The Shameful Suicide of Winston Churchill (21 page)

‘What’s happening, Harry? Where are we going?’

‘On an excursion. I’m taking you to see the people you wanted to meet.’

‘You mean you’ve done it? You’ve made contact? You’re a genius, Harry Stark. I knew you could do it. So come on, tell me. Where are we going.’

Stark stopped in his tracks, turned and looked at the American with a weary eye. ‘Look, you’ll find out when we get there. If we get there. Just be on the level with these people. And with me, okay?’

‘Okay? Of course, okay. But what do you mean, “if ”?’

Stark ignored him. They were hurrying along the Strand, towards the Aldwych and Fleet Street. Maybe it was dangerous, maybe not. But there was only one way to get these people who knew more about Harry Stark’s father than he did himself to trust him, and that was to take them the American, then man who promised he would publicise their cause on the other side of the Wall. The man who would take the same risk his colleague had paid for with his life.

The problem was that Stark had no precise idea how to find them again. Going back down the tunnels via Covent Garden was simply not an option. Walking the Tube lines on foot was simply far too dangerous. Even if it had been night rather than the middle of the day on a public holiday. The only solution was to go back to where he had started, follow his nose and see where he ended up. He was sure of
only one thing. They would be meeting again today. They had said as much. They and ‘the others’.

Except that he was not sure retracing his steps would be easy. Or possible. A hint of what had happened was immediately obvious the minute they entered the churchyard behind The Olde Bell public house. The little lean-to stall where the canon had sold his roneoed history sheets was nothing more than a pile of shattered timber. The curtain behind that led to the stairwell down to the crypt had been ripped off its rail and lay sodden and dirty on the ground. Stark and Fairweather exchanged glances.

There was no one in evidence. Down the narrow entry that separated the remains of the belfry from Fleet Street they could see only the backs of people apparently turned out early to get a spot to watch the parade. Stark led the way down the stairs. The heavy door that had survived the Blitz had been smashed through the centre; the splintered remnants still hanging from the ancient iron hinges. There was still light in the staircase, but the glimmer that came from below had been extinguished.

‘Shit, the light’s gone.’

‘It’s cool, use this,’ said the American, and took from his breast pocket a little torch barely thicker than a pen. Stark had seen them on TV. Fairweather flicked a switch and a clear bright beam of light came on.

Stark held out his hand. Fairweather pulled his back.

‘I’m not going to pinch it. I know what we’re looking for.’ Up to a point, he added silently. With a show of
good-natured
reluctance, the American handed it over.

They descended the second set of stairs only to find that the little room that had served as a makeshift chapel was now littered with bones, old bones, ripped from the neat
piles that had lined the walls. The old Roneo machines lay smashed on the ground, scraps of torn paper lay everywhere. He picked one up. It was a ‘winkie’, another image of Churchill giving his V salute, torn to shreds. But there was only one thing on Stark’s mind: the old man, Ransom. The one who had vouched for him. Was that why they had left him behind? The draped table that had served as an altar lay overturned in the corner, its altar cloth thrown to the ground and ominously stained with something that might have been blood. Ransom’s blood.

‘Holy shit,’ said Fairweather. ‘If this is where the Underground gathered, it looks like your friends have paid them a visit.’

‘No friends of mine,’ said Stark, instinctively. But nor were the other lot, he reflected silently. Sometimes knowing who your friends were was no easy matter.

‘This was a mistake, a stupid blunder. I think most of those who came here were low level – only the priest came here every day, and the old man who lived here …’

The words died in his mouth. Without a second look at the stained altar cloth he led the way along the narrow corridors. The light bulb in the second chamber had been smashed too. The debris revealed in the pool of light from the pen torch was sombre. The chairs lay scattered on the floor, several of them broken. The violence against inanimate objects was excessive, the violence of men frustrated that they had nothing human to beat; except for the evidence of the bloodied altar cloth.

‘Halt. Is there someone there? Show yourself. Department of Social Security.’ The shout came from upstairs. Stark could have kicked himself. Of course they would have left someone to watch.

Fuck, thought Stark. ‘Fuck,’ said the American. But it was Stark who had the greater sinking feeling in his gut. He could show himself to the DoSS, say he was on police business, although explaining away the presence of an American journalist in the circumstances could be more complicated. And in any case, his refusal to explain himself would quickly be overridden; he had no enthusiasm for a ‘private inquiry’ in the basement of the Barbican. Especially if, as the American claimed, that was where his father had met his end. It had to be a possibility that Stark’s unquestioning acceptance of the official story of the old man’s heroics on the side of socialism had been his safety blanket.

Stark stared in confusion at the various holes in the walls around them. Different sizes at different heights, leading in different directions. The DoSS couldn’t have searched them all either. Maybe they contented themselves with beating Ransom to a pulp. But one of them had to be the way the others had used. Carrying Stark’s limp body along with them. At least four were big enough for a man to get along at a crouch. At a crawl, it would have been possible to get through almost any.

