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 into the car. And then we were away.
My mind was reeling. Half my teeth felt like they were about to say good-bye to the other half. I’d thought at first that I’d been caught by the police. But already I knew that it wasn’t the police. No. This was something worse.
BIGED
There were three of them in the car. I was in the backseat wedged between two of them. The third drove. There was a nodding dog on the ledge behind me. Only it wasn’t nodding anymore because somebody had pulled off its head. That was the sort of people they were. The sort who could visit the Chamber of Horrors and upstage the exhibits.
The driver was a punk. He had close-cropped, bright green hair and two studs in his ear. There was a scorpion tattooed on the back of his neck. He was chewing gum and every time he moved his mouth the scorpion writhed like it was trying to find a way out of his skin. That was all I could see of him from where I was sitting. It was enough to make me wish that I was sitting someplace else.
The two other men—they were both in their thirties—could have been brothers. Or sisters. They were somewhere in between. The fat, unshaven cheeks, the enormous biceps, the beer guts, and the balding heads . . . that was all definitely masculine. I wasn’t so sure about the handbags and the floral dresses. One of them had a scar running from his eye to his cheekbone. He’d tried to hide it with a dab of powder, but it needed something more. A large paper bag for example.
Nobody said anything for about five minutes, by which time we’d crossed the river, heading southwest. I shifted in my seat and one of the heavies dug an elbow into my ribs.
“Keep still, pretty boy,” he said in a voice so deep that it seemed to come from his knees.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “Who are you guys working for?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
The punk giggled, making the scorpion dance. I gritted my teeth. This wasn’t the first time I’d been taken for a ride. But if I didn’t make a move soon, it could well be the last. It didn’t seem fair. I was too young to die. And to be murdered by two men in women’s clothes! What would my parents say?
I made my move when the car slowed down for a red traffic light. I thought I’d timed it perfectly. We were in heavier traffic. One of the thugs was staring out of the window. The other was sitting back with his eyes half closed. Grab the handle, slam the door open, and I’d be out before they knew it. That was the idea.
But I’d underestimated them. I lurched forward. My hand moved a fraction. Then one of them grabbed me. I tried to shout out, to get the attention of the other drivers. I hadn’t even opened my mouth before something hit me, hard, on the side of the neck. I think it was a handbag. The car spun. I thought of the nodding dog. Then I was out.
When I came to, I was back behind bars—but not exactly in a prison. It was a long narrow building that wasn’t quite a building but was somehow familiar. My head was hurting and there was a nasty taste in my mouth. Otherwise I was more or less okay.
There was a sound outside. A rush and a shudder and a loud clinking. It told me what sort of building I was in. I should have known from the bare planks, the metal grille, the corridor almost as narrow as my prison cell, the square windows, and the communication cord. This was the guard’s van of a train. But it was a train that wasn’t moving. So where were we, then? Victoria Station?
I sat there for about two hours. It had been almost dark when I woke up, but now it was darker. I could see the light fading behind the screens that covered the windows. I expected the train to jolt forward at any time, but it never did. I was getting hungry. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and I was beginning to hope that a guard might wander through with a sandwich when the door opened and the punk appeared in the corridor.
He was still chewing gum and giggling. He had a safety pin in his nose and it wasn’t just there for decoration. It was holding the whole thing together. He had the sort of face that looked like it could fall apart at any moment. Chalk white and rotten.
He produced a bundle of keys, unlocked the door, and slid it open. I got to my feet. “If you’ve come to check my ticket, I haven’t got one,” I said.
He giggled.
“Do you speak English?” I asked.
He jerked his head back the way he had come. He didn’t speak at all.
I followed him out of the guard’s van and across the coupling to the next carriage. The windows were uncovered here, and looking out, I saw that we were parked in a siding, next to some sort of stockyard. A tall stack of wood obstructed most of the view, but I could also see coils of barbed wire and oil drums. The yard was fenced off. There was nobody in sight.
We reached the second carriage. It was blocked off by a plain wooden door that looked out of place on a train. The punk knocked and opened it. We went in.
Classical music. That was the first thing I heard. Bach or Vivaldi played on an expensive stereo system. The whole carriage had been revamped by an interior designer with expensive tastes. Silk wallpaper, silk curtains, two more chandeliers . . . the furniture could have come straight out of Woburn Abbey. A cocktail cabinet stood beside the door. One of the walls was lined with books. There was a fireplace at the far end with one of those artificial fires blazing artificially.
The two charm sisters from the car were sitting together on a chaise longue. One of them was reading a romance novel. The other was knitting. There were two other people in the room. One was a woman, wearing a satin dress that was tight in all the right places and tighter still in some of the wrong ones. Her hair was the sort of
