good.’
They shone their torches back to see the first of the great steel plates grinding across on its arc as the Fleet redirected itself back to local channels. The group pushed on and down as the water started to deepen. ‘It’s probably refilling from the highest gate first,’ warned May. ‘I doubt any one gate could handle the full amount of water, so the switch-back will be staggered with locks, but the effect will still be like flushing a cistern. The water has to maintain a momentum in order to reach the river. We really have to find a way out of here.’
‘You can hear it coming,’ called Bimsley, an air of panic creeping into his voice.
‘The sound is probably magnified,’ said Bryant cheerfully. ‘It’s echoing down the entire length of the shaft. According to the map there’s a drainage shaft down here on the left.’
They found themselves in another dead end filled with the detritus of the past thirty years. As they pushed through the rubbish, the bloated corpse of a cat swirled by.
‘Sorry,’ Bryant apologized, squinting at the plan. ‘Now a right turn-it’s hard to read the scale of this thing. It should be right here in front of us.’
‘There’s your shaft,’ said May, reaching a halt. ‘Somehow I don’t think we’re going to make it out of here.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bryant.
May shone his torch up to the roof, illuminating the chimney to the surface, more than thirty feet above their heads. ‘The ladder is missing. There’s no way of reaching the drain without it. And we can’t go back.’
Bimsley pinched his frozen nose and tried to think. ‘There were three corridors at the last junction. We know that two are dead ends, so let’s go back to the first one.’
‘Admirable idea, Bimsley.’ Bryant struck out through knee-deep scum. ‘The water’s much warmer than I thought it would be. I think it’s coming from a heated source-dishwashers and washing machines, perhaps. There’s a distinctly soapy smell now.’
‘Arthur, I think we should concentrate on the problem at hand.’ May towed his partner back until they reached the junction. They turned into the only remaining tunnel as the rumble of water rose to a roar behind them. They had gone less than a hundred yards when the corridor narrowed sharply and twisted off.
‘Fingers crossed,’ called May, wading ahead. ‘If this doesn’t lead out, we won’t be going home tonight.’
He was almost frightened to raise the torch.
‘Well?’ called Bryant.
Bimsley followed the beam across the now thigh-deep water. The tunnel appeared to open out to a much larger space beyond, but there was no way of reaching it: a matrix of scabbed iron bars blocked the way ahead. May slammed his fist against the metal as he realized the impossibility of moving it.
‘There’s a grille across the outlet,’ he called back.
‘Can you open it?’
‘I suppose there might be a handle, but it’s not on this side.’
‘Then that’s that.’ Bryant arrived beside them. ‘This is my fault. I made you come down here.’
The tunnel began to vibrate with the subway-train rush of water arriving from the upper Fleet tunnel.
May shone his torch back toward the source of the noise. They watched in horror as a great wave of water, its virescent crest touching the roof of the tunnel, swept down toward them.
48. ST PANCRAS BASIN BLUES
Bryant was the first to fall backwards because he had been pressed against the grille. Bimsley and May followed him as the bars behind them slammed up into the stone ceiling, flushing flat into the brickwork. As the water hit, the trio found themselves washed across the end of the tunnel and over a great latticework grating as the river flushed itself away into the ground.
‘What a wonderful piece of draughtsmanship,’ enthused Bryant, rolling to his feet, half-drowned. ‘A simple cantilever.’
‘Is everybody all right?’ asked May.
‘I think I swallowed something disgusting,’ coughed Bimsley.
They slowly rose and looked about. Their torches had been lost in the river’s diverted path, but now there was light from another source. They found themselves in an immense arched cathedral of smoothly varnished brown tiles.
‘My God, it looks like a mirror image of the King’s Cross and St Pancras railway arches,’ Bryant exclaimed, pulling a plastic Sainsbury’s bag from his leg and wiping himself down with it. ‘I suppose it would have been built at the same time.’ The vaulted peak of the hall was lost in Stygian gloom. ‘St Pancras Basin.’
Pigeons living in the high iron rafters dropped down through the hall, their wings fluttering like the ruffled pages of old books.
‘Doesn’t this section get filled as the system switches back?’ asked Bimsley.
‘No, it’s very clever-the bars around the edges of the floor act as a gigantic drain, so it stays dry. No wonder they picked this spot to build the Channel Tunnel terminal-half the underground work is already done for them. Ah, Mr Tate, or should I say Mr Kingdom-you are Gilbert Kingdom’s son, aren’t you? Perhaps you can explain why it was so important to lead us here.’
The others turned to find their quarry seated on a pile of sacks, eating a tuna sandwich from a Tupperware tub. He appeared to be expecting them.
‘I wanted to show you this,’ he said simply, raising his hand and indicating the basin.
Bryant realized now that what he had thought was a deserted underground hall was in fact populated. Wrapped in blankets and brown cardboard, the residents blended invisibly with the shadowed walls, but the noise of the re-channelled water had stirred them, and people were sitting up, standing, stretching, stamping the circulation back into their limbs.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Bimsley. ‘Where did they come from?’
‘Good question,’ Bryant replied. ‘More to the point, I think, is where they go from here.’
‘The basin is used by anyone seeking refuge-people who have no homes, no identities, no lives,’ said Kingdom. ‘During the War, deserters hid in the St Pancras Basin. I first came here with my father thirty years ago. It was safe and dry. This time, when the rains arrived, the walls began dripping dirty water. Bad chemicals washing in from above. The basin’s run-off drains are blocked with rubble from the terminal construction overhead. They’ve become stagnant. People are getting sick. Pneumonia, stomach bugs and worse.’
‘Why not take the risk and head above ground?’ asked Bryant.
‘The police-the other police, the ones in uniforms-are waiting for us above. Everyone said you were a good man, and would help. I wanted to ask you when we met at the hostel, but then the man in the next room-’
‘-set fire to the place,’ said Bryant, ‘and you knew we would blame you. Are you surprised? There was inflammable spirit everywhere.’
‘He started throwing it all around the floor. A crazy man who thought he was being persecuted, thought the police were out to get him. He looked out of the window and saw your constable coming in. What could I do? I seized the chance to get away. No one else could help these people.’
He watched them for a moment, thinking. ‘I remember the last time the tunnel flooded and opened a clear path straight through to the basin. I knew you were investigating the street that passed right above the river channel. The basin exit was being watched, so there was no other way for you to get here. I needed you to follow me.’
‘Look, I’m frozen and wet, I’ve been poisoned with half the toilet waste of north London, I’ve probably swallowed parts of a rancid cat, and I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with the case,’ complained Bimsley. ‘Am I completely stupid?’
‘No, Colin, not completely.’ Bryant looked at the crippled son of the Water House’s creator. ‘I think you’ll find it’s about the difference between a house and a home,’ he said finally.