Stark could hear footsteps on the stairs, a stern shout:

‘Show yourself. Social Security. This area is out of bounds.’

Stark flicked the beam of light around in panic. He discounted the crawl passages. Too hard to have taken an unconscious body along one of those. That left four, two on the left, two on the right. What was it the canon had said about tunnels that might have led down to the Thames? Tunnels from Roman days adapted by later smugglers. Downhill, that was the key. It had to be. That implied the passages on the right. Out of pure contrariness he chose the second, dragging the American after him and extinguishing
the torch. If it led nowhere maybe at least they could hide until the DoSSer had gone, and hope he could convince himself he had just imagined he heard a noise.

For the moment the passage seemed to continue looping round to the left. At least that meant they might be out of sight if someone shone a torch down the passage. The ground was sandy, which suggested indeed that it at one time had led down to the river shore. It also had the advantage of muffling any noise their feet made. In any case the DoSSer was making his own noise. Stark could hear him shouting loudly, imagined him flashing a torch down each passage in turn. A flicker of light behind them confirmed his scenario and also gave him a glimpse of the American crouched behind him with a look of sheer terror on his face.

‘Anyone there?’ the distant voice boomed. ‘These passageways have been condemned.’ Stark put a finger to his lips. The look of panic on Fairweather’s face was getting worse. Then the light vanished. Stark waited for minutes that seemed like hours until he was as sure as he was going to be that no one was either coming after them or still shining torches down the passageways. He turned on the pen torch at ground level, taking care to point it forwards and grateful that its beam was so narrow. He flicked it up towards the roof of the passage for a second, so the American could see his face and silently mouthed, ‘Come on.’

He felt a tug on his jacket, and heard one word, whispered quietly but with determination: ‘No.’

Reluctantly Stark let the little beam turn on his companion’s face and saw the man rolling his eyes and making frantic gestures with his hands at the walls around them. He understood. Fairweather was claustrophobic. He did the only thing he could. He turned out the torch and continued
some five or six metres ahead on his own in the dark. Then he stopped, turned the torch back on, and shone it at Fairweather. The American was frozen to the spot. Stark pointed back, mimicked a gun at his head and then beckoned him, holding up the torch, so Fairweather understood: it was staying with him. As if on cue, for the first time in minutes there was a shout in the distance behind them. With what looked like tears in his eyes, the American hugged himself and came shuffling towards Stark.

When he got close Stark pulled Ben Fairweather to him and bent down flashing the torch beam along the ground. In front of them the tunnel divided in two. One led off to their left. The other sloped down, and at an oblique angle, so that it was impossible to tell how far it went without getting into it. Stark pointed at the ground. The sloping tunnel had a clear furrow down the middle of its sandy floor. Something had recently been dragged along here. Or someone.

As far as Stark could see the tunnel was good, or at any rate not a dead end. The walls were damp, green in places with mould, but seemed solid and secure, almost as if they were made of cut ashlar rather than dug out of the earth. Only the smell was getting worse. The dry dusty atmosphere of the crypt had given way to a distinct dankness. The slime on the walls was growing more luxuriant with every metre and in places almost seemed to glow with an eerie fluorescence. But worst of all was the smell. Dry mustiness had long since yielded to acrid, salty bitterness overlaid with something putrid. The tunnel no longer sloped downward. It had levelled out but was now so low and narrow they had to bend almost double and it was impossible to turn around. Ahead there was a dull, distant roar, constant rather than the occasional rattle of trains. More importantly, there was
no sound behind them. Either their pursuer had not found their escape route, or had thought better of it. Stark was not complaining. Yet. He felt a tug from behind.

‘How … how far does it go? I can’t take much more of this. It’s like the walls are closing in.’ The American’s voice was a sensible whisper, but Stark could clearly hear the anxiety in it, although it was nearly impossible now even to get his head at an angle where he could turn around and see the man’s face. He could not imagine what it would be like if they had to go back.

‘Wait here, just a second,’ he said. ‘I’ll go a bit further and see if I can get an idea how far it goes.’ Or if it gets any tighter, he didn’t add. But he knew it couldn’t; he had been dragged through here, chloroformed, unconscious. It certainly explained the state of his clothing and the obvious reason why taking the old man Ransom with them would have been impossible. There was no way this tunnel could get any smaller; unless, of course, he was totally wrong and this was not the escape route at all but an ancient ditch that went nowhere.

‘No, it’s … it’s okay. I can …’ The American was doing his best.

