Tunnels 01, Tunnels

wasn't just because of the chill wind, but because she was about to be delivered to what she considered one of the worst places in the world.
    By now, the social worker had given up pressing the grimy doorbell and had started knocking loudly. There was still no reply, but the sound of the television could clearly be heard from within. She knocked again, more insistently this time, and stopped as she finally heard the sound of coughing and a woman's strident voice from the other side of the door.
    "All right, all right, for gawd's sake, giv' us a chance!"
    The social worker turned to Rebecca and tried to smile reassuringly. She only managed something approaching a pitying grimace.
    "Looks like she's in."
    "Oh, good," Rebecca said sarcastically, picking up her two small suitcases.
    They waited in awkward silence as, with much fumbling, the door was unlocked and the chain removed, accompanied by mutterings and curses and punctuated by intermittent coughing. The door finally swung open, and a significantly disheveled middle-aged woman, cigarette hanging down from her bottom lip, looked the social worker up and down suspiciously.
    "What's this all about?" she asked, one eye squinting from the smoke streaming from her cigarette, which twitched with all the vigor of a conductor's baton as she spoke.
    "I've brought you niece, Mrs. Boswell," the social worker announced, indicating Rebecca standing beside her.
    "You what?" the woman said sharply, shedding ash on the social worker's immaculate shoes. Rebecca cringed.
    "Don't you remember... we spoke on the phone yesterday?"
    The woman's watery gaze settled on Rebecca, who smiled and leaned forward a little to come within her limited field of vision.
    "Hello, Auntie Jean," she said, doing her best to smile.
    "Rebecca, my love, of course, yes, look at you, 'aven't you grown. Quite the young lady." Auntie Jean coughed and opened the door fully. "Yes, come in, come in, I've got something on the boil." She turned and shuffled back into the small hallway, leaving Rebecca and the social worker to survey the haphazard piles of curling newspapers stacked along the walls, and the huge number of unopened letters and pamphlets littering the filthy carpet. Everything was covered with a fine film of dust, and the corners of the hallway were festooned with cobwebs. The whole place stank of Auntie Jean's cigarettes. The social worker and Rebecca stood in silence until the social worker, as if pulling herself out of a trance, abruptly bade Rebecca good-bye and good luck. She seemed in a great haste to leave, and Rebecca watched her as she made for the stairs, pausing on the way to glance at the elevator doors as if she was hoping that by some miracle it was back in service and she weren't facing the long trek down.
    Rebecca gingerly entered the apartment and followed her aunt into the kitchen.
    "I could do with some 'elp in 'ere," Auntie Jean said, picking out a packet of cigarettes from among the debris on the table.
    Rebecca surveyed the tawdry vision that lay before her. Shafts of sunlight cut through the ever-present fog of cigarette smoke that hung around her aunt like a personal storm cloud. She wrinkled her nose as she caught the acid taint of yesterday's burned food lacing the air.
    "If you're going to be staying in my gaff," her aunt said through a fit of coughing, "you're going to 'ave to pull your weight."
    Rebecca didn't move; she feared any motion, however slight, would result in her being covered in the grime that coated every surface.
    "C'mon, Becs, put down your bags, roll up your sleeves. You can start by putting the kettle on." Auntie Jean smiled as she sat down at the kitchen table. She lit a fresh cigarette from the old one before stubbing out its glowing stump directly on the Formica tabletop, completely missing the overflowing ashtray.

    * * * * *

    The interior of the Jerome household was surprisingly rich and comforting, with subtly patterned carpets, burnished wood surfaces, and walls of deep greens and burgundies. Cal took Will's backpack from him and set it down by a small table on which an oil lamp with an opaque glass shade stood on a creamy linen doily.
    "In here," Cal said, indicating that Will should follow him through the first door leading off the hallway. "This is the drawing room," he announced proudly.
    The atmosphere in the room was warm and muggy, with tiny gusts of fresh air coming from a dirt-encrusted grille above where they now stood. The ceiling was