"‘48" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert James)

5

EVEN THROUGH THE SMOKY mists this new light was bright enough to dazzle. It seemed to come straight from the tunnel wall itself, only a few yards away, and it swept over us, taking us all in, its beam defined by the smoke. The speaker was invisible behind the glare, but his voice was clear enough.

‘You’re a sorry sight, the lot of yer.’ The voice was low, gruff, a little peppery, as if the guy wasn’t excessively pleased to find us. ‘You’d better get yourselves inside,’ it went on in that growly way, ‘unless you want to choke to death. Come on, in ‘ere, ladies first.’

The German was on his feet, but the two girls remained sprawled across the tracks, heads raised and looking towards the light. I figured we were being offered sound advice so I dragged Cissie up by her armpits, croaking out to Stern to help Muriel at the same time. Every muscle in my body ached and my shoulder stung from the nick it had taken earlier, but I managed to haul Cissie over to the light source, the lamp I’d been using left by the tracks. We must have looked quite a sight, covered in filth, clothes a mess, faces blackened and tear-stained, all of us coughing so much smoke we could hardly speak. Blasts of heat swept over us in waves and we could hear the sound of popping glass as the train’s windows fractured. There were other noises too – the roof over the train falling in, old brickwork crumbling with the heat, and a deep rumbling, like an earthquake, going on way below our feet. Between coughing fits, the girls were crying out, floating ash and smoke creating a storm around us, and I swallowed hard before lending my own voice to the racket by shouting at the man behind the light to quit blinding us.

When we didn’t seem to be getting any closer I realized the light was pulling away, its spread becoming confined and outlining a doorway in the tunnel wall. I realized the door must have been in shadow when we passed it before and we’d been too busy running from those fireballs to notice. Possibly it’d been locked from the inside anyway, so it would have been useless even if we had spotted it None of that mattered now though: the door was open and this surly guardian angel was inviting us in.

The light retreated along a bare-bricked corridor and we tumbled after it, collapsing inside the doorway in a tangle of bodies, too exhausted and overwhelmed by our escape to move another inch. As we lay there gasping air like decked flounders I felt something, someone, shuffling around us, back towards the entrance. I caught a glimpse of baggy, dark-coloured overalls before the iron door clanged shut behind us.

Although there was still a faint rumbling somewhere off in the distance and a weak vibration running through my hands and knees from the concrete floor, it suddenly became quiet, peaceful, as though the mayhem had been left far behind. I could barely move, and thinking was too much effort; I just wanted to lay there and convalesce. The others were coughing up smoke, their breathing scratchy and difficult, and I wasn’t much better off. my throat was raw and my thoughts were disassembled. It took a great effort of will to roll over from my knees and press my back against the wall so that I could look around.

The corridor was long and narrow, and at the end of it was a stone flight of stairs leading upwards. A softer light than the one carried by our guardian angel came from a paraffin lamp set on the second step, and when the flashlight switched off I turned my attention towards the door and the man standing before it.

I guessed him to be in his late fifties, maybe sixty even, a stocky little guy wearing dark blue overalls and a flat, white tin helmet with a large black W painted on it. It was the uniform of an Air Raid Precautions – ARP – warden, and I wondered why nobody had bothered to tell him the war had ended three years ago, back in ‘45. His face was kind of flabby and hard at the same time, a working-man’s, used to fresh air and tough labour, a network of purple veins colouring his jowly cheeks; bushy eyebrows, stubby nose and small, gimlet eyes completed the picture. He looked us over and didn’t appear happy with what he saw. He gave a disapproving shake of his head.

‘All right, you lot,’ he said, ‘on yer feet. I don’t know what you’ve gone and bloody well done, but even this place ain’t safe any more.’

As if to reinforce the message, a muffled explosion came from somewhere close by.

‘Oh, good Gawd,’ he said, more to himself than us. He stepped over our legs, making his way towards the concrete stairs, but pausing when he reached me. He bent closer, squinting his eyes, then nodded as if confirming something he already knew.

