*
Express trains and local services frequently roar down the great western line, raising swirls of exhaust fumes, leaves and dust. They blast out of the Box tunnel, pushing the air before them. I hid in thick undergrowth and watched the metal monsters tearing by on the line below me.
I rose up from my hiding place, detached the tool filled pannier bag from the bike and carried it with me on the climb down a steep embankment to the railway line. I had to go slowly to keep a firm footing; one slip and I could find myself falling helplessly onto the line. The embankment was wet and as slick as an otter's slide. It was slimy clay under grass and leaf mould. It gave slightly at every step making me feel I would fall at any moment. A train roared past, showering me with muddy spray and leaves. Crouching down I watched its bright capsules of air conditioned calm streak by and plunge into the tunnel’s blackness. Carrying the pannier bag left only one free hand to steady myself. This was no good. I needed both hands free for a safer hold, so I rigged the bag’s straps into a sort of shoulder strap, which I passed over my head. It was a bit clumsy, but it worked.
A local train going the same way as the express chugged into the tunnel leaving a cloud of diesel fumes behind it. At last my feet found the line’s bed of limestone chippings and I ran towards the mouth of the tunnel and started inside. Now it all seemed very scary. My heart was pounding. I was so keyed up I had to come back out of the tunnel and find a bush to take a quick tinkle. When I was done I peered inside the tunnel again. A blast of air and diesel fumes followed by a roaring locomotive rushed out, blowing me on to my backside. I scrambled to my feet and pressed back against the tunnel’s ornate facade. The train screamed by me, seeming to go on forever.
Then, at last it was gone and all was quiet. I stepped into the darkness with the side wall on my right. I was heading west. If there really was a secret siding it would have to be on this side of the tunnel so that the wartime munitions trains could have veered off northwards towards Monkton Rudloe. I moved into the blackness, keeping close to the wall. Daylight faded as I went deeper. The distant sound of a locomotive horn behind me made me stop and press myself against the side wall. Twenty seconds later a train shot by, heading west into the blackness, like me.
Another horn sounded faintly up ahead. I stopped and shone my torch around the tunnel wall looking for something solid to cling to. I found a rusty pipe, about an inch in diameter and grabbed hold. Pressing my face to the wall I waited, listening to the approach of an east bound express. I was terrified. There was just enough room for me at the side of the track, but I feared being sucked into the turbulent wake of the great metal beast.
As it shot past the terrifying roar of the locomotive was deafening. A rush of air and smoke punched into me, squashing me against the wall. I couldn’t breath. I knew I was screaming, but could not hear myself. I felt as if I was being forced to look over the edge of life down into hell itself. The slick carriages streaked by, hammering their rhythms into the rails like demon blacksmiths. Heat, diesel smoke, and the smell of hot oil, whirled around me, tearing at my clothes like a hellish cyclone.
Then it was gone. It went so suddenly that my ears were left ringing, feeling stuffed with deafness, like cotton wool. I ran blindly westward, determined to get out of the way before another train came. I didn’t want to go through that again. I swept the walls with the torch beam looking for tell tale signs of a break in the tunnel. The light beam dimmed as I swung it around the tunnel walls. I had a spare battery and judged that I would soon need it. My fingers touched a course, abrasive surface which felt quite different to the tunnel wall. I shone my fading light and stepped back to get a better look. The tunnel lining appeared to be made from corrugated iron sheet, encrusted with bitumen, soot, and rust. I swung the light across it from end to end. It was a huge screen of the iron sheets, welded together and arched across the top to fill the mouth of a side tunnel. This was it. The secret tunnel veering off to the north, just as my granddad had said. The trouble was, it was completely closed off. The rails were still there, although brown and rusty looking. A set of switch points appeared not to have been moved in years judging by their coating of brown gung.
I searched closely along the full length of the screening metal trying to find a loose plate or gap that I could squeeze through. Finally, I found a narrow wicket gate about two metres high. Covered in cobwebs and rust, it looked as if it had not been opened in centuries. A sooty, faded notice warning that, Trespassers May Face Charges Under The Official Secrets Act, was bolted to it above a hefty padlock and chain. I reached for granddad’s bolt-croppers. Frankly, I was amazed how well they worked. They snipped through the chain as if it was putty. The hardest part was lifting them. They were pretty heavy.
The wicket gate’s hinges were rusted and stiff, but gave eventually with a soft whine of protest. In seconds I was through looking around in the blackness. This was it, the secret line to Monkton Rudloe. The torch finally gave up and I swapped batteries. The first thing I noticed in the brighter beam was that the rusty coating on train rails came to an abrupt end and the typical shine of rails in constant use took over. When I wiped the rails with my thumb the stain came off easily. Nearby I found a bucket and a paintbrush. It contained a muddy slop of the same rusty colour. Somebody was deliberately hiding the shine on the rails. This was no old wartime relic. This line was in regular use.
Closer inspection revealed that the battered old metal panels blocking off the tunnel were also fakes. They were hung from modern hydraulic motors disguised to look like immovably rusted old winding gear. In fact they were part of a sophisticated door system that could be quickly raised and lowered to allow locomotives in and out. Somebody was going to a lot of trouble to keep this place secret. I knew that whoever it was would not be pleased to see me.
But, how far could they go to keep it quiet? This was Britain, a free country. This sort of thing doesn’t happen here. So what part did the Government have in all this? Surely, it could not just be MCF? I have always believed this is the freest country on earth. We invented free politics and liberty and stuff – didn't we? I thought not even an enterprise as big as MCF, could exist here without the Government knowing all about it. There is no way that a British Government would sanction killing people just to protect its secrets – is there?
……..
Time Rocks Page 42