Крис Бекетт - Spring Tide

‘I’ll do it,’ Cheryl said. There was no signal down there, so she climbed up the stairs again to Mr Burnet’s living room and stepped out of the front door to make the call. It was good to see the daylight and hear the sound of traffic on the main road nearby.

Four neighbours were standing out there now. Several more were watching from their own front gates up and down the street. They all searched Cheryl’s face for clues.

‘Is he…?’

‘We haven’t found him yet. Do all these houses have cellars?’

‘Cellars, no. We don’t have a cellar.’

‘Us neither. I don’t think anyone has one on this street. I’ve never heard of one.’

Soon two whole van-loads of police arrived, along with an ambulance, while a second patrol car brought a uniformed inspector to take charge. Blue lights flashed importantly and Mr Burnet’s house was quickly separated from the everyday world by a magical strip of blue and white tape. Yet what was the emergency? A missing man, and a cellar of implausible magnitude!

A small crowd was beginning to form. Passers-by from the main road at the end of the street saw that something was going on and came wandering up, with a slightly furtive air, to find out more. Several police officers remained outside the house to enforce that stripy blue boundary, while the inspector, a sergeant, a dozen other police officers and two paramedics accompanied Cheryl back into Mr Burnet’s living room, and down those strange concrete stairs.

‘I had a quick look further down,’ Pradeep told them when they joined him in a well-lit corridor, three flights of stairs below the surface. ‘Two storeys down actually. It’s exactly the same as this on the next two levels – doors, corridors, lights – and the staircase carries on down even after that. I don’t know what’s going on here, but—’

‘ Mr Burnet? ’ the inspector interrupted him, cupping his hands round his mouth. ‘Mr Burnet? It’s the police! Are you alright?’ There was a long deep echo and then a silence, which all of them felt a vague need to cover up with activity and talk.

‘It must have been here a long time, or people would—’

‘I thought I’d seen some pretty weird things in my time, but—’

‘Let’s try some of these rooms,’ the inspector said.

Several officers began opening doors in the corridors. Most of the rooms were completely empty, their white walls and grey lino as pristine as if they had yet to be used. One had a bucket and a mop inside it, another an empty water bottle. Oddly, each door had a blank yellow post-it note stuck to it.

Cheryl glanced at Pradeep. ‘Inspector, why don’t myself and Pradeep find out just how far down the stairs go?’

The inspector shrugged. Of course he had no more idea of what they were dealing with than anyone else. One of his staff back at the station had made a call to the MOD to ask if this was a nuclear bunker or some such, unlikely as that seemed; others had called the city’s planning department, the land registry and a well-known local historian, but no one knew anything about it. There was no record of Mr Burnet’s house having any kind of cellar at all, and it had stood there since 1923.

‘Sure, why not,’ the inspector said. ‘Go down to the bottom and report back. If you see anything that worries you on the way, just come straight back up. Meanwhile we’ll begin a room by room search of each level from the top down.’

Cheryl and Pradeep counted twenty-two storeys before they finally reached a floor where there were no more stairs going down. Well-lit corridors radiated out from the staircase as they’d done on all of the other twenty-one floors.

‘Okay,’ Cheryl said, ‘so this—’

‘Cheryl, look!’ Pradeep interrupted.

A couple of metres into one of the corridors, the lino had been torn back and there was a hole with lumps and crumbs of rubble scattered around it. Feeling very isolated suddenly, very aware that all their colleagues were twenty-one storeys above them, and that all the levels in between were silent and empty, the two police officers crept towards the hole and peered down. It had been roughly cut through over a metre of rock or concrete. There was an aluminium ladder propped up in it, fully extended to a length of about four metres, and its feet were standing in another corridor below them, which looked just like the one they were in.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ murmured Cheryl.

‘I’ll call the inspector, right?’

‘You won’t get a signal.’

‘We’d better go up and tell him, then, yeah?’

‘Up twenty-one flights of stairs? For him to ask us what’s down the ladder, and why didn’t we look? Wouldn’t it be better to check it out first? Mr Burnet’s down there, I’m sure of it.’

Pradeep nodded. He leant over the hole. ‘Mr Burnet? It’s the police. We’re just here to see if you’re alright.’

All around them, above, below and on every side, huge empty spaces devoured the sound of Pradeep’s human voice – small, sentient, anxious – and turned it back into something pure and inanimate and eternal, like the boom of wind in a deserted canyon, or the echo of a rockfall on Mars.

‘Come on,’ said Cheryl. ‘Let’s get this over with. I don’t like ladders.’

There were more stairs again down there. They descended another twenty-two storeys, with the same four corridors radiating out from the staircase on each level. Down at the bottom, they found another roll of ripped lino, another hole with a ladder in it, and another corridor beneath. It was as if a row of office blocks had been plucked up from the centre of a city and buried, not side by side, but in a stack, one above the other.

‘Right,’ said Pradeep firmly. ‘So now we get the inspector.’

‘If you want to climb forty-four storeys,’ said Cheryl, ‘be my guest, Prad. But surely it’s obvious that Mr Burnet is still somewhere below us?’

They found him at the bottom of the third block, almost seventy storeys below the surface. He’d been at work on another hole – it was nearly half a metre deep – and his pneumatic drill lay nearby, along with a diesel generator and an empty fuel can. Burnet himself was slumped against a wall, bearded and emaciated, his clothes filthy, his lips dry and cracked.

Cheryl squatted beside him to feel his pulse. ‘Mr Burnet? Jeremy?’

His eyes flickered briefly and closed again. One of his hands moved slightly. He was alive, but whether he was conscious or not was hard to tell. When Cheryl took his hand, the fingers seemed to make some effort to close over hers, but perhaps that was just a reflex.

‘I’ll stay with him,’ she said. ‘You get up there. We’ll need water – he’s very dehydrated – and some way of getting him safely up through the holes. Take it steady on those stairs, though, Prad. Sixty-six floors is a lot to climb, even at your age.’

As Pradeep began the ascent, she turned back to Jeremy Burnet. Why had he tried to keep this place a secret? Surely it would be obvious to anyone, as it had been to her and Pradeep, that just the business of being here at all was a task that required a whole team?

‘What were you thinking of, Jeremy? Why didn’t you tell anyone? No one should keep a thing like this to themselves.’

She glanced at the hole he’d been making when he finally collapsed.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And what on earth were you looking for down here? What did you hope to find?’

Thirty or forty onlookers stood out in the street now, beyond the blue and white tape. Several more patrol cars had arrived with lights flashing, along with an outside broadcast van from a local TV station.

A hush descended as the paramedics emerged with the stretcher. Revived somewhat by water and glucose, Jeremy couldn’t move his head much because he’d been tightly strapped in to keep him safe while he was being manoeuvred through the holes and up the stairs, but he could hear the people out there murmuring to one another, and the crackling voices from the police radios, and the traffic passing on the main road nearby. He raised a tentative hand in greeting and, to his surprise, there was a cheer from the crowd in response.