‘Always reckoned you’d be trouble one day,’ he murmured before moving on to the steps. He scooped up the lamp and turned in our direction again. ‘Listen, I can see you’re all done in, but you can’t stay ‘ere. You’re still in danger, see? Somethin you set off in the tunnel has ruptured gas mains that feed into this bunker, an’ that’s caused fires that’re spreadin right through the place. We’re safe where we are for the minute, but that won’t be for much longer. So unless we get movin right now, we’ll be stuck. Understand? Get me? Stuck.’

He was talking to us as if we were sapheads, but I guess we were all wearing dumb expressions, relief and exhaustion taking its toll. I was still wondering why I’d been given the double-take. The little guy was getting impatient. ‘When somethin blows under the streets, it can cause an upset somewheres else. Then that starts a nuisance in another place, a fire or explosion or somethin. Chain reaction, y’see. Build-up of gas, pipe gas or sewer gas, all bleedin lethal. It’s a wonder the whole city’s not in ruins by now.’

‘It was a gas pocket in the tunnel.’ The words hurt my throat.

‘What’s‘at?’ His beady eyes set on mine again.

‘Burning rats ran past us in the tunnel. I think they reached some trapped gas further along the line.’

He sniffed and brought out a grubby spotted red handkerchief from his overalls pocket to mop his face and plump neck. ‘Yeah, that was probably it, not that it bleedin matters right now.’ He nodded his head a couple of times, considering me. ‘So you are a Yank then? Thought you was from the Yank flying jacket you always wear.’

‘You know me?’ My brain was beginning to function again.

‘I’ve seen you about, son. And this mornin I saw yer bein chased by them Blackshirts, you and these others ‘ere. Yer didn’t see me though, none of yers did, I made sure of that. I watched you duck into the Tube station and reckoned on where yer’d be headin if yer got the chance.’

I struggled to my feet and gaped at him, one elbow resting against the wall, every muscle in my body stiff. The German and the two girls were beginning to stir themselves, but I wasn’t sure if they’d been following the conversation.

‘How did you know which tunnel to find us in?’ I asked the warden, curiosity overriding the tiredness.

‘Like I says, I thought I knew where yer was headed. It was a chance, but yer struck lucky, son. Now then, yer got the strength to help your friends?’

I barely had the strength to stand upright, but I nodded anyway.

‘Right, follow me.’ He began climbing the stairs, boots noisy on the concrete.

‘Who is he?’ Cissie asked in a hushed voice as she used my arm to drag herself up.

‘No idea,’ I replied, giving her some help. ‘But I could kiss his little fat head.’

The German helped Muriel to her feet and she caught my anxious look.

‘I’ll be okay,’ she said quickly, her voice strained. ‘Once I get into better air I’ll be fine.’

‘You lot comin?’

We could only see the glow of the lamp shining down the stairs, the corridor we were in now darkened, full of our own shadows, and without another word we set off after the warden, the girls behind me, Stern following at the rear. The old guy was waiting for us by another door at the top of the stairs, this one also made of iron.

‘What is this place?’ I asked when I reached him.

‘Civil Defence shelter. There’s a whole complex of plannin rooms on the other side of this door, all underground, too deep for any bombs to reach. They never counted on the poison though, never thought anythin could touch ‘em down ‘ere. All very hush-hush and all bloody useless.’

‘If it was so secret how did you find it?’

‘It was on my beat, son. As a warden it was my job to make sure none of the street entrances was blocked.’

He peered over my shoulder to make sure we were all together, then twisted the handle and pushed open the door. It was heavy, judging by the effort he put into it.

I touched his arm, moving closer. ‘You said you knew where I was making for. I’d like to know how.’

My hand stayed on his arm and he looked down at it, then up at me. ‘I know where your base is, so it stood to reason you’d use the Tube line going back to the Aldwych, which is near the hotel you’ve been usin. I’ve watched yer goin in and out of the place plenny a’ times. Sometimes yer disappear for a while, but yer always come back to it. Yer like yer bit of luxury, don’t yer?’ He even gave a little chortle.

‘You’ve watched me?’

Any humour vanished from his broad, ruddy face. Yeah, I’ve watched yer, son. And I know what yer do.’ He turned away, but not before I’d caught the unease in his eyes.

Hoke?’ Cissie was pressing against me, her breathing shaky. coming in gasps. ‘What are you two -?’

