Steve Jackson - The Mentor

‘Who the hell are you?’ The firefighter gave Aston the once over, moustache twitching.

‘Paul Hester.’ It was the first name that came into his head.

‘Haven’t seen you before.’

‘I’m based in Watford,’ Aston said. ‘Brought in to help out.’

‘One of Blackie’s boys.’

‘That’s right.’

Aston didn’t have a clue who Blackie was, but if the Viking wanted to believe he was one of Blackie’s boys then that was fine with him. There was a long silence, long enough for Aston to think the Viking was testing him and he’d just screwed up big time, then: ‘Okay Hester, some of the lads are clearing a cave-in on one of the exit tunnels for the westbound platform of the Piccadilly Line. They could do with an extra pair of hands. Do you think you can find them okay or do you want me to draw a map?’

‘I’ll find them,’ Aston said.

‘Good lad.’ The Viking marched off through the barriers and Aston breathed a sigh of relief. That had been way too close for comfort.

He reached the long escalator and stared down into the depths. The bottom was there somewhere, hidden in the gloom. Light bulbs had been strung up along one side, their weak glow reaching for the far wall and not quite making it. He chose the escalator nearest the bulbs, picking his way carefully from step to step, moving through alternating patches of light and shadow, his heart hammering in his chest. He half expected the escalator to suddenly burst into life, calliope music huffing and puffing through the gloom and multicoloured lights flashing luridly, like something from a fairground House of Horrors.

The further down he went, the hotter and stuffier it got. Aston unzipped the bulky coat, wafted it a couple of times, but it made no difference. He sucked in a long, whistling, asthmatic breath, grabbing what little oxygen he could. How the hell did firefighters deal with this day in and day out? Maybe it was one of those things you became acclimatised to.

At the bottom of the escalator, he pulled out the industrial-sized torch, clicked it on. There was even less air here and Aston fought back the panic, stomped it down with rationality. Walking through the tunnels was a surreal experience; the darkness made them unrecognisable. The occasional advert would catch in the torch beam – a book, a movie, a London attraction not to be missed – glimpses of the familiar, but, for the most part, the landscape was completely alien. Every now and again a face would come at him out of the dark. Paramedics mainly, stretchering the injured and the dead to the surface. Aston jumped each time it happened. Although he knew differently, it felt like he was the only person inhabiting this strange universe.

Half a dozen firemen were working on the cave-in, using their hands to remove the rubble piece by piece. They worked in silence to conserve energy; they worked methodically in case they came across a survivor trapped in a debris cave; they worked carefully, the possibility of another collapse hanging over them like the sword of Damocles. A halogen lamp had been set up, its beam bouncing off the blockage. Muddy water from a burst main sluiced around Aston’s feet. He followed the lead of the nearest firefighter, the two of them working side by side. They made a pile of rubble behind them, the larger chunks they carried together. Within no time Aston was drenched in sweat. It trickled down his forehead, into his eyes, blinding him. Every five minutes or so one of the firefighters would shout for everyone to stop. Another would use an infra-red scanner to probe the debris and everyone would hold their breath, praying for a miracle.

The sight of the doll’s leg poking out from the rubble broke Aston’s heart; somehow it brought home the full horror of what had happened here. The people who’d died today had been innocents, none more so than the children. Sweating and groaning, he’d hefted a large slab out the way, and there it was, a glimpse of dirty pink cotton. Aston dropped to his knees, his lungs suddenly packed with ice despite the heavy heat down here. He knew what he was seeing, but the rational part of his brain wouldn’t let him admit the truth. Do that and he’d have to get out, start running and keep going until he reached the surface. It wasn’t that he was weak, it was just that sometimes you needed a little denial to keep you functioning. Aston concentrated on his breathing, forcing the hot, filthy air into his chest, melting the ice – in, out, in, out – then he went to work. With the utmost care he excavated the doll, working in silence, totally absorbed by the task. He had no awareness of anything going on around him. The sounds of the firefighters working, their harsh breathing and tense shouted whispers, the coldness of the water, the sharp stab of the halogens, none of this registered. Down on his hands and knees he dug into the rubble, dirt and grime grinding into his baby-soft skin; his hands were conditioned to the smoothness of plastic, telephones and computer keyboards, not the grim reality of manual labour. The sharp grit got onto his skin, into his skin, under his skin, abrasive right down to the bone. He looked at his hands, and barely recognised them. They were pruned from the water and the damp dirt, black as a miner’s. There was red mixed in there, too. Blood. He couldn’t feel any pain, couldn’t see any cuts; his hands were numb, the injuries belonging to someone else. Aston began digging again, carefully, reverentially. Through the dirt and sweat he saw the pink Babygro with Mummy’s Little Princess on the front. Saw the mangled bloody face. He lifted the doll out, knowing that once upon a time she had been alive – breathing, laughing and loving – but unable to admit this to himself. Not yet. Not ever. So, even though the limbs felt like they were made from jelly rather than plastic, he told himself again it was just a doll, and although he knew differently he kept telling himself it was a doll, only a doll, because that was the one thing keeping him sane right now, the one thing keeping him from falling apart. But denial could only carry you so far, and Aston could feel reality creeping in. He tried to push it back, but it was too late. Fingers moving as though they had a mind of their own, he reached out and fussed her hair, stroked her cheek. Flesh instead of plastic. No point lying to himself anymore. The full horror crashed in on him all at once and he was powerless to stop the flood. He was a lone figure holding his hands up to pacify the raging torrent; there one moment, and then washed away and destroyed the next.

Aston cradled the baby in his arms, the tiny broken face resting gently against his chest, and moved deeper into the tunnel, away from the harsh halogen glare. Still holding her tight to his chest, he slid down a wall. Then the tears came and he wept. He knew that from this moment on nothing would ever be the same.

There were seven missed calls on the Batphone when Aston got back above ground. He steeled himself then hit redial.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Mac demanded. ‘Why haven’t you called?’

Aston explained that he’d been a couple of hundred feet underground and it was difficult to get a signal. He hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, but that’s how Mac took it. When Mac calmed down, Aston attempted to fill him in. He didn’t get far.

‘Shut up and listen. You think I’ve just been hanging around with my dick in my hand waiting for you to call? Is that it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Too bloody right. If I spent my life waiting for you, I’d never get anywhere. While you’ve been off gallivanting I’ve been working my arse off trying to figure out what the hell’s going on.’

Gallivanting , Aston stopped himself from saying.