by Mark Leggatt
He looked down at the two thick steel padlocks. “That’s impossible.”
“Not the padlocks. The hinges. That’s the weak point.”
He dropped the tool roll, took out the tire lever, punched it into the brick beside the hinges and watched as the brick powdered. After several blows the screws to the hinges were exposed and he dropped to his knees and started on the lower hinge. “Kirsty, they’re going to search every inch of this area to find us. Whatever we do.”
“Yeah, but they’ll do the railway station and the Underground first. There are five Underground Lines that go through Paddington and a shitload of railway platforms. That’s where they’ll look first and by that time we’ll be well clear of here. If you manage to get through that door, that is.”
He jammed the tire lever into the gap beside the hinges and wrenched it back. The damp wood disintegrated and the brick crumbled at his feet. He hauled the edge of the door towards him and let his weight drop back, opening up a gap. “Ladies first.”
“Ta!” Kirsty slid through the gap, then leaned against the other side to let Montrose through.
He grabbed the tool roll and squeezed into the gap. The sound of sirens died away and Kirsty reached into her bag and brought up a torch, playing the beam across narrow steps leading into the darkness.
“What are we looking for?”
She ran down the steps with Montrose close behind and stopped in a corridor.
“Kirsty...”
“Quiet, I’m thinking. Last time I was here it was very dark.” He watched her close her eyes and trace a map with her fingers. “Through the door, turn left, first, second...Got it! Follow me.” She ran to the corner of the corridor and pressed herself into a low archway.
She disappeared from view and Montrose turned into another corridor, lined with half-open doors, where fissures of light appeared around the edge of boarded windows.
“We need to find the door. An old door. There is an elevator alongside it, but it’s ancient and I’m not going anywhere near that.”
Halfway along, she stopped and pointed the torch, silhouetting the metal gates of an elevator, its handles fixed with a heavy chain “This is it.” She moved the torch to the right. “And behind that is the door.”
Montrose looked at a sheet of metal stretching from the roof to the floor, bolted to the wall. “Kirsty, we’re not going to get through that.”
“I know. This is… disappointing. That’s a structural wall. They’ll go straight into the stone. Okay, we’ll do it the hard way. Follow me.”
What the hell? She disappeared from view through an office door adjacent to the blocked exit. Montrose stepped through.
Kirsty stood at the wall playing the torch beam over the dusty, flaked plaster. She knocked on the wall.
Montrose heard the hollow thud.
“That wall in the corridor might be stone, but this certainly isn’t. Hundred and fifty year old plaster and some crappy wood. Okay, Connor,” she nodded to the wall. “Time to do your macho thing again.”
“Where the hell does this go?”
“Down. Way down. And yeah, I’ve done this before. That’s why they seal the doors and windows with steel. To keep out urban explorers like me. We’ll make our own door. Give me a wrench.” She pulled it from the tool roll, then stabbed into the plaster which broke away in large flakes, falling to the floor. Thin dust drifted through the torch beam and wooden lattice work appeared where the plaster had fallen. “Right, Connor, see that tire lever? Get stuck in. I’ll be back in a moment.” She placed the torch on a dust-covered desk and directed it at the wall.
“Where are you going?”
“Do it!”
Montrose brought up the lever and slammed it into the plaster. Twice in one day with this shit. I’m going to have to learn how to use a door. The plaster fell away and he shoved the edge of the lever through the lattice, twisting it to the side. The dry wood splintered and cracked, then broke away and fell to the floor. Sweat began to form on his brow. This is going to take forever.
“Out of the way!”
He turned and saw Kirsty running towards him holding an old fire extinguisher above her head.
She slammed it into the hole and it burst through the lattice, wedging itself into the wall. Kirsty tugged it back and it fell at her feet. She grabbed the torch and shone it through the hole.
Montrose glimpsed a stairwell.
“That’s it,” she said. “Keep going.”
He picked up the extinguisher and smashed the plaster, then attacked the lattice with the lever. The ancient wood shattered and he worked his way down methodically until a two foot hole appeared through the plaster dust.
“That’ll do,” said Kirsty. She ducked her head, then stuck one leg into the hole and squeezed through. “Hand me the torch.” She shone the beam through the hole and he followed her onto a metal spiral staircase. “Go!” She pointed her torch at her feet and headed down the staircase.
He kept his eye on the steps as they descended. The beam of the torch played over the edge and he saw the staircase descending into darkness. “Where are we going?”
“Concentrate,” she said. “One slip here and you’ll end up at the bottom, head first and you’ll take me with you.”
The air became warmer as they descended until they came to a door. Kirsty stopped for a moment and took a few breaths, then gently pulled the door open. “It’s clear.”
Montrose followed her into a dimly lit train platform. It was deserted. “What is this? The Underground?”
“Yeah. In a way. But not the one you’re thinking about.”
Chapter 29
He looked over a dusty platform to a narrow gauge railway line. Along the other side, glass-fronted offices lay empty and strewn with discarded boxes and broken furniture.
