by Lena Jones
I arrive just after her. The tunnel is a standard Guild tunnel: well maintained in terms of cleanliness, but otherwise nothing special. The walls are mainly concrete, but there are patches of stone and brickwork – presumably areas that have been filled in and repaired over the decades.
‘Where are we?’ she asks.
I point to a passage that branches off to the right. ‘If my sense of direction is correct, we should get to the British Museum Tube station if we head that way.’ I want to take another look at the station, to see if it’s still being used and if there are any new clues.
‘The British Museum doesn’t have a Tube.’
‘Didn’t we tell you about the station? It used to be part of the Central line.’
She stares, wide-eyed. ‘There’s an abandoned stop down here?’
‘Well, there’s actually more than one. But this is the one we’re interested in.’
‘I’m interested in all of them.’
‘OK, rail geek – maybe another time.’
She nods eagerly. Her face is eerie in the half-light of the dark tunnel, picked out only by the light from her phone.
I shiver. ‘Come on – let’s get moving.’
It takes less than five minutes to find the rail track and another ten to reach the door that gives access to the museum station under the street called High Holborn. Just as we reach the door, we hear a train pass close by; it creates a gust of wind that hits us with surprising force, and Brianna looks nervous.
‘Are you sure the trains don’t run along here any more?’
‘Not along this bit, no.’
I fish out my key and unlock the door. Once through to the station, Brianna lets out a low whistle.
‘Look at this place! It’s like a museum in its own right.’ She points to the Ovaltine advertisement. ‘Look how old the posters are!’
I smile. ‘I promised you amazing, didn’t I?’
She walks a few steps further and stops in front of a huge roll of metal. It’s one of several standing along the wall at the side of the platform, together with some large canisters. ‘What’s this?’
I join her, frowning. The metal is silver-coloured and flat, rather than rounded like wire. I’ve seen it before, in the chemistry lab at school. ‘It looks like magnesium ribbon.’ The canisters beside the metal rolls bear the words IRON OXIDE or ALUMINIUM POWDER.
‘None of this was here the last time I was down here,’ I say. My brain is computing. Iron oxide, aluminium powder and magnesium ribbon equal … Iron oxide, aluminium powder and magnesium ribbon equal … Come on, brain!
‘What do you think it’s for?’ Brianna asks.
I Change Channel and watch the ingredients come to life. The magnesium ribbon uncoils and sets itself alight. It then approaches the iron oxide and aluminium powder and the whole thing goes … CABOOM!
‘Thermite!’ I shout, relieved I got there. Brianna jumps. ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I was just working it out.’
‘Thermite? What’s that?’
‘A mixture that causes an intensely hot chemical reaction that can melt through steel.’
We stare at each other for a moment.
‘Why …?’ she begins.
‘I’m not sure. And there’s so much of it …’
‘Do you think that’s what caused the sinkhole?’ she asks.
I nod. ‘Quite possibly. If someone’s blasting out large sections of tunnel, that could easily cause a cave-in like the one I saw.’
We spend a few minutes in the station. Brianna mainly explores – exclaiming at other old posters and features like old telephones – but I look for fresh footprints and check there aren’t other chemicals or weapons being stored. I find nothing else suspicious.
‘You ready to go?’ I ask Brianna. ‘I’m thinking whoever caused that sinkhole must have other plans for the rest of the explosives. There’s enough there to take down the Tower of London. They’re not going to be too happy, if they catch us in here with their stash.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Life’s never dull with you, Agatha Oddlow. How do you always stumble on the dangerous stuff?’
I grin. ‘Would you rather I went back to investigating the school teachers?’
‘Er … no! This is way more fun.’ She grins back. ‘Now, let’s get out of here.’
As we head out of the station and back into the tunnels, I muse on our find.
‘What do you think they’re going to do with all that thermite?’
‘Maybe they are going to blow up the Tower of London,’ she suggests.
‘But they wouldn’t store it at the British Museum station, in that case. It’s too far away.’