‘Forget it. Let’s just concentrate on getting outta here.’ I took her hand and surprisingly – I thought she was still mad at me – she allowed me to guide her.

Once through the door we found ourselves inside another corridor, this one wider though, with openings along each side. Water covered its concrete floor and at the far end a carbide lamp burned, its white glare harsher than the warden’s paraffin lamp but more effective. On the wall outside one of the open doorways was a yellowing poster, an upper corner drooping over, and as I passed by I saw there were two pictures of Adolf Hitler on it, front and profile, WANTED writ large at the top, smaller headline type explaining why. FOR MURDER…it Said. FOR KIDNAPPING…FOR THEFT AND ARSON. It should’ve added FOR WORLD GENOCIDE. Our breeze caused the opposite corner to curl over so that the paper folded and the mad Führer was out of sight The floor shook beneath our feet and Cissie’s grip tightened in mine.

I took a peek through a doorway and saw a plain square room inside, pipes running round the walls close to the ceiling. One of the smaller pipes was leaking in a couple of places, thin jets of water arcing onto the bare floor. The only furniture was an iron table with four straight-backed chairs around it a black telephone sat on the tabletop. It was a relief to see there were no human remains in there.

Other rooms were similar but with more furniture; two or three tables, green filing cabinets and cupboards. The pipes ran through every room, and there were more leaks, some pretty bad. There was another stairway at the end of the corridor, broader than the last and turning back on itself as it rose to the next levels. We used its iron handrail to drag ourselves upwards, the warden urging us on and getting mighty agitated with the ladies for holding us back. We’d just reached the next level when an explosion beyond a set of doors to our left shook the walls.

The warden clung to the stair rail until the world had settled down a little. ‘It’s the gas cylinders!’ he shouted at me accusingly, as if it were my fault, I’d arranged the whole thing. ‘They’re kept ‘ere for emergency power and now your bloody fire’s got to them!’

My bloody fire? Yeah, sure. But you had to wonder what kind of genius built an underground bunker vulnerable to explosions beneath the city streets. We were both distracted by smoke curling through the gap beneath the heavy double doors.

‘Which way do we go?’ I asked as Cissie sank down next to me. Muriel stood with her back resting against the wall, the German supporting her, his impatience to get moving plain in his quick-shifting eyes.

‘Upwards!’ the warden shouted back at me. ‘There’s sleepin quarters and plannin rooms on the next floor, and we can get out through there.’

‘Doesn’t this stairway lead to the street?’

‘It does, yeah, but the buildin over the exit collapsed and blocked it a long while ago. Thank Gawd there’re others.’

‘No point in hanging ‘round then, right?’ I kept my voice calm – shouting would have only hurt my throat even more anyway.

‘You’re not. wrong there, son.’ He’d calmed down a little himself, but he still looked scared. Letting go of the rail he bustled round to the next flight of stairs.

‘Hey,’ I called after him, the stab to my throat making me wince. ‘What’s your name?’ I finished more quietly.

‘Potter. Albert Potter, ARP warden for the Kingsway and Strand area.’ He seemed proud of the title and I almost expected a smart salute. He started climbing again, but I just caught his added remark. ‘Can’t say I’m pleased t’meet you at last.’

My limp was getting worse as I followed him, but I knew I’d only bruised the ankle – anything more severe and I wouldn’t have been walking at all by this time. But tiredness was slowing us all down, I guess only our last reserves of adrenaline keeping us going. I’d learned a lot about that during the war, because flying a Hurricane at more than 300 miles an hour with a couple of superior Me 109s on your tail, it’s the old energy-juice that takes over, overrides the fatigue that comes with too many sorties and not enough sleep, keeps your brain razor-sharp, until maybe a Spitfire can get to you and cover your back. Even if you got shot up, it was the adrenaline pumping that got you through the shock, helped you function until you’d baled out. Yeah, I’d learned a lot about what adrenaline could do for you in times of crisis, and I also knew that eventually it dried up, it could only take you so far…

The German surprised me by drawing level and taking me by the elbow. ‘Do you need help?’ he asked. His face was black with dirt – hell, all our faces were black. ‘Cept the warden’s – his was just getting redder by the second.

