ain’t drained away the whole hog, then it’s still gonna be too deep for us.”
“If Wilbur thinks there’s a way across the river, we should at least look,” says Peyto firmly. “We said we’dlisten to him.” The way he glances at me, his eyes all fired up, I feel on edge all of a sudden.
Wilbur looks gobsmacked cos no one ever listens to his harebrained schemes usually. I give him evils, just so he knows not to get too cocky on all the attention. But I can tell none of them is gonna back down. So I lead the way through the trenches toward the big old crater that marks where Waterloo Station once stood. It gets sludgier as we plow on, till you can see water pouring into the entrance where the old tracks dip underground.
“See?” goes Wilbur.
“See what?” I snap back. “Anyone got a submarine handy?”
“We’ve got to go deeper, follow where the water drops,” says Wilbur.
“Wilbur, you crack-job, this ain’t like paddling up Blackheath. Check it out!”
But Wilbur ain’t looking at me. He’s looking at Peyto, who’s forged on ahead, clambering down bits of broken concrete at the edge of the tunnel wall. I’m pretty much done with the whole adventure, but I don’t want to waste the I-told-you-so speech that’s brewing in my head. So we carry on.
And guess what? Wilbur’s right – where the tunnel starts proper, the roof is a good thirty feet clear of the water. It don’t exactly look inviting, though – the tunnel mouth has all these rusty rods poking out of it, all coveredin gunk like mucky fangs. And course, we ain’t thought to bring a lamp or nothing.
We edge closer and look at the darkness, which is about as total as it gets. In the distance, you can hear the rushing echoes of water, and what sounds like a right downpour – probably leaks in the roof. Me and Peyto squelch down the slope together, leaving the other two behind. Peyto spots it first – an old steel ladder fixed to the wall. It leads to a platform cut into the concrete and there’s something bulky stashed up there.
We look at each other. I know what he’s thinking. Everything round here has been scavved out, so whatever it is has to be stashed here on purpose.
I volunteer to go up first, but pretty soon I’m cursing that blinding idea, cos the rungs are all slimy and I get the horrors about three-quarters of the way up. Somehow I hold it together enough to reach the platform. The thing is lashed really tight to the wall with rope and tarpaulin, but at last I manage to squeeze under the cover.
Whatever it is, it’s sopping wet and stinks of old rubber, and I’m squitting it cos I can’t see a thing. Then my hands land on what feels like a bag, and inside it something solid, plastic maybe, long like a tube. I try to drag the bag out, but I lose my grip and drop it. Then my heart nearly gives out cos a light beam shoots right into my face. Slowly I calm down and realize what I’ve done. The bag is see-through and inside it is a flashlight – old-school ’lectric with abattery. Me dropping it has switched the bloomin’ thing on.
All the stuff inside is bone dry. Apart from the flashlight, there’s half a dozen street maps torn from a book, a notepad, a pencil, and a compass. In the notepad it’s just diagrams with no writing, and what looks like numbers, but I can’t read, so it’s cobblers to me. I pan round with the flashlight. And find myself sitting in the bottom of a dinghy. It’s pretty big – enough room for six or seven people, I reckon. Parked on the sides, there’s two paddles and a grapple hook on a cable.
Next thing I know, there’s a pale face staring up at me from the edge of the tarpaulin and I just about freak.
“It’s me!” goes Peyto.
“Yeah, you wanna give me some warning next time? My ticker’s gonna give out any second!”
But he’s just grinning at the boat. “There’s a winch here, see? Give me a hand.”
I show him the notepad and the maps, but he can’t suss
“If Wilbur thinks there’s a way across the river, we should at least look,” says Peyto firmly. “We said we’dlisten to him.” The way he glances at me, his eyes all fired up, I feel on edge all of a sudden.
Wilbur looks gobsmacked cos no one ever listens to his harebrained schemes usually. I give him evils, just so he knows not to get too cocky on all the attention. But I can tell none of them is gonna back down. So I lead the way through the trenches toward the big old crater that marks where Waterloo Station once stood. It gets sludgier as we plow on, till you can see water pouring into the entrance where the old tracks dip underground.
“See?” goes Wilbur.
“See what?” I snap back. “Anyone got a submarine handy?”
“We’ve got to go deeper, follow where the water drops,” says Wilbur.
“Wilbur, you crack-job, this ain’t like paddling up Blackheath. Check it out!”
But Wilbur ain’t looking at me. He’s looking at Peyto, who’s forged on ahead, clambering down bits of broken concrete at the edge of the tunnel wall. I’m pretty much done with the whole adventure, but I don’t want to waste the I-told-you-so speech that’s brewing in my head. So we carry on.
And guess what? Wilbur’s right – where the tunnel starts proper, the roof is a good thirty feet clear of the water. It don’t exactly look inviting, though – the tunnel mouth has all these rusty rods poking out of it, all coveredin gunk like mucky fangs. And course, we ain’t thought to bring a lamp or nothing.
We edge closer and look at the darkness, which is about as total as it gets. In the distance, you can hear the rushing echoes of water, and what sounds like a right downpour – probably leaks in the roof. Me and Peyto squelch down the slope together, leaving the other two behind. Peyto spots it first – an old steel ladder fixed to the wall. It leads to a platform cut into the concrete and there’s something bulky stashed up there.
We look at each other. I know what he’s thinking. Everything round here has been scavved out, so whatever it is has to be stashed here on purpose.
I volunteer to go up first, but pretty soon I’m cursing that blinding idea, cos the rungs are all slimy and I get the horrors about three-quarters of the way up. Somehow I hold it together enough to reach the platform. The thing is lashed really tight to the wall with rope and tarpaulin, but at last I manage to squeeze under the cover.
Whatever it is, it’s sopping wet and stinks of old rubber, and I’m squitting it cos I can’t see a thing. Then my hands land on what feels like a bag, and inside it something solid, plastic maybe, long like a tube. I try to drag the bag out, but I lose my grip and drop it. Then my heart nearly gives out cos a light beam shoots right into my face. Slowly I calm down and realize what I’ve done. The bag is see-through and inside it is a flashlight – old-school ’lectric with abattery. Me dropping it has switched the bloomin’ thing on.
All the stuff inside is bone dry. Apart from the flashlight, there’s half a dozen street maps torn from a book, a notepad, a pencil, and a compass. In the notepad it’s just diagrams with no writing, and what looks like numbers, but I can’t read, so it’s cobblers to me. I pan round with the flashlight. And find myself sitting in the bottom of a dinghy. It’s pretty big – enough room for six or seven people, I reckon. Parked on the sides, there’s two paddles and a grapple hook on a cable.
Next thing I know, there’s a pale face staring up at me from the edge of the tarpaulin and I just about freak.
“It’s me!” goes Peyto.
“Yeah, you wanna give me some warning next time? My ticker’s gonna give out any second!”
But he’s just grinning at the boat. “There’s a winch here, see? Give me a hand.”
I show him the notepad and the maps, but he can’t suss
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