't take a sign to tell you that; Richard, hand already in his pocket, fumbled for a coin.