He started to pull himself up, raising the hand holding the phone. As the light arced away from the floor of the tunnel back into the darkest recesses it picked out something pale at the very limits of its reach.
It had looked like a face.
Mark lurched back. His grip on the pipe slipped and he swung his other hand up to prevent himself plummeting into the opening. He got his palm to the pipe but in doing so lost his grip on the phone. He threw his whole body flat onto the wet grass and tried to grasp at the device as it spiralled away from him. He brushed it with his fingertips but couldn’t quite keep hold. He could only watch despairingly as it receded and finally hit the ground. He’d braced himself for the clattering sound of the phone breaking apart on contact with stone floor, but it never came. The fall was terminated with something more akin to a wet slap. It had landed face up on what remained of a rain-sodden cardboard box. Mark stared down at the illuminated face of the phone; it had survived the drop but was well beyond reach.
“Fuck!” he said, as the light went out.
He continued to stare sightlessly down at the spot where it had landed. A pale ghost of it remained etched onto his retina, but he could see little else. He thought of the face he’d seen looming out of the dark and how it, too, had seemed more like the residual image left by exposure to a light. Not a face at all then.
He cursed again and knew that, somehow, he had to retrieve his phone.
He picked himself up and swung his legs over the wall. He tried to hold a picture of what he’d seen below in his head as he very carefully lowered himself over the edge. His shoes scraped at the brickwork but found no purchase. He looked down but could see nothing. The floor was no more than four or five feet away. He could easily drop that distance without the fear of injury, but only if he could see what he was doing. He was also mindful of landing on the very thing he sought to retrieve. If he could get down without turning an ankle he’d be okay. He’d already devised a way of getting back up by using one of the metal barriers as a makeshift ladder. He felt as though the muscles in his arms were stretching to snapping point, but his fingers refused to release. He willed himself to keep calm, pictured the floor just a few feet beneath him and let go.
Though he’d judged the drop quite well, the sudden contact with the ground was still jarring. His legs collapsed beneath him and he toppled backwards, sprawling across the greasy stonework. One hand slapped noisily into the pooled rainwater, while the other flailing arm sent an empty paint-tin clattering off up the tunnel. He was unhurt but felt miserable. Finding himself lying, cold and wet, on this filthy floor — it seemed that he had reached the very nadir. He sat up and cast blindly around for his mobile. His hand fell on it quite easily and it was with great relief to see the light from it blossom forth as soon as he hit the keypad. He scrambled to his feet and took a closer look at his surroundings.
He picked his way through the debris to where the wire hung down, at its end a box nestling against the wall — possibly a light switch of sorts. He followed the cable back up again but it disappeared into the shadows between the girders. He returned his attention to the box. It was a simple metal construction with a single round button. He’d already extended a finger towards it when he realised that the whole setup was slick with rainwater and backed away towards where the barriers were stacked.
He tested the weight of the nearest one and discovered that he’d need both hands free to move it. As if in anticipation of this the light on his phone, once more, went off. Thirty seconds of light then pitch black. He was tempted to punch the keypad again as he felt the darkness regain lost territory. He’d always thought of the dark as the mere absence of light, but here such a conviction appeared misplaced.
He still had one hand firmly on the barrier and, stifling his fears, he slipped the phone back into his coat pocket before hefting the metal frame across the tunnel. He set it down as quietly as possible on the opposite wall, raising it up onto its end and tilting it back until it made contact with the brickwork. It came down a little too hard and the metal sang out, its chime reverberating down the tunnel.
Mark waited for silence to return, feeling the vibration against his palms. However, the sound did not fade. Instead it intensified. From the far end of the tunnel echoed a strange clattering in response to the call of the metal. He fished out his phone, hoping to bring some light to bear on what was happening, but the dark held its ground. He took several paces forward, holding the phone before him as if it were a holy thing. He pushed on into the darkness, defiant but wholly blind to what lay ahead
He felt a sudden surge of panic as the sound exploded into a roar and his composure deserted him. Something fell from above and settled into his hair. He frantically brushed it with his fingers and felt the grit between their tips. He imagined that the tunnel might collapse and turned the light up to the ceiling, but there was only rust and flaking paint falling like dead leaves from the oxidising girders above. And with them came a noxious odour of burning oil and grease that he recognised immediately. He had momentarily forgotten what purpose the tunnel had served. His fears subsided at the realisation that what he was hearing was just a train thundering through the station overhead. The tunnel amplified the sound until it became a cacophony, a raging tumult of despair tearing through the stone throat of the tunnel as if it were the cry of a wounded animal. It appeared inconceivable that such a sound could be held in check by that flimsy patchwork of panels at the tunnel’s mouth.
