Mutant 59

by Kit Pedler

  In helpless silence they watched Gerrard trying to breathe life back into the ashen girl. For long minutes he took deep gulps of the hot hazy air and blew back into the girl’s open mouth. Every few breaths he stopped to feel for a pulse in the neck.

  Then he put one hand over the other on the front of her chest and pushed quickly and hard against her rib cage in a rhythmic series of jerks. He felt again for a pulse.

  Finally after about fifteen minutes he straightened up exhausted, sweat pouring down his face.

  He looked at the others but no one spoke. Then he got to his feet and picked up the girl’s slight body and carried it over onto the planks between the trestles. Anne was shaking, her hands to her face. Gerrard took her gently by the shoulders: ‘Anne, there’s nothing else I could have done, the air down here – there’s not enough oxygen.’

  ‘What about Hardy?’ Slayter asked.

  ‘He got the full force of the shock‚’ Gerrard replied, ‘he’s dead, quite dead.’ He pointed at Wendy’s body on the planks. ‘He must have acted as a resistance, she got the current through him.’

  Gerrard walked over to the iron door. Slayter had managed to cut a three-inch slice around the outside of the lock.

  ‘What is it?’ said Gerrard. ‘The pressure?’ He looked at the gauges on the cylinders.

  Slayter nodded: ‘It’s dropping fast. I’ll go on till it gives out, but …’ He shrugged his shoulders hopelessly and turned back to the door, replacing his goggles. The flare of the torch threw great dancing shadows on the ancient brick of the roof.

  Finally, the cut in the sheet steel of the door reached around two sides of the lock. It was big enough to take the end of a crowbar. Gerrard motioned Slayter aside. Slayter snapped off the acetylene torch and took off his goggles.

  ‘Right‚’ said Slayter. ‘Let’s have a go, the gas is just about gone anyway.’ The two men jammed the chisel end of the crowbar into the gap. It didn’t go in quite far enough and Gerrard went back for a hammer.

  Then, while Slayter held the crowbar, he pounded the end until the tip was wedged solidly in the gap. They both started pushing against the end of the crowbar. The metal began to bend slightly.

  ‘Once more.’ This time Gerrard flung all his weight against the crowbar and the lock bent a little farther away from the door. The two men strained and pushed with every ounce of weight and effort. Behind them Anne flung her weight against their backs to no avail.

  The crowbar, when the men let go of it, remained sticking out of the door like a red indian arrow in the side of a covered wagon. They sank wearily against the far wall.

  Anne pointed to one of the benches. They were made of heavy wood. ‘Can’t we use one of those as a ram?’

  Gerrard shook his head slowly. It was becoming difficult to concentrate in the congested atmosphere. All three were gasping and panting, their shirts wringing wet with sweat. Anne’s blouse was plastered to her breasts.

  ‘We could drive the bench against the crowbar‚’ said Anne.

  Gerrard looked at Slayter. ‘Why not‚’ Slayter shrugged wearily.

  ‘OK‚’ said Gerrard. He led the way over to the heavy bench and the three of them picked it up, staggering a little under the weight.

  ‘Now‚’ he said, ‘if we get a run from here and hit it at the far end it might just do it.’ They carried the heavy bench back, steadied themselves and ran forward clumsily towards the crowbar. But the angle of the crowbar to the tunnel was narrow and they misjudged, stumbled ahead and struck the door, jolting them into dropping the heavy bench and bringing them down into a tangle to the floor. As the bench went down it hit Slayter a glancing blow on the leg, he cried out in pain.

  ‘One more try‚’ said Gerrard. ‘I’ll go in front.’ He went over to the end of the bench nearest the door and picked it up. Slayter, limping slightly, now took the end position with Anne in the middle. This time they went back a shorter distance. Gerrard, his chest nearly bursting under the strain, surveyed it. ‘Right‚’ he panted, ‘now!’

  They rushed forward, the bench at an angle to the corridor. Its end slammed into the crowbar at exactly the right spot. The crowbar appeared for a minute almost to leap out of the door but held and swung suddenly back against the wall of the tunnel. There was a loud crack, and as they stumbled back, they saw that the door had bent away from the lock and opened one of the riveted seams. There was a gap just wide enough to get a hand through.

