by WR Armstrong
Wilkinson watched his boss leave, as always with a certain amount of awe, knowing McGrath had been one of the elite in the ranks of soldiering. At one stage in his career he himself had applied for selection into the Special Air Services. In the early eighties, as a teenager, he’d witnessed the SAS successfully storm the Iranian Embassy, liberating twenty odd hostages from the hands of a group of fanatical terrorists known as the Democratic Revolutionary Front for the Liberation of Arabistan. The feat had inspired him to go for gold and try to become a member of the best soldiering regiment in the world. Just like one thousand nine hundred and ninety applicants out of an original two thousand he failed to make the grade, but felt no shame only disappointment. Having seen at first-hand what was needed to get “badged” the SAS became more than heroes to him, they became legends and unsurprisingly he viewed McGrath as some kind of demigod.
Wilkinson observed two more survivors being led from the wreckage. A rough, shaven headed youth with a tattooed neck, and a bearded middle-aged man. Both had escaped with minor injuries. Trailing behind was a member of the underground maintenance crew who paused to speak to Wilkinson confidentially.
“See those two,” he said nodding after the unlikely pair. “It’s really weird, but they’ve both hallucinated big time, and about the same thing.” He paused uncertainly, as if having second thoughts about saying any more on the subject. Wilkinson prompted him to continue, promising that whatever he said would go no further.
The man relented. “They claim they’ve been spoken to by angels. Can you believe that? It’s as if they suffered something akin to a near death experience. Odd don’t you think?” When Wilkinson failed to respond he tried to make light of it. “Mind you, trauma can do funny things to the mind. I dare say they’ll get over it.” He grew serious again, obviously troubled. “Thing is, they’re not the only ones. Rumour has it a number of survivors have laid claim to hearing disembodied voices coming from the tunnel roof. I guess we should put it down to some kind of mass hysteria, but it’s very strange, don’t you think?”
Wilkinson kept his opinions to himself. The man walked off leaving him standing in the middle of the rail track like a gunslinger facing an invisible adversary, thinking what an almighty mess there was to clear up. The Northwalk line was a deep level railway, though by no means the deepest, the honour reserved for Hampstead Station at Hampstead Heath, which was over one hundred feet deeper. A hydraulically operated drum digger with rotating teeth was used to construct underground stations like Hampstead and Northwalk in preference to the more primitive cut and cover method originally adopted whereby huge trenches were dug, a track laid and an arched roof added before the road above was built. The tunnel itself was, up until the explosion, approximately twelve feet in diameter. Due to the ferocity of the blast that span had in part grown closer to twenty feet, which at least meant the emergency crews had more room in which to manoeuvre.
Through the dust and gloom the driver’s cab was visible, crushed beyond recognition by the impact of the accident. Further into the tunnel members of the emergency services continued to unearth the compartments from the piles of rubble which had fallen from above.
Flashlights pierced the depressive dark intermittently. The constant whirr of numerous electric saws filled the tunnel as rescuers attempted to reach victims of the disaster still trapped inside the tube. A man emerged from within, waving a flashlight excitedly in an attempt to gain Wilkinson’s attention, announcing the fact that the cab driver had been found alive. When Wilkinson arrived on the scene it was already established the man’s name was Foster. He lay on a stretcher at the side of the track in the presence of a police officer and a paramedic, uninjured except for minor cuts and bruises. He was talking incoherently and seemed delirious. From what Wilkinson could make out it seemed Foster, like others who had survived the disaster, was convinced he had received some kind of religious experience, insisting he’d heard voices coming from the ruptured tunnel roof. Wilkinson gazed upwards at the giant inverted crater left by the explosion, which was an evil looking dust filled void. He too could hear voices but these were real belonging to the rescuers, the paramedics and—
He suddenly found himself listening more carefully; hit by the uncomfortable feeling that he too heard voices coming from above. They were far off, but drawing closer. He tried to make out what they were saying but couldn’t. He looked into the faces of the men with him but saw nothing in their expressions to suggest they were having a similar experience, and somehow managed to convince himself it was imagination playing tricks.
The tube driver was carried away. Further along the tunnel another body was freed from the wreckage and placed without ceremony into a body bag that was promptly zipped and removed to the station platform, where it was laid alongside others. On his way back to the platform Wilkinson passed men using pick axes and welding torches, others removing debris with their bare hands. Some were openly tearful as they struggled to uncover the compartments from rubble. A mutilated body was pulled free and laid on a waiting stretcher. Wilkinson averted his eyes thinking what a terrible day it was for London. The rescue team continued their unenviable task into the next day.
Less than seventy survivors were found all told. The death toll reached one hundred and eight, making it one of the worst tube disasters to hit London since the original section of underground running from Bishop’s Road, Paddington, to Farrington Street, was opened to the public on January 10th 1863.
CHAPTER TWO
Mickey Robinson was an inquisitive seven-year old who loved to get involved, regardless of the situation. Today he was being babysat by his father who was strangely preoccupied and uncommunicative, acting as if Mickey wasn’t there, excluding the child from whatever it was he had been busy doing for the past few hours while Mickey’s mother was out doing the weekly shop.