I paused just long enough to pull my arm away. ‘Take care of the girl,’ I told him, my voice low and full of warning. I climbed on, leaving him there, but he was close to me again, this time with an arm around Muriel’s waist, her own arm over his shoulder. I let them go on past and then it was Cissie who was by my side.

‘You’re slowing down, Yank.’

‘It’s been a busy morning,’ I managed.

Her teeth flashed through the dirt, and I appreciated the smile.

‘If you need a shoulder to lean on…’

‘You’re not sore at me any more?’

‘Anyone can make a mistake. Besides, if those Blackshirts are as nasty as you say-’

‘You had a taste of ‘em.’

‘Trying to roast us alive wasn’t very civilized. As for wanting our blood, well, we only have your word for that. I mean, for all we know you could be a criminal of some kind and they could be the only law and order left.’

‘You got a point. When you see ‘em next, march right up and introduce yourself. Tell ‘em about your blood type. They’ll be pleased to get acquainted, wait and see.’

She gave me a long look, then grinned again. ‘I’ll take my chances with you – for the moment. Not that I have any other choice.’

The banter might have continued – we were both dog-weary and this was a way of keeping each other going – but the next explosion that ripped through the underground bunker was the fiercest yet.

Although the blast was somewhere deep within the complex, the walls around us shuddered violently and debris began to fall through the stairwell from above. Brickwork caught the rail and shattered, throwing out pieces like shrapnel. Cissie yelped as she was struck on the forehead and she fell back against the wall. I grabbed her when she staggered down a step, and pinned her there while rubble and dust rained down.

‘It’s the ceiling at the top!’ I heard Potter shout back at us. ‘The whole lot’s gonna break loose in a minute!’

With Stern and Muriel just ahead of us, we clambered up to the next landing, spitting dust and blinking grit from our eyes.

‘This way – quick!’ The warden was holding one side of a double door open and we scooted through, the deluge behind us increasing, becoming a cascade of bricks, masonry, timber and powder. Once inside the door we could barely see, even though there was another carbide lamp on the floor – the warden must have placed these lamps in strategic places along our escape route – because it was like running into one of those famous London fogs the guide-books told you about, ‘peasoupers’ I think they called them in those days. The fog was smoke, and it swirled everywhere, thicker in some parts than others.

Potter hurried past us, his tin helmet knocked askew, and we followed after him like lost souls, afraid of losing sight of his broad back. Luckily, the smoke soon thinned out and we were able to see our way more clearly, although every so often we had to wipe our blurred eyes with sleeves or knuckles. We found ourselves in a huge open room filled with desks and large tables with street maps set on them, the maps marking out various divisions of the city and outlying areas. There were more maps around the walls, coloured pins indicating what could only have been other Civil Defence centres and contact points; metal lightshades, disturbed by the eruptions, swung low over the desks and map tables. As well as a phalanx of telephones, still in neat formation along the desktops, I glimpsed a whole battery of radio transmitters against a side wall. Only one thing was missing, but now wasn’t the time to ask the warden.

We reached another set of doors on the far side of the room and beyond them was a broad hallway. But even as we staggered through, yet another blast rocked the floor, sending us stumbling forward. On my knees, I watched great cracks snake across the long expanse of concrete before us.

I had no idea what had gone up on the floor below this one – more ruptured gas pipes, drums of fuel stored there for emergencies, chemicals, who the hell could guess what was stored away in places like this? – but I realized this whole complex was now on self-destruct. Potter had been right about chain reactions. German bombs had inflicted the initial damage, but the demolition had continued long after the war had ended, a fault causing a fire in one building, which spread to the next, one explosion kicking off another, then another, a collapsing building bringing down its neighbour, that one in turn wrecking or weakening the building next to it. And so it went on, with no one left to contain the damage, or repair the faults. Like the man said, it was a wonder the whole city wasn’t in ruins by now.

I had a nasty feeling about that floor ahead of us, and I guess that was what made me hesitate while the others picked themselves up and sped on. I saw a whole section shift, kind of tilt, and I knew what was going to happen next. So I moved, I moved so goddamn fast I could have been shot from a cannon. But it wasn’t fast enough.

