We should be safe down here, far beneath the city. Another night of protection perhaps, but not always of ease. In the tunnels there’s no fresh air, no natural light; only the immense mass of earth above us and the muffled sound of night-time explosions.
People have arranged their makeshift beds along the tracks as usual, lying head to toe. Their coats and hats hang in rows on the curved tunnel wall. Tonight I’ve managed to find a place on the platform, so somewhat lucky if you can call it that. I have my blanket and pillow laid out; a young boy on one side and a lady on the other. I don’t know either, but our paths may cross again. No one expects an end to it anytime soon. I’m not sure what hour it is, but it’s been long already.
It’s difficult to get comfortable. Only the very young and the truly exhausted seem to sleep down here. I’m trying to doze, but my body’s filled with tension which can’t be waylaid. My heart is threatening to burst out. It’s pumping so hard that pins and needles are deadening my left arm. A man crouches down beside me, then. He’s young, as I am. ‘Are you alright, Miss?’
I sit up and gulp on air. ‘Not really.’ Nervousness forces words out unexpectedly. ‘Why’re you still in London, then?’
He pauses, replies quietly. ‘I work down the docks, actually.’
‘Oh, I see. You must be relieved.’
He shrugs. ‘We all carry our own problems.’ Then he hands me a small flask. Shakily, I take a sip; purse my lips as the whisky hits.
‘Better? Good.’ I notice that his eyes are deep brown, like chocolate. Like the chocolate I haven’t tasted for weeks; silver-wrapped children’s treasure. ‘I could see if there’s space on a bunk further up?’
‘Oh no, don’t go to any trouble.’ He smiles and a loose strand of slicked fringe falls across his forehead. As I lean back against the cool wall, he straightens up and moves away. I’m spent; my limbs are sagging. Slowly I turn my head and from the corner of my eye, see him crouched beside another girl. She’s sipping from the same flask. Another lipstick trace added to mine. I wonder if she’ll notice his eyes; if she also yearns for chocolate. And a soft mattress. And sleep. And hands which don’t tremble. And a heartbeat you can’t feel.
He stands again and walks further along, picking his way around settled people; too far for me to see who he tends to next. I close my eyes and listen for distant fire-bursts from the starlit, shattered world.
Christine Collinson writes historical short fiction. She’s a Best Microfiction nominee and her Flash Fiction Collection was shortlisted by Ellipsis Zine in 2020. She’s also been longlisted by Bath Flash Fiction Award and Reflex Flash Fiction. Find Christine at @collinson26.
