Walls Came Tumbling Down

I

The ledge was closer to the entrance of the tunnel than before. Fenian sat staring into space.

Across the tracks, the half light threw up a platform covered in blankets and trash. A service ladder snaked up the brickwork towards it. It looked rickety, unsafe. In his mind's eye, he had already climbed it a dozen times, gone above this. Into daylight and the bright blaze of Near's satellite surveillance. Certain death.

Or stay here, forgotten and disdained, with the live tracks and the shaking. Sam had punched him in the mouth for screaming. People above heard stuff like that and called the police. The last thing that anyone needed down here, with the crack pipes and the murders, was for the authorities to come exploring. Fenian had tried talking to him, telling him about being orphaned and abducted, sold out, shoved out, parentless, nationless, loveless, lost. Sam had chuckled, a pitiless sound, and called him a child for believing that safety nets existed in this world.

You found out the hard way or not at all. No-one had security. No-one. It was simply an old lie, learned at the breast, which never got corrected. The state owed nobody anything. Bloodlines meant nothing. Friendships formed and waned. Communities cast out more often than they welcomed with open arms. No-one had anyone but themselves. Only children thought differently; and sometimes not even them.

Fenian had tried praying. Right there, at the last, finding his Catholicism without comfort. Maybe God didn't hear him in the muck and grime. Or maybe he couldn't hear God. He whispered the Hail Mary, until his tongue tasted acrid with subway fumes and swelled in his mouth.

There was daylight. Just down the tracks, at the end of the tunnel, or right up that ladder. He could leave and throw himself at the mercy of Near. Die like a failed hero, not a rat.

Or there were the tracks. So many ways to see salvation on those live lines, with the roaring trains coming in darkness.

The worst of it. The absolute and utter worst of it was that he knew he could have made a go of it down here. Of all his peers, he was the most equipped to survive in these surroundings. His ideas, his mind, could have reconfigured these slum camps and perilous dwellings into something wonderful. A paramedic in the depths. A genius to divert the water pipes, the gas pipes, the electricity cables. He could have been king.

"Fian!" The shout rang through the tunnels, bouncing off arches and bridges. "Fenian! You here, bach?"

Fenian froze rigidly for a second. It seemed to last forever, with all of his thoughts tumbling, jumbling against themselves and disbelief raging. He twisted his head around to see, far too quickly and too harshly for the damage in his back. At the tunnel's mouth, a figure stood like an hallucination. An army length overcoat sweeping his calves, he could be military or the police.

The call came again. "Fenian! Tá tú i ann buachaill?"

An expectant watchfulness filled the darkness. Eyes everywhere. All of them picking out the solitary soul, who looked like a police officer. But for the hair. But for the utter inability to take care of himself. And he was going to come in here!

Fenian scrambled to his feet and yelled back, "Century!" He started running. Despite the pain, despite it all, he ran to the sound of that lovely, Welsh voice; because they'd fucking eat Century alive in here, and protecting the kid was as instinctual as breathing. "Century!" His foster brother was coming towards him, with a loping gait only just short of jogging. The teenager didn't make it too far in, before Fenian was upon him, practically falling. Century's arms came up at the last to catch him and Fenian's knees just went. His legs like jelly, his hands clawing into the space above Century's shoulders.

"Hey, hey, now." Century commented, through a lollipop held between his teeth. "Got you now. All safe, is it? Passport and everything. Fucking bastards, they are, for what they did to you."

Fenian couldn't speak. There was only Century's support keeping him from slumping onto the gravel and rocks. It was a strange sensation, to be calmer, more clear in his thoughts than he had been for days; watching himself lose it, as if cushioned from reality by a great height. Part of him was listening to Century's breathing, looking for cyanosis or any sign of a panic attack. Part of him was recognising that Century wasn't the one in crisis here. The teenager was pulling him back, away from the tracks, up towards a wall in the brightest light.

"Fwc! Look like shit, boy. Hate to be rude, but you do."

"Here!" Fenian managed to gush out. "You here." There should have been words in the middle. Structure to make a sentence. But none of that could travel from his brain to his lips.

Century nodded, pleased with himself. "Figured it out, didn't I? Been searching the old tunnels from Newark to here. Fucking fascinating things! You know they used to be canals? 1825 this one. Didn't know they had anything this old in America." He cast his gaze all around the entrance brickwork, no doubt looking for architectural evidence that boats had once passed along it. "I mean, not this really. Only 1916. World War..."

"What are you doing here?!" Fenian caught the note of hysteria in his voice. With the coherence of speech came the destruction of his mind.

"Looked at the history of New Jersey. Well, I was looking at the geology, caves and stuff, but got a bit side-tracked." He glanced down at the railway. "No pun intended, mind." He winced at his own bad joke. "Got looking at all of this and found out about the mole people over in old New York. Thought it was worth a try, see; and here we all are."