Even as I gained on the others, who by now were almost at the far door, I felt the ground beneath me start to give. For a second or two it was almost like racing downhill as the floor inclined, and I picked up speed, despite the limp. It was a curious sensation, the world falling away from me in slow motion, and I think I may have screamed or yelled or whined to showcase my terror as I began to slide. Then came a massive and sudden lurch and the section of floor I was on dropped away from me.

Instinct rather than calculation made me throw myself to one side, towards the nearest wall and the sturdy old iron radiator fixed to it. My hand caught the valve pipe at its base and my fingers wrapped around it. The pipe loosened in the wall, jerking out at least an inch, and for a moment I thought the whole thing was gonna dislodge itself; but it held and I hung there as the broad section of floor crashed down to the level below, sending up a huge cloud of smoke and dust and a sound like thunder.

Flames and sparks followed, licking at my heels as I dragged myself up, and someone far off was screaming. My hand curled over the top of the radiator, but I could feel my strength slipping away, the effort of holding myself there becoming too great. I groaned, too feeble to pull myself towards the jagged ledge where the others waited, their hands stretched towards me, their voices raised over the crackle and fire rending noises.

I took a look down and didn’t like what I saw: if the fall didn’t kill me, the fire below would. Already I could feel the soles of my boots heating up and I guess the thought of a nasty death, one way or the other, encouraged a last burst of energy. I slid my left hand across the curved top of the radiator, taking the strain with my right. But when I tried to grip with my left hand again, the sweat on my palm caused it to slip, slowly at first, until it fell away completely, leaving me hanging there by one hand, my body swinging round helplessly.

Then Stern was peering down at me, his face only a couple of feet away, smoke billowing around him so that for a moment his head seemed disembodied, floating in space. I realized he was leaning forward from the ledge, one hand on the end of the radiator, the other reaching out for me. It was a dangerous move on his part, but I saw no fear in those colourless eyes of his. For a split second though, a moment gone by so fast I may have imagined it, I thought there was a shift in those eyes, a kind of cold mocking that vanished as soon as I’d noticed it His hand stayed just beyond my reach, then edged forward an inch or so as if he’d only been tormenting me. Maybe I’d got it wrong, maybe I’d misread his expression; that look might have been his own fear, because now he was risking his life even more by leaning closer. I just couldn’t be sure.

‘Take it,’ I heard him say over the roaring from below and the shouts from the others behind him. There were no hints in that gaze right then, only a blank – and equally as unnerving – coolness.

I hesitated. Would he let me go, pretend to the others I’d slipped from his grasp? There was no way of knowing and anyway, I didn’t have time to consider. My hand slapped into his.

Then he was pulling me up, the movement strong and smooth, as though it was hardly any effort at all for him. I managed to hook a heel over the ledge, and then other hands were dragging me to safety. I rolled over onto what was left of the floor at that end of the hallway, my rescuers shuffling back to give me room, and I lay there on my back, drawing in great lungfuls of filthy, broiling air. They wouldn’t let me rest though; I was pulled to my feet even as I choked on the smoke I’d sucked in, and the two girls stood on either side of me, steadying me until my head stopped reeling and some life returned to my arms and legs.

‘Yank, you’ve got enough lives to keep a dozen cats happy.’ Cissie was thumping my back, helping me get rid of some of that smoke.

‘Are you all right?’ Muriel’s touch was more gentle as she cleared soot from my eyes with her fingertips.

The warden had no patience for any of this. ‘Yer can make a fuss of him later, ladies. If we don’t leave right now all our gooses’ll be cooked, and I ain’t kiddin yer.’

He ushered us towards the door and when I gave one last glance back at the pit they’d hauled me from, it was filled with fire, the flames touching the ceiling above. Potter hauled open the iron door and we piled through into a welcoming coolness. The door made a satisfying clunk when the old warden pulled it shut behind us, and because of its metal flanges everything suddenly became hushed. The girls collapsed on the narrow concrete stairs that disappeared into the darkness above and the German went down on one knee, his shoulders heaving as he gasped in the cold dank air. It gave me some satisfaction to see he was as pooped as the rest of us, even if he’d disguised it a few moments ago. I watched those deadpan eyes, eyes that had seemed to be looking inwards rather than out, and wondered why I felt no gratitude.

