Down Station Read Free Page B

rails – and this was just a placement, the first of many, to give him some idea of what engineering was supposed to achieve at the sharp end. How the whole infrastructure of the Underground – tunnels, trains, ventilation, pumps, stations, even the movement of people from above to below and back again – had been designed and built.
    There was so much to learn, he despaired sometimes.
    Stanislav carried the first part of the rail welder to the site of the join, dumped it by the side of the track and jerked his head to indicate that Dalip should follow him.
    He did so, obediently, like he did everything else asked of him. There was a shovel, an oxyacetylene torch, the gas tanks to go with it, and a reaction vessel with an outside so burnt it looked like a cinder. Bags of dust. Wet sand to seal the casting. All of it needed to be moved.
    It was hot enough in the tunnel already. It was the hardest work Dalip had ever done, and he was barely an hour through. The thermite reaction they were setting up would fill the tunnel with acrid smoke and thick yellow flames, making the harsh conditions worse, and yet these men, hard-muscled and terse, laboured in it day after day. He couldn’t cope. He’d faint and fail. He didn’t belong there.
    And whether Stanislav had spotted the panic in the boy’s eyes and realised he needed reassurance, or whether it was simply well-timed: he clapped Dalip on the back of his orange boilersuit, hard enough to rock Dalip on his feet, and gave him the thumbs-up.
    It was enough to steady his nerves. He was here to learn, not to be humiliated.
    The whole tunnel shook as if struck. Dust hazed the air, and the lights flickered. The whole work crew stopped in mid-swing.
    ‘What—’
    Stansilav put an oil-smeared finger to his lips, and listened to the noises with wary attention.
    They were a long way under London, and there should have been nothing else down with them but other tunnels. If something had happened above, on the surface, it would have had to have been immense to reach them. A bomb? A building falling down? An aircraft crashing? All three?
    There was nothing to compare with the initial concussion, though a low groan of pressure creaked through the walls.
    Their supervisor walked along the rail bed, making sure he was seen, exchanging words with his crew. No one else moved.
    Along the tunnel wall were two bare wires running parallel to its length, suspended on clips at about head height. The supervisor clipped the terminals of his phone to the wires and pressed the call button.
    He pressed the earpiece against the side of his head, and waited.
    When he had to press the button again, there was a collective shifting of posture, of gently laying down the tools they were still holding, getting ready to move in whichever direction they had to go, and quickly.
    He pressed the button for a third time, and stood, head bowed, praying for an answer.
    When none came, he swiftly unclipped the phone and pointed east.
    ‘We’re evacuating. Green Park. Go.’
    Everyone else had trained for this. Dalip had had an hour’s talk. Stanislav took a handful of Dalip’s boilersuit at the shoulder and didn’t let go.
    ‘With me. We walk. Watch your feet.’
    ‘What’s happening?’
    ‘We do not know.’ Stanislav half-shoved, half-dragged Dalip in the direction of Green Park. ‘That is why we are leaving. If it is nothing, we will come back and carry on. If it is something, we can find out what it is. If it is a bad thing, better we are not here, between stations.’
    It started off as a low rumble which slowly reached a crescendo, and then it faded away again. Rather than Stanislav holding Dalip up, there was a mutual bracing of each other against the shaking ground.
    ‘Is that a bad thing?’ asked Dalip.
    Stanislav gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Not good.’
    Everyone quickened their pace.
    ‘Does this happen often?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Are you going to let go of me?’
    ‘No.’
    The lights winked