Brianna stops to think. ‘More mining, perhaps?’
‘What for, though? Where are they trying to get to?’
‘I don’t know.’ Brianna shrugs. ‘Shall we go and explore underneath that sinkhole – see if there are any answers there?’
‘Exactly what I was about to suggest,’ I say.
As we walk, I begin to tell her about the Gatekeepers’ Guild, and about the lies surrounding Mum’s death. My head feels like it’s going to explode if I don’t talk to someone. I do feel some pangs of guilt at betraying their secrets – but I trust Brianna not to blurt it all out to anyone. I’ve already admitted to myself that my obsession with this investigation is partly to distract me from focusing on Mum’s missing bike and that empty file, both of which are niggling away the whole time in the back of my mind. Has the professor made any progress in working out who took the records from the file? I wish I knew.
‘So, the whole folder was empty?’ she says, in horror, when I get to the end of my story.
‘Yep. Just blank sheets of paper.’
‘You must’ve felt …’ She doesn’t finish the sentence.
‘Yeah,’ I confirm. ‘And there must be a mole – because whoever—’
I don’t finish the sentence because she takes me by surprise, throwing her arms round me in a big hug. For a moment, my whole body stiffens at the unexpected physical contact, but then I respond by hugging her back. She holds me for a long time, and it takes me a while to realise I’m crying.
‘Sorry,’ I say, wiping my eyes in embarrassment when we let each other go.
‘No, it’s fine. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been on you. So you really thought these Guild people were going to tell you what happened to your mum?’
I pause. ‘I don’t know … I mean, I think, if they actually knew, they’d already have told me … but I’m sure they suspect something or someone – and I thought the file would give me useful information – you know, who she was working with, who she was investigating; or if she had any enemies, that kind of thing.’
‘We’ll find out,’ she says. She sounds so determined that I almost believe we can do it.
We start to walk again, heading towards the South Bank.
A train passes close by and we instinctively shrink against the wall, laughing when we realise it’s in a separate tunnel.
‘That must be the Waterloo and City line,’ I say, after the near-deafening shuddering dies down.
‘Is that the one that shuttles between Waterloo and Bank?’
‘That’s right – the shortest Tube line in London.’
‘And what’s that?’ asks Brianna, pointing a little way ahead. ‘It looks different from the other tunnels.’
It’s a passageway that shouldn’t be there, according to my inner map. The work looks amateur: irregular, as if it was done in a hurry.
‘This must be the blast that caused the sinkhole,’ I say. ‘I don’t think this is Guild work. Their tunnels are much better constructed.’
We walk cautiously towards the opening, taking care not to stumble over the uneven ground.
‘What use would a tunnel be at this point?’ I wonder aloud.
‘Maybe there’s something they needed access to?’ she suggests.
‘So they had to blast a tunnel to get there … It makes sense. Sh
all we see where it leads? It might give us some answers.’
She shines her phone’s torch along the tunnel. It’s filled with rubble.
‘Are we under Bernie Spain Gardens?’ she asks.
I close my eyes and conjure up my map of the Embankment and South Bank area. I picture the River Thames and the Oxo Tower, and the rectangle of grass that marks Bernie Spain Gardens.
‘Yeah, I reckon so. So they made their tunnel and caused a cave-in, but didn’t bother to clear it up.’
‘Maybe they didn’t have time,’ she says.
I nod to her duffel bag. ‘Have you got a bulldozer or excavator in that kit?’
‘Yeah, plus hard hats and three workmen.’ We both laugh, but stop abruptly when we contemplate the task ahead.
We navigate our way through the debris, clambering over the larger boulders and trying not to stumble on the smaller lumps of concrete and stone. The air is dry and thick with dust. I try not to imagine what would happen if the roof here doesn’t hold. Being buried alive doesn’t sound like fun.
Brianna stops when we reach the sinkhole. The ice-cream van’s been removed, leaving a gaping view of the cloudy sky. Steel props have been placed here and there, to prevent further collapse.
