Chapter 20

Peters simpered sarcastically. 'Well, I suppose you're smart enough to guess what happens next, Prof, aren't you?' He smiled broadly at the two men holding my arms.

'No, wha ... what?' I stammered. I didn't really want to know.

'Next train comes along, cockie, and you're under it, too,' Peters chortled. He made a nasty squelching sort of noise, 'Paarp! Choo-choo peanut butter.' The two apes holding me rumbled with silent laughter.

I shivered. The hair on my body literally stood on end; my body felt twice as big as usual. 'No, Peters, don't do it, please,' I pleaded. 'Look, please, don't.' Yeah, I know I should have been more dignified or, at very least more original, but it's not all that easy in real life when some very, very bad chappies are about to toss you under the next train that comes along. It's always after you walk down the stairs, as the Frogs say, that all that bright, clever patter springs glibly to mind.

'Hey, Prof, you forgot to mention your wife and kids,' mocked Peters. 'Nice hot-looking little piece she was, too.' He winked and leered knowingly at his men. They sniggered appreciatively. 'Shame she didn't seem to be all that hot for men.'

'Look, Peters, my family really do need me, especially right now,' I begged in a quivering voice. My guts gurgled energetically as they liquified.

'Oh, goodness, you're absolutely breaking my heart, Prof,' sneered Peters. 'And I saved this little number just for you, too. Now you don't want it.' He pouted his lips in mocking disappointment. 'Ahhh, too bad. Anyway, your family are doing just fine without you, having a ball, really. They don't need you any more.'

'Look, Peters,' I tried desperately, 'There's loads and loads of witnesses here right now. Look.' I jerked my head in the direction of a couple of tramps on the platform. The most interested one was probing his nose and looking more or less in our direction.

'That lousy bunch'll never manage to get their act together enough to scrape up a dustbin dinner, let alone call the police and testify in court, if they even give a toss!' scoffed Peters. 'Station's deserted of real people, otherwise.' He looked at his watch. 'Just a couple more minutes and you can go play with Lord Tony, down there on the dog food factory floor.'

Amazing what strikes you at a moment like this. 'Lord Tony?' I asked, a startling little kick of envy stabbing me - even at a moment like this. The bastard; late bastard, I corrected.

Peters pointed in the direction the tracks. 'To have been elevated to the peerage, life peerage I believe, at the same time as your good self was to have been knighted,' he said. 'Now isn't it a pity that honours aren't posthumous or life very long.' His men brayed right in my face, the bloody gorillas. They must have used the same brand of bad breath spray as Peters; probably secret police special issue.

A light breeze fanned my sweating face. It was the next train. Why did they always come when you didn't need them? I crabbed wildly back away from the tracks, my feet sliding on the tiles. 'Peters,' I cried desperately, 'Look, nobody's going to believe that two men, from the same office, fell on the tracks like this, a few minutes apart.' His two men just held me tight and grinned.

'Two pissed boffins falling under a train?' smirked Peters, looking at my trousers. 'Get serious, Prof, they'll most likely wet themselves laughing about it,' he glanced at my trousers again and chuckled, 'Pun intended, sir. Besides, this place is going to be Davey Jones' undersea station a week from now. Who's going to bother about two silly old drunken farts and a useless Tube accident when tens, maybe hundreds, of millions are dying tragically?'

Now we could hear the train crashing down the tunnel towards us. If I could've grown roots into the wall, I would have. I was literally trying to dig into the dirty white bricks with my fingernails. Peters flicked his hand lazily and the two big men began to drag me forward. When I saw the train's light glinting on the wall and the rails, I went berserk. Some crazy instinct caused me to leap the only direction they weren't expecting: forward. Peter's men were caught off-balance and fell off the platform with me. I landed smack on top of one of the buggers. I heard him sizzling on the live rail for an instant and then I bounced off into the gravel strip between the tracks. The other man landed on the side near Peters. Over the rush of the oncoming train, I heard Peters bellowing at him to get me. The stupid ass jumped forward blindly, straight into the path of the train. There was a tremendous thump-splat and, this time, a deafening fury of banging and squealing brakes. Always stop for a policeman.

