Tunnels 01, Tunnels

did, you know... you don't want to be getting 'itched to some overeducated layabout... I mean, I ask you, what good's a man who grubs around in 'oles in the ground when there's bills to pay?"
    Will peered around the corner as Auntie Jean's needles stopped their metronomic clicking and she took a sip from a tumbler. The cat was looking adoringly at Auntie Jean, who looked back at him with an affectionate, almost loving, smile. Will had never seen this side of her before -- he knew he should say something to announce his presence, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to break the moment.
    "I tell you, it's nice to 'ave you 'ere. I mean, after my little Sophie passed on... she was a dog and I know you don't much like them... but at least she was there for me... that's more than you can say for any man I met."
    She held up her knitting in front of her, a garishly colored pair of pants, which Bartleby sniffed curiously. "Nearly done. In just a mo' you can try 'em on for size, my lovely." She leaned over and tickled Bartleby under the chin. He lifted his head and, closing his eyes, began to purr with the amplitude of a small engine.
    Will turned to make his way back to the bedroom and was resting against the wall in the hallway when there was a crash behind him. Cal was standing just inside the front door, two bags of dropped shopping spilling open in front of him. He had a scarf wrapped around his mouth and was wearing Mrs. Burrows's sunglasses. He looked like the Invisible Man.
    "I can't take much more of this," he said, squatting down to retrieve the groceries. Bartleby padded out from the living room, followed by Auntie Jean, a cigarette perched on her lip. The cat was wearing his newly knitted pants and mohair cardigan, both a strident mix of blues and reds, topped off with a multicolored balaclava from which his scabby ears stuck comically. Bartleby looked like the survivor of an explosion in a Salvation Army shop.
    Cal glanced at the outlandish creature before him, taking in the shocking display of colors, but didn't comment. He appeared to be in the depths of despondency. "This place is full of hate -- you can smell it everywhere." He shook his head slowly.
    "Oh, it is that, love," Auntie Jean said quietly. "Always 'as been."
    "Topsoil isn't what I expected," Cal said. He thought for a moment. "And I can't go home... can I?"
    Will stared back as he searched for something to say to console his brother, some form of words to quell the boy's anxiety, but he was unable to utter a word.
    Auntie Jean cleared her throat, bringing the moment to an end.
    "Suppose this means you're all going?"
    As she stood there in her scruffy old coat, Will saw for the first time how very vulnerable and frail she seemed.
    "I think we are," he admitted.
    "Righto," she said hollowly. She put her hand on Bartleby's neck, tenderly caressing the loose flaps of his skin with her thumb. "You know you're all welcome 'ere -- anytime you want." Her voice became choked, and she turned quickly away from them. "And do bring kitty back wiv you." She shuffled into the kitchen, where they could hear her trying to stifle her sobs as she rattled a bottle against glass.

    * * * * *

    Over the next few days, they planned and planned. Will felt himself growing stronger as he recovered from the illness, his lungs clearing and his breathing returning to normal. They went on shopping expeditions: an army surplus shop yielded gas masks, climbing rope, and a water bottle for each of them; they bought some olf flash camera units in a pawnshop; and, since it was the week after Guy Fawkes's night, several large boxes of remaindered fireworks for the local deli. Will wanted to make sure they were ready for any eventuality, and anything that gave off a bright light might come in useful. They stocked up on food, choosing lightweight but high-energy provisions so as not to weigh themselves down. After the kindness his aunt had shown them, Will felt bad that he was dipping into her grocery money to pay for it all, but he didn't have any alternative.
    They waited until lunchtime to leave Highfield. They donned their now-clean Colonists' clothes and said their good-byes to Auntie Jean, who gave Bartleby a tearful cuddle; then they took the bus into central London and walked the rest of the way to the river entrance.

     

34

    Cal was still pressing a handkerchief to his face and muttering about the "foul gases" as they left BlackfriarsBridge and took the steps down to the