Tideline by Penny Hancock Page A

went ahead. He picked up sticks and hurled them back down the hill at our invisible pursuer. It took us some time to find the house, running up and down
the park, along the official tarmac paths, and then up and down the unofficial mud paths worn through the grassy areas left to grow wild. We spotted it at last. Way over towards Crooms Hill,
snuggled under the boughs of oaks and horse chestnut trees. It was pretty, with an archway over the green door, and a big black knocker, though no one lived there. It had no windows.
    Seb leapt over the railings and battered on the door.
    ‘Let us in,’ he yelled, shaking the handle.
    ‘Don’t be silly. It’s always locked,’ I said. ‘No one lives here.’
    The park was deserted, silent but for the patter of rain on leaf. Whoever we’d been running from had disappeared.
    ‘I’m cold. Can we go to the café, get a hot chocolate?’ I asked.
    ‘You got money?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Nor me. I want to know what it’s like inside.’
    ‘It’s just the entrance to the conduits.’
    ‘What’s conduits?’ Seb picked up a piece of branch that must have blown off a nearby oak tree and used it as a battering ram against the door.
    ‘Secret tunnels. They all run under the park and the heath,’ I said. ‘They were put there to carry water pipes and electricity cables to the hospital in the old
days.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘We did it at school. They used them as an air-raid shelter in the war, ’cos they go right down underground. It was safe from the bombs down there.’
    ‘I wanna see,’ said Seb, taking another charge at the door. It rattled on its hinges this time as he thrust his weight against it. The rain began to come harder, and I shivered and
huddled up under the brick arch over the entrance while Seb took out his penknife and began to fiddle with the padlock. Rain fell on the sycamore leaves on the trees overhead, a rich earthy scent
rose into the moist air. But I couldn’t get warm, my teeth clenched together.
    ‘Let’s go Seb, I’m freezing,’ I said.
    ‘Shh. You’re always wanting to go,’ said Seb. ‘I’m not going. I wanna get in here.’
    He knew I wouldn’t argue, however much I craved to be somewhere warm and dry, to feel hot food inside me. He knew I’d do whatever he wanted.
    It seemed ages before he forced the door open and it creaked back on its rusty hinges, bringing a waft of stale air as the darkness opened up in front of us. Seb took some tentative steps
forward. I followed, clinging onto his anorak. As our eyes adjusted to the gloom, he began to edge down steep, crumbly steps. Through the light from the open doorway at the top, we could just
discern a pool filled with water. Seb got out the torch he kept in his pocket with his penknife – always prepared for potential adventures. We made our way round the pool to a low, arched
tunnel, bending as we went. There was an eerie silence, interrupted by the occasional magnified plop of water, and a sort of whistling sound that must have been the wind siphoned down from above.
But otherwise, the sounds of the outside world above us were muted. They could have been a thousand miles away.
    ‘Sit,’ said Seb, and I did, feeling the rough wall against my back. He struck a match and I could see by its light that he had a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He lit two together
and handed one to me. I drew in the dizzying smoke.
    ‘Where d’you get ’em?’
    ‘Out there. Someone was hanging about behind the trees. He left his jacket on the ground – they were in the pocket.’
    ‘That’s stealing. We could get into trouble.’
    ‘He shouldn’t have been sitting there if he didn’t want ’em nicked. He was watching us.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Before. In the flower garden. He was hanging about watching. I saw. Then when we stood up he walked off.’
    ‘Who?’
    Seb shrugged. Dragged on his cigarette.
    ‘Let’s go. I’m scared,’ I said standing up.
    ‘So you should be.