out some photographs of the clothes and items we’d found on the second victim. A lot of them were generic, but I held out some hope for a necklace we’d found, wrapped away beneath his clothes. There was an old wedding ring on it.
The man took them one by one with gnarled fingers wrapped in wool gloves, shining his torch over each of them before passing them back. He paused at the ring.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘He’s passed by, on and off, for years. Jesus nut. That’s all I know. Don’t know his name, but someone will.’
‘All right. Can I …?’
‘Go in?’ He moved to one side and shouted: ‘ Be my guest! ’
I walked a little way on, him following behind, muttering to himself. After a minute, he stepped into an alcove where a three-seater settee had been lodged, next to a packing crate with a candle burning. A battered old paperback was lying splayed out on the settee, and a sleeping bag was rolled up neatly at one end.
A little further on, I reached what had once been intended to become Foxton underground station. It was an echoing hexagonal space, every surface tiled, every wall filled with empty poster grids. Where the ticket machines should have been, there were racks of bunk beds. Graffiti covered the walls. There were a handful of rusted metal barrels that in winter would be full of burning wood, but now they were dark and dead. Everything was bathed in amber light from the countless candles.
People everywhere: hunched shadows, either slumped in place or meandering around erratically. There were also a number of corridors running off the central area. Doors that might once have been labelled ‘No Entry’ were now propped open with large chunks of rock. Every conceivable space down here had been colonised. Along all the corridors, I knew, there were fenced-off sleeping areas. Televisions flickered in the darkness, powered by the electrics that had been developed down here: snaking rubber cables that connected junction boxes and ended, occasionally, in rubber plugs in archaic boxes in the walls. There were toilets and shower stalls.
I worked my way through, showing my photos here and there to people whose faces I couldn’t see. Despite what the watchman had said, all I got was shakes of the head and shrugs.
I was beginning to despair slightly until I wandered down a stationary escalator and found a small church. It had been built in a storage area below one of the railway arches. Two metal bins were burning brightly on either side of the entrance, the flames crackling, the metal as thin and fragile as charred paper.
I peered inside. A number of benches had been arranged roughly in lines, and hooded figures were dotted here and there, elbows on knees, heads bowed, facing a wooden table at the far end. The stone wall above it was daubed with various religious symbols. The air was hot in here, and perhaps because of the silence of its small congregation, the room felt as though it was waiting for something—some boom or clank from the bowels of the surrounding tunnels.
A Jesus nut, the guard had said.
If anyone would know our John Doe, it was someone here.
I approached a man at the back of the room. He was dressed in jeans and an old black hoodie, but it was easy to tell he was fat and saggy beneath it.
‘Police,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to identify someone. You recognise any of these belongings?’
I was already holding out the photographs when he looked up at me, revealing a bearded face mottled with red veins, and eyeballs as yellow as butter. Greasy flecks of black hair poked out from beneath the hood like spider legs. I recoiled slightly. He stared up at me, and his bleary eyes seemed to focus.
‘Do I know you?’ he said.
‘No.’
The man shook his head, confused. ‘You put me away once?’
‘Not that I remember,’ I said.
He stared at me for a few seconds longer, still trying to work out whether I was a real figure from his past or just a stranger overlaid with a ghost.
The man took them one by one with gnarled fingers wrapped in wool gloves, shining his torch over each of them before passing them back. He paused at the ring.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘He’s passed by, on and off, for years. Jesus nut. That’s all I know. Don’t know his name, but someone will.’
‘All right. Can I …?’
‘Go in?’ He moved to one side and shouted: ‘ Be my guest! ’
I walked a little way on, him following behind, muttering to himself. After a minute, he stepped into an alcove where a three-seater settee had been lodged, next to a packing crate with a candle burning. A battered old paperback was lying splayed out on the settee, and a sleeping bag was rolled up neatly at one end.
A little further on, I reached what had once been intended to become Foxton underground station. It was an echoing hexagonal space, every surface tiled, every wall filled with empty poster grids. Where the ticket machines should have been, there were racks of bunk beds. Graffiti covered the walls. There were a handful of rusted metal barrels that in winter would be full of burning wood, but now they were dark and dead. Everything was bathed in amber light from the countless candles.
People everywhere: hunched shadows, either slumped in place or meandering around erratically. There were also a number of corridors running off the central area. Doors that might once have been labelled ‘No Entry’ were now propped open with large chunks of rock. Every conceivable space down here had been colonised. Along all the corridors, I knew, there were fenced-off sleeping areas. Televisions flickered in the darkness, powered by the electrics that had been developed down here: snaking rubber cables that connected junction boxes and ended, occasionally, in rubber plugs in archaic boxes in the walls. There were toilets and shower stalls.
I worked my way through, showing my photos here and there to people whose faces I couldn’t see. Despite what the watchman had said, all I got was shakes of the head and shrugs.
I was beginning to despair slightly until I wandered down a stationary escalator and found a small church. It had been built in a storage area below one of the railway arches. Two metal bins were burning brightly on either side of the entrance, the flames crackling, the metal as thin and fragile as charred paper.
I peered inside. A number of benches had been arranged roughly in lines, and hooded figures were dotted here and there, elbows on knees, heads bowed, facing a wooden table at the far end. The stone wall above it was daubed with various religious symbols. The air was hot in here, and perhaps because of the silence of its small congregation, the room felt as though it was waiting for something—some boom or clank from the bowels of the surrounding tunnels.
A Jesus nut, the guard had said.
If anyone would know our John Doe, it was someone here.
I approached a man at the back of the room. He was dressed in jeans and an old black hoodie, but it was easy to tell he was fat and saggy beneath it.
‘Police,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to identify someone. You recognise any of these belongings?’
I was already holding out the photographs when he looked up at me, revealing a bearded face mottled with red veins, and eyeballs as yellow as butter. Greasy flecks of black hair poked out from beneath the hood like spider legs. I recoiled slightly. He stared up at me, and his bleary eyes seemed to focus.
‘Do I know you?’ he said.
‘No.’
The man shook his head, confused. ‘You put me away once?’
‘Not that I remember,’ I said.
He stared at me for a few seconds longer, still trying to work out whether I was a real figure from his past or just a stranger overlaid with a ghost.
Similar Books
