concrete staircase sweeping around the edge in a great curve. The walls were white, the paint blistered and flaking. The air was cold and dank, carrying with it the smell of the Thames. And yet in the middle, the elevators, bright red and modern, soared smoothly up and down. They were time capsules. The rest of the station had gotten stuck in the Victorian age.
From above, I saw Johnny Powers head off for the south-bound platform. So he was planning to travel away from the center of London—over to Rotherhithe and New Cross! I took the last twenty steps two at a time, afraid now that a train would come and I would miss him. But there was no train. I caught my breath at the bottom of the staircase and then, keeping close to the wall, edged toward the platform. Carefully, I peered round.
Johnny Powers had vanished.
I continued down the platform. A bare brick ceiling curved over the station, open to the sky at the far end. The only sound was the drip of water from above. It was trickling through a confusion of plants and weeds that had somehow found some sort of life to cling onto against the old bricks. A rat scurried along between the rails and disappeared under the platform. There was no sign of Powers. But there was no other way out either. So he had to be here somewhere.
There was a drawing of the tunnel on the wall in front of me. The panel told me that it was the oldest tunnel in London, built by Marc Brunel between 1825 and 1842. In those days you’d have walked through or, I suppose, ridden in a horse-drawn carriage. Could you walk through now?
I went right up to the tunnel entrance and peered inside. There was no sound and somehow I didn’t think Powers was inside. It was too dark, too dangerous. One false step, brush against the electric rail, and you’d fry. And there were the trains themselves, hurtling toward you through the darkness. You’d have to be crazy to walk down there. True, Johnny Powers was crazy. But the Fence surely wasn’t—and neither was I.
I was about to leave when I noticed a door. A few steps led down from the platform at the very edge of the tunnel. There was a narrow walkway past three fire buckets and an antique fuse box. Then a brown door.
It seemed worth a try and there was no one around. I slid past the sign warning passengers not to proceed beyond this point and proceeded beyond it. At first I thought the door was locked. I pushed and I pulled without success. Just when I was about to give up, I realized that it was a sliding door. It slid open. I found a light switch and turned it on.
But the door was another disappointment. It opened into a small room, empty but for two telephones, a few scraps of litter, and about fifty years’ worth of dust. One side led into a storage area. The other was covered by white tiles with a tap jutting out. If Powers had come in here, he wasn’t here now. It led exactly nowhere. I turned the light off. Powers had lost me and I knew it. But I still didn’t know how.
There was nothing for it but to go back to the house before I was missed. I took the elevator back to street level and hurried out of the station without being seen. Where had Powers gone? He hadn’t taken a train and he couldn’t have walked through the tunnel. There was nowhere to hide, no way could I have missed him. It seemed unfair. I’d thought he was going to lead me to the Fence. But it had just turned out to be a blind alley.
I kicked at an empty cigarette pack and walked back down the road with my hands in my pockets. If I hadn’t been so disappointed I might have been a bit more alert. I remember that I heard the car coming but didn’t think twice about it. When it slowed down, I should have reacted. I turned around when I heard its doors opening—but by then it was too late.
Somebody leaped on me from behind. I was pulled off my feet. I shouted out and tried to twist free. Then a fist hit me in the jaw. The strength drained out of me. Helpless, I was bundled
From above, I saw Johnny Powers head off for the south-bound platform. So he was planning to travel away from the center of London—over to Rotherhithe and New Cross! I took the last twenty steps two at a time, afraid now that a train would come and I would miss him. But there was no train. I caught my breath at the bottom of the staircase and then, keeping close to the wall, edged toward the platform. Carefully, I peered round.
Johnny Powers had vanished.
I continued down the platform. A bare brick ceiling curved over the station, open to the sky at the far end. The only sound was the drip of water from above. It was trickling through a confusion of plants and weeds that had somehow found some sort of life to cling onto against the old bricks. A rat scurried along between the rails and disappeared under the platform. There was no sign of Powers. But there was no other way out either. So he had to be here somewhere.
There was a drawing of the tunnel on the wall in front of me. The panel told me that it was the oldest tunnel in London, built by Marc Brunel between 1825 and 1842. In those days you’d have walked through or, I suppose, ridden in a horse-drawn carriage. Could you walk through now?
I went right up to the tunnel entrance and peered inside. There was no sound and somehow I didn’t think Powers was inside. It was too dark, too dangerous. One false step, brush against the electric rail, and you’d fry. And there were the trains themselves, hurtling toward you through the darkness. You’d have to be crazy to walk down there. True, Johnny Powers was crazy. But the Fence surely wasn’t—and neither was I.
I was about to leave when I noticed a door. A few steps led down from the platform at the very edge of the tunnel. There was a narrow walkway past three fire buckets and an antique fuse box. Then a brown door.
It seemed worth a try and there was no one around. I slid past the sign warning passengers not to proceed beyond this point and proceeded beyond it. At first I thought the door was locked. I pushed and I pulled without success. Just when I was about to give up, I realized that it was a sliding door. It slid open. I found a light switch and turned it on.
But the door was another disappointment. It opened into a small room, empty but for two telephones, a few scraps of litter, and about fifty years’ worth of dust. One side led into a storage area. The other was covered by white tiles with a tap jutting out. If Powers had come in here, he wasn’t here now. It led exactly nowhere. I turned the light off. Powers had lost me and I knew it. But I still didn’t know how.
There was nothing for it but to go back to the house before I was missed. I took the elevator back to street level and hurried out of the station without being seen. Where had Powers gone? He hadn’t taken a train and he couldn’t have walked through the tunnel. There was nowhere to hide, no way could I have missed him. It seemed unfair. I’d thought he was going to lead me to the Fence. But it had just turned out to be a blind alley.
I kicked at an empty cigarette pack and walked back down the road with my hands in my pockets. If I hadn’t been so disappointed I might have been a bit more alert. I remember that I heard the car coming but didn’t think twice about it. When it slowed down, I should have reacted. I turned around when I heard its doors opening—but by then it was too late.
Somebody leaped on me from behind. I was pulled off my feet. I shouted out and tried to twist free. Then a fist hit me in the jaw. The strength drained out of me. Helpless, I was bundled
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