I knew that Peters would cross over the bridge and be around on the other platform in no more than a minute. God knows what he would have done if he'd have gotten his hands on me then. He probably was armed, although I didn't think about that at the time. Nothing fancy was going on in my head; I just didn't want to see his rotten face again, ever. So I did the only sensible thing: I went to ground in the Tube itself. I didn't muck about cerebrating about that decision, either, I just bolted straight into the tunnel like a terrified rabbit. It seemed a whole lot better than waiting there for Peters to show up and do something nasty to me. I didn't walk, either, I bloody well legged it. I didn't really stop to think about it, I just ran like bloody hell, right into the darkness. Last thing I really remember seeing was the colour TV screens flickering beside the cavernous entrance to the tunnel. I wasn't on them.

It seemed like I ran in a blind panic for a long time. Lucky I didn't fall across a live rail in the first couple of seconds, too. If I had, I would have fried myself on the hot rail. Zzzt. I couldn't have run too long, though, in the poor physical nick I was in after being cooped up with a bunch of civil servants for a year. Maybe five or tem minutes at the very most. I was panting when the pain in my side was so bad that I had to stop and lie down for a few minutes.

It's funny; when you used to be on a train down there in the Tube, you rarely ever saw the tunnel walls or thought about them at all. You could ride around for years and never see them. The reason for that was simple. It was dark, pitch dark, in the tunnels. Not a speck or glimmer of light, except from the trains and an occasional red or green signal light. When I felt the sides of the tunnel, I had a pretty good idea why it was kept dark, too. The walls were wet and slimy in places. Dry and rotten in other places. Organic feeling and smelling. God knows what the tunnels looked like in the light. Not at all nice, I suspect. Not the sort of thing you'd want your mother or servants to see if you wanted to keep them riding the Tube.

Once you gave up trying to see where you were going in the dark, though, it wasn't all that difficult to keep moving, after a fashion. You couldn't walk between the tracks because you couldn't see. You had to keep a hand on the filthy wall, or on the racks of pipes and cables, and slide your feet along the side of the outer rail. You could hear, too. The echoes coming up and down the tunnel gave you some sense of direction, after a while. Which direction was the problem.

Then I started worrying about what I'd do when the trains came. There would be not a foot of clearance between the wall and the carriages; I would have to lie down beside the track. When would the next one come? How long would they stop the trains for a body, bodies, on the line? Would Peters realise that I'd headed into the tunnel? Would he call for help or would he try to finish me off by himself? The first big crisis wasn't long in coming. I never figured how long they stopped the trains for bodies on the line, but they certainly didn't stop them forever, worst luck. I thought I'd die of terror the first few trains. After I got used to them, I just felt sick. Maybe as much from thinking that Peters might be on one and see me crouching down there beside the track.

First, you felt that little breeze tugging at the light hairs on your neck. You tried to figure out which direction it was coming from. Then, the crashing and clattering grew louder and louder, but it was all around you and you got no directional clues, only disorientation. A faint, dancing light let you have the train's direction at last. Finally, that incredible crashing noise, amplified and magnified within that squeezing, crushing confinement. The dazzling light. The burning sparks. A hot metallic stink. You just lay in the filthy stinking gravel, plastered tight up against the slimy wall. You squeezed your eyes tight and prayed and prayed and prayed, total unbeliever and all, as the train blasted by, trying to suck you down the tunnel with it. Every few minutes another deafening, blinding monster would try to suck your life away. I still have nightmares about it. I guess it's not too hard to tell.

Finally, fatigued beyond belief by the noise, terror and betrayal, I fell asleep. Yes, I took off my tie, rolled up my jacket into a lumpy little pillow and fell asleep in the tunnel, even with the trains roaring right past me. When I woke, I had no idea of what time it was. I guessed it must have been late, though. There didn't seem to be any trains running. I had left my watch at the office and I wouldn't have been able to see it, anyway. I was jolly thirsty and pretty well hungover from that blasted champagne. A pounding head and a withered tongue to add to my troubles. Something quick and furry darted over my face. I could feel its hot little paws on my skin. Rats or mice; at least I wasn't frightened of those little buggers.

