Tunnels 04, Closer

dead, too. As far as he knew, he was the only survivor, saved by help from a most unexpected quarter.
    "Drink... need a drink," he mumbled, trying to push these thoughts from his mind. He didn't feel he deserved to be alive. The terrible loss of all these people, for which he and he alone felt responsible, was too much for him. Smacking his lips, he put the lamp on the bed and shambled toward the window in the unknown room.
    "What the hell?" he exclaimed as he threw open the blinds. He screwed up his eyes, his headache exacerbated by the daylight flooding the room. He was completely flummoxed as he took in the view. From a height of three or four stories, he was peering straight down on a stretch of the Thames, while in the distance the sun hung brightly over CanaryWharf.
    He spun around to inspect the room. It was spacious, the scarlet walls adorned with ornate, gilded frames in which there were old military prints, mostly of soldiers from the Crimean War. And in addition to the double bed there was a desk and a wardrobe, all of a dark wood, which could have been mahogany. It suggested to him a room in a hotel, and an expensive one at that.
    "I've died and gone to Hilton," he muttered to himself, wondering if there was a mini bar tucked away somewhere in the corner of the room. He needed a drink to anaesthetize himself, to stop the perpetual self-recriminations that he'd let so many people down. He glanced at the closed door but didn't make a move toward it, instead turning back to the window and propping his forehead against the cool glass. Sighing heavily, his bloodshot eyes traced the progress of a police launch as it headed upriver, toward where he knew TowerBridge would be.
    There was a knock at the door.
    Drake straightened up.
    The door opened and his rescuer from Highfield Common entered the room, a glass in his hand. He'd told Drake he was a former Limiter, one of the soldiers from the elite Styx regiment, which had a reputation for unadulterated ruthlessness.
    It was strange to see one of these sinew-thin and savage killers completely out of context, and dressed in a grey-check sports jacket, flannel trousers and brown brogues. Despite his condition, Drake managed a smile. "Ah, my very own personal Styx," he said, then waved his hand to indicate the room. "Cool place you've got here."
    The Limiter's voice was nasal, and the way he spoke was rather clipped and old-fashioned. "Yes, I have several homes around London, but I prefer to spend my days here."
    Drake swiveled toward the window again. "Bet the others don't have views like this." He fell silent for a second, then turned back to the Limiter. "So that's how I got here. You pulled me out of that bar last night. Do you think you're my Guardian Angel or something?" The Limiter didn't reply as he passed the glass to Drake, who sniffed at it. "Neat orange juice?" he said, with a fleeting look of disappointment, then took a slug of it. "But it's good, just the same," he exhaled as the liquid hit his jaded taste buds.
    "It's fresh," the Limiter said.
    Kneading the bridge of his nose, Drake tried to order his thoughts. "I know you feel you owe me because I looked out for Elliott, but -- really -- we're quits now. You saved my hide back there on the Common. You've done your bit, and we're all square."
    The Limiter nodded. "Yes, I'm grateful for the help you gave my daughter. She wouldn't have lasted long on her own. The Deeps are a dangerous place -- I know that only too well from my tours down there," he said, as he sat on the end of the bed. "But..." he tailed off.
    "But what?" Drake rumbled, his patience growing thin as his headache continued to thump inside his cranium.
    "If you don't pull yourself together, Drake, my people will get to you. They will neutralize you," the Limiter said dispassionately, switching off the lamp that Drake had left on the bed, as if to emphasize the point.
    Drake cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I don't make a habit of getting smashed like that... like last night. It was a one-off."
    "Seems as though you've been having quite a few one-offs recently," the Limiter said under his breath. "You know that after the barman refused to serve you, you were abusive to him. You were shouting at him, calling him a Styx. Everyone in that place heard you."
    Drake grimaced at this, but then became defensive. "What I choose to do with my time is my business. If I want to..." he said, then stopped, wondering why he was making the effort to