There’s a whirlpool of emotions in my gut. Fear and excitement, swirling around with joyous bewilderment and heady intrigue. I’m a happy drunk rather than a miserable one, so alcohol is definitely playing a large part in this optimistic rush. But I don’t care.

Because Ella is not dead.

She’s not dead!

She can’t be!

The letter, the key, the map - they all prove it. With this package, she’s testing me. That has to be it! She’s put together a Nancy Drew style mystery with clues for me to follow. She wants me to find her. All the adventures she’s had traveling around the world must have made her realize that I’m the hero she needs after all.

Right?

There’s no more logical explanation.

Little wisps of sobriety begin to tug at my mood with pertinent questions, so I rush to the fridge and crack a can of lager. I sip it quickly as I run through the facts.

1. Ella wants me to help her. Fact. The message on the paper couldn’t be any clearer, and it’s definitely written in her handwriting.

2. I let her down. Fact. It’s the greatest regret of my life.

3. So to give me a chance to redeem myself, she’s faked her own death, and put together this awesome mystery. That has to be a fact too, right? Surely? She’s giving me a chance to prove to her that I’m worthy of her affection.

I grab another beer to maintain my current focus, and change into warmer clothes. I pull on my Spongebob sweatshirt and a pair of green track pants. I take off the necklace, and then change my mind and put it back on again, touching the pendant for luck. I grab a torch and head out the door into the night.

The Duke of Devonshire is not far. It’s called the Devonshire now I think, but it’s got to be the same pub as the one mentioned in the clue. It’s a stone’s throw from Ravenswood Road, which matches the name of the secret tube station. I’ve read about these forgotten places, boarded up and hidden underground. I never knew there was one in my neighborhood.

As I walk up the hill, the cold air sharpens me up a little, and I begin to consider another possibility. What if Ella is truly in danger, and she needs me to rescue her? What if she’s being held hostage in some unstable country by radical terrorists or freedom fighters, and I have some vital information needed to save her? What if there’s an MI5 spy waiting for me at Ravenswood station, who will brief me as we head to the airport on a secret direct tube line to Heathrow?

Whatever the most likely explanation, one thing is clear - Ella needs my help and I’m determined not to let her down.

Not this time.

It’s just after 1AM when I arrive at the Devonshire. The pub is closed of course, and it’s quiet here in Balham, even for a Thursday night. At the corner of the High Road and Ravenswood, a few hardy clubbers unload from a night bus and stagger off towards their beds. But apart from that, the streets belong to me and a lone urban fox, who largely ignores me.

I pull out the typed sheet and check the instructions.

Go round the back of the pub, and look for a spiky iron gate.

I'm paraphrasing but that's the gist of it.

I locate a back alley behind the pub, and turn on my torch to dispel its shadows.

There!

A gate that matches the description. There is a stone staircase behind it, leading down, just as described in the note. My heart skips at the sight of it, the first real confirmation that this adventure is real.

There’s a sign on the gate, ‘Trespassers will be eaten’, and a picture of an angry doberman. Choosing not to believe such a dumb threat, I look around to check no one is watching before giving the gate a tentative pull. I wince, expecting loud rusty creaking noises and stubborn hinges, but instead, the gate swings open silently and without effort. I walk in and close it behind me.

There are a lot of steps, descending into the darkness.

----------------------------------------

By the time I reach the bottom of the staircase, I’m knackered and scared. The 282 steps gave my leg muscles a workout they were not prepared for.

Down here in the depths, it’s dank and claustrophobic. I feel like I’ve stumbled into a survival horror game. There’s unpleasant green slime on the brickwork and the floor is coated in the kind of thick fossil fuel dust you only get on the London underground - the kind that turns your snot black. Rats scamper away from the weak beam of my shitty torch in unsettling numbers. It’s a place that seems to have been designed to inflict jump scares on suckers.

“I can do this,” I say out loud, the words echoing eerily down the tunnel ahead. Then I say “echo, echo, echo”, out of force of habit. I follow it with a drunk yodel, and sing “the hills are alive, with the sound of music”. It makes me feel a little better.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

I drain the last drops of beer from my can, and look in vain for a bin. Even down here in this deserted place it feels wrong to litter, so I crush it up and stuff it into my pocket.

After walking twenty yards or so, the tunnel forks. There’s a sign on the back wall with arrows pointing in both directions. The left tunnel leads to the southbound platform, the right to the northbound one. There’s an odd bit of graffiti near the arrow pointing to the right. It looks like a leg, with a head coming out of it. Whoever painted that must have been higher than I am right now.

Remembering that ‘left is death’, I take the tunnel to the right, and walk another thirty paces before arriving at the platform. It’s dark and empty, save for an old shopping trolley and a heap of rubbish bags at one end of the platform.

“Ella?” I say out loud. “MI5 guy?”

Now I feel stupid. I’m not sure what I was expecting exactly. Not this nothingness. I thought there’d be at least something down here, other than the trash and the rats.

I walk a little way along the platform until I find a bench, which I sit on so I can have a think and catch my breath, before tackling the ascent back up the gigantic staircase.