I kneeled in the oil stinking gravel and pulled my jacket back on. Another problem: when I went to sleep I didn't think to mark the direction I was travelling. Natural, but stupid. I just hoped that I hadn't turned around in my sleep and went sliding along the way I thought I was pointing when I woke. Fortunately, I was right. After all there was only a 50% chance of being wrong. After what seemed like hours, I began to see a faint light ahead. I wasn't half bloody thirsty, too. I could hardly think of anything else but a long, cold lager, sort of frosted with beads of condensation on the side. I hadn't lost all my caution, though. Just before the tunnel opened out into the station, I froze and listened carefully. Although the trains weren't running, the tunnel wasn't quiet by a long shot. There were plenty of metallic hammerings, squeaks, moans and whatnot. I was pretty sure that I'd heard voices up ahead.

I dropped on my belly and inched forward. I poked my head out of the tunnel like a scared turtle peeping out of his shell, except I didn't have so much as a shell. I definitely could hear two men talking in low voices. I tried to make out what they were saying, without luck. They might be Peters' stooges or they might have been maintenance workers. I didn't dare take a chance on it. I backed down the tunnel about 50 yards and lay there. After about half an hour, I heard someone jump down to the tracks, crunching on the gravel. I rolled my face flat against the oozing side of the tunnel. Fortunately, I was wearing a dark suit. A feeble torch beam shone down the tunnel, hardly more than a flicker where I was lying.

'Nobody down here, Fred, nothing at all,' a voice echoed. 'I'll go down and check the other end.' I heard his radio hiss and gabble faintly in reply. I crawled forward to the mouth of the tunnel again and peeked out. The station was dimly lit. For the first time, I saw the Leicester Square sign. Until then, I wasn't sure which direction I was going in. Tottenham Court next stop - if I could get past here. I heard heavy footsteps echoing down the platform and pulled back inside the tunnel. 'Naw, nothing that side neither,' the man said, 'I'm going up for a cuppa.' God, I wouldn't have minded one, two sugars and a lot of milk, maybe a biscuit. The walkie talkie squawked back at him. I heard the guy clumping up the stairs. I didn't know how long he'd be gone or where the other man was, if there was one.

I took a chance and, bent double, darted as quickly as I could along the track without making a lot of noise. I could have done without the gravel here, I was sure I sounded like a herd of elephants on cobbles sneaking past in the empty station. It seemed like I was out in the open and under the dim lights for hours. My stomach jumped for joy when I glanced at a Cadbury's machine on the platform. I couldn't stop, though, and maybe chocolate would have just made me more thirsty. The clock, if it was working, said 2.25. I'd been underground since about nine hours if that clock was right. I'd only gone about a quarter mile in that time. I guessed it would take me at least an hour to make the quarter mile on to Tottenham Court.

I guessed wrong. It must have been something about creeping along in the dark tunnels, sensory deprivation, but it took me well over two hours to Tottenham Court. I pretty well felt like I was dying of thirst, every crabbed little creep of the way. I came on a little drip from the ceiling, or I should say that it came on me, a long way down into that tunnel. God, was I tempted to stand there and stick my tongue out to that cool wet drip. A bit of thinking about where the leak might be coming from put me off that notion, though. It could just as well have been a cracked sewer as a nice clean little spring, more likely, maybe. Just say "no" to cholera, I told myself and trudged on grimly.

The hot wind buffeted me, even down here I could hear the wind; the walls were cold though. I got a bit mixed up in one of the side tunnels coming into Gower Street, but I kept my head and didn't get lost. I did find a water tap by the switch and took a chance with that. Lovely stuff; ten times better than the champers I'd had the evening before and a damn sight more honestly earned, too. I drank my fill and felt ready for almost anything. Even my hangover had subsided a bit, even if I could have done with a pair of aspirin and a strong cup of coffee. I crawled into Warren Street at about 4.40. This platform was pitch dark, except for the clock. There didn't seem to be anyone in the station, but I lay doggo at the tunnel mouth anyway until 5.00, just listening. Anyone there probably could have heard my stomach grumbling and gurgling.

Then, satisfied that no one was there, I stood and slithered up the ramp to left side of the dark platform. I took a few cautious sliding steps and found the smooth-tiled wall. A few more steps and I banged my knee viciously on the sharp corner of a bench. A few more careful steps and my foot connected with a soft bundle. I don't remember exactly what I was trying to do, but to make a long story short, I tripped. Torches snapped on and tunnelled the darkness. Large hands grabbed my arm like steel traps. A booming voice cried out, "Gotcha, matey, I've bloody well gotcha!"