Mickey had nevertheless watched curiously from a distance as his father used a power saw to cut up timber at the bottom of the secluded garden backing onto their turn of the century Victorian house. His father had been muttering to himself as he had worked; something Mickey had never witnessed him do before, which put him on edge though he didn’t know why.
When Mickey heard his mother arrive home in the family car the young child bounded quickly across the dewy grass before bursting into the house breathless, dying to tell her what his father was up to.
“Dad’s building something!” he exclaimed excitedly as Irene Robinson dumped two heavy bags of groceries on to the kitchen table and kicked off her shoes with exaggerated relief.
“Really,” she said with no particular interest. Her husband was always building things that were of absolutely no use. A DIY fanatic, he drove her mad forever changing the house interior for no good reason, building shelves, replacing cupboards that didn’t need replacing, redecorating rooms that needed no redecoration. She loved him all the same, finding his enthusiasm infectious, seeing that same enthusiasm reflected in their young son. Just how much she loved him was made startlingly apparent when she’d discovered he was one of the casualties of the horrendous tube crash that had rocked the capital. Even though he was one of the lucky ones, escaping with nothing more serious than minor cuts and bruises Irene had been distraught, unable to stop crying for hours afterwards. The thought that she might have lost him forever had terrified her.
“He’s building crosses!” Mickey announced suddenly. He stood by the back door, one eager hand poised over the handle. “Come and look mommy!”
Irene was oblivious, busying herself filling the pantry with various tins and packets, paying scant attention to her excited son. She was miles away; her mind on the gossip she had to impart to her friends about the Anderson’s who lived across the street. She wondered if they would be as shocked as she at the news Henry Anderson, boring old fart that he was, had started an affair with a woman half his age.
“Mommy, come here!”
The urgency in the child’s voice finally forced Irene to look. Mickey sto
od precariously on a chair he’d dragged over to the sink drainer, staring through the window overlooking the back garden.
“How many times have I told you not to stand on chairs!” Irene said, rushing over to the mesmerised boy. Following his gaze she saw he spoke the truth. Seemed her dear beloved husband was no longer content to carry out normal DIY tasks for he had taken to building and erecting what looked like big wooden crosses behind the large shed he used as his workshop. What in God’s name was he up to now she wondered? Had he finally gone completely off his rocker? He hadn’t been himself since the crash, mind you, becoming increasingly broody and uncommunicative. Irene put it down to trauma.
“Stay here. I have to speak to your father alone,” she told her son. She left the house slamming the door closed behind her. Mickey was disappointed to be excluded from the fun yet again. Sensing his mother’s displeasure at his father’s antics, he remained by the window watching anxiously as Irene crossed the long narrow strip of lawn, taking purposeful strides to where his father had planted not one cross but two, one being significantly larger than the other.
As his mother disappeared behind the shed, his father remained out of sight. Mickey waited patiently for one of them to re-emerge but neither did. Curious, he left the house following in his mother’s footsteps until he came to the shed where he paused, suddenly uncertain, having heard someone moaning the other side of the building. It sounded like his mother. He debated what to do. In the end he crept round to the back, his natural sense of curiosity overcoming an unexplainable feeling of apprehension.
He saw his father first. Bill Robinson stood over his wife’s prone form having just pole-axed her using the lump hammer he held in one beefy hand. Mickey spotted the trail of dark blood pouring from his mother’s forehead and began to scream, bringing his father’s attention to bear. A strange unreadable look affected the man’s face. Mickey fled but then tumbled head long over a metal watering can left by the shed. He scrambled to his feet just in time to avoid Bill Robinson’s outstretched hand and half ran, half stumbled back to the house pursued by his father, who called repeatedly for him to stop, the lump hammer still held firmly in one hand. The child’s terrified screams echoed round the neighbourhood drawing the attention of immediate neighbours, who peered curiously from the back windows of their houses to see what all the commotion was about.
McGrath happened to be amongst them having just returned home from his city office. He immediately rushed to Mickey Robinson’s aid. Arriving at the back of the Robinson house he witnessed the boy crash to the ground for a second time having tripped over his own bicycle that lay idly on the lawn. Bill Robinson brought the hammer down hard, but luckily for Mickey he slipped at the crucial moment and went sprawling in to a flowerbed. By the time he had regained his feet his terrified son was struggling to open the back door, which was stuck stubbornly in its frame.
McGrath rugby tackled the crazed man who had quickly made up ground and was breathing hotly down his son’s neck, the hammer poised threateningly. The two crashed to the ground, each struggling for supremacy. Robinson twisted round and caught McGrath a glancing blow to the forehead, dazing him and went into the attack punching the ex-soldier in the face, giving him a bloody nose.
McGrath tried to overpower the bigger man knowing the consequences of failure would be dire. Robinson proved immensely strong however, managing to resist, lashing out repeatedly with the hammer. Realising he was fighting a losing battle the ex-soldier changed tactics, distancing himself, deciding in this case speed and agility would be preferable to using brute force. Robinson struck out wildly. This time McGrath avoided the blows and in one startlingly quick motion grabbed Robinson’s outstretched arm, twisting it half way up the man’s back in a restraining hold. Despite the pain Robinson refused to submit, kicking back against the ex-soldier’s shins, managing to somehow struggle free.
