Dalip watched them and envied their nonchalant expertise. Oh, it wasn’t like he was going to spend his life fixing broken rails◦– he was going on to make trains that floated above, rather than ran on, rails◦– and this was just a placement, the first of many, to give him some idea of what engineering was supposed to achieve at the sharp end. How the whole infrastructure of the Underground◦– tunnels, trains, ventilation, pumps, stations, even the movement of people from above to below and back again◦– had been designed and built.
There was so much to learn, he despaired sometimes.
Stanislav carried the first part of the rail welder to the site of the join, dumped it by the side of the track and jerked his head to indicate that Dalip should follow him.
He did so, obediently, like he did everything else asked of him. There was a shovel, an oxyacetylene torch, the gas tanks to go with it, and a reaction vessel with an outside so burnt it looked like a cinder. Bags of dust. Wet sand to seal the casting. All of it needed to be moved.
It was hot enough in the tunnel already. It was the hardest work Dalip had ever done, and he was barely an hour through. The thermite reaction they were setting up would fill the tunnel with acrid smoke and thick yellow flames, making the harsh conditions worse, and yet these men, hard-muscled and terse, laboured in it day after day. He couldn’t cope. He’d faint and fail. He didn’t belong there.
And whether Stanislav had spotted the panic in the boy’s eyes and realised he needed reassurance, or whether it was simply well-timed: he clapped Dalip on the back of his orange boilersuit, hard enough to rock Dalip on his feet, and gave him the thumbs-up.
It was enough to steady his nerves. He was here to learn, not to be humiliated.
The whole tunnel shook as if struck. Dust hazed the air, and the lights flickered. The whole work crew stopped in mid-swing.
‘What—’
Stansilav put an oil-smeared finger to his lips, and listened to the noises with wary attention.
They were a long way under London, and there should have been nothing else down with them but other tunnels. If something had happened above, on the surface, it would have had to have been immense to reach them. A bomb? A building falling down? An aircraft crashing? All three?
There was nothing to compare with the initial concussion, though a low groan of pressure creaked through the walls.
Their supervisor walked along the rail bed, making sure he was seen, exchanging words with his crew. No one else moved.
Along the tunnel wall were two bare wires running parallel to its length, suspended on clips at about head height. The supervisor clipped the terminals of his phone to the wires and pressed the call button.
He pressed the earpiece against the side of his head, and waited.
When he had to press the button again, there was a collective shifting of posture, of gently laying down the tools they were still holding, getting ready to move in whichever direction they had to go, and quickly.
He pressed the button for a third time, and stood, head bowed, praying for an answer.
When none came, he swiftly unclipped the phone and pointed east.
‘We’re evacuating. Green Park. Go.’
Everyone else had trained for this. Dalip had had an hour’s talk. Stanislav took a handful of Dalip’s boilersuit at the shoulder and didn’t let go.
‘With me. We walk. Watch your feet.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘We do not know.’ Stanislav half-shoved, half-dragged Dalip in the direction of Green Park. ‘That is why we are leaving. If it is nothing, we will come back and carry on. If it is something, we can find out what it is. If it is a bad thing, better we are not here, between stations.’
It started off as a low rumble which slowly reached a crescendo, and then it faded away again. Rather than Stanislav holding Dalip up, there was a mutual bracing of each other against the shaking ground.
‘Is that a bad thing?’ asked Dalip.
Stanislav gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Not good.’
Everyone quickened their pace.
‘Does this happen often?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to let go of me?’
‘No.’
The lights winked out, and it was utterly black for a moment. Torches were already in people’s hands, and bright blue beams cut through the dusty air like searchlights. Dalip stumbled, and was held up long enough to find his feet again on the rocky ballast. Stanislav swept his torch across the tunnel roof and floor.
‘Get yours and put it on. Put your hand through the strap and tighten it to your wrist.’
Men were walking past them in pairs, keeping an eye on each other, making sure no one was left behind.
Dalip fumbled his torch on, and fitted it around his hand as he’d been told, still with Stanislav maintaining a death-grip on his boilersuit.
‘Okay?’
Dalip nodded, realised that he couldn’t be seen, so mumbled, ‘Yes.’
‘Stay with me. Whatever happens, stay with me.’
They moved back up through the column of men and as they turned the slight corner, the green emergency lights on the platform of Green Park came into view.
Dalip remembered to breathe again. He was soaked with sweat, his face slippery, his first attempt at a beard prickling with the heat. Less of a dream, more of a nightmare, but at least the station was ahead. As was a fiery red glow in the distance, beyond the sickly light of the platform, where the tunnel headed east under the centre of the city.
He started to pull back even as Stanislav propelled him on. But he knew that he didn’t want to get closer. The red was thickening, growing more real, like looking into the heart of a furnace. He twisted and struggled.
Stanislav picked him up, one handed, and slammed him against the tunnel wall.
‘What?’ he roared, ‘Do you want to die down here? Do not fight me, boy. Do not ever fight me.’
Dalip tried to push the man away, the torch around his wrist dancing as he slapped at Stanislav’s chest.
‘We don’t want to go that way!’ he finally managed, just as Green Park’s lights failed with a sigh.
It wasn’t dark, though. Everything was suffused with red, and as the rest of the work crew reached the edge of the station, the first one burst into flame. His boilersuit caught with spontaneous ignition, starting at the front, rolling around him in a sheet until he was a candlewick, stumbling and tripping, arms holding the fire aloft. And another.
Bulbs popped, tiles cracked, plastic melted, metal warped and started to drip.
Stanislav’s clothing was smoking. So was his own.
Now they were going west again, and they ran with no pretence at calm. The air was thick, alive with shadow and rippling with heat, the soles of their boots sizzling on the ballast, the rails cracking like whips as they expanded.
There was a ramp up, like the ones that led to platforms, except that they hadn’t gone as far back as Hyde Park. Dalip lifted his torch and saw a brick wall, and that the wall had a door, and that the door had twisted out of its frame and was open just a crack.
He had no idea where he was, just that the infernal heat was behind him and the incredible noises were ahead of him. He turned aside and ran at the door, digging his fingers into the gap and pulling against the warped wood that seared the flesh from his hands even as he brought his foot up to gain leverage against the wall.
Stanislav used his own savage strength, and hinges squealed in protest. The door resisted, then gave, spilling them both to the baking ground. The older man was up first. He took Dalip’s collar and dragged him through the doorway, throwing him on to his back in the tiny room.
The red heat outside grew and grew. The paint on the door began to blister. Stanislav pulled his sleeves over his hands, gripped the door handle firmly, and bellowed his defiance.