But Liesel had got the idea and said, “Yes, very nice,” so Yancy could say, “Shall we go for a stroll?” and I got up and followed them out.
The one positive aspect of the experience was that I’d completely stopped thinking about the place being halfway into the void. Likely that’s why Yancy was able to take us onward. She took us out through the back of the canopy, lifting apart two massive brocade drapes, and we ducked through behind her and were at the top of a narrow concrete stairway going down to a cramped tunnel made of bricks.
We had to go single file. Dim caged lamps on the ceiling flickered to life only as Yancy stepped beneath them, and went out again right on my heels, so we were traveling in a small island of mud-yellow light that left everything stained the color of old sepia photographs, matte and papery, and all around us a pitch dark that was just barely not the void. As if we were somehow calling each chunk of the space into existence only long enough to get through it, like getting a reference text out of the void that you only needed for a single essay and throwing it back afterwards. It didn’t make any sense even with magic; it was the idea that you could climb up into the sky by taking a ladder rung from below you and putting it above you, stepping onto it, and then grabbing the rung you’d just left, putting it up above the other one, with the ground getting left further and further behind—it was just silly, a cartoon joke to laugh at, not something to believe in. It was almost impossible to think of it as a space that really existed outside of us, and under normal circumstances, probably I’d have thought about that too much, and then I’d have been one of those people who never came back out again.
But I wasn’t thinking about how the passage was one step up from the void and how likely it was to tip off. I wasn’t even carefully trying to not think that. Instead I was thinking the opposite: how it was so much more real than it ought to have been, how it did exist, and about how I needed Yancy to stop long enough that I could grab her by the arms and shake her until the answers came out that I needed, the answers that I knew I didn’t want, and I didn’t want them with so much sickening intensity that the passage actually started to get longer around us, lights flickering on further up ahead, a plink-plink dripping sound starting, and a breath of musty air moved in our faces.
An unreadable poster loomed out of the dark, smeared by damp, and Yancy abruptly turned, opened a door I hadn’t noticed in the wall, and swung out through it very quick, almost a dancing movement; the instant Liesel and I were out, she shut the door hard behind us and wheeled round with her arms spread to gather the two of us up on either side, and she hustled us away as fast as she possibly could, through another short narrow unlit tunnel and up three steps in a rush. I expect she was trying to keep us from noticing that the door—possibly the tunnel itself—wasn’t really there anymore behind us. She had us out of the space before we even had a chance to register where we were, squinting painfully against fluorescent lights that had come on in an unpleasant buzzing glare: a wide tunnel with a roof like someone had made a waffle out of steel girders, one of the old air-raid shelters in the Underground.
This must have been one of the emergency back doors the enclave had opened during the Blitz: sensible of them to have one leading to the deep underground shelters. They’d probably quietly dug themselves that small narrow side tunnel when the authorities weren’t looking, and then blocked it up again after the war. There was still just a hint of something vaguely soft about the place, just like that crumbling ruin of a mansion that Alfie had taken us through. The enclave had closed up the old exit, to save themselves the trouble of guarding it, but I would have laid money they had somehow bought or rented out this place and were now using most of the room inside the enclave. It would certainly have cost less than expensive architectural monstrosities in primo London postcodes.
But the shelter itself was still a real place in the world, inexpressibly comforting. The sickening quivery feeling beneath my feet was gone so completely I only just now managed to register how horrible it had been, feeling it all this time. The tunnel was filled with identical old bunk bed frames stretching the whole length, stacked with handwritten-labeled boxes full of aggressively boring things like ancient videotapes and sewer planning surveys from the 1980s and proceedings of subcommittees with long acronyms. I went straight for the nearest one and put my hands on the cold clammy metal and then put my cheek against it too, taking deep gulping breaths full of rust and mildew and mold and dust and tar and oil and paint and dirt, a cocktail of underground stinks, and when the walls and floor shuddered with a train going by somewhere on the other side, noisy and cranky and tooth-rattling, I shuddered with almost delirious relief. My whole brain devoured every wonderful reasonable predictable sensation. I could with pleasure have spread myself out over the dirty concrete floor and possibly licked it.