her feet there was only dirt and
broken concrete. In a far-off puddle of light, a short set of steps led up to where the platform had once
been, but now they were stairs to nowhere. Without the platform, she noticed for the first time how round
the tunnels were —long cylinders bored through the city's innards.
Peering along the throat of the tunnel, past the farthest splash of light, she saw only darkness. But
somewhere down there, where the platform had once ended, there must be another door.
Jazz started in that direction, but as she moved beyond the first pool of light, the dirt and broken
ground underfoot disappeared in the dark. She moved to the tracks and crouched to place a hand on the
cold metal. Once it had been a working artery, pumping blood to the city's heart. Now it was dead. She
stepped over the rail and between the tracks. Simple enough to match her stride to the carefully placed
sleepers.
The sound of her movement echoed around her: scrap-ing stones, sharp breath, footsteps.
Walking into the darkness did not make her feel lost. A pool of light waited ahead and another
remained behind her. She could see those areas of the tunnel well enough. Yet when she looked down at
her feet she saw nothing, and even her arms seemed spectral things.
Water dripped nearby, but she could not locate its source. She studied the walls, searching for any
sign of an exit. Without a way out she wouldn't get far, at least not without a torch.
Something rustled off to her left. Jazz froze, listening for it to come again. Seconds passed before she
took another step, then she heard the sound again. Not a rustle, but a whisper. A voice in the darkness,
speaking gibberish.
"Who is it? Who's there?" she said, flinching at the sound of her own voice.
The whispering went on and, from behind her, back toward that spiral staircase, came another voice,
secretive, furtive. The Uncles or their lackeys —those dark-suited BMW men—had followed her.
"Shit," she whispered, and started moving more swiftly.
The whispers followed, but though they certainly must have seen her, no one shouted after her.
"Bloody Churchill," one of them said, but this was no whisper. She heard it clear as a bell. "Thinks
he's a general but hasn't the first idea how to fight a war. Get us all killed, he will."
A child laughed.
A burst of static filled the tunnel, followed by music —a tune she knew, something her mother had
hummed while making dinner.
Are the stars out tonight?
I don't know if it's cloudy or bright.
I only have eyes for you, dear.
Sometimes Mum sang little snippets of it, and Jazz had al-ways cherished those rare moments when
her mother seemed to steal a moment's peace, from the fear that ran through her every day, like deep
water under a frozen river. Jazz had asked her several times about the song. All but once, Mum had
seemed not to know what she was talking about. That once, she'd relented.
"Was a time your father sang it to me, and meant every word," she said. She never spoke of it again.
Churchill? What was that about? The music crackled, a tinny echo, as though it came from some
old-time radio. Someone was down here in the tunnel with her, but it wasn't the Uncles or their other BMW
men.
The song continued to play, but the child's laugh did not come again.
Hope and dread warred within her. Whoever lurked in the tunnel could point her way out, if they
weren't mad as a hatter. But that business about Churchill pricked at her mind, and the memory of that
voice seeped down her spine.
Retreat not an option, she went on, peering into the darkness for a face. The radio crackled again
and other whispers joined in. Jazz's breath caught. How many people were down here? She caught a few
snatches of words, but nothing that made any sense. What had she discovered, some sort of subterranean
enclave?
"Sir?" a voice called. "Paper, sir?"
Before she turned, in that singular moment, she under-stood something that had been niggling at the
back of her mind. The laughter, the voices, even the music... they made no echo. The tiles did not throw the
sounds back at her.
Her skin prickled as she turned and saw the boy in his cap and jacket, the shape of him more a
suggestion in the dark, a fold in the air. He held something out, a newspaper, as if to some passerby. But no
one else was there. He did not seem to have noticed Jazz at all.
She backed up, caught her foot on the rail, and sprawled on her
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