Tunnels

4

Dr. Burrows whistled, swinging his briefcase in time with his brisk pace. He rounded the corner at precisely 6:30 p.m., as he always did, and his house came into view. It was one of many crammed into Broadlands Avenue — regimented brick boxes with just enough room for a family of four. The only saving grace was that this side of the road backed onto the Common, so at least the house had views of a big open space, even if one was forced to see them from rooms barely large enough to swing a mouse, let alone a cat.

As he let himself in and stood in the hall, sorting the old books and magazines from his briefcase, his son was not far behind. At breakneck speed Will careened onto Broadlands Avenue on his bicycle, his shovel glinting under the first red glow of the newly lit streetlights. He skillfully slalomed between the white lines in the middle of the road and banked wildly as he shot through the open gate, his brakes reaching a squealing crescendo as he pulled up under the carport. He dismounted, locked up his bicycle, and entered the house.

'Hi, Dad,' he said to his father, who was now poised awkwardly just inside the living room, still holding his open briefcase in one hand as he watched something on television.

Dr. Burrows was unarguably the biggest influence in his son's life. A casual comment or snippet of information from his father could inspire Will to embark on the wildest and most extreme 'investigations,' usually involving ludicrous amounts of digging. Dr. Burrows always managed to be 'in at the kill' on any of his son's digs if he suspected there was going to be something of true archaeological value unearthed, but most of the time he preferred to bury his nose in the books he kept down in the cellar, his cellar. Here he could escape family life, losing himself in dreams of echoing Greek temples and magnificent Roman colosseums.

'Oh, yes, hello, Will,' he answered absentmindedly after a long pause, still absorbed in the television. Will looked past his father to where his mother was sitting, equally mesmerized by the program.

'Hi, Mum,' Will said and then left, not waiting for a response.

Mrs. Burrows's eyes were glued to an unexpected and rather fraught turn of events in the ER. 'Hello,' she eventually replied, although Will had already left the room.

Will's parents had first met at college when Mrs. Burrows had been a bubbly media student dead set on a career in television.

Unfortunately, these days television filled her life for a completely different reason. She watched it with an almost fanatical devotion, juggling schedules with a pair of VCRs when her favorite programs, of which there were so very many, clashed.

If one has a mental snapshot of a person, an image that is first recalled when one thinks of them, then Mrs. Burrows's would be of her lying sideways in her favorite armchair, a row of remotes neatly lined up on the arm and her feet resting on a footstool topped with television pages ripped from the newspapers. There she sat, day after day, week after week, the flickering light of the small screen, occasionally twitching a leg just to let people know she was still alive.

As he did every night, Will had beaten a path to the kitchen or, more specifically, the fridge. He was opening the door as he spoke, but didn't so much as glance at the other person in the room as he acknowledged her presence.

'Hi, sis,' Will said. 'What are we having for dinner?' I'm starved.'

'Ah, the mud creature returns,' Rebecca said to him. 'I had the funniest feeling you'd show up about now.' She rammed the fridge door shut to stop her brother from nosing inside and before he had a chance to complain, thrust an empty packet into his hands. 'Sweet-and-sour chicken, with rice and some vegetable stuff. It was on sale, two for one, at the supermarket.'

Will looked at the picture on the packet and, without comment, passed it back to her.

'So how's the latest dig going?' she asked, just as the microwave have a ting.

'Not great — we've hit a layer of sandstone.'

'We?' Rebecca shot him a quizzical glance as she took a dish out of the microwave. 'I'm sure you just said we, Will. You don't mean Dad's working on it with you, do you? Not during museum hours?'

'No, Chester from school is giving me a hand.'

Rebecca had just placed a second dish in the microwave and very nearly trapped her fingers in the door as she was closing it. 'You mean you actually asked somebody to help you? Well, that's a first. Thought you didn't trust anybody with your 'projects.»

'No, I don't usually, but Chester 's cool,' Will replied, a bit taken aback by his sister's interest. 'He's been a real help.'

'Can't say I know much about him, except that he's called—'

'I know what they call him,' Will cut her off sharply.

At twelve, Rebecca was two years younger than Will and couldn't have been more different from him; she was slim and dainty for her age, in contrast to her brother's rather stocky physique. And with her dark hair and sallow complexion, she wasn't bothered by the sun, even at the height of summer, while Will's skin would begin to redden and burn in a matter of minutes.

The two of them being so completely dissimilar, not just in appearance but also in temperament, their home life had something of the feel of an uneasy truce, and each showed only a passing interest in the other's pursuits.

There weren't the family outings that you would ordinarily expect, either, because Dr. And Mrs. Burrows also had completely divergent tastes. Will would go off with his father on expeditions — a habitual destination was the south coast, where they would go fossil hunting.

Rebecca, on the other hand, would arrange her own vacations — where, or to do what, Will did not know or care. And on the rare occasions Mrs. Burrows ventured out of the house, she would just trudge around the shops in the West End of London or catch the latest films.

Tonight, as was the case most nights, the Burrowses were sitting with their meals on their laps watching an oft-repeated 1970s comedy that Dr. Burrows seemed to be enjoying. No one spoke during the meal except Mrs. Burrows, who at one point mumbled, 'Good… this is good,' which may have been in praise of the microwave food or possibly the finale of the dated sitcom, but nobody made the effort to inquire.

Having wolfed down his food, Will left the room without a word, placing his tray by the kitchen sink before he went bounding up the stairs, a canvas sack of recently discovered items clutched in his hands. Dr. Burrows was the next out, walking into the kitchen, where he deposited his tray on the table. Although she hadn't finished her food yet, Rebecca followed closely behind him.

'Dad, a couple of bills need paying. The checks are there on the table.'

'Have we got enough in the account?' he asked as he dashed off his signature on the bottom of the checks, not evben bothering to read the amounts.

'I told you last week, I got a better deal on the house insurance. Saved us a few pennies on the premium.'

'Right… very good. Thanks,' Dr. Burrows said, picking up his tray and turning purposefully toward the dishwasher.

'Just leave it on the side,' Rebecca said a little too quickly, stepping protectively in front of the dishwasher. Only last week she'd caught him attempting to program her beloved microwave by furiously jabbing at the buttons in random sequences, as if he was trying to crack some secret code, and ever since then she had been making sure she unplugged all the major appliances.

As Dr. Burrows left the room, Rebecca shoved the checks in envelopes and then sat down to prepare a shopping list for the next day. At the tender age of twelve, she was the engine, the powerhouse behind the Burrowses' home. She took it upon herself not just to do the shopping but also to organize the meals, supervise the cleaning lady, and do just about everything else that, in any ordinary household, the parents would have taken responsibility for.

To say Rebecca was meticulous in her organization would have been a gross understatement. A schedule on the kitchen bulletin board listed all the provisions she required for at least two weeks in advance. She kept carefully labeled files of the family's bills and financial situation in one of the kitchen cupboards. And the only times when this