Tunnels 05 - Spiral

door on her left. “But it’s clean.”
    “Clean?” the young woman said, sounding slightly offended.
    “What Celia means is that the boiler’s functioning properly and the problem’s not in there,” Drake explained.
    “The sitting room is to the right,” Celia continued. “There’s a gas fire in the hearth, but it hasn’t been used for at least a year. It’s one of the older models with a ceramic grille, and faux wood panels at either end.”
    “That’s right!” the young woman burst out. “My husband says it’s too expensive to use it, and we’ve got to get a replacement. But how do you know what it looks like?”
    “She’s one of the best Noses in the country,” Drake said. “You see — she’s only just getting into her stride.”
    Celia flicked her shifting eyes to the top of the staircase. “Airing cupboard at the back of the landing, with a lagged cylinder,” she went on. “Three bedrooms — the main with two radiators, and two smaller bedrooms each with a single radiator.”
    “Right again,” the young woman gasped.
    “And . . . ,” Celia began, then stopped. Drake moved aside as she went to a narrow set of drawers up against the wall, on top of which were several pairs of gloves and a child’s hat. Celia got down on one knee and felt underneath. She pulled something out, barely glancing at it as she passed it to the young woman, who took it gingerly. “. . . the remains of a rusk,” Mrs. Burrows finished. “Nothing to worry about — the bread dried out a long time ago, when your son threw it there, but it smells of mouse. One came in from the garden and had a nibble, and you don’t want to encourage that.”
    “No, I don’t,” the woman said emphatically, as she held the rock-hard piece of rusk between her thumb and forefinger to examine it. “Yes, you’re absolutely right. There are small nibbles here at the end.” She looked at Mrs. Burrows with renewed fascination. “You’re like a circus act or something!” The young woman straightaway realized that this might have been rather insulting to Mrs. Burrows, and began to apologize.
    Drake held up his hand. “Don’t worry — we get it all the time. A lot of people react the same way you have,” he assured her.
    Mrs. Burrows’s brows formed a deep V. “The real problem is in the cellar,” she said, pointing at the door. “And it’s a Category One. It’s critical.”
    “What’s a Category One?” the young lady asked.
    “Not good news, I’m afraid,” Drake said. “Major fracture of the supply line — probably due to ground freeze. It’s likely to have been spewing gas down there for some time, and into” — Drake swallowed as if he could barely bring himself to utter the next words — “into an
enclosed
space
.”
    “Yes, I’d say the fault’s been active for thirty . . . no . . . thirty-five hours,” Mrs. Burrows informed him, sniffing randomly.
    Drake whistled. “Blooming heck! That long?” He whirled around to the woman. “Look, madam, you have to leave the property right now. Our insurance doesn’t cover us for customer fatalities. Please just gather your coat and what you need, and get away from here — well away. And don’t operate anything electrical — even a cell phone could set off the gas down there and blow us all into the next century.” He looked at Mrs. Burrows. “We’ll have to make the cellar a containment area and flush it out before we can even start to think about digging down to the fault.” Then he turned back to the young lady again. “I need a set of house keys and a number where I can reach you. I’ll let you know the moment it’s safe to return.”
    “Of course. Anything you say,” the woman replied. “I’ll be at my mother’s. And thank you for coming so quickly.”
    As Will and Elliott watched the proceedings through the back window of the van, the woman hurriedly left the house, pausing only to scribble down a telephone number for Drake. Then she tore down the street, throwing the odd glance over her shoulder as if it might be the last time she’d ever see the place.
    As Will’s breath left condensation on the glass, he wiped it away with his sleeve so he could see his old home clearly. “Number 16 Broadlands Avenue. I used to live there,” he said distantly, as if trying to convince himself. He pressed his finger against the window and pointed, directing Elliott’s attention to the upper floor. “So weird . . . that’s the Rebeccas’