Leaning back against the rough brick wall, I slowly sank to a crouch, wrists over my knees, eyes closed, taking deep breaths to control the trembling that ran through me.

Potter interrupted the moment of peace. ‘Sorry to disturb you folks, but we’re not in the clear yet.’

He sounded angry, as if he still blamed us for the destruction of the Civil Defence shelter, and when I opened my eyes again I saw his mouth was set in a grim line across his round reddened face. Then I understood.

‘You lived down here, didn’t you?’ I said.

‘What?’

‘I said, you lived in this shelter.’

“Course I bloody lived ‘ere. Safest place in London with you and those Blackshirts runnin all over the place, shootin off guns at each other. I just got on with me job and kept well away from lunatics.’

His job? I let it go for the moment. ‘Why did you rescue us today, then?’ I said, keeping my voice mild, just making conversation.

He gawked down at me in surprise, as if I’d asked something dumb. ‘You had those two ladies with you, didn’t yer? I couldn’t see them come to any ‘arm. What kind of bloke d’yer think I am?’

I liked that about the British. I’d learned a lot about old-style manners and chivalry from the English pilots I’d flown with, and I can’t say it’d come as too much of a surprise – I’d spent most of my life hearing stories about England and its people. Sure, much of it was romanticized, I knew that, but the person who taught me was someone you could believe in, someone who missed her home country but allowed nostalgia to colour her memories only a little. She was one of the reasons I’d come over at the beginning of the war, when England was crying out for trained pilots because the Krauts were kicking at the door. And if she’d still been alive at the time, she’d have been proud, proud as hell.

I didn’t realize it, but I was smiling at the warden.

‘Nothin funny about it, mister. Yer could’ve got these young ladies killed takin them down into the tunnels. The most precious things we’ve got left and you go riskin their lives.’

He was still riled, but his eyes had softened, become tear-blurred. I didn’t know what he was talking about and my expression must have shown it.

It was the German who put me in the picture. ‘Women are now the world’s most precious commodity, my friend,’ he said.

Vimmen and vorld. That just irritated me (and I noticed Potter giving him an odd, sideways look) but the ‘my friend’ bit really got me hopping. If I’d had the strength I would’ve been at his throat.

But it was Cissie who was really stomping. ‘Oh, sure we are! Who else is going to give birth to more chumps like you two so they can grow up and start a whole new war just to finish off what’s left of the human race?’ She’d been sitting upright on the stairs, stiff as a board, and now she pushed herself to her feet. ‘I don’t want to stay here any longer. I want to see sunlight again.’

The warden hurried over to her, his face big and anxious. ‘Don’t you worry, miss, we’ll get you out of here. Once we’ve climbed these stairs we’ll be safe.’ He stooped to help Muriel rise, but held on to her when she turned to climb. His other hand gripped Cissie’s wrist. ‘Look now, you ladies,’ he said almost apologetically. ‘You’re not goin to like what we’ll find up there, but try and close your minds to it. I had to put ‘em somewhere, y’see, and I couldn’t bury ‘em all. ‘Sides, there was others out there already, people who’d tried to get away from the poison. There’s hardly any smell now, so that won’t bother yer, and you can keep your eyes closed if yer like…’

‘What are you talking about?’ Muriel was shaking her head, too tired to understand.

I picked myself up and walked over to them, explaining as I went ‘He dumped the dead bodies from this place outside the back door. I wondered what was missing from inside the shelter.’

‘I had to, you can understand that,’ said Potter, appealing to me. ‘I had to make this place fit enough to live in.’

‘Listen, you did right,’ I reassured him. ‘And nothing could be worse than what we found inside the Underground station.’

‘At least there were no flies,’ he said as if it made a difference. ‘The bodies just rotted away, like. No maggots and not much stink after the first few weeks.’

Yeah, no flies and no maggots. In fact, hardly any insects at all. I suppose we had to at least be grateful for that small mercy. God knows what kind of diseases could’ve wiped out the rest of us in the aftermath.