Fenian stared and stared. He thought he might be laughing. It sounded like he was screaming. But Century - old, laid-back Century - was just taking it in his stride. And somewhere along the way, all went black, though he was assured later that he never passed out.

II

The taxi sped along the rain-washed streets of Jamaica, Queens. It pulled up in front of an unprepossessing two-storey building, which didn't even bear a sign stating that it was a hotel. It looked run-down and a little seedy, but it was out of the way and cheap.

There was only a short dash from vehicle to front door, but it was enough to leave them drenched. Syd spoke up the second he was through the door. "Lamesha, you got any rooms spare in here? Told these English guys you'd sort them out."

The reception was little more than a narrow corridor, lit with a yellowish strip light. Flies buzzed trapped under its plastic grill. The woman sat behind a counter, protected by bullet-proof glass. It didn't inspire confidence. She also gave an air of being inordinately bored. "Yeah. $50. Name."

"Justin Johnson."

In the doorway, the cabbie started to push back out into the night. "Catch you later, Lammie. And hey, guys, have a good time in the United States." Syd rushed away, no doubt under commission to bring unsuspecting tourists to this dive.

Lamesha slid a key through the hatch. Its huge plastic hob displayed a room number of 112. The place didn't look big enough to have so many rooms, which meant that they were all tiny. "Second floor." She told him, like it was an effort to release that much information. But then she was giving Fenian the once over; and he looked like a madman and stank of piss.

"Do you know if there's a shop nearby?" Century took the key and smiled at her. "I want to buy some lollipops."

"Right at the intersection. Just down the block."

"Thanks." Century glanced around for the lift. There wasn't one. "Stairs, is it?" She didn't even reply, just gave him a withering look. Century sneered right back. "Yeah. Get a job you like." He hauled Fenian and his bag towards the double doors, with their cracked and grimy perspex panes. The staircase behind sparkled dimly with silvery chips, but many of them were dull with stains. Century took them slowly, mindful of his heart and resting whenever it beat too hard. Fenian didn't say anything, even if he noticed. He was like a zombie.

There were only about thirty steps, cut in two with a mid-landing. They rested against the wall, waiting for Century to get his breath back before continuing on his way. He'd pessimistically assumed that room 112 would be miles away. It turned out to be two doors down from the top of the stairs. Someone next door was listening to something loud with canned laughter. Century unlocked their room and entered it. It was small, with twin beds, a television bolted to the ceiling and a coffee machine. Little else. No sachets of tea-bags, sugar and milk.

Fenian wordlessly walked into the bathroom and shut the door. A few moments later, the shower sounded in gushing water and screeching pipes.

The nearest of the twin beds felt comfortable enough, and was surprisingly clean. Century sat down upon it and took a moment to review all that he knew so far. The internet had been very revealing. For a start, despite popular misconception based upon the ethnicity of many of its inhabitants, Jamaica wasn't named after the country. The population were largely African-Americans and therefore had no ancestry in the West Indies at all. It turned out that Jamaica was a linguistic corruption, via English, of Yamecah, the First Natives tribe from which it had been purchased in 1655. Then Queens. The queen in question was Catherine of Braganza, the wife of Charles II. Fwcin Saes got everywhere.

Century contemplated those stairs again and the walk to the shop. But he couldn't just sit here without a cup of tea. He'd have to ask at reception for that at least. Then get around to working out what to do with Fenian without L or Watari finding out.

III

Fenian sat naked, slumped in a corner of the shower, with the tepid water cascading over his shoulders. Murk and mud came off in chunks. Oil based stains took longer. His scalp felt like it crawled, though no insects were seen in the yellow grey slurry sliding into the drain.

His body ached down to the bones. Injuries from Wales; injuries from Ireland; injuries from the pit beneath the USA. Barely registering what he was doing, Fenian inspected each and every one of them with the thoroughness of the paramedic. His conclusions didn't touch his consciousness, but for the vague sense that there was nothing which wouldn't heal. The worst of that was his side, where he'd been pushed onto the tracks. He thought he might have been stabbed, but he wasn't. A sharp stone or something had pierced the skin, with bruises all around. Dried blood clogged it now, coming off in the shower.

Century had come for him. Fenian wanted to sob with the relief of that; of someone coming and somebody taking charge. But another realisation lay stark upon it. Century had bested him. Century could sit out there, smug with the knowledge that he had solved the puzzle, where even Near had failed. Fenian knew too that he hadn't hidden deep enough to outwit the Welshman. It was disconcerting and a little distressing. If Luigi was dead, then Fenian was now the fifth, beaten by the eighth.

And Century said that Luigi might be dead. Fenian couldn't assimilate that right now. He'd hardly been able to register it, let alone work out how he felt. It was mixed up in the melee of screaming, barely sentient emotion, which was too big to feel. He sat in silence and let the water fall.

