The Quiet at the End of the World

CHAPTER 1

Eighty-five years later 

 "We haven't got long," I shout, already jumpy with adrenalin. "I'm going in!"

Before Shen can reply, I fall backwards into the manhole. 

I'm swallowed immediately by pitch-black air. It smells of warm death down here, rotting and ancient.

I drop far enough that my stomach flips before the rope kicks in and catches me. Holding on to the carabiner clip of my harness, I walk my feet down the curved tiles of the ceiling, guiding the rope through my gloved hands.

Shen shouts to me from where he's crouched on the pavement above with Dad, "Watch out for the sewer alligators, Lowrie!"

"This isn't even the sewers! And that's a myth!" I yell back.

"You can never be too careful." He ducks back out of sight to buckle on his own harness.

My foot hits an old fluorescent lighting tube and smashes it, sending glass into the water below. Wincing, I step off the wall, so I'm hanging freely from the rappelling line. Then I lower myself down again, twisting around so that I can see the tunnel on all sides. I'm trying to read a sign hanging loose from the wall when I hit the surface of the water with a gasp. It's ice-cold, despite the moist warmth of the air.

Treading water and trying not to shiver, I unclip the rope from the harness and call up, "All OK!" My teeth are already chattering.

The rope is lifted back up, clip jangling merrily.

"Very good, Shen," I hear Dad say. "Slowly does it."

Not wanting to stay in the freezing, foul-smelling water for any longer than necessary, I swim over to the platform and pull myself out. There's a tile on the floor warning me to mind the gap, and the old London Underground symbol – a red circle with a blue line through its centre – covers the wall. Posters dangle from their holders all along the platform wall. Dripping, shredded plastic advertises insurance and movies.

This was part of the Circle line, back when there were enough people to justify running the Tube lines. Now the flooded underground tunnels are just another relic of the past. The small number of us left in London have all but forgotten about them.

Shen, Dad and I are probably the only ones who've been down here in the last twenty years.

I reach out to grab Shen's hand as he descends on the rope, guiding him on to the platform, so he doesn't land in the water too. 

"Perfect timing," he says, unclipping his harness. "It's raining up there."

I look pointedly at his wetsuit.

He shrugs, grinning. "I don't mind getting wet in the name of treasure-hunting. Drizzle is a different matter altogether, Shadow." He calls me Shadow because when we were little I used to follow him around like one, apparently. It is a controversial and much-debated nickname, but he doesn't seem likely to give it up any time soon.

Dad lowers himself into the tunnel after us. He comes down here a lot to collect plant and algae samples from the water, and we've been coming with him for years, ever since we were big enough to fit in the harnesses. It started because he wanted to get us interested in horticulture, but it kind of backfired because we were both more interested in exploring the tunnels.

I keep hoping we'll be allowed to come here on our own soon, but realistically that isn't going to happen. My parents and Shen's still think that we're not old enough, even though I'm sixteen and Shen is seventeen. For now, we have to make do with tagging along on my dad's botanical outings – although he gets so caught up in his findings that he often forgets about us anyway, so it's almost like being on our own.