“This is what’s left of the Mail Rail,” said Kirsty. “The Post Office built an underground system to deliver tons of mailbags across London. It ran for ninety years. All the major train stations are linked up north of the river. And more importantly, it goes directly east.”
He looked up at the roof where a few strip lamps cast a dark yellow glow over the platform. “How do you know all this?”
Kirsty laughed. “I told you. I’m an urban explorer. London has many secrets. All you have to do is kick down a few doors and you’re in.”
The rail tracks were only a few inches below the platform and he looked along to where they disappeared into a low, dark tunnel.
“Over here,” she said. “This is the inspection train, at the end of the line. Engineers use it to check the tunnel.”
Montrose turned and saw Kirsty at the edge of the platform, pulling a tarpaulin aside to reveal a small, roofless engine, about four feet high, with faded, peeling red paint and a louvered, oil-stained engine cover. “This works?” In his mind, he remembered a kid’s train at a fairground.
“Oh, yeah. They have to keep the line open for inspections. It’s the law.” Kirsty opened a thick wooden door which came up to their knees and was emblazoned with the faded ornate symbols ‘E II R’.
The image clicked in his mind from red Post Office boxes. “This belongs to the Queen too? She’s got her own train set?”
Kirsty ignored him and sat on the driver’s seat, looking at the levers. “Let’s go.”
Montrose squeezed in beside her and stuffed the tool roll between his legs, shining the torch on the track. He saw the dull brass of the deadman’s handle with a cracked wooden knob. This is Victorian. The glint of fresh oil gave him some confidence. This steampunk shit might work.
Kirsty prodded a red button and the electric motor hummed into life. She jabbed around at several smaller buttons and a yellow safety lamp began revolving behind their heads. “Crap, wrong one.” She hit the button to switch it off and tried the others until the headlamp flickered into life
and gave off a dim glow. She grabbed the deadman’s handle and the train jolted into life. The motor whined as they began to pick up speed, moving towards the mouth of the tunnel.
Montrose kept his eyes fixed on the platform, but there was no sign of life, only padlocked shutters and dark doorways to offices crammed with broken office chairs, cracked oil lamps and stacks of yellowing paper. They entered the tunnel and darkness closed in around them. The train’s headlamp brightened as their speed increased, giving about ten feet of visibility. He covered his mouth against the clouds of dust that kicked up around them.
“The line hasn’t been used for ten years,” said Kirsty, “but they have to do regular inspections.” The track opened up and she pulled the handle all the way back.
He held on tight as they rattled along, the roof a mere foot above their heads. “How fast does this thing go?”
She shouted above the noise. “Thirty miles per hour, at least.”
“You been down here before?”
“Yeah, a few times. On foot. It’s the first time I’ve stolen a train.”
Her hair swept back in the slipstream and Montrose caught her grinning. “How long does it take?”
“No idea. Enjoy the ride.”
“What about the other stations?” He felt her ease off the power for a moment and begin to turn towards him, but she stopped and hauled the handle back hard. The train jolted forward. The tool roll spilled from his lap and onto the tracks. Montrose held on tight as the line banked to the left. A light appeared in the distance. “Kirsty? What about the other stations? Are they all deserted?” He pointed down the tunnel. “What about that one?”
“Could be. No idea.”
“What if there are people there? The line is still connected to Post Office depots, right?”
“We’ll see.” She didn’t take her hand from the deadman’s handle. “We’ll blag it.”
“What?”
“We’ll pretend.” She let the handle slip forward and the train slowed as they approached the end of the tunnel. “Relax,” said Kirsty. “You’re just a guy inspecting the tunnel, right?” She pointed to his hi-vis vest.
The train rolled out of the tunnel and Montrose looked out over a short, narrow platform, only a few feet wide and lit by dull strip lights. The headlamp showed rusty fencing enclosing another track and bare metal ribs vaulting the tunnel. He shone the torch onto the dusty platform, but there was no sign of life and no footprints, only tiny mouse tracks.
“This must be the Western Parcels Office,” said Kirsty. “I’m trying to remember the map. It closed down years ago. The entrance and exit were sealed with concrete. I think it’s a hotel or an office now.” She pulled back the lever and the train shot forward into another tunnel.
“What’s next?”
“Not sure.”
The side of the tunnel was inches from his head. It opened for a moment and they rattled through another cramped station with a short platform, a foot wide, hemmed in by a wall of concrete. “What was that?”
She shouted over the noise. “Can’t remember. Closed off.”
Blue light sparked beneath them from the power rail. The line straightened up and the train gathered speed while he covered his eyes with one hand against the blinding dust. The train slowed when another light appeared at the end of the tunnel, this time brighter.
Kirsty brought the train to a halt before the tunnel’s exit. In the distance they could hear the banging and crashing of metal trolleys. “Shit.”
“What?”
“This is the District Office. It’s still in use.” She edged the train forward. “Blag it. Ready?” She jabbed the button for the yellow safety light. “Look bored.” She pulled back the lever and let the train trundle into the station. Strip lights buzzed into life above their heads. “Trip switch,” said Kirsty.