‘It’s kind of creepy,’ she says, shivering.
I try to limit my breathing as we continue along the dusty passage. I remember how miners get a chronic lung disease called emphysema from inhaling coal dust. That is over long periods of time, of course, but still …
‘Dusty,’ says Brianna, holding a tissue over her face.
I nod, unwilling to talk and inhale more of the filth.
At the end of the passage, we arrive in a cavernous room – even larger than the cave beneath the Serpentine. There are signs of recent activity: cigarette stubs and a general lack of dust.
Brianna points to a steel door in one of the walls. ‘Will your key open that, do you think?’
We walk over and read the signs plastered all around the area.
I pull out my key again. It fits and turns just as easily as in the other doors. So this is a Gatekeepers’ development. Part of me was hoping the lock would resist – I don’t want to accept that the Guild is responsible for the reckless use of explosives that caused the sinkhole.
We glance nervously at one another before pushing the door open.
‘Do you have anything in that tool bag that could double as a weapon?’ I whisper. She nods and sets her bag on the floor, rummaging through it until she draws out a hammer and a mallet. I take the hammer and we count to three before pushing the door open, brandishing our tools as if they’d be some use against guns … or grown-ups.
‘What is this place?’ says Brianna. We both stand still, letting the door shut behind us. ‘Isn’t that … water?’
We are in a giant subterranean room – far larger even than the cavern we just left. The ground runs out, and below us, dark and unwelcoming in the beam of Brianna’s light, we can see water. We can hear it too: it’s like a roar in the night, slamming against the rock.
‘How far does it go? Is it an underground lake?’ she says.
‘It’s an underground dock,’ I say. ‘I’m sure of it. We must be close to the Thames – I reckon the boats moor here and then take their cargo out to the river and on to their destination ports.’
‘A … dock?’ says Brianna. ‘But who would use it?’
‘Smugglers, I’m guessing.’
‘Do you think other people know it’s here?’ she asks.
‘It’s not on any of the maps, so it must be a pretty well-kept secret. But don’t forget the door opened with my Gatekeepers’ key.’
She shines her light around as far as the beam will reach. ‘I can’t see any way for boats to get in – there seem to be walls all the way round.’
‘Submarines?’ I suggest. ‘They could come through a submerged entrance.’
She lets out her trademark low whistle.
We’re so engrossed in our big adventure that we forget to keep to the sides. When the overhead lights snap on, we’re lit up like fish in a tank and it’s too late to find a dark corner in which to hide. We stand, frozen, hammer and mallet held up, as if we’re playing some oversize version of that Whac-A-Mole game.
Two men enter – large muscular men in dark suits. Brianna grabs my arm with one hand. I’m only vaguely aware that she’s gripping it too tightly. My head is telling me to be prepared, to slow my breathing, to keep calm – to find my ‘true balance’, as Mr Zhang would say. But my body is telling me to run – to run as fast as I can, and not look back. I glance around in desperation, but I already know there’s nowhere to go.
The men stop in surprise at the sight of us.
‘Hey!’ one of them shouts. ‘What are you doing here?’
I run through responses in my head, but fail to come up with anything plausible.
Our dad dropped us off in his submarine, while he went for milk …
Did you see a mobile phone? I’m sure I dropped it in the Thames …
We’re looking for the toilets …
The hammer feels slippery in my palms. I wipe them on my trousers, one at a time.
‘I said, what are you doing here?’ He’s closer now – too close. I can smell his breath – high-tar cigarettes mixed with strong black coffee. His colleague stands behind him, an ominous shadow.
‘I – I … we …’ I stutter. My voice feels like it’s full of lumps. They catch in my throat, and make it hard to speak. I glance at Brianna. She is pale and looks terrified. I draw breath. ‘We’re investigating,’ I say at last.
‘Investigating?’ The man’s spittle sprays my face, and I resist the urge to wipe it away. ‘Who are you? Nancy Drew?’