IV

"Bloody idiots here." Century announced, as soon as he was in the hotel room's door. He'd waited outside to catch his breath, so he didn't arrive gasping. "Don't have a kettle, do they? Just one of those old filter coffee things over in the corner." He paused, as he noticed that Fenian hadn't emerged from the bathroom, in all the time that Century had been gone. "Fian." He banged on the bathroom door, hearing the shower running. "You alright in there? Can't get no drinking water, they said. Got to get the ice box and put it in the microwave downstairs for something to put in the coffee machine. Put a tea bag in the filter sack, she said."

No reply.

Century had a bad feeling about this, but thought that he'd better put down his bags before tackling whatever was happening behind closed doors. His mind raced through his options, as he walked across the floor. Near was the obvious one, being so close. Watari was the official one, though the system might not kick in for Fenian. It would for himself and that would be the key. Unless the paranoid Gael really was right and they did want him dead.

"Fe..." Century began again, calling out, but the bathroom door opened as he said it. Fenian emerged pink and scrubbed red raw. He held a towel tied around his waist and looked like shit. "Ok, cariad?"

Fenian stood dripping, starting to twist around, then turning at the last to check that the main door was shut. He sounded shell-shocked as he spoke, though he was obviously aiming for fierce. "Are we having something to eat?"

"I got some of those twisty, curly things with bits on the top to see what they are." Century took out the pretzels. "And some bagels, 'cause it's like New York, innit? Got to try these things, when you're travelling."

"Can I just be having the food without the dialogue please?" He snatched the bag and sat where he stood, causing a puddle on the sticky carpet. But Fenian took a single bite, then started crying over it. He couldn't look up, didn't answer when Century spoke his name.

Century sighed. "Nice cup of tea, is it? Let me sort this out and get you sorted, right as rain." He could hear Ann's words coming out of his own mouth and wondered when he'd turned into the housekeeper.

"I feel sick." Fenian informed him, but didn't move and didn't vomit. Bit by bit, he nibbled the pretzel into submission. Tears slid onto the pastry, while his expression flitted between anger and shock. Century silently forced the coffee percolator into producing a jug of hot tea, which he poured into mugs just purchased from the shop. "Can I see the passport you've brought me?"

Century was slightly worried about this moment. He fussed over getting the colour of the tea just right with the unfamiliar half-and-half milk stuff. "Get it in a sec, I will." He moved his lollipop to the corner of his mouth. "Let me tell you about them. Did them when I was only about fourteen, right?" He glanced back, when there was no response. Fenian was staring at him with red-rimmed eyes and a look in them which Century never wanted to see again. "Thought I was a bit clever, see? So that's Justin Johnson for me. My name in English. And I got one for everyone else, there in my old stash in Caernafon."

"Is it a passport that you've got me or not?"

"Never knew who I'd be running away with."

"Century." Fenian swallowed and stopped. His fist had clenched and unclenched. He stared at it like he didn't know why it had done that. He didn't look angry anymore, just lost.

Century bit the bullet. "So your name, I knew it then, Liam is short for William, is it?"

"No, it's fucking not."

"In English, it's William. In Eire, it's Liam. Same name, see?" Century could tell that Fenian didn't want to see. "Just with a Will taken off the beginning." He gabbled on. "So William. There's your first name on your passport, but Tighe's a bit difficult to translate into English. Means 'shaman' or 'bard' and..."

"I know what it fucking means!" Fenian started to rub his face, leaving streaks of tears in his palm's wake. Century chucked the Irishman's cigarettes into the lap of his towel. "I don't care what you called me. I just want to.." But Fenian stopped, looking stunned, like he didn't know what he wanted.

Century carefully placed the mug of tea on the carpet beside him, then shuffled across to hunt in his rucksack. He took out the passports and the tickets. "Got the return to Edinburgh. Left from Caergybi on the ferry and flew from Dublin. Wouldn't be looking for airports out of England, see? Unless they checked on Caerdydd." He said Cardiff the Welsh way. "Came from Ireland; go back via Scotland. Hire a car to get you home to Chrissie and Sal. They'll take you in, Fian. I'm sure of it." He didn't miss the hope that flashed across Fenian's features. "Want to go home, bach?"

Fenian's face just crumpled and his voice cracked in his throat. "More than you'll ever know."

"Hiraeth it is, you have." Century informed him, helpfully, then handed him a passport. "All legal it is, mind."

It took the Irishman several attempts to speak, but when he did, it came out gruff with rage. "I'll be trusting that when I see it work." But Century was wise to his old friend and didn't take the tone to heart. Fenian stared down at the passport, eyes swimming too much initially to read the name on the laminated sheet. But when he did, incredulity washed the other emotion away. "You are fucking kidding me."

Century winced. "I was fourteen. And the Thesaurus had it listed as a synonym for 'bard'."

"William fucking Shakespeare!"

"Yeah." Century grinned. "The English for Liam Tighe."

"You're a fucking arse."

"Good, it is, for me that I found you." Century sat on the end of the bed and briefly squeezed his foster brother's shoulder. "Glad to have you back."