The Star

Kate heard the sharp knocking and opened the door of her sleeping compartment.

         “Fifteen minutes to King’s Cross,” said the car attendant.

         “Thank you.”

         She closed the door, drank the last of her coffee, and packed her washing bag into her backpack. The sleeper from Aberdeen had been her father’s gift. A long journey to Portsmouth, and Kate could do no wrong.

“Get a taxi,” he’d said. “Far easier than the underground.”

         She was his angel.

         With ten minutes to go, she wondered what her future held. From a pocket on her rucksack, she removed a silk cloth containing her Tarot cards. She spread them on her bunk, face down, and asked her question. From the scattered deck she drew one card: The Star. Hope, renewal, spiritual guidance.

         The train shuddered as it edged into the station.

         Kate checked the time. Eight o’clock. Plenty of time to make the nine-fifty from Waterloo.

         She alighted and strolled along the platform. But when she stepped into the main concourse, she stopped dead. Hundreds of people, young, old, male, female, moved in waves in every direction. The noise hit her like a wall. Voices, announcements, footsteps, all blending into a single, restless roar.

         A large arrow pointed toward the taxi rank. Kate followed it, but navigating the crowd was problematic. People bumped her without apology, their glances sharp, impatient, as if she were an obstacle rather than a person.

         Outside, the taxi queue snaked across the pavement. After fifteen minutes, she tapped the man in front of her on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”

         He turned and smiled. “Can I help you?”

         “Is this wait normal?”

         “It’s Friday, there’s roadworks everywhere, and it’s eight in the morning.    Yes, this is normal. Where do you need to be?”

         “Waterloo Station.”

         He shrugged. “Fifty quid plus at this time. Almost quicker to walk. Best get the underground. King’s Cross to Bank, then the Waterloo & City line. Follow the signs. You can’t go wrong.”

         Kate thanked him.

         At the top of the stairs leading into the underground, she paused. She remembered her father’s words: the underground is not a safe place for young, attractive women. The mere sight of joining hundreds of strangers gave her the same feeling she used to get before exams.

         “I can do this,” she muttered.

         She followed the signs. The mass of people descending reminded her of drones entering a hive. Then she realised there was more than one line. She tried asking for directions, but people ignored her and pushed her aside. The crowd moved with a single mind, flowing around her as if she were a gap in the air.

         The colourful underground map. King’s Cross to Bank. Bank to Waterloo gave her hope. It seemed easy enough.

         After a few minor difficulties, she bought a ticket from the machine and began her journey. At the first escalator she hesitated.

         Someone behind her muttered, “Move yourself or get out of the way.”

         She stepped on, wary. The stream of people never stopped.

         The escalator carried her deeper. It was warmer, and the crowd moved with a mass urgency she couldn’t match. Every arrow seemed to contradict the last. Northern Line. Central Line. Way Out. People streamed past, brushing her shoulders, muttering, never slowing.

         She spotted a man in uniform and hurried after him.

         “Excuse me,” she called, but her voice vanished into the hubbub.

         She saw him turn into a side passage. Fighting rising panic, Kate followed.

         The crowd thinned. He pushed through a door marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. Kate reached it before it closed.

         With a hard push, she shoved it open and stepped inside. It shut with a heavy click.

         Silence.

         Kate stared at the tiled walls, their colour faded with age, a faint hum vibrating through the floor. She tried the door. It didn’t budge. No handle. No keypad.

         She was stranded in a tunnel that disappeared into shadow.

         On hearing footsteps, she turned. A boy stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching her with calm, steady eyes. Twelve, maybe older. Dark hair neatly combed and parted. Corduroy shorts, a knitted pullover. A square canvas bag hung from his right shoulder.

         “What are you doing here? I bet you’re lost,” he said gently. “Don’t worry, you’re safe. We used to shelter down here when the bombs fell.”

         Kate leaned against the tiles. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

         “I’m always here,” he said. “Don’t leave much. Plenty of us down here. I’m a tunnel rat, know every turn. It’s my job.”

         “What do you mean, your job?”

         “You don’t look stupid, but him upstairs says it’s my job, so it’s what I do.”

         “I was having a panic attack. I must’ve fainted. You’re not real, you can’t be.”

         “I’m as real as you, miss. You can see me. Touch me if you want. I’m here to help. I can leave if you want.”

         “Alright, which way do I go?”

         He smiled. “Come on. It’s a fair walk, but you look fit enough. Follow me.”         

         He walked away, confident and unhurried.

         Kate followed. “What’s your name?”

         “Ratty,” he said without looking back. “The others call me Ratty.”

         The tiling changed as they progressed, cracked, missing and some covered in posters, the air damp. Cobweb‑coated lamps gave barely enough light.

         Her footsteps echoed, making the space feel cavernous. The corridor curved, then split. One branch was narrow and dim; the other wider, lined with rusted pipes dripping rust‑coloured water.

         A sudden roar thundered through the wall. A train. The vibration shivered through her body. She pressed herself against the tiles, heart hammering, waiting for the noise to fade.

         When it did, the silence felt heavenly.

         They moved on, turning corners that led deeper underground. Lights grew sparser. Some sections glowed faintly. Others were swallowed in shadow. Distant trains rumbled, too near, too loud, as if she were walking on the tracks.

         Kate wasn’t sure how long she’d been walking when she realised she no longer knew which direction she’d come from. Every corridor looked similar. Every turn felt wrong.

         Ratty stopped. “You okay? Need a break?”

         “I could do with five,” she said. “So… you live down here?”

         He grinned. “Here, there, anywhere. Used to live not far from here in an engineer’s workshop. Two good rooms and a working bog. Mum did it up nice. Dad worked on the tracks, so he knew about it. Better than sleeping on the platform with a load of noisy kids.”

         “You actually lived in the tunnels?”

         “Safest place on earth during the Blitz. Daylight bombing was the bad bit. Mum, my sister and me were having a corned beef sandwich in the park. Lovely day if I remember right. The sirens sounded, but we felt safe in the open. A  bomb found us. When I woke up, I was back in the tunnels.”

         He dusted off his hands. “Anyway. Time to lift and shift or you’ll miss your connection.”

         He walked ahead, glancing back now and then to make sure she was still behind.

         At one point he paused beside a blank stretch of wall. “Nearly there.”

He pressed his palm against the tiles.

         A door revealed itself, not appearing exactly, but surfacing as though its outline had always been there.

         He pushed it open. Bright light spilt through.

         Kate stepped out onto a platform.

         Bank Station.

         A train screeched into view, slowing. The lit sign above the driver’s position read WATERLOO.

         She turned to thank him. The boy and the door had vanished.

         The journey from Bank to Waterloo passed in a flash. Her mind was attempting to fathom what she’d experienced. She thought of The Star, hope, renewal, guidance. She wasn’t sure she believed in such things. But she had followed a boy through the dark and found her way.

         She followed the exit signs and stepped onto the escalator for the main station. Advertisements lined the walls. At the top, she paused at a large poster for the Victoria and Albert Museum.

         THE BLITZ — 1941

         Front and centre was a photo of children on a platform, sheltering underground. Ratty stood among them, a gas mask slung over his shoulder.

         His eyes were the same calm, steady eyes she’d seen in the tunnel.

And she was sure he winked.

         Kate ran for her train, heart thudding with something that wasn’t fear anymore.

         Hope. Renewal. Guidance. Exactly as the card had promised.