His relief at identifying the cause was shortlived. As the train rumbled overhead he felt a change in the atmosphere about him. The walls of the tunnel seemed to do much more than just amplify the clanking of metal on metal. The suffocating blackness seemed to throb as if the light itself was about to fail, though the mobile’s screen remained constant. A pulsing rhythm surged across the ceiling then ran down both walls. By his weak phone light he could see the disturbed rust and mortar continue to cascade in long black veils. Finally, the peculiar tremors ran through the timeworn paving stones beneath his feet. More than ever he wanted to run, but now his legs were too weak to move. The more miniscule particles of dirt hung in streams, and appeared to sway along to the rhythm of the train’s passing. They moved closer. Like spectral dancers they looked like they were cajoling and enticing him. He imagined them grasping at him, but as they possessed no real substance their efforts met with failure. He directed the light onto the swirling motes of filth, which even now seemed to be coalescing into something more tangible. As he turned around, the phone held before him like a talisman, its glow played across the wall closest to him. The gaps between the brickwork looked like they were separating and, as the cold light passed from them, the walls themselves appeared to bleed fresh shadows.
No. I’m really not alone in here. The thought came to him just as the screen on his phone blinked off again.
He was plunged into an inky blackness but images of movement remained burnt onto his retinas, a firework display in green and purple. They looked too much like faces now, all hollow-eyed and gaping, slack mouths. He pressed his thumb over one of the keys on his phone, but resisted the urge to press it. Instead he backed away, slowly at first but then turning and quickening his pace. He located a distant meagre beacon of light filtering down from above the threshold and headed towards it. He was suddenly aware that he had ventured far deeper into the tunnel than he’d intended. Above, the train still thundered on, but it seemed to be something more than that now. It came at him from all directions, resonating off the walls, amd making the iron girders chime. A tumult rose up from the tunnel floor to answer its call. As he kicked his way along the debris-strewn floor a dark shape emerged from the impenetrable black of the tunnel’s wall and positioned itself in direct opposition to him.
Mark started, any accompanying exclamation getting lost in the melee of sound, but he threw both arms outwards in a defensive gesture. He stopped abruptly then took a faltering step back. The shadow eclipsed what little light filte
red through the boarded-up entrance. Mark noticed how it extended downwards, stretching across the greasy floor until it almost touched the place where he stood.
Can a shadow cast a shadow? He took another step back, fearful of what might result from any contact.
“Who is it?” he shouted, following the ribbon of darkness back to where it loomed up before him. “This isn’t funny you know!”
He seriously doubted that anyone could hear him over the noise.
He took another step back, saw his shadow opponent advance simultaneously. It was like a game of chess. Another move and again he was countered. Mark got a better sense of the figure confronting him as he turned away; his night vision was still fogged by the agitated clouds of colour left by the phone. He cocked his head to one side and he could see more clearly the silhouette of a man, tall and thin. He also was wearing a hat.
There was the flash of a memory.
The hallway of his grandfather’s house. His brother is wearing the old man’s hat, one hand hovering over the toy gun tucked into his pants. Sunlight is streaming through the fan of coloured glass in the front door behind him. “Your move,” he snarls in his finest American accent.
“I know who you are,” he could barely hear himself over the passing train, but he sounded more afraid than defiant. “Did you think you were going to scare me with some stupid stories?”
Mark tightened his grip on the phone he still held out at arm’s length. He turned it over in his hand, blindly searching the keys until he identified the one he wanted. He let his thumb hover over the chosen number and held it up to where the man appeared to be standing.
“I’ll call the police,” he called. “I mean it!”
He cocked an ear to hear if his threat had prompted some response. Amidst all the other noise he managed to isolate a sound.
It was a voice.
No, there was more than one. The more he listened the more he could detect a multitude of different voices. He could hear men and women, the excited chatter of children at play. There was laughter, the occasional sound of someone crying.
And then there was screaming.
Mark pressed nine on the phone’s keypad. And that was as far as he got. The screen flashed into life, the glow flaring from his hand and exposing everything the darkness had hidden.
But there was no old man wearing a hat.
Instead, as the light radiated out, he saw countless shabby figures.
He gasped with shock and took a faltering step backwards. He caught his leading foot on a discarded paint tin and tumbled over, landing painfully on the grimy stones. He kept a tight grip on the mobile and, as he sprawled on his back, threw both arms upwards to defend himself. He started to whimper, turned away, closed his eyes tight shut and crushed the hot tears beginning to well. He tensed himself against an onslaught of blows, of rough hands tearing at him.
But no blows fell on him.
He squinted up from behind the defensive cage formed by his arms. The figures were still there, milling about, and only now did Mark realise that they were coming from all directions. Occasionally one of the passing figures would cast a quizzical look at the prone man. The face would twist into a puzzled frown before they would be pushed onwards by the others who, too, might venture a glance down with disinterested, doleful eyes.
Mark rolled himself onto one elbow. He hurt but nowhere near as much as he thought he would. He felt numb with shock; even the fear that had put him down was slowly ebbing away. A gaunt woman pushing a pram was the next to notice him. She paused and held out a hand, Mark was tempted to reach for it but saw that the woman was stretching towards the phone. She wore the same look of confusion as the others as she batted a slender hand at his raised mobile. It was like she was trying to shoo away a fly. As she was herded on her way Mark followed her path, more than once seeing her look back. He turned his gaze to his hand holding the device. There had been no mistaking it. When she’d reached out her hand it had passed right through his.
