Page 85 of No Man's Land

At last, though, he found himself crawling through the hole in the wall that blocked off the abandoned station at King William Street. There was no sign of pursuit—he tried not to think what might have slowed the ghoul down—but he proceeded carefully, nonetheless. Trying to silence his heaving breaths, he crept into the station. He knew a ghoul had been here, had nested here. He knew it could be hiding in the dark,watching him. Skin prickling, he drew his gun and scanned the blackness for the gleam of dead eyes.

At length, he reached the platform and heaved himself up. His knee stung as he climbed to his feet; so did the palms of his hands. He ignored it, edging along the platform in search of the door they’d entered through.

His torch glowed faintly now, almost useless. But he was nearly there. He felt the papery old advertisements under his fingers as he trailed his hand along the wall. The door was on the right, at the end.

Behind him, something hissed. He spun, caught the gleam of blue eyes and fired. Right between them.

The gunshot ricocheted through the empty station, bouncing off the walls, deafening him.

The ghoul fell backward into the darkness and lay still.

A gunshot to the head will kill a ghoul, Alex had said,especially a newly minted one.

Josef’s heart failed. He dropped the gun, heard it clatter to the floor. “Alex?”

He fell to his knees next to the still body, the glowing ember of torchlight in his hand barely enough to show him what he couldn’t bear to see. What he had to see. Hands shaking, he lifted the torch and let the last of its light play over the dead face—young, handsome, a bullet wound just above the left eye, a private’s uniform, bloodied and gored. One arm was lost below the elbow. A man fresh from the battlefield.

And not Alex.

He felt ashamed by his flood of relief. That this poor boy’s miserable death should bring anyone relief was abhorrent. But it wasn’t Alex. Thank God.

ThankGod.

Josef pushed his aching body back to its feet. The noise of the gunshot must have woken anything sleeping in thesetunnels, and he had no desire to be here when they showed up. Staggering away from the dead man, feeling his way along the wall, he finally found the open door. Slipping through, he pulled it shut behind him, for all the good that would do. He just caught a glimpse of the patterned tiles on the wall before the torch went dark and all he could do was climb and hope.

He’d lost track of time in the dark. When he hammered on the door at the top of the stairs, he was afraid it might be evening, and the shop closed. “Open up!” he shouted. “Open the bloody door!”

Through the thick wood, a man said, “Lake?”

It took him a moment to remember. “Yes!” he shouted back. “Yes, it’s me, Lake! Open the door!”

There followed a ridiculously slow turning of a key in the lock, the drawing back of bolts before the door cracked open and light flooded the stairwell. Josef threw an arm up to protect his eyes. "Hell,” he cursed, pushing through the door and slamming it behind him. Squinting in the brightness—it was still broad daylight—he said, “Lock it. Brace it, too.”

The man—Mr Brooke—looked uncertain. “Where’s Colonel Montague?”

“In trouble,” Josef said, and that was honest enough. “I’m off to get help.”

Brooke looked alarmed. “Are there...? Is the Hun down there?”

Josef almost laughed, felt the hysteria rising and shoved it back down. “What’s down there is dangerous,” he said, “and can’t be allowed to escape. Do you understand?”

“Sappers...”

The second voice came from the other side of the room, and Josef saw the younger clerk standing there on his tin leg. He looked very bleak. “No,” Josef said straight away. “No, nothing like that. You’re safe up here, mate. Don’t you worry. Just keepthat bloody door shut, all right? I’ll be back with...” With what? “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

With that, he left, racing out of the shop and into the bustle of London, surrounded by people who didn’t know that Alex’s life hung in the balance. He felt like screaming it as he ran, heedless of the occasional affronted‘I say!’as he pushed past people in his race for Monument Underground station.

Alex might be under his feet as he ran, he thought.

And then he stopped thinking about that because he couldn’t bear to remember that he’d left him alone and frightened in the dark.

You fucking coward!

When he reached the station, a train was just rattling into the platform and Josef launched himself, breathless, into the third-class carriage. It wasn’t full—there were plenty of seats—and he dropped down into one, bent forward, elbows on knees, catching his breath.

The train pulled away with agonising slowness, plunging back into the dark of the tube tunnels. Not far from Alex, he thought again, he might be able to hear the train. If he could hear anything, if he wasn’t already—

He shot back to his feet, too agitated to sit, and paced towards the doors. In the mirror dark window, he caught a glimpse of himself—hatless and dishevelled. He didn’t remember losing his cap; it must have come off somewhere in the tunnels. A woman, sitting close to the carriage door, stared at him in alarm, looking quickly away when he caught her eye. Glancing down at himself, he saw with surprise that one knee of his trousers was torn and bloody. As he looked, his knee began to sting, or at least he recognised its stinging. Same as his hands, and when he turned them over, he saw that they too were dirty and bloody where he’d skinned his palms. When he’d fallen, he supposed.

---