Monument To Somewhere
Nick couldn’t believe this was how the day was ending.
Monument to Bank was a grim schlep at the best of times, but now, late on a Thursday night - nearly a Friday morning - it took on an added layer of misery.
When Stuart had phoned him, five minutes before 5pm, he knew his evening was going to be totally derailed. Five past five, Angela had called. 10 to seven, Marisha. Half past eight, Stuart again, this time in a cab on his way to Dusseldorf. And so the pattern continued through the night until his phone finally fell silent at around quarter to 11, once he had uploaded the files he had been working on and sent an email to confirm it to Stuart and Angela and Marisha.
And then, once he had got his jacket on and turned everything off on his floor, he left for the station, only to find half the lines were down and the journey home would include the most miserable trudge between two stations.
Of course, on the map it looks close, but the reality is different. A five-minute subterranean scramble - up and down and under and around. A long, tedious corkscrew descent into the belly of London and back out the other side.
And then there’s always the people. Arguably the worst part of any journey through London. Meanderthals were what Nick hated most. That’s what he called them. Tourists or hen-doers or stag nights or just people with less impetus than those behind them. As much as they were annoying in their slow pace, it was their lack of purpose or momentum that really got to Nick. Did they not have places to be or things to do? Did they not long for a well-deserved pint in their local? Or their bed? Or someone else’s bed for that matter?
But as he started on the drop down into the bowels of the conjoined stations and the air started to grow thick and muggy, he noticed the crowd was thinning out. In fact, as he entered the round gaping maw of the next tunnel, he had a sudden sense that he was very much alone. The clatter of heels on tiles had gone, the low rumble of strained, breathless conversations had evaporated.
All that was left was the electric hum of the lights, with percussion from his own footsteps and breathing.
A sudden gust pushed past Nick.
His skin temporarily prickled.
“Must be from one of the platforms, where a train has swept the air up through the tunnels,” he thought to himself as he shrugged and pushed his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, instinctively feeling for his keys and his phone as he did so.
The clack of his own footsteps drew him further through the passageway, flanked by already-frayed posters for the latest west end shows. Each boasted a bigger, brighter celebrity turn in the lead role, and each had less and less appeal to Nick.
He didn’t want to watch some B-lister from Eastenders and a washed-up pop star bicker their way through Pinter, no matter how many stars the Metro had given it.
His muscle memory of the journey drew him forward, but an uneasy feeling was creeping into the back of Nick’s mind, as if he wasn’t walking in the right direction, even though he was following the same path and -
He turned back to look over his shoulder.
The tunnel yawned behind him and, no, there were no side passages he had missed.
He was still going the right way.
He had to be.
As Nick continued down the tiled corridor he started to bear down on a sweeping corner, the curve of the walls naturally bringing Nick’s eyes to rest on the glint of a safety mirror at its apex.
The relative brightness and glare of the mirror against the grimy tiles and concrete drew his attention further with each step, and as he got closer, his eyes searched for a view of the otherwise unseen tunnel that bent round to his left.
The mirror gleamed like a silver pool under the glow of the fluorescent lights as Nick approached and the closer he got, the more he could pick out. There were no fellow commuters in sight, but as the contorted, cartoonish image began to make more sense, he could see the sooty tidemarks that streaked down the tunnel floor and the tatty posters hanging off the walls but then there was a weird crusty grey smear close to the centre of the mirror that…
Nick stopped in his tracks.
The smear on the mirror.
It couldn’t have done, but, well, it looked like it moved…
He squinted up at the mirror.
Nick’s own heartbeat filled his ears.
He held his breath.
And then, the smear wriggled, unfurling itself and, from its true position on the tunnel floor, stretched out towards the corner.
Towards Nick.
Nick wanted to run, he wanted to go anywhere but towards that, but he simply couldn’t move, rooted to the spot by the unfamiliar weight of a stomach-deep, primordial terror.
His eyes darted from the mirror to the corner itself and back again, the smooth curve of the tiles conspicuously empty, as if aching for something - anything - to fill the space.
In the mirror, the shape had crawled from the centre down to the bottom of the frame and had started to grow in a twisted, distorted proportion to its proximity.
“H-hello?!” Nick called out.
His eyes flicked from the mirror to the corner and back again.
The shape had stopped moving forward.
The front, where a head should certainly be, cocked to one side as if listening, before tilting up further to face the mirror.
All the blood drained out of Nick’s body, replaced with crushed ice.
His heartbeat raced.
His breath rasped over his teeth.
An arm - or something that could at least be an arm - lengthened from the centre of the mass and reached up and out towards the mirror.
To the corner.
To Nick.
His breath fluttered in his throat.
The form then snapped back into shape and scuttled back away, withdrawing rapidly down the length of the tunnel.
Without even thinking, Nick propelled himself forward, rounding the corner just in time to see a scrambling shape disappear out of view at the far end.
His heart pounded and he found himself padding slowly towards where the shape had skittered, keeping his body angled and close to the wall as if protecting against any possible rush from whatever it was that was down there with him.
Closer and closer he edged towards the end of the passage.
The only sound the racing of his heart and torn edges of his breath.
Beads of perspiration began to crown the edges of his hairline and stream down his neck and spill down between his shoulders.
Only a few metres away now, and another sound started to grow.
A soft panting, sniffing, testing the air.
Then, a gentle mewing. Soft and fragile in the darkness.
A swift movement.
A flutter of shadows through the gloaming tunnel light.
Nick stopped.
His eye twitched and he gripped his keys and phone a little tighter, the sharp edges digging into the soft skin of his palms.
From the darkness, a grey sinewy limb emerged.
It was long, angular and feral, ending with a claw-like hand, with each digit tipped with ragged yellowing fingernails.
They clicked and clattered on the grime of the tiles, almost in time with the trilling and most definitely with a purpose.
Nick could see the weight of a near-human frame move in the darkness and with a cancrine scuttle, the remainder of the figure’s bent body lurched into the light.
The limbs were taut and tangled, making it difficult to see how they hung together on the body. A shaggy crest of matted, greying hair shrouded the face, but as it twisted upwards, its pale orange eyes became more apparent through the shaggy mess of hair and met Nick’s own gaze.
The soft chirruping stopped.
Suddenly, the mass lurched forward, sweeping towards Nick’s feet.
He staggered backwards, tripping over his own ankles but keeping his balance well enough to spin round and run back to where he had been.
His chest heaved and his legs pumped.
Nick didn’t look over his shoulder until he had reached the mirror, but when he did, he was relieved to see the tunnel stretch empty behind him.
A cool wave of relief rolled over him, chilling the clammy sweat that gripped his skin.
His pace slowed to a fast walk, his ribcage still rattling from the exertion.
He puffed out his cheeks and looked over his shoulder once more.
Still empty.
And then, before he could look back round, he heard it.
A soft mewing.
Nick stopped.
But not one voice.
He started to turn his head back round.
Three, four voices - maybe more.
All different.
All talking.
He looked ahead and blinked slowly, disbelievingly.
There they were.
More shapes curling out of the shadows, crawling and scuttering forward towards him.
Nick felt like his chest was about to explode.
Without thinking, he turned on his heels and started to run the other way, but after only a few steps he could already see more figures filling the space in front of him.
He pulled up, his veins pumping battery acid and his lungs raw from the hot, dead air.
A flush of resignation washed over him.
_________________________________________________________________________
The next morning, the ‘new message’ light on Nick’s office phone blinked excitedly.
It was a message from Marisha.
And one from Angela.
And two from Stuart.
The files Nick had uploaded were all corrupted.
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