Distant rumbling from beyond the iron door and dust drifting down from the stairway’s slanted ceiling got us moving again. Potter went first, lighting the way, and Cissie and Muriel followed close behind. I guess both were eager for that sunlight The German, who’d remained on one knee, stood erect, the motion almost fluid, as if his steam had already been restored. I let him go on ahead of me – enemy at my back, and all that – then got going myself. Something heavy slammed against the door behind us, but none of us bothered to look back.

Christ, it hurt to climb those stairs – every muscle in my body was now stiffening up – and I favoured my injured leg, using the rough wall to lean on. My shoulder didn’t bother me that much but the rest of my arm felt like a lump of lead. Nothing was broken though, I was sure of that, so considering the punishment I’d taken that morning, I figured I’d gotten off lightly. If these strangers hadn’t picked me up in the square when they did I’d’ve been not just dead, but dried meat, by now. And if the old guy, Albert Potter, hadn’t rescued us from the burning tunnel, we’d all be cooked meat – yeah, choked, smoked and goddamn coked.

At the top of the stairs Potter was dipping into his overalls pocket, the others squeezed up behind him, so I waited further down, rubbing some life back into my arm. I heard a clink as he drew out a large metal ring, at least a dozen keys attached to it. The one he chose unlocked the door immediately and he pulled it inwards so that a gust of air rushed through. He disappeared outside and I wondered why it was still dark up there. I soon knew the answer.

The almost pitch-black place we stepped out into was bigger, much bigger, than the Tube tunnels further below, and huge, monolithic shapes loomed over us in the gloom. When the light from Potter’s paraffin lamp fell on the nearest one, I realized those shapes were passenger vehicles, tramcars that ran on embedded iron tracks with electric cables overhead supplying the power, and the hangar-like place we’d escaped into was a large tunnel, a kind of under-passage beneath the city streets. It occurred to me as we stood there that those trams would be full of withered corpses.

There were hints of daylight coming from what must have been overhead airshafts along the tunnel’s length and at the far end we could just make out a greyish hue that might have been the sloped entrance/exit. As our eyes grew accustomed to this new level of darkness we began to discern other forms lying in the roadway and across the sunken tracks, small black mounds, hundreds of them, and we were aware that they could only be the remnants of those who’d perished down here. Many, we assumed, were the remains of Civil Defence workers, laid there by Potter, himself.

Stern and the two girls lingered in the oasis of light, as if frozen there, afraid to move on. One of the girls – Muriel, I think, began to weep. What lay around us was no more horrific than anything we’d found inside the Underground station and tunnels – far less so, in fact – but the quietness of the place must have stirred something deep within them – sorrow, dread, an interweaving oppression of emotions – that held them there, shocked and grief-stricken. I guess the fact that they suddenly had time to reflect had a lot to do with their paralysis, but it was nothing new to me, nor to the old warden.

His gruff East End voice cut through the mood. ‘It’s as good a tomb as any,’ he said, no pity, no remorse, in his tone, only a sepulchral hollowness caused by the high walls and ceiling lending any reverence to his words. ‘I’ve said a prayer over ‘em,’ he went on, ‘which is more than most of the world’s dead ever got, I expect.’

‘Let’s just find our way out of here,’ said Muriel quietly, and the calmness in her voice surprised me. In the dim light I could see the glistening of tears on her cheeks.

Cissie, on the other hand, had channelled her sadness into anger. ‘Bloody well right! I can’t breathe down here!’ She looked towards the distant light and took a fierce step towards it, ready to march off in that direction. I caught her arm.

‘No. It’s too close to Holborn Station that way.’ I’d figured it out, finally got my bearings. The incline had to be the northern approach to the under-passage and I remembered how near that was to the station. ‘The Blackshirts could have left the entrance guarded, just in case we came out that way,’ I explained quickly as Cissie tried to pull herself free.

‘He is right,’ Stern agreed. ‘They will be waiting.’

Cissie ceased struggling and turned her head, looking in the other direction, towards a stifling blackness that seemed to go on forever. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said warily. ‘You’re not suggesting…’

‘There’s no choice,’ I told her, not for the first time. And when I followed her gaze towards that eerie inkiness, I knew the day’s nightmare wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.