  Gerrard reached through the gap and felt for the long securing lever. Very slowly, using every ounce of his effort, with his body braced against the tunnel wall, he pushed it over. The bolts grated back and the door slowly creaked open.

  They were too exhausted to feel any elation. A wave of cool air flowed through the opening and they gratefully opened their clothes to cool down. Ahead of them, only just visible, was a short tunnel ending in a flight of steps leading upwards out of sight.

  As they reached the bottom of the steps Gerrard flashed his light up. At the top was a door and just as securely locked.

  ‘Oh, no‚’ said Anne. ‘Please don’t let it be locked.’ Gerrard almost flung himself up the steps ignoring his aching muscles. He reached the handle and pulled hard. It was locked! Slayter limped up beside him.

  ‘There’s got to be a way through here.’ Gerrard flung himself against the door.

  ‘Not through this one.’ Slayter wearily shook his head.

  ‘The torch?’ said Gerrard.

  ‘No gas left.’

  ‘Another cylinder?’

  ‘There aren’t any. I looked,’ said Slayter. He turned away tiredly and slouched back through the tunnel, his shoulders hunched.

  Gerrard slumped down to a sitting position, looking at the door which had so cruelly cut off their hope of escape. It was unbelievable. There they were, in the heart of a great city, trapped in what amounted to a subterranean cave. Thus far, there was light, water, even a little food. But how long would they have to remain down. What was happening on the surface?

  For a moment Gerrard pictured the London he had seen in old newsreels of the blitz: empty shells of buildings, gutted by fire and explosions, cordoned off roads running with water from burst mains; flares of gas blazing through rubble.

  He forced his mind to switch away from the prospect, then felt a soft touch on his shoulder.

  ‘Wake up, wake up Luke.’ Anne was bending over him a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Where’s Slayter?’

  ‘Flaked out on one of the benches. Come on back.’

  ‘No,’ said Gerrard. ‘It’s cooler out here …’ Anne shivered. ‘It’s like an oven in there now,’ she said. ‘Is there really danger of us running short of oxygen?’

  ‘The fire will consume as much oxygen as it needs …’ said Gerrard. Then checked himself. If you must speculate he told himself, keep it to yourself.

  Anne looked at him curiously. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not important,’ said Gerrard, wearily shaking his head.

  She coloured. ‘I resent being treated like an empty-headed nit, please tell me what you mean!’

  ‘I didn’t say …’ began Gerrard.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Anne. She turned away chewing her knuckle. Gerrard stared ahead and shrugged his shoulders.

  Anne shifted restlessly. ‘I’m going back down. It’s draughty here.’

  Gerrard was too weary to argue. She got up and walked back down into the main chamber.

  Amazing, thought Gerrard, all through the action she hardly turns a hair. Now it’s a matter of sitting and waiting she takes umbrage at practically everything I say. Draughty? From where? He looked over to the far wall of the tunnel. There was a draught. It was blowing over his hand.

  He wet his finger and held it up. It was cold on the side nearest the wall. He picked up the torch and went over to find the source. The wall was rough, probably built around the turn of the century. The bricks were a uniform grey and the mortar between had crumbled to a powdery chalk.
The surface was thickly covered with the dust of years, cobwebs and a whitish limestone deposit from seepage. He moved the torch along the wall looking for a chink.

  There had been a doorway of some sort. The bricks were a slightly different shade and had obviously been used to seal up an old exit. Near the bottom he found a missing brick. He bent down, shone his torch and peered through. The bricks were in a single layer and on the other side he could just make out what appeared to be a passageway. The air felt cold on his eye and fresh compared to the stale air in the chamber. It wouldn’t take much to break these bricks down. Perhaps …

  He became aware that Anne was squatting beside him.

  ‘I’m a cow,’ she said. ‘Sorry, it’s all this …’

  Gerrard brushed it aside. ‘Forget it,’ he said. Look!’ Anne bent down and put her eye to the crack.

  ‘Can we get through?’ asked Anne.

  ‘There are two picks back there, I saw them. Is Slayter still out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gerrard glanced at his watch. ‘He’s been out for what, twenty minutes?’

  ‘About that,’ said Anne.

