Jane gripped the rifle, holding it out in front of him as if it were a torch. As he neared the broad southbound platform, though, he saw that there were lights down here, albeit crude and lacking in power. Candles were dotted between sleeping bags and tents pitched all along the platform. Their uncertain light reflected in the scarred curve of the ceiling, showing how it had crumbled back to its supportive ribs. Posters on the trackside wall had peeled to the extent that nothing could be made out in their messages. Water sheened the walls; nitre was a series of slow white blossoms. A stench rose up from the latrine that the tracks had been turned into. He had to zip his coat up over his nose and mouth. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘Mind the crap.’
People began to unfold from their beds, like insects shedding their chrysalides. Thin, shivering figures approached him, every one of them with eyes so large they seemed painful to carry in the cross-hatched wastelands of their faces. A woman touched his arm; the light of the candles gave her skin a pale, waxy sheen, as if she were assuming the form of what illumined her.
‘Have you seen my little boy?’ she asked. ‘He’s my only boy. I lost him a couple of months ago. He vanished in the night. I woke up and it was all I could do to convince myself I’d ever had a boy in the first place. Have you seen him?’
Jane shook his head and backed away. Scurvy was sinking her eyes, paling her skin; her hand on her lower stomach clutched at blood – the reopening of a Caesarean scar, he supposed. He could read chapters of pain on every face. They regarded him as if he was here to deal them the coup de grâce. Fear and resignation mixed to a pathetic uniform look.
He said, ‘People are leaving London. You should too. There’s a raft… a boat off the south-east coast that can take you across the Channel to France.’
His reading of the general mood was misplaced. A man with a white beard, his right arm bandaged and smelling of rot, thrust his chin at him. ‘Why would we want to go to France?’
‘There’s the possibility that what happened was restricted to these shores,’ Jane said. Hoots of derision. He didn’t believe what he had said either, but it was his job to put the option on the table. ‘We’re running out of places to hide. They’re closing the net. In France we might be better positioned. More options. If you were to get on the raft you might find a better life.’
White Beard spat at Jane’s feet. ‘We might find a worse one, too,’ he said. ‘You just want us to leave so you can have the tunnels for yourself.’
‘I’m not interested in tunnels,’ Jane said. ‘I’m here to pass on information, that’s all. What you do with it is your business. You’re looking at eighty miles. Cross the river at Tower Bridge. Head for the A20. Maybe you’ll join up with the rest, hundreds of them, before you get there.’
He was turning to leave when someone called out, asking about the others.
‘What others?’ Jane asked.
‘There’s more of us,’ the voice called. ‘In the crossover passages at City Road. The old disused station.’
‘Can’t you pass it on?’
‘You pass it on, pal. It’s your job. We’re leaving.’
Jane stood on the platform as roughly two-thirds of the platform dwellers hastily packed up their things and streamed by him. One or two shook his hand and thanked him. A man wearing a trilby over a mass of sweaty rat-tails told him he should get going himself and fuck the City Roaders or he’d end up being the last pretzel in the Skinners’ snack bowl.
He watched their backs fade through the exit, heard them swearing and stomping and splashing up the escalators. About twenty men remained. Already they were repositioning their gear, seemingly happy with the grand space they had inherited.
‘Fucking mugs, the lot of them,’ White Beard said. ‘Fucking raft? Who’d go out on the sea? I’ll take my chances with the Smoke. My grandad lived here in the Blitz. Didn’t get a fucking scratch.’
Jane loped down to the end of the platform and squinted into the tunnel’s throat. A constant breeze shifted his hair, chilled the flesh of his arms. It was like the final protracted breath of a giant. It carried every scent you could associate with death upon it. It was a stew of bad things, dirty water run from the tap leading directly to the well of your nightmares.
He dropped down into the gulley of sewage and allowed himself to be swallowed.
It wasn’t far to the defunct City Road section of the Northern Line tunnel but Jane’s constant stumbling on the rails and the fragments of wall collapsing into the passageway lengthened his journey considerably. There were no platforms at the station any more, but candles had been left here too, lighting the way to the passage arches, seemingly hanging in the wall, five feet above the floor. Soot clung to every surface; it was as if everything had been carved from it. The floor seemed to shiver as he hauled himself up from the rails; his hands sank into inches of soft matter. Dead cables slinked around him, hanging from their routers like snakes sleeping in branches, roughly following the shape of the architecture as though they were its preliminary pencil sketches.
Jane called out but his voice died immediately in the granular acoustics. Pieces of unrecognisable machinery lay by the tracks. A dust-veiled sign from the 1940s warned people not to leave their belongings behind after the all-clear. He saw a figure at the central corridor leading to the stairs. A child holding a toy, a stuffed animal. It looked like a lion. The slight figure was wearing pyjamas. He was barefoot. Jane’s heart lurched as if it were making a break for freedom. He almost laughed out loud.
‘Stanley?’ he called.
The figure instantly turned and ran away, as if it had been waiting only for Jane’s voice to trigger it. Jane stood in the passageway staring at the skirls of dust the figure had kicked up at the moment of its exit. Not Stanley. Stanley would not be five years old still. Stanley would be wearing a scowl and a hoodie and bumfluff on his upper lip. Stanley would not run away. He’d stand his ground and ask Jane, ‘What’s it to you, fuckhead?’
Jane took off after him.
He managed a couple of flights before the walls started to move. Figures detached themselves from the murk as if they had animated themselves from the soot. Soon he found himself trying to move through a corridor packed with black flaking bodies. He couldn’t think beyond the character of Pigpen in Peanuts, who seemed to be constructed from dirt. All he could see were wild white eyes and teeth; a smell of humus and brackish water. It was as if the shored-up earth, failing now, deep beneath the capital, was shedding ghosts at every turn.
‘Stanley?’ he called out again, a reflex that he seemed to have no power over. When it came to his son, those moments when he felt close to Stanley, either during these mirages or in dreams, it was as if he could not rein in his excitement. It could only be a memory, or a wish, but the ever-hopeful part of his brain lit up, burning so brightly that no other function could be considered.
Now he had reached the ancient locked-in ticket barrier. How long had this station been closed to the public? A good seventy years, surely. People were huddled together under their shifting blanket of dust as though resigned to death. Jane imagined them never moving, just sitting, waiting, waiting for a moment such as this, a person to release them from a stasis they had not noticed arriving and did not know how to shake off. They looked at him with a mixture of puzzlement and relief.