‘Trust me. Just a few seconds.’ Stark understood. Ben Fairweather was having a crisis: he didn’t want to go on, but he also didn’t want to be left alone, in the dark, even for a few seconds. He probably couldn’t even imagine crawling out backwards. But he had had an idea. The depth he imagined they were at now, coupled with the smell could, he felt certain, mean only one thing. The passageway they were in, whatever its origins, had to lead somewhere, and Stark had suddenly decided he knew where.

He crawled ahead as fast as he could, his elbows now
complaining almost as much as his already suffering knees. Apart from looking like a tramp, he must stink like one too. And then, all of a sudden, the narrow crawl tunnel ahead of him vanished. Barely two metres away, the torch beam shone clear into a cavernous darkness.

‘Come on,’ he called back, smiling as he imagined the terrified American journalist’s relief – was this the glamorous life of a cold war correspondent he had imagined back amidst the skyscrapers of New York? – ‘We’re out.’

‘Out’ was a relative term.

‘Welcome,’ said Stark as he helped the American to his feet, ‘to one of the wonders of the nineteenth-century world – the London sewers.’ Not words that were uttered often, Stark imagined, and rarely – if ever – accompanied by such a huge sigh of relief. The narrow crouch way had come out less than half a metre above a great arched highway lined in dirty yellow brick that stretched in a straight line in either direction, with a rushing if less than fragrant river running in a deep-cut channel down the middle.

‘This is amazing.’ Fairweather stood and stared at the vista opened up by the torchlight. ‘How old did you say this was.’

‘About 130 years,’ said Stark. ‘I’m not sure exactly but I think most of it was built in the 1860s, after the great cholera epidemic, although what they told us in school was that they only built a proper sewage system when the stink from the Thames got so bad the members of parliament had to evacuate the Palace of Westminster.’

Fairweather gave him a look that said, ‘that’s what the sort of teacher you have over here would tell you’. Maybe it was, Stark had never given it a second thought. Until now. And even now it wasn’t the reason for the sewer’s construction that concerned him, it was its use as a conduit for human beings, as well as their waste products, underneath the streets of London.

‘We turn right,’ he said. ‘This is the way they must have come.’ Lugging me, unconscious, with them, he thought.

‘You’re sure about this?’

‘Stands to reason. The main sewer follows the river. That’s why they built the Victory Embankment – the Victoria Embankment,’ he corrected himself and for the first time in his life thought of it as a correction. ‘Where the city used to slide down towards the riverbank, they shored it up and built huge ramparts which contained the sewer and – somewhere’ – he gestured vaguely with one arm – ‘the District Line Tube from Blackfriars to Charing Cross. But if what I remember is correct,’ he stopped in mid-flow and began searching his pockets, ‘shit, I’ve lost the map – the old Northern Line, the one that Westminster trains still use, must cut across it at right angles. That means there has to be another Charing Cross station down there, another ghost station, only one stop away from the phantom Leicester Square. If we’ve come south from the church crypt, downhill towards the river, as we have to have done, then if we turn right, eventually we will come to where the sewer goes between them, as it has to. That’s where we’ll find the link. It has to be. It makes sense,’ he said, adding only as an afterthought, ‘if any of this does.’

The American shrugged: ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

Stark strode out, watching his feet on the slippery wet brickwork, and letting the torch beam play up and down the rows of brickwork and the vaulted ceiling. The tunnel was over three metres tall and nearly five across. It was like being an archaeologist in your own city. The more Stark discovered about the complexity of the world underground, the more he was forced to scorn the vainglory of the men who had so thoughtlessly sliced in half a city that was an organic entity. How many maps had they pored over, how many decisions met with calculated clinical cynicism, to snip an artery here, a vein there?

Above ground the Wall seemed ancient and unbreachable, perhaps because it was there, visible, day-by-day and given time, one got used to anything; even the greatest and most cruel absurdities could come, with time and habit, to seem eternal and immutable. Yet there was something eating away at Stark’s self-confidence. He had told Fairweather he was absolutely certain of their bearings, but for a reason he could not put his finger on, that confidence was being whittled away with every step. He looked round at the figure following him and, realising that the time had perhaps come to show a bit more fellow feeling, smiled and used the man’s first name: ‘You all right?’

Fairweather’s skewed spectacles cast strange shadows on his face, ghostly white, in the torchlight; his nose was wrinkled against the pervading stench. He looked not so much sceptical as uncertain that any of it was a good idea. Stark had a twinge of sympathy, but not over much; it was the American, after all, who had got him into this in the first place. He had booked the ride; if it was making him queasy he had only himself to blame.

It was only then that he realised what was wrong. If his assumptions had been correct – which surely they had to be – then turning right along the sewer had been the only option. ‘Right’ had to be west, the direction they needed to follow if they were to get to Charing Cross. But the water – to give it the euphemism – they were walking next to was flowing the wrong way: with them, rather than against them. Sewers, like rivers, drained downhill, at least until they came to pumping stations. And downhill, following the river, meant east, towards the distant Thames estuary and the North Sea. It didn’t make sense, any of it. Until almost immediately they came to something else that didn’t
make sense: a T-junction, where the sewer they walked along poured itself into another tunnel that crossed at right angles.