  ‘Give him another fifteen then we’ll wake him. I’ll start on this.’

  Gerrard walked back and took the two picks back to the bricked-up archway. He spat on his hands and looked at them reflectively. It was a long time since he had used a pick and shovel.

  He raised the pick, one hand at the bottom of the haft, the other one by the head and swung it against the wall.

  The first blow yielded a cloud of dust which shot back into Gerrard’s eyes. Nettled, he swung back and buried the pick into the brickwork with his full force. This time there was a satisfying crash as some dozen bricks parted company from the rest and tumbled inwards into the sealed-up tunnel. Behind him Anne was about to attack another section of the wall. Gerrard stopped her as she was about to swing the pick over her head.

  ‘I don’t want to have to carry you with a hole in your foot.’ He took the pick firmly away from her and set it down. ‘Now stand back and admire my muscles.’

  ‘Oh balls!’ Anne stood back angrily and watched him as he swung the pick against the wall. This time such a large section of bricks parted company from the rotten mortar that he almost fell through the hole. Anne laughed loudly.

  ‘Noisy bastard.’ Slayter was standing behind them. ‘How the hell do you expect anyone to sleep with this racket going on?’

  Gerrard disentangled himself from the debris and stepped back. ‘Look,’ he said. Slayter picked up the torch and flashed it into the hole. It lit up another arch and blackness beyond.

  ‘Quite a labyrinth,’ said Anne.

  Slayter took the second pick and between them they enlarged the hole until it was big enough to crawl through. The clean air revived them.

  ‘Almost good enough to breathe,’ said Slayter, drawing in deep lungfuls.

  ‘It’s musty,’ Anne shuddered, ‘like a tomb.’

  ‘Bound to smell like that,’ said Slayter. ‘Been shut up for roughly’ – he looked at the brickwork – ‘thirty or forty years I should think.’

  ‘Is it safe to breathe? I read somewhere about trapped gas in old lime kilns …’

  ‘We’ve no option,’ said Gerrard. ‘Let’s get the stuff together.’ They went back into the chamber. Among the tools was a plumber’s basket and Anne filled it with what remained of the food and water.

  Slayter took one or two tools, a large screwdriver and a large spanner and stuck them in his belt. Gerrard turned and made the climb up to the station master again.

  As he got to the top of the ladder he saw that the station master was deeply asleep, wheezing heavily. His face was running with sweat. The fire must have been still raging in the first level but Gerrard saw that the smoke had diminished.

  Gerrard briefly felt his pulse, then climbed back down to join the others.

  They were waiting at the doorway to the other tunnel. He glanced at Wendy’s body. His coat was missing off the body which was covered with a sheet of old tarpaulin. As he hurried back Anne was waiting with his coat. Without a word she gave it to him. Somehow this touched him. To have gone back to the dead girl and taken the coat off her must have cost her quite a bit, but she had probably reasoned that he would be unlikely to do it himself and he needed the coat.

  Gerrard switched on the torch and they started through the archway. After they had scrambled awkwardly through the narrow bolt hole they finally emerged into a large railway tunnel. In the now dimming light of the torch they could see that there were no rails, just old dusty sleepers. The air felt as if it had been still for years.

  ‘Which way now?’ asked Anne.

  ‘There’s a slight draught from this side. Come on,’ said Gerrard. They turned and walked into the draught. The tunnel section was straight but had a steep downhill gradient, and then a curved section. They walked on and came out by a bent and rusting iron grille like the bars of a prison cage. Gerrard reached forward and tugged at one of the bars. It broke and crumbled away in his grasp. Quickly he broke off three more bars and then shone his torch forward into the dark.

  ‘Can’t see anything,’ he said, then his voice echoed as from a large chamber. ‘Hey,’ he shouted; again the echo.

  He eased himself through the bars, feeling the way carefully with his feet, the others followed.

  ‘What on earth is it?’ Anne whispered. Her whisper echoed. In the torchlight they could see they were in a tube station. But it was old, musty and deserted.

  They imagined the long gone passengers and the roar and clatter of trains. Now it was empty, silent and thick with dust. The atmosphere overawed them and no one spoke as they crept forward.

  ‘Maybe there are some switches,’ said Anne as Gerrard flashed the torch around.