A wide platform opened up in front of them, lined with glass-fronted offices which were dark and empty. The crashing of metal cages became louder as they rolled past scattered railway equipment and broken cages. Montrose looked right and saw a wide exit leading to a warehouse full of metal trolleys. He heard voices in the distance.
Kirsty shot him a smile and pulled back the lever as they got the end of the platform.
Dust caked on the sweat above his lip and forehead. He tried to spit, but his mouth was dry. It’s only going to take one phone call and they’ll have a reception committee waiting at the next station. “Okay, what now?”
“Next station’s closed. Then Western Central. I remember that one. It’s not far.”
Montrose held on with one hand and squinted along the track. He ducked as a line of broken stalactites appeared in front, hanging from the low roof. The tunnel suddenly opened up to a long, dark station, the headlamp flickering against bricked up exits and rusting signs.
Kirsty pulled the handle back hard.
The train jumped about the tracks and blue flashes illuminated the sides of the tunnel as the line swept hard left. The line straightened up and he spotted a light in the distance. “Where are we now?”
“North of Oxford Street. Next stop is Mount Pleasant.”
“Abandoned?” In the faint light he saw her shake her head.
“No.” She eased back on the handle. “This one is going to be more tricky.”
Montrose fixed his gaze on the tunnel and the light grew brighter.
“We get through this one, we’re home and dry. Every other station is abandoned and cemented up. There’s no access.”
And no escape. I’ve had enough of this underground shit.
She jabbed at the buttons until the lights shut off and let the train slow to a halt just inside the tunnel.
The noise of power tools echoed around them. “Crap,” said Kirsty. “They’ve started already.”
“What’s going on?”
“They’re turning it into a tourist attraction. I heard about it, but I didn’t know they were working on it.”
Montrose stepped from the train and crept towards the tunnel exit. Construction workers under bright lights crowded the platform. He turned back to Kirsty. “This isn’t going to work.”
She tightened her grip on the handle. “Fuck it. What about if we just go for it?”
He pointed down the line where a series of points in the track moved left and right. “No. Doesn’t matter, they’ve taken the track up. We have to find a way out.”
Kirsty stepped from the train and moved along the wall. “Over there. The elevator.” Near the end of the platform the elevator doors opened and two constructions workers emerged, carrying toolboxes. “Do it.”
Montrose moved forward, just as the doors closed. “Wait until it comes back and then we go straight for it.” He watched the lights above the elevator doors. There were only two stops. It flashed ‘G’ for ground level and then blinked off. “It’s coming. Ready?”
“Yeah.” She pressed herself against the tunnel wall. “Go.”
They edged forward out of the tunnel and walked quickly towards the elevator door. Montrose pulled the high vis vest tighter around him and held the tire lever low.
“This’ll work,” she said. “We’ll be outside the containment sector. We can head to Holborn and down into the East End. We’ll keep to the back streets. I know how to do it.”
The elevator thumped to a halt and the door slid open. Kirsty stepped forward but was met with a black gloved hand. Two men in uniform stood facing them, machine pistols raised.
Montrose froze.
A man in a light blue suit stepped forward between the two men, his face a mask of concern. “Please, don’t run. My name is Lockhart. Mr. Pilgrim sends his regards. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, come with me. Quickly.”
*
“Just give me the shot,” Kane squeezed his eyes shut and took small, shallow breaths. The medic gingerly inserted t
he needle. “Hurry up. And double the dose, it hurts like fuck.”
He sat on the edge of the desk and lifted a hand to Campbell, but the pain made him pull it back. “Where are they?”
“They were last seen heading towards Paddington Station. The whole area has been turned upside down. The Land Rover was abandoned nearby. Every train and underground line has been stopped.”
“And?”
“There are hundreds of carriages, sir. No sign so far.”
“What about her phone?”
“No signal. It’s either switched off or on the Tube.”
“The Tube?”
“The Underground, sir. The subway. They’re searching every line and station connected to Paddington and all the CCTV. If they’re on the Underground then they have to come up sometime. And we have all the cameras monitored.”
“Be there when they do. I want a man at every station. And every airport. I want London sealed tight.”
*
The Jaguar sat low on its fat tires as Montrose followed Kirsty and Lockhart into the rear seat. The two soldiers sat in the front, their machine pistols on their laps. The driver pulled the stick into drive and the Jag edged into the traffic.
Kirsty pulled out her phone. “I’ll check for messages from Mr. Pilgrim.”
“Use the blues and twos,” said Lockhart. “Every police car in London seems to be using them today, so we may as well follow fashion.”
The Jag’s blue lights lit up and the siren whined. The driver swung into a gap in the traffic. The engine growled and the car shot forward.
“How did you know?” said Kirsty.
Lockhart shrugged. “I did a bit of Urb-ex in my youth, long before it was fashionable and long before it had a cool name. I never managed to crack the Mail Rail, though. When we saw that your car was parked near the old Post Office building, I made a guess. And directed all other efforts elsewhere.”
