dried blood caked around terrible self-inflicted wounds at their wrists and throats. Staring straight ahead of them with sad, angry eyes.
Through another tunnel mouth, to another escalator, that seemed to just go on descending forever. I leaned out as far as I dared, but I still couldn’t see the bottom, or where we were going. So I just straightened up and stuck close to my uncle Jack. Because I trusted him.
* * *
We finally ended up on a small platform, this time entirely untroubled by other people. There wasn’t a sound from anywhere, and everything seemed almost unnaturally still. No posters or ads on the walls, and the single Destinations board was worryingly blank. Jack led me to a door set quietly away to one side, with a sign written over it in Enochian. The sign appeared to have been written in blood, and quite recently. Enochian is the artificial language created back in Elizabethan times, to allow men to speak directly with angels. Apparently, just speaking the words of this language aloud can lead to permanent changes in your brain chemistry. It seemed to me that I should be able to read and understand Enochian, but although I could recognise the language, the dripping crimson words made no sense to me at all.
Uncle Jack stood before the door and made a pleased sound as he checked out the sign. He gestured imperiously, and the door opened immediately, falling back before us. I followed him through, into a grim grey flickering light, revealing a dull grey tunnel. The door closed itself quietly behind us. Jack didn’t seem concerned about that, so I did my best not to be either. At the far end of the tunnel, we ended up standing before another closed door, this time simply marked Maintenance. Jack opened it, and we stepped through into what seemed to be a closet. Half full of scarecrows sitting slumped together, wearing British Rail uniforms.
“Don’t ask,” the Armourer said wisely.
So I didn’t.
He reached out a hand to the old-fashioned telephone set on the rear wall. A telephone I was sure hadn’t been there just a moment before. Jack lifted the receiver and spoke firmly into it.
“Going down.”
The dull grey wall split in two before us, from top to bottom, both sides grinding slowly apart in jerky, shuddering movements, to form yet another long narrow tunnel. The Armourer strode forward into it, but I hesitated. There was something . . . bad, up ahead. I could feel it. Something dangerous. Jack realised I wasn’t with him, stopped, and looked back.
“Come along, Eddie! This is where you have to go.”
“Why?” I said, not moving an inch.
“Because you have to go all the way down, and all the way through, before you can come out the other side.”
“That doesn’t even make any sense!”
“It will,” said the Armourer. “Probably. Trust me, Eddie. Please.”
And what could I say to that? I nodded and went after him.
The bare walls of this new tunnel were blood-red, hot and sweaty, and almost organic. Like passing through an open wound in the body of the world. The sourceless light was dim and murky. The place smelled of ancient corrupt perfumes and flowers crushed underfoot. There was a constant background murmur of many voices, rising and falling, along with snatches of music that faded in and out, like so many competing radio signals from other worlds. Somewhere a cloister bell was ringing. It sounded like . . . a bell made of ice, ringing sadly in the middle of a deep dark forest. It sounded alone, so alone . . .
We emerged suddenly onto another platform. Another completely deserted scene, with nothing to show that people had ever been allowed access. I had the oddest feeling that dust was falling, silently, continuously, though I couldn’t see or feel it. The single Destinations board on the far wall was filled with names I didn’t know. Old stations, lost stations, forgotten stations. Ludd’s Gate, Darkchapel, Thamesfleet, Cemetery Wharf, Cain’s Causeway. None of them sounded like anywhere I wanted to go.
I moved forward, to the very edge of the platform, and looked down. And discovered something decidedly unique about this new station. A river ran through it. Dark waters filled the space where the train tracks should have been. Dark and impenetrable and completely still. Not a ripple, not a movement anywhere on the flat black surface. And no reflection at all. Without looking back at Uncle Jack, I raised my voice.
“What the hell