  ‘Let’s see which station it is,’ said Slayter. Gerrard flashed the torch along the wall, past some posters and onto the sign. It read ‘GRAY’S INN’. The enamelled steel of the sign was chipped and rusty.

  ‘Gray’s Inn!’ said Slayter.

  ‘There’s no station called that is there?’ said Anne.

  ‘It’s been disused since world war two,’ said Slayter. ‘That’s why there was no track in the tunnel, they took it up.’

  They moved warily along the platform. Farther along there were a group of posters. The first, though badly yellowed and stained and slightly torn at one corner, was clearly recognizable. It was a David Langdon cartoon headed ‘Billy Brown of London Town’. Underneath there was a drawing of a natty bowler-hatted commuter sitting in a railway carriage and restraining a man sitting beside him who was pulling off some lace-like material which covered the windows. The caption read: ‘I trust you’ll pardon my correction, that stuff is meant for your protection.’ Underneath some long forgotten wag had written in heavy black pencil: ‘Thank you for your information, I’d like to see the bloody station.’

  At another time, reflected Gerrard, it might have been funny. Now there was something horrific about this echo from a long dead past with its memories of the war and the blitz. He shone his torch farther down the poster, at the bottom it said: ‘Printed by the Ministry of Information’.

  ‘It’s a wartime poster,’ said Slayter. ‘That’s the stuff they used to cover tube windows with to stop them being blown out by bomb blast. I remember it as a boy.’

  ‘Do you mean the station hasn’t been used for, what, thirty years?’ said Anne.

  ‘Wasn’t there some kind of tube disaster during the war?’ Slayter said. ‘There were hundreds of people killed in a station which had been used as an air-raid shelter.’

  Anne shuddered: ‘You think that it was this one?’

  ‘Possible,’ said Slayter. ‘I think the bomb glanced down a ventilator shaft, blocked up the line. Let’s have the torch a minute,’ he said to Gerrard. Gerrard passed it over and Slayter moved towards the far end of the platform flashing the light on the walls as they went farther down.

  There was a poster
showing people in a railway carriage, two of them talking with loud expansive gestures, the third man, hidden behind his paper, had a moustache and a lank Hitler type lock of hair flowing over his forehead. The caption was: ‘Careless talk costs lives.’

  They reached the end of the platform; ahead of them there was a sign marked ‘Way Out’ and steps leading upwards. As they began to climb, they saw that there was a heavy fall of masonry. The stairs were completely blocked.

  ‘That’s where your direct hit was,’ said Gerrard. ‘It must have dropped down the shaft and blown in the roof.’

  ‘What about this end of the tunnel?’ Anne asked. ‘It must go somewhere.’

  Slaytor shone his torch into the blackness. It picked out a shelving heap of sand reaching from the trackway to the roof.

  ‘Sand buffer!’ Gerrard said. ‘Don’t you remember, the station master was telling us. When a line comes to an end they fill the tunnel with sand to stop trains over-running.’

  Anne was shivering: ‘Couldn’t we rest a bit. I – I’m very cold.’

  The two men looked at each other. Slayter pointed: ‘There’s a great pile of wood back there – we could build a fire.’

  ‘A fire!’ Anne exclaimed. ‘Wouldn’t it – the gas,’ Gerrard thought for a minute, then took out a lighter and screwing his eyes up, struck it. The flame burned clearly, bending slightly over in the direction of the draught.

  Slayter looked at him coolly: ‘That was an unforgivable risk!’

  ‘Yeah!’ said Gerrard, ‘and now we can build a fire.’

  ‘Won’t it set light to everything else?’ Anne queried.

  ‘No, it’s all stone and concrete,’ Gerrard replied. ‘There’s a good draught, the air’s clean – it’s a good idea. Let’s collect up that wood. There’s some old newspapers over there – OK?’

  It took them only a few minutes to break up the wood and pile it over the ancient papers lying in the dust of the platform.

  Anne picked up an old yellowed newspaper and read out the headline in the torchlight: ‘Russians win great victory at Stalingrad’; she read the date at the top of the page: ‘January the sixteenth nineteen forty three. If I wasn’t so dam’ cold I could enjoy this.’