Maven

Turn down the light, please, I find it hurts my eyes these days. I prefer the dark places, the windless places; the places not even dust can reach.

I don’t know how long I’ve been doing this job. There aren’t very many of us, that’s all I can say with any certainty. They use us for the deep places, the quiet places, the places no-one else is supposed to be. They need people who can do what we do, and do it quietly.

It would surprise you, I suppose, to realise what’s beneath your feet as you walk around on the light side. Most cities have an underneath. Oh, there’s the level one stuff you probably get to see regularly, the loading bays under the bigger buildings, the underground car parks. Then there’s the second level, the subway systems, the road tunnels, water, gas, electricity and so on.

For most people, that’s all they need to know.

But it goes deeper than that. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. There are those underground rooms built by the great and the good in the last century, fearful of brilliant mushrooms sprouting up over the landscape. I knew some of the men who constructed them. Not the suits, the engineers. Let me tell you, it takes a special type of thinking to work for years on something you pray will never be used. Knowing that if your masterpiece is ever put to work, it means you and your loved ones have been made dust.

No, they’re not what I’m talking about. There are deeper places then those. Secret places. Away from the people. Places you couldn’t even imagine. Oh, I wish I could show you - they’re magnificent; like cathedrals, these deep citadels. There’s none of the hassle you get on the light side. It’s just you and the darkness, you and the silence. I don’t know how old they are and I have no idea who built them. It wouldn’t surprise me if no-one around today could answer either question. But they’re there, the tunnels, vaulted ceilings, walkways and corridors. Spaces that speak that dry language of deep, desolate, darkness.

And that’s where I first came across the Maven.

These places, they’re not easy to get to, and I guess that’s deliberate. Secret places need to remain secret, you know? Most people can’t even see the entry points; much less squeeze their way through. It’s all about knowing where to look. You need to sense that difference in the shadows and sniff out the hundred-year-old air. It’s not a skill as much as an instinct. And that’s where we come in.

I guess you could call us cleaners.

The people who pay us, they want to keep these places as they are. Unknown, unused and unsullied by people from the light side. To be honest, most of the time we just wait. And that suits me fine. I like it down there. But occasionally, very, very occasionally, we get called upon to intervene.

Normally it’s just kids or tramps messing about on levels one and two. To be honest, we should let the police sort them out, but I suppose it’s useful to be able to keep my hand in. Back in the 80s we had a problem with the anarchos looking for the bomb shelters. They were a little more interesting, although most of them had no head for depths.

But the Maven was something different. I remember it like yesterday. The boss thought we’d had another infiltration. He was ranting and raving over the phone. Other operatives had heard things, sensed movement, even smelt a difference in the air. But they couldn’t get close. Whenever they thought they’d tracked him down, nothing, just the silent sorrow of empty rooms. Just one thing remained. A voice, high and distant and penetrating. “Maven!” is all it said. “Maven!” Like a declaration, a challenge, even.

The boss was panicking. This wasn’t just an intruder. This looked like an inhabitant. It was the boss’s worst nightmare, he told me. We didn’t want people there. We definitely didn’t want people living there. There was too much to lose.

So I went to find this Maven. Three weeks of searching. I went to the places not even my colleagues knew about. The deepest, the darkest. Every morning I went down, like anyone else going to a job they love, ready to tread the walkways and wait, the silence enveloping me like a blanket. In the evening I would return, avoiding the daylight that offended my eyes, to sleep the sleep of the restless.

I was ready to call my boss, tell him this was a wild goose chase, there was no-one there. But I was pacing around this apartment on the fourth sleepless night in a row, and I thought to myself. If this Maven character is planning on living down there he can get water, no problem. But food? There’s nothing he can get and nothing he can grow. He would have to be coming to the light side every now and then.

Don’t think about where he is, I told myself. Think about how he needs to get there. So I concentrated on the access routes. I changed my routine, guessing he’d be coming up during the night-time. And let me tell you, that was a hardship, having to be up and around during daylight. The noise, the dust, the people. It surprised me how irritated I was becoming.

There were entry points only I knew about. I’d kept them to myself, that was deliberate on my part, I suppose. And I waited, with eyes only half open. I sat, my back to the wall, facing the broad sweep of the walkway in front of me, breathing slow and shallow, not wanting my heartbeat to betray me. I thought to myself, you might be good, Maven. But I’m better. I’ve been doing this for twenty years. And I will find you.

“Maven.”

I couldn’t tell if it was a whisper or a shout. Was he at my side, or hundreds of yards away? But one thing was for certain. He knew I was here.

I struggled to my feet and leapt forwards. But in the shock of the moment I stumbled and put my hands out to the rail. It buckled and snapped. And I was falling, falling through darkness, through the silent, black void, arms flailing, my breath leaving me.

I don’t know how long I was out. It could have been minutes or days. But when I woke, two milky orbs were inches from my face. I watched as they blinked.

“Maven.”

And in that moment I learnt all I needed to know. I understood a life led underneath everything else. In the dark places, the windless places, the places not even dust can reach. And in that stare, that quiet unbroken stare, the following thought formed between us.

"You would be me. If you had the chance."

And that’s why I’m telling you my story now. The rent is paid to the end of the month. I have a letter here for the boss. I want you to deliver it. I’m going away. To the deep place, the quiet place, the place we’re not supposed to be.

Be happy for me. I’m going home.