Peter May - Extraordinary People

Turn left, Samu had said. South. Enzo double-checked with his compass. Of course, now he was facing the other way, and had to turn right. He steadied himself for a moment, then began south along the tunnel. The roof and floor seemed smooth, hacked out of solid bedrock. The walls were made from roughly cut stone bricks. It was narrow, little more than his own width again, and he had to stoop to avoid scraping his helmet on the roof. His breath condensed in white clouds in the lamplight as he pushed on as quickly as he dared. He passed several junctions branching off to east and west. In places the walls had collapsed, and he had to clamber over fallen masonry. Occasionally the tunnel widened, and crude brick columns had been constructed to support the roof. In other places the walls bulged, narrowing to the point where he could barely squeeze himself through.

He stopped frequently to consult his map. He had crossed four junctions, and was certain that the next turn to his right was the one that Samu had marked in red. He must have passed beyond the Luxembourg Gardens by now, and be heading south beneath the Avenue de l’Observatoire. In spite of the cold, he was sweating profusely. His helmet felt hot and uncomfortable and chafed above his ears. His back ached from the constant stoop.

He arrived at the fifth junction. The wall on the east side was partially collapsed, and he had to scramble across the rubble to get into the tunnel heading west. He was certain that this was his turnoff. Almost. But that single, tiny, nagging grain of doubt was enough to completely undermine his confidence. What if it wasn’t? If he got lost, then Kirsty would be lost, too. He forced himself to try to think calmly. He had to trust his judgment, and Samu’s map. And, in any case, Samu had said that if he missed his turn he would come up against the new multi-story car park and know that he had made a mistake. He wondered if, perhaps, he should carry on to that dead-end, just to be sure, and then make his way back to the turnoff. But there wasn’t time. He looked at his watch. He had no idea how long any of this was going to take.

So he headed off west, checking constantly with his compass. The tunnel should start curving to the south-west. But if the compass was to be believed, he seemed to be heading north-west. It was impossible to tell if the tunnel was curving or not. He could not see far enough ahead to make that judgment, and he had to keep his eyes down to avoid tripping over debris or falling into holes.

After several minutes, to his great relief, the tunnel seemed to arc south, just as it did on the map. He passed another opening veering off to his right, turning north this time. He looked at the map. There it was, leading off into a parallel network. He did not want to go that way. According to the plan there should not be any turnoffs on his left. If he hugged the left wall all the way, it should lead him to what Samu had called the roundabout beneath the Rue Auguste Comte.

He had gone, perhaps, twenty or thirty meters when he heard the first bloodcurdling howl. It was almost feral, and it stopped him in his tracks. He could hear the faint thump, thump, thump of distant music. Another shriek. And then laughter. Several voices, whooping and hollering. The music was getting louder, finding form in the dark. He could distinguish now the monotonous rhythm of a repetitive rap track. The thumping of a bass drum, the vibration of a bass guitar. More shrieking. It was getting closer, coming towards him from the direction of the bunker.

Enzo stood rooted to the spot. He had no idea what to do. There was nowhere to go. Maybe they were just kids out for a good time. Maybe they would say hey man , and shake his hand, and go on their way. Now he could see the light of their flashlights beyond a curve in the tunnel. And if he could see theirs, then they could see his.

Suddenly the music went dead, and the lights went out. The silence was absolute. And terrifying. Much worse than the music and the shrieking. He heard the faintest rustling, and then dark shapes moved into the farthest reaches of the beam from his helmet. He saw its light reflected in their eyes as they inched around the curve of the tunnel towards him. Five, six sets of them. They stopped, and there was a short, tense period of assessment, and then they all switched on flashlights and Enzo was momentarily dazzled. Another standoff, before a repetition of the howl which had first alerted Enzo to their presence. Like a bugler trumpeting the command to attack. It sparked off a chorus of shrieks, and their lights came flying towards him like frenzied fireflies. There was clearly going to be no hey man , and shaking of hands. Enzo turned and ran as fast as he could, back the way he had come. But they were younger, faster. It would only be a matter of time before they caught him.

He saw the rubble gathered around the north turn he had passed moments earlier, and he slithered over it into the turnoff. He fumbled for the switch on his helmet and turned off the light. A wall of blackness smothered him before his eyes adjusted to the reflected lights of the youths streaming in his wake. They were just out of sight beyond the turnoff. Enzo scrambled forward, tripping and stumbling, and almost fell into another turnoff on his left. He groped his way around a support column and felt where the wall had collapsed to create a shallow recess. He climbed over the rock-fall and rolled into it. He felt around for a sharp piece of rock that would fit into his hand, and pressed himself against the stone, trying to stop his breath from grating in his throat.

The light grew stronger and he could see out into the tunnel now. It was narrower than the others, and its walls were in a poor state of repair. The pursuing voices had gone quiet, but Enzo could hear them breathing and whispering. The beams of several flashlights shone down his tunnel, beyond his hiding place, criss-crossing, searching out every crevice and rock-fall. There was a brief, whispered discussion, and then the flashlights carried on along the top passage, until gradually their light faded completely and silence returned to the catacombes .

Enzo did not stir for nearly two minutes, until he was certain that they were not coming back. Then, cautiously, he eased himself out into the tunnel. He felt for the switch on his helmet and turned on the light. The face caught full in its beam was that of a young man with a completely shaven head. He had a deep scar through his left eyebrow, and black smeared like war paint across either cheek. He opened his mouth to yell as he raised a baseball bat above his head. Enzo smashed him full in the face with the rock he still held in his hand. He both heard and felt the breaking of bone, and saw blood spurting in the lamplight. His attacker folded at the knees and pitched forward face-first. Enzo had no idea how much damage he had done, but he was not going to wait to find out. He picked up the baseball bat where it had tumbled among the fallen stones and scrambled out into the main tunnel, turning right, and right again, hoping that he was accurately retracing the steps he had taken just minutes before. He ran as fast as he could, semi-crouched, shoulders glancing off the tunnel walls as he propelled himself forward into the darkness.

Even as he ran panic was setting in. What if he had turned the wrong way? Supposing he was heading north instead of south? Or east. He might be anywhere. He was sure he had passed this stretch of collapsed wall before. The tunnel narrowed here and took a jagged turn. It all seemed horribly familiar. He stopped running, and leaned against the wall to catch his breath, searching in his pocket for his maps. And then his heart nearly stopped. He could only find two. The bunker, and the Reseau des Chartreux. His Luxembourg map was gone. He remembered it had been in his hand when he first encountered the rappers. What had he done with it? He tried to think. In his panic he must have dropped it somewhere. ‘Fuck!’ he shouted at the top of his voice, but his cry of despair was choked off by the weight of the city above him. He dropped his face into his hands and screwed his eyes closed and wanted to weep.