He struggled back onto to his feet, the fear gripping him swiftly dissipating. Perhaps the initial shock had dulled his senses. What had replaced them was more akin to a feeling of curiosity. He turned his light and eyes onto the passing throng. This closer examination showed them to be without any colour, other than that bestowed on them by the light of the mobile. He noted how they parted around him as if they were somehow conscious of his presence. Occasionally his gaze would be met with a dead-eyed look of puzzlement. Perhaps he appeared to them as they did to him. He pressed a hand into one of the passing figures. The man in a flat cap threw him a forlorn look but did not back away. There was no resistance as his hand scythed through the body but he felt a chill as sharp as a winter breeze. He withdrew his hand and rubbed his thumb against forefinger; there was a gritty texture like sand and the tips of his fingers were stained by dirt and rust. These people had no more substance than the rain of dust falling from the ceiling.
From the manner of their dress he could identify people from every era and strata of society. There were labourers, nurses and a great many soldiers, who seemed to represent every conflict Mark could bring to mind. He spotted the familiar domed helmet of a policeman bringing up the rear of one proud column of infantry. The man was bent forward dragging some heavy weight behind him. As Mark moved closer the figures before him parted like waves before a ship. The constable, too, caught up with the task at hand, paid no attention to Mark as he brought his light to bear on his burden. It was a dead horse. He backed away from this macabre spectacle and the crowd swept it from his view.
The light on his phone once again extinguished itself and he quickly re-established it.
Now he could see children. They bobbed and weaved through the throng, chasing one another or playing leapfrog. Their faces were broken into expressions suggestive of laughter, though Mark could hear none of it over the unending roar that had long since ceased to be just that of a passing train. Not all the children he saw looked so carefree; others shuffled by in long solemn files not unlike the soldiers before them. They carried boxes and about their necks were labels identifying them as wartime evacuees. Amidst their number he saw others wearing the contents of the boxes strapped to their faces. He remembered his mother telling him how the gas masks given to children were called Mickey Mouse masks and were designed to be less intimidating for the child when the time came for them to be used.
Their aspect appeared more pig-like than rodent as they went on their way. They shuffled past, heads bowed. The circular eyes that should have shone with reflected light were just desolate holes. Mark failed to suppress a shiver as he looked into the emptiness of the masks. He knew that he was witness to a procession of dead things. He couldn’t even begin to understand what it was he was experiencing. It was like he was trapped within a projection of old newsreel footage.
The sounds reverberating around the tunnel changed their tone. They didn’t fade, merely altered, from the harsh metallic grind to a low drone accompanied by the wail of a distant klaxon and the crack of gunfire. Mark looked up expecting to see enemy bombers overhead. He turned the phone upward, swinging it to and fro across the ceiling of the tunnel like a searchlight. He found only a firmament of iron and brick, where wet patches glinted like distant constellations and dripping water was no match for falling bombs.
Again he was plunged into darkness. As the light returned he found another change had taken place. The drone of the aircraft had become louder until Mark imagined he could hear the individual hammering of each engine. This percussive rhythm harshened until it resembled the cacophony of industry with the occasional blast of a whistle or horn. Mark noticed how the fashions of those who were passing him had also changed. From Edwardian to Victorian and further back, until the columns of soldiers marching onward bore swords as well as guns.
By the time the noises eventually faded away, the crowd had noticeably thinned. A procession of grim, cowled figures shepherded the straggling few back into the darkness. Only
a distant rumble of the departing train remained as the last of them dissolved from sight. Had all this occurred during the passage of one train? It didn’t seem possible, the very fact that he had to turn the phone’s screen back on so many times meant that the event had lasted for several minutes at least. As if to highlight this he was again plunged into darkness. He waited as it enveloped him, trying to make some sense of what he’d seen.
We need our ghosts, our stories.
The thought sprang from nowhere, occupying and circling his head simultaneously. And it was spoken, not with his voice, but with that of the old man. He flicked the light on and cast about. Ink-black shadows smeared the floor and walls, but he appeared to be quite alone.
Ghosts and stories.
Is this what had just gone past him? The collective memories of the whole town that were no longer celebrated but which had been swept aside and buried in secret places never to be spoken or thought of again? To be forgotten and left to fade into nothing? Or was it like the old man had said — that left to their own devices such memories would shrink back into the dark to fester? Was this where he now found himself? Within some continually churning cyst of resentment for a town that had forsaken its own past?
It was one of many, the old man had inferred. But precisely how many of them were there and where were they located? And what would happen when, as surely it must, those cysts burst and leak like a contagion back into the town that had abandoned them? Mark couldn’t shake from his mind the image of a dormant volcano, but that appeared too ludicrous to contemplate. This line of thought brought another question that had until then remained unasked. What was his part in all of this? It was only now he realised he’d been directed here. Was there some task still needing to be performed?
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