“It’s going to be a while,” a voice calls out, giving me a fright I should have been expecting. My heart leaps so high in my chest I worry I’m going to cough it out.

My hands are shaking. “Who’s there?” I reply in a wavering voice. “MI5? Ella sent me.” In the unsteady beam of my torch, I watch as the rubbish pile at the end of the platform comes to life and starts shambling my way. As it gets closer, I can see that it is, of course, a person. A man I think, dressed in black rags, with haystack hair, graying and matted.

“The name’s Slobber,” says the man. He sounds like granite talking. He could make a fortune doing voice overs for movie trailers.

“You’re very big,” I say, as it’s all I can think about as his huge form approaches. “I’m armed.”

“Well done,” he says. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you. What would be the point of that, in this dull place?”

He rubs his wrist and looks at me. “Bugger. Doesn’t work here. You’d think I’d know that by now.” He sighs. “We’ll have to do this the old fashioned way then. What’s your name?”

“Doon. Doon Wrigley.”

“Are You human?”

“Er, yes.”

“Class?”

“I like to think I’m working class, but probably more middle class. Like, lower middle class. My dad was a TV repair man, mum ran a cafe.”

“No, no. Not that. I mean… ah, forget it. I think you’re lost, friend. You come down here to take the carriage?”

“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know. I’m looking for someone. Someone who needs my help.”

“Who?”

“A woman. Early thirties, bit shorter than me. Blue hair, last time I saw her anyway.”

“What is she called?”

“Ella.”

He scratches his beard, which is as prodigious and unkempt as his barnet.

“I know of an Ella. A fearsome woman. Emerald eyes, with a sharp wit and the laugh of a lecherous sailor.”

“Jesus Christ, yes! That sounds exactly like her. I don’t believe it. Do you know her? Did she send you here? Do you know about the package, and her message?”

“I said that I know of her. She has a bit of glory. I haven’t met her though, and I’ve ventured further than most. Seems you might be in the right place after all.”

“Amazing, so is she coming here?”

“No. The carriage only goes one way and it’ll be a while before the next one comes along.”

“How long?”

“Not sure. Three, maybe four years?”

I laugh at the joke.

“Not kidding sunshine. It’ll be a good long time. Unless you got a key?”

“Yes! I have a key.” I fumble about in my pocket and pull out the iron key from Ella’s package, holding it out in front of me to show the man mountain. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Good, Doom. You are in the right place after all. I have to give you something for the key, by rights. What do you need?”

I think for a moment. A beer would be killer. Maybe a Red Bull.

“Something to drink. Some alcohol, if you have any. Or a Red Bull. I’d take a V or a Monster Energy at a push.”

He nods, reaches into the folds of his rags, and retrieves a small hip flask. I hesitate and he shakes the flask at me. “Go on” he says. “It’ll smooth the journey’s edges.”

I take the flask from him and treat myself to a tentative swig. The drink inside hits my lips like a honey kiss, before caressing my taste buds with a vivid, exquisite flavor. It is the taste of dew on rose petals, of syrup infused with a thousand undefinable herbs and spices. It is happiness liquefied. It gives me new feelings all of its own that sit on top of my fading lager buzz. It makes me instantly content.

“What is this? It’s incredible.”

“Spirits, mostly. Few other bits and pieces. Nectar of the gods you might say.”

He takes the flask from me, though I’m reluctant to let it go.

“To safe travels,” he says. He takes a swig, and hands it back.

“To getting there in one piece” I say, eager to have another taste. I take a generous swallow this time and it packs quite a punch. It warms my throat and chest, fuzzing up my senses in the most pleasant and comforting way.

“This is amazing,” I say, slurring my words a little. “Where did you get this stuff?”

“I brew it myself. With some help here and there. Now hand over the key so we can summon the coachman.”

I give him the key and follow him down the platform, until he reaches what looks like some kind of fuse box on the wall. He opens it and inserts the key.

“Perfect,” he says, before turning the key one way and then the other.

There’s a click and a hum and the lights flicker on. The whole platform is illuminated. I’m dazzled a moment by the sudden brightness, and have to shield my eyes while getting used to the light. I squint at Slobber and swear that I see two lumps on his head, nestled deep into his grey thatch of hair. Are they… horns? Are those tusks in his mouth? Surely not. Maybe he slipped a mushroom or two into his home brew.

Before I can get a better look, he turns his back to me as a rattling sound begins to build in the tunnel down the tracks. A moment later, a train shoots out of the dark and roars along the platform. It’s an ordinary looking tube train, albeit an old one with brown carpet and worn seats.

“All aboard,” says Slobber. “You get in the next carriage, human. It’s always best to sleep through this long ride, and my snoring is sure to keep you awake.”

I decide not to argue with him, and get in the next carriage along. The doors slide open. I head inside, take my pick of the seats and settle into a comfortable slouch. As we rumble away from the station, tiredness, alcohol and the motion of the train tempt me to sleep. I hear what sounds like a walrus snoring in the next carriage, as my eyelids prove too heavy to keep open any longer.