Tunnels 01, Tunnels

impossible to talk with all the noise from the speeding engine up ahead, but Will was content just to be reunited with Chester. Will grinned the widest of grins, luxuriating in a wave of relief that his friend was safe. He leaned back against the end panel of the car and shut his eyes, filled with the most intense feeling of elation that, finally, from the throes of the nightmarish situation he'd found himself in, something good had emerged, something had turned out right. Chester was safe! That meant the world to him.
    And to top it all, he was being borne toward his father, on the greatest adventure of his life, on a journey into undiscovered lands. In his mind, Dr. Burrows was the only part of his past life he could cling to. Will was determined that he would find him, wherever he was. And then everything would be all right again. They'd all be all right: he, Chester, and Cal, all together, with his father. This notion shone in his thoughts like the brightest of beacons.
    All of a sudden, the future didn't seem so daunting.
    Will opened his eyes and leaned toward Chester's ear: "No school tomorrow, then!" he shouted.
    They both burst into helpless laughter, which was drowned out by the train as it continued to gather speed, spewing dark smoke behind it, carrying them away from the Colony, away from Highfield, and away from everything they knew, accelerating into the very heart of the earth.

     

Epilogue

    The gentle heat of the sun filtered down on a beautiful day early in the New Year, so balmy it could have been spring. Unobstructed by tall buildings, the perfect blue canvas of the sky was marred only by the specks of gulls falling and rising on thermals in the distance. If it hadn't been for the occasional intrusion of traffic swerving past on the canal-side road, one might have imagined it was somewhere on the coast, perhaps a sleepy fishing village.
    But this was London, and the wooden tables outside the pub were beginning to fill up as the lure of the fine weather became too tempting. Three dark-suited men with the anemic faces of office workers swaggered out through the doors and sat down with their drinks. Leaning over the table, each tried to outdo the other as they talked too loudly and laughed raucously, like squabbling crows. Next to them was a very different group, college students in jeans and faded T-shirts who hardly made any noise at all. The were almost whispering to one another as they supped their beers and rolled the occasional cigarette.
    Alone on a wooden bench in the shade of the building, Reggie sipped his pint, his fourth that lunchtime. He felt slightly woozy, but since he had nothing planned for the afternoon, he'd decided to indulge himself. He took a handful of whitebait from the bowl beside him and munched on the little fish thoughtfully.
    "Hiya, Reggie," one of the barmaids said, her arms full of precariously stacked glasses as she collected the empties.
    "Hi there," he replied hesitantly, never very good at remembering any of the bar staff's names.
    She smiled pleasantly at him, then pushed open the door with her hip as she headed back inside. Reggie had been turning up on and off for years, but he had recently become a firm regular, dropping in nearly every day for his favorites, a bowl of whitebait or cod and chips.
    He was a quiet man who kept to himself. Other than the fact that he was overgenerous with his tips, what made him stand out from the run-of-the-mill customers was his appearance. He had the most striking white hair. Sometimes he wore it like an aging biker, braided into a bleached snake down his back, but on other occasions it ran wild, fluffed up like a newly shampooed poodle. He was never without his heavily tinted sunglasses, whatever the weather, and his clothes were arcane and old-fashioned, as if he had borrowed them from a theatrical costumer. Given his eccentric appearance, the bar staff came to the conclusion that he must be an out-of-work musician, a retired actor, or even an undiscovered artist, of which there were many in the area.
    He leaned back against the wall, sighing contentedly as a slim young girl with a pleasant face and a flowery cotton scarf over her head appeared. Carrying a rattan basket, she went from table to table, trying to sell little sprigs of heather with foil wrapped around their stems. It was a scene that could have been lifted from Victorian times. He grinned, thinking how quaint it was that street gypsies still peddled such