Is she thinking of me the same way?
I think of Anya and force myself to concentrate on the tunnel ahead. The torches give us only a few yards visibility. I try not to think of how long they'll last.
We travel on down the canal. And the others follow.
And the only sound is the soft, occasional plash of our paddles in the water.
And the drip of water from the ceiling and the walls.
And the crying, the crying of the children.
My own is silent.
When the sirens wailed, I took charge.
I don't know why that was. I wasn't the newest member of staff, but still far from long-serving. I'd only been at the school about a year.
But I took charge nonetheless.
I knew what the Headmaster, Mr Makin, was thinking. He was in his sixties, due to retire next year. All the years spent caring for others' kids, and none of his own-unless you counted a son who lived in Australia and never called or wrote. All those years, and all he'd wanted was to spend the last few with his wife.
"Ethel… " I heard him breathe in the stricken hush of the staff room.
Jean was as stunned as the rest. She was the Deputy Head and should have said something, but for the first time I could remember, she was at a loss. No one could think of what to say or do. No one but me.
I'd never been in serious danger before. Nearly had a car accident three years ago, avoided a collision by a hair-hardly in the same league. But they say a crisis shows you who you really are. I'd always assumed I'd fall short, feared I'd be weak or frightened.
But, come the moment, I wasn't. Even when Makin said his wife's name and sent Anya's face fluttering round my head like a moth round a light, I made it go away. She worked in the city centre; with a terrible coldness I realised there was nothing I could do for her.
I wish I'd at least called her on her mobile, said I loved her, said goodbye-but, no, I can't see that happening, can you? Switchboards have to be manned, after all. I wonder if anyone kept on mechanically doing their duty as the last few minutes ticked by.
Four minutes. That was all we had.
That endless moment broke and I was on my feet.
"The kids," I said. "Jean?"
She blinked at me. Outside, the playground had fallen silent.
"Get in the playground," I said. "Any kids live in the next couple streets, get home. Otherwise, get them down the basement."
"Basement?" She blinked again. It was a filthy place, not even used for storage anymore.
"Best chance we've got." I clapped my hands. "Come on! Everyone! Go! Go!"
Where did it come from, the sudden authority? I ask myself again and again, and have no clue. And then I stop asking, because I mustn't. The ball is rolling now, and I have to stay like this. Responsibility. It's like a millstone round your neck.
The staff ran out of the room. Except old Makin. He just sat there, blinking, old eyes full of tears.
I knew what I had to do. I reached across and touched his arm. "George?"
He stared at me.
"Go home, George. Be with your wife."
"I… " He wanted to, of course, but duty pulled him the other way. I absolved him.
"We'll be fine, sir," I said. "Just go. You deserve to… " I stopped.
He nodded once, rose. "Thank you, Paul," was all he said. His head was down and he couldn't look at me, but as he left the room, he began to run, surprisingly fast for a man his age.
A moment later, I was running too.
The tunnel, and the tunnel, and the tunnel. Endless, the brick arch, low above our heads, passing by. Coming out of darkness, yard by yard, coming towards us, passing overhead and back into the dark again.
The same, and the same, and the same. Again, and again, and again.
"Paul?" Jean's voice is a whisper. Her hand on my arm. "Where are we going?"
"I don't know," I say, and then remember I have to. I have to know something. "Not yet." I think. "There'll be a gallery soon, or a landing stage. Or something."
"What then?"
How should I know? I want to scream. But of course I can't. "We'll have to see, Jean. Might be fish here." I wouldn't bet on it, though. Rats in the tunnels? Did you get them down old coal mines? You get them everywhere, surely?
Worry about food later, I think to myself. Once you're underground and safe somewhere.
Safe? Where is safe?
I stop thinking that way. It may all be pointless, just delaying the inevitable, but what am I supposed to do? Just stop and wait to die, when the poison seeps down here into the mine and the canal? No. I can't. As much for me as anyone else. If I stop, you see, I'll think of Anya. And I mustn't. I mustn't do that.
Anya was… well, Anya was my girlfriend, of course. You must have worked that out for yourselves. Except that doesn't cover it.
Girlfriend always sounds so casual, so teenage. And it wasn't like that.
We weren't married or engaged. Hadn't even talked about it. Weren't even living together, although we had talked about that. Just weren't sure where we'd live. Her poky flat, my poky flat, or somewhere new.
I first saw her in a bar in the city centre, near where she worked-I went over to her, to talk to her, of course, but I never thought I stood a chance. She was blonde, with blue eyes, a classic beauty. But she liked me. More than "liked" as it turned out
You see loads like that from the old Eastern Bloc countries. God knows why. I once joked that if Polish women looked like her, it was no wonder they kept getting invaded. She whacked me round the head with a pillow as I recall. But she was laughing when she did it.
She wasn't a dumb blonde. She was a student. A mature student, I should add. At twenty-eight, two years older than me. And me a teacher. She already had a degree, taken back in Poland. English Lit. She could hold her own in any discussion about poetry. Which was good. We had lots to talk about. Keats and John Donne, Wilfred Owen (her favourite) and R. S. Thomas (mine). She was taking a Business Studies degree at Manchester Uni.
We'd been together about a year. Around the same time, give or take, as I got the teaching post at the school. A good little school, a small suburb with small classes, a plum job. I had that and Anya. I was so lucky. So bloody lucky.
I ought to have known it couldn't last.
She would've been working. She was in her final year, had two or three days free each week, so she'd taken an office job to pay the bills. Right in the city centre. Practically at Ground Zero, I'm guessing. She wouldn't have stood a chance.
I tell myself it must have been quick.
The caretaker, Mr Rutter, forced the basement door open, then stumbled away. Never saw him again. Well, I did, but I wouldn't have recognised him if not for his shoes. Old brown brogues, they were. He never wore anything else. All that was left intact of him.
He stumbled away. I have no idea where he thought he was going. I had other things to worry about.
We herded the kids down the stairs and into the basement, slammed doors shut behind us.
"Lie down," I shouted over the scared babble, then shouted it again, louder. "Lie down. Everybody. Shut your eyes. Put your hands over your ears and open your mouths." As far as I remembered, that was how you prepared yourself for the blast. I'd seen it in an old war movie, somewhere.
"Paul-" Jean's face was scared. She was about ten years older than me, competent and attractive, but didn't look much older than the kids, now. I wondered what I looked like.
"Yeah."
"What are we going to do?" she asked.
"Lie down," I told her, clambering to the floor myself. "And if we-"
That was when the bomb hit.