‘I don’t know who that is,’ I lie. I know full well she’s a girl detective from old books, but I want to appear naive and innocent.
‘We’d better take them in,’ he says to his colleague, who nods.
The silent one strides over to Brianna and removes her mallet, just as Mr Spittle disarms me of my hammer. I run through possible scenarios in my head. None of the outcomes look good.
‘Who do you work for?’ I ask as he pins my arms behind my back. It hurts, but I manage not to cry out. I need to keep my cool if there’s any chance of us coming out of this alive.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he says into my ear.
In a couple of seconds, they have us both restrained.
It’s bad enough I’ve failed to protect myself at all – but I’m responsible for Brianna as well. She’s letting out a tiny whimpering sound, like the whine of a mosquito. I close my eyes and picture my sifu. What would Mr Zhang have me do? I’m just too much of a beginner at martial arts for it to be of use. In a show of resistance, I manage to get my DM boot up and scrape the heel down my assailant’s shin. He lets out a curse but doesn’t relax his hold. I try going completely limp, but he seems prepared for this – he effortlessly throws me over his shoulder in one smooth movement.
Soon, Brianna and I are both being carried back along the tunnels like sacks of coal.
‘Ow! You just knocked my head on the wall!’ I complain, testing to see if he shows compassion. But this only gets me another hard knock – one I’m sure is deliberate.
‘Where are you taking us?’
‘You’ll see.’
It’s hard to breathe deeply while hanging over his shoulder but I can calm my thoughts, at least. After all, if they wanted to kill us, they could have thrown us in the water at the secret dock, and no one would ever have found out.
From my disadvantaged position, I try to get my bearings. I close my eyes and call up the maps I’ve seen of the tunnels. They appear in my mind’s eye one at a time, and I dismiss them until I access the right one. But, wait a minute, this can’t be right …
‘Hey,’ I hiss to Brianna. ‘I think we’re going to the Guild headquarters.’
‘Really? That’s good, right?’
I catch a glimp
se of her face – it’s still white and scared.
‘Yeah,’ I reassure her, ‘it’s good.’
The truth is, I’m not sure. Why would the Guild have a secret submarine dock under London? And who took Mum’s bike, and who took her file? What if the Guild is full of traitors, and we’ve just walked straight into their net?
And why won’t I ever learn caution, no matter how many times I’m caught?
When we pass through the door to the offices I visited the night before, I twist my head and try to read the names on the doors along the way. We take the turning that leads past Wallace Jones’s office, and I catch sight of him, large and placid, flicking through documents at his desk. I consider calling out to him, but we are gone before I’ve even fully summoned the thought.
Then we reach the door marked PROFESSOR D. D’OLIVEIRA. Brianna’s guard knocks and we hear the professor’s voice commanding us to enter.
They carry us in and drop us awkwardly into chairs. I knock my elbow and my tailbone – ‘Ow!’
The professor nods to the men. ‘Thank you. You may go.’
The guards nod and leave, shutting the door behind them. The room is as I remember it from my last visit, before the summer – complete with wood panelling, an enormous black and gold desk – and a rather stern Professor D’Oliveira sitting behind it in her green-leather chair.
‘They were nice,’ I say brightly as I rub my elbow. ‘Really friendly. Great conversationalists.’
‘Great people skills,’ Brianna agrees. She looks shaken. I catch her eye and smile to reassure her.
There’s an icy silence. The professor seems to be looking down at some paperwork. After a minute or two of Brianna and me pulling faces at each other and me mouthing, ‘This is the professor I was telling you about,’ (to much confused eyebrow-raising on Brianna’s part), there is a knock on the door.
‘Come!’ says the professor. The door opens and I let out a groan – the new arrival is Sofia Solokov, my New Best Friend.
‘Take a seat, Sofia,’ says the professor. ‘Thank you for joining us at such short notice.’
Sofia pulls up a chair and shoots me an evil look. ‘Whatever she’s been up to, it’s got nothing to do with me,’ she says, folding her arms.