Long before he had expected to, his hand found the cellar wall. Oh well, that had gone much more quickly than the outward journey. He put his hands out, still unable to see. Where was the hole?
He felt along the wall. Where was it? He shifted his body to try and let the light from the airbricks past. A tail swished in front of his face. Where was the hole?
He saw more light over to the right-hand side. That wasn’t the cellar but it was better than nothing. Maybe it was more airbricks.
He pulled himself over to them.
The ground was becoming slimy again. He stopped and thought for a moment. He’d gone round in a circle. It was the same airbricks he’d found before. There was the same damp patch with the marks where he’d turned round. Now he was losing his sense of direction.
The rain pattered on outside, mocking him, as if to say, It’s all out here, you just have to work out how to reach it.
He let his head sink onto his forearms. What could he do now?
He might have stayed there and given up if the smell hadn’t been so disgusting. He lifted his head again. Think, he told himself. You’ve had a panic, but that’s over now. There must be a way to get out.
In the light from the airbricks Ben could see that his hands and the sleeves of the Burberry were caked in mud. Wet slimy mud and drier earth from the area nearer the cellar.
That set a spark off inside his head. The ground near the front of the building was wet. Near the back, the cellar entrance, it was dry. He could get back to the cellar wall if he kept feeling for dry ground.
He squirmed round again. He felt a rat’s whiskers tickling his cheek, its body solid, like a furry tennis ball. He tried to ignore it and concentrate on the task at hand.
He would do this systematically. He would pull himself forwards on his elbows, then check the ground. One pull, then he checked. Yes, it was drier. Another pull forwards. A burger wrapper stuck to his hands. He shook it off and scrunched it into a ball, then felt the ground. Dry. He was going in the right direction. Now he was using his brains: he was going to beat this.
It was then that Ben noticed the light coming from the right-hand side. It was fainter than the light from the air brick at the front, which was probably why he hadn’t seen it before now.
He weighed up the options. Light was more promising than no light. He squirmed over to it.
It was a hole — a round tunnel of some kind like a sewage pipe, with a smooth inner surface, but big enough to get his shoulders into. Which meant the rest of him would go in too. The light wasn’t directly ahead but reflecting off the wet inner surface of the tunnel. Several rats came down it, their claws skittering on the surface. He waved his arms and they turned and shot away, back the way they came.
Why hadn’t he thought about that before? The rats must have found a way in somehow, and they couldn’t have come through the airbricks.
He squeezed into the space. A purple cable ran along one side. After the dank squalor of the crawl space the purple plastic was a reassuring connection with the civilized world. The light was dim but definite, and such a relief.
Ben noticed that the bottom of the pipe was covered in a thin sheen of mud. More rats came along and sniffed at his fingers and then his face. He didn’t want to open his mouth with them so close so he blew out through his teeth at them and made a strange humming noise to scare them away.
His elbows began to feel tighter against his sides. His shoulders too. He had to hunch his head down more.
The space seemed to be getting smaller, or was it his imagination? Would it get too small for him? Would he get stuck in the tunnel?
Maybe he should have gone out through the cellar. Now he might not be able to get back at all.
Suddenly a breeze of fresh air stirred Ben’s hair. Water was trickling down the tunnel, making a pattern in the silt along the bottom. It must be coming from outside. And it was definitely lighter or he wouldn’t have been able to see that. He must be nearly out.
He felt air move above his head again. Cautiously he looking up, fearful of banging into the roof.
Then he realized there was no roof. Above his head was rain and air. He could see the sky and scaffolding. He was in a building site.
But it wasn’t a way out. The hole in the tunnel was only about twenty centimetres long, not nearly big enough to get through. The tunnel was composed of half-cylinder sections and one of them had been lifted so that the cables could be fed in.
Ben pushed at the other segments but they were securely cemented in place and he couldn’t get enough leverage to move them. He called out. His cries rang around the walls but no one came. All he could do was look at the big empty space above him and feel the rain on his face, as if he was stuck in a bizarre open coffin.
Chapter Twenty-two
The policeman was on his way back to the entrance of St Paul’s Cathedral, carrying cups of tea for himself and Canon Victor Dibben. Out in the streets, car alarms and burglar alarms sang. A double-decker bus stood at the top of Ludgate Hill, abandoned. A few metres away, the river lapped at the bottom steps. St Paul’s was on a hill and had just escaped the flooding. Now it was full of people taking refuge inside.
As the policeman rounded the corner and started up the steps, he saw that the Canon was speaking to a man outside the entrance.
‘Come inside,’ he was urging him. ‘It’s warm.’
‘I don’t need to come in,’ said the man in a Spanish accent. ‘I just need to get to Charing Cross Station. Where is it, please?’
It was more than an hour since Rebro had shut down and the policeman’s radio was no longer functioning. The CCTV cameras in the area would have lost power long ago. Moreover, he’d lost his partner. He felt very alone.
Especially now — for he suddenly realized that there was something very strange about that man asking Canon Dibben for directions.
His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his checked coat, and he looked as if he must have been walking for a long time: his black hair was plastered against his head, his clothes soaked.
Nothing unusual about that — so what was it that was making the policeman’s instincts prickle?
From the interior of the great building came the sound of several hundred people, talking softly, moving around. Crowds of them had come in to shelter from the rain, but this man was asking for directions to Charing Cross Station. Was that what was odd, that he preferred to remain outside? Everyone else who had staggered up the steps had been exhausted, seeking only warmth and something to eat.
Then it hit him — and he automatically tried to contact his station on the radio before he remembered he couldn’t: it wasn’t working. He was sure that a picture of the man the Canon was talking had been circulated around the stations that morning. He was José Xavier, a Basque separatist terrorist who had been arrested last night along with his accomplice, Francisco Gomez. The two of them had been taken to separate police stations to await transfer to the high-security station in Paddington Green for questioning.
But if it was indeed Xavier, where were his handcuffs? Maybe he had escaped before they had managed to cuff him.
The policeman decided to stay out of sight and went back down the steps. If the terrorist saw his uniform, Canon Dibben might be put in danger.
The Canon was still talking to the terrorist. ‘We have hot tea and biscuits inside,’ he told him. ‘Are you sure you won’t have some? You must be exhausted.’
The terrorist did look for a moment as though the thought of food might tempt him in. Go on, José, the policeman willed him. You need food. Have some food. Then I’ve got you.