Stark stopped dead, looked left, looked right, like a schoolchild preparing to cross the road, then back at the American two paces behind him. Fairweather was watching him with an expression that if it had not been overlayed with such obvious consternation, Stark might almost have called ‘smug’.

‘Okay, Sherlock, which way now?’ he said.

For a moment Stark was genuinely nonplussed. He had been so certain. It had seemed so obvious, so easy. Apart from the stink, it could almost have been a Sunday afternoon stroll. Compared to the tiny tunnel they had crawled through, the sewer was a king’s highway and he knew the route. Or rather, he had thought he did.

Now he was not so sure. There was a marked difference between the two tunnels. The one they had been walking along had a wide pavement at each side of the central trench; the one that it opened into was more egg-shaped in
cross-section.
If it had been as full-flowing as the stream they had just walked along, it would have been impossible to move along it without wading over ankle-height – hardly a pleasant thought – but it wasn’t, at least not consistently. The fast stream that fed it flowed in its new channel off to the left. Obviously that way was downhill, following the course of the Thames.

And then Stark realised instantly where they were. The tunnel from St Bride’s had led them not immediately into the Victorian sewers, but into a much older, more natural water system, although one long since tamed by man. The pavements they had been walking along were the long-since
canalised and eventually covered-over banks of the Fleet River. The Fleet flowed down towards the Thames entering it at almost right angles, or had done before the embankment had been built and the sewer intercepted it. And besides, there was daylight.

On the opposite wall of the tunnel, a few metres downstream from where they stood and at least a metre off the sewer floor, was a wide opening. All of a sudden it made sense: the buried Fleet emptied into the main sewer but the outlet opposite was an overflow that in times of flood or heavy rain would allow the ancient river – and sewage – to spill out again directly into the Thames.

Stark turned to Fairweather but the American was already with him, staring out from their subterranean labyrinth to where the dull light of a grey spring day fell across the river. Noting the intensity of his gaze, Stark followed it, and realised that what they were looking at was not just visual confirmation of their underground orientation. Barely 100 metres away was a span of metal that could only be the underside of Blackfriars Bridge. If he had been standing in this position two dawns earlier, he might have seen a corpse wrapped in blood-soaked sacking hanging from it.

‘Okay,’ said Fairweather. ‘I guess there’s no doubt about where we are now. Though we could maybe get out of here through there …’ There was almost, but not quite, a note of optimism in his voice.

‘It wouldn’t do us any good though. Not if we want to find the people we’re after. Besides, even getting swamped by sewage is probably less dangerous than taking a dip in the Thames these days.’

They turned right into the new stream. It was a decidedly less pleasant experience, the tunnel was loosely egg-shaped
and the sewage regularly lapped at their feet. At one moment it seemed as if the fetid waters were coming alive. Stark sprang out of the way as an army of rats routed by their passage rushed by.

One thing still worried him: how would they know when they were at the point where the sewer crossed over the Tube? He needn’t have worried. The American saw it first.

‘Harry, up there, on the wall, to the right. About a hundred yards ahead.’

Stark instinctively found the right spot with his beam. Funny, how the Americans and Northerners used the same old measuring systems. He wondered, briefly, if both – or either – still called it ‘imperial’. But why not? It was the Americans’ empire now.

‘I hadn’t expected it to be that obvious.’

It could scarcely have been more so. A proper door, albeit half-height and set about two metres from the sewer pavement. Reaching it would not be a problem either: there was a set of narrow brick steps with an iron handrail. It was obviously in regular use; the door swung open easily.

Beyond was a full-height narrow corridor that extended half a dozen metres to where a spiral metal staircase descended, as if down a vertical bore hole around a
wire-caged
central shaft. The shaft contained a lift, or what had once been one; all that remained were cables, dangling in an empty space, descending into the darkness.

‘The Victorians built this?’ Fairweather was either sceptical or impressed.

‘No. The materials are all wrong. These walls are concrete, not brick. This is twentieth century.’ Stark looked up. The staircase and lift shaft continued upwards, but in the torchlight it was easy to see that not far above them the stairs were
increasingly clogged with debris. ‘It must be something left over from the war. That’s all I can think. Blocked at street level, probably.’

‘Do we know where street level is? Here?’

Stark was nowhere near as confident as he had been. ‘I’m assuming we’re near Charing Cross. That somehow this leads to the room I woke up in, between there and …’ the unfamiliar words stuck for a moment, ‘between there and Leicester Square’.

‘You think. Don’t you know? Jesus Christ, Harry, we could get lost down here.’

‘It’s okay. So far at least, we know the way back.’ But Stark could see from the American’s face that that was scant consolation.