The hammer found its target again, sending McGrath reeling backwards. Robinson charged, intent on finishing the job. The crazed man’s superior size should have been an advantage. McGrath, however, with his vast experience in unarmed combat turned it against him, and Robinson was felled with a perfectly executed judo throw before being knocked unconscious by a measured punch to the jaw.
With Robinson temporarily incapacitated, McGrath lost no time in employing his mobile to call for police back up, but he needn’t have bothered. Seconds later two uniformed officers suddenly arrived on the scene, accompanied by the person who would later claim credit for alerting them to the incident. McGrath wasted no time in bringing their attention to bear on Irene Robinson. One of the officers went to check her over.
“She’s in a bad way,” he said on his return. “I’ve called an ambulance.”
Bill Robinson started to regain consciousness.
“Watch him, he’s dangerous,” McGrath warned.
One of the officers acted by cautioning and handcuffing Robinson, who by now showed no sign of the aggressive behaviour he’d earlier exhibited, and appeared to be suffering from amnesia; unable to recall anything of the violent incident he’d orchestrated.
As he was being led away to a waiting police patrol car a neighbour took charge of his young son. Soon afterwards an ambulance arrived to take Irene Robinson to hospital.
McGrath, who would be covered in bumps and bruises by morning, looked on feeling utterly bemused by the turn of events.
CHAPTER THREE
At City Hall the following morning he studied the preliminary report on the tube disaster, disliking every sentence he read. The explosion had caused structural problems to both tunnel walls, severely damaged eighty metres of track and blown apart the tunnel roof leaving behind a huge gaping cavity. The line was therefore inoperable. Bomb experts blamed the disaster on the belated detonation of a thousand-pound German Second World War bomb.
McGrath dared not think about the cost of rebuilding. The question on everybody’s lips was who was ultimately responsible for the disaster. McGrath thought there was a reasonable chance London Transport, and more directly London Underground Limited, the company responsible for safety in the whole of the underground system would be in the firing line when it came to claims for compensation on behalf of the injured, and families of the deceased. That would be for the Law Courts to decide, however, it had nothing to do with him. In his capacity as Regional Planning Manager, his job would be to oversee the reconstruction program with responsibility to get the West Arnos Square to Northwalk tube line back into operation as quickly as possible. The budget for the exercise was yet to be finalised.
From what McGrath could determine from reading the report the heavy rainfall over the past few days was to blame for the explosion. Movement in the substrata had dislodged the bomb activating the detonating mechanism. Having been buried for so long, it amazed even McGrath that a bomb could detonate with such devastating results. And all because of subsidence brought about by a freak storm and prolonged rainfall. But that was precisely what had happened. McGrath knew the history of the London Underground well and mentally chronicled the worst disasters to visit the subterranean tunnel network.
In the nineteenth century dynamiters had done their worst using charges of nitro-glycerine and on one occasion critically injured sixty-two people between Westminster and Charring Cross. During the war years, eighty-two people were injured in Sloane Square Station when a bomb at Belham fractured a water main, which subsequently drowned a further six hundred. One hundred and seventeen lives were claimed when another bomb broke through the pavement at the foot of Duke of Wellington statue outside the Royal Exchange, before dropping into a crypt at St Mary Woolnoth, and bouncing down an escalator of Bank station to explode. In 1940 twenty people lost their lives at Marble Arch when a bomb blew up between Kings Cross and Farringdon.
There had been other isolated incidents during the Second World War, when German bombs had crashed through pavements on impact, decimating booking halls or had exploded above platforms. And then there was the King’
s Cross disaster in the mid-eighties that had claimed over forty lives. Regrettably the Northwalk disaster was up there with the best of them.
Now McGrath and his men were left with the unenviable task of clearing the wreckage and rebuilding the destroyed section, which, judging by the report would not be easy. Wilkinson was right in his assumption that no power cables, water mains or sewer pipes were in close proximity. However, there was always a chance that the blast may have destabilised the foundations of St Anthony’s Roman Catholic Church, which occupied the ground above. Tests were being carried out to establish whether or not it was the case.
One helluva mess, McGrath thought dismally. Coordinating the reconstruction of the disaster area was something he was dreading. Later that day he was to attend a meeting with the Transport for London Executive Committee, in which he would have to inform them of the true extent of the damage, and placate them with assurances that the problem would be handled efficiently with the minimum of fuss. As if that wasn’t enough, the London Underground Railway Society requested he speak on the disaster at their next monthly meeting at Baden-Powell House in South Kensington. He could well do without the distraction, but was resigned to attend the meeting so as to placate the enthusiasts, and reassure them everything was under control.
His thoughts touched briefly on the church. With all that had happened over the past week, the last thing they needed was an irate priest ranting about the destruction caused to one of God’s buildings. The cynical, McGrath thought, might argue the point that as the bomb had initially passed through God’s property first, it had been His responsibility to hold out a hand to catch the ruddy thing. It wasn’t the Executive’s fault that that hadn’t happened.