THE DESCENT
London 1863. The air at Paddington Station was a mix of coal, steam, and the nervous anticipation of the pioneers venturing into the recently opened underground. For most, it was the latest marvel of the Victorian era, the Metropolitan, the world's first underground railway line. For Vic McColl, it was a descent into darkness that perhaps coincided too closely with his own past, a darkness he had struggled to bury under a new sky.
Vic McColl had spent a decade building a new life, brick by brick, far from the misty docks of the East End, far from those nights of thick fog and sharp knives that had left their mark, and, above all, far from a different land and a different sun, forcing him to change his accent and name -from Victor Coll to Vic McColl- to bury his former self and his origin. Now, a respectable shopkeeper in the prosperous West End, engaged to be married, and with a face that, despite the worry lines, still had the contours of youth, he carried a conscience that, most days, remained hidden under a layer of English routine and prosperity.
But today the routine had been brutally broken. An anonymous note, in elegant but menacing handwriting, left under the shop door, had summoned him to the third exit of Farringdon Station, at one o'clock precisely, "on a matter of utmost importance for your well-being... and for the resumption of a certain forgotten activity that we know you mastered". Fear, an old acquaintance revived by a place he thought he had left behind forever, had tied a knot in his heart, colder than the steel of any knife.
The carriage was a gas-lit wooden box, filled with gentlemen in top hats and ladies in gloves, all watching with a mix of fascination and apprehension as the brick walls sped past outside. The screech of the wheels and the whistle of the steam engine created a discordant symphony that filled the uncomfortable silence. Vic sat in a corner, trying to control his breathing and the tension that made the air around him feel strangely heavy. He looked at the other passengers, perfectly English, wondering if they saw something more than the respectable Vic McColl in him, if they sensed the dormant beast within, or the hidden homeland.
At Baker Street Station, a man got on board. Short, chubby, and clean-shaved, with lively, bulging eyes that seemed to penetrate not only the shadows of the carriage but also those of the soul and the most well-guarded secrets. He carried a silver-handled cane and a thin smile that chilled. Vic felt the air turn as heavy as lead. It was him. Ten years had passed, perhaps more, but nights in the dirt and crime of Whitechapel, and certain contacts, left their mark, not just on those who lived there, but on those who... operated from anonymity. That man was the "Collector," one of the few who knew all the secrets of the docks, including Vic's darkest secret, and perhaps a couple more.
The man walked through the carriage with exaggerated calm, his bulging eyes fixing on Vic with a disturbing recognition. The thin smile widened slightly, full of sinister complicity. He didn't say anything immediately, just sat in the empty seat directly opposite him, a distance too short for the immeasurable separation their pasts put between them. The gas light flickered, casting dancing shadows on their faces, momentarily turning the passengers into spectres in that belly of the earth.
The train resumed its journey with an abrupt movement. The noise was deafening, a blessing that drowned out thoughts. Vic felt cold sweat running down his back, not from the heat of the carriage, but from the icy presence opposite him. What did he want? What part of his past was he coming to claim?
"It's a great work of engineering, isn't it?" the Collector said at last, his voice quiet, almost inaudible above the roar of the train. "It connects different worlds. The darkness below with the light above. The respectable of today with... what is hidden from yesterday. What is buried... no matter where it comes from." He stared at Vic, with a gaze filled with horrifying knowledge that went beyond mere crime.
Vic couldn't speak. His throat felt as dry as the dust in the tunnels.
"I haven't seen you in a while, Mr. McColl... not since you were just a young man when you were in Whitechapel... or should I say... what were you called before, Victor Coll? In the place you came from? Or on those cold nights?" The smile became more pronounced, a cruel rictus. "Life in the West End treats you well, it seems. Fine clothes, clean hands... quite different from certain... manual jobs you knew. And from certain climates." He paused deliberately, looking at Vic's hands with a gaze that said "I know what they were capable of... and where they came from." "They don't do that work anymore, eh? The real work, the night one. A certain kind of art..."
"What do you want from me?" Vic managed to whisper, his voice broken by fear, memory, and the realization of being completely exposed. "I want to talk about old times", replied the Collector, adopting a low, conspiratorial tone. "About certain bloody nights. Certain favours... or perhaps obligations. And about certain origins that must be forgotten, if you want to prosper here. Obligations, as you know, must eventually be fulfilled. And there are those who miss your... talents. Here and there".
The train stopped at King's Cross Station. People stood up, impatient to reach the surface, the light. The Collector didn't move. The gas light illuminated his face in a completely sinister way, like a grotesque mask emerged from smoke.
"Farringdon is next," he said. "We have an appointment. Underground. Far from the observing eyes of the world above... and close to others who do know you". He leaned slightly forward, his eyes sparkling in the shadows. "Ready to... resume the thread?" "Remember, Vic... some things, no matter how deep you bury them, no matter how much you change your name, your life, and your land, always find their way back to the surface. And sometimes... they need a little help to get out. All of them."
The whistle blew. The doors closed with a loud bang. The train disappeared into the wet darkness of the tunnel. Vic looked at his own reflection in the glass, darkened by smoke, a face that no longer seemed like that of the respectable shopkeeper Vic McColl. He only saw the shadow of the man he once was, the man he had tried to bury under layers of false identities and miles of distance, travelling towards an appointment in the depths of the earth, where the darkest secrets, like the steam trains roaring in the darkness, awaited their chance to emerge... and act again.
"The last station is calling. I am certain that this means of transport will make history, Vic", the Collector said. "And so will you. Your former skills will still be useful. London has plenty of dark places waiting for the night and a talented knife... May I suggest a new change of name, less obvious this time? 'Jack' would fit you perfectly".
May 2025.