I don't usually get sent to jobs with anybody, which suits me.

People are alright, but I'm not built for chat.

I'm terrible at eye contact, and I always miss the punchlines.

Apparently, I've got the social instincts of a damp traffic cone.

Still, I like what I like, and that's all the boring wartime stuff no one under 60 gives a toss about.

But I've learned not to bring that up unless someone's very bored, very polite, or already halfway through a scotch egg, so they can't tell me to shut up.

Anyway, the job was a disused tunnel flagged under the Southcut clearance survey.

No one had set foot in there since 1944, and when something's been sealed that long, you've

no idea what you're walking into.

So, they sent me with Dan.

He was in his early 20s, one of those blokes never without his air pots, a vape, and a running commentary on UFC fights. It's not my usual preference, but I've survived worse.

I once did a week on the Carlisle line with a bloke who thought Dunkirk was in Germany.

Our job was the log debris, test the clearances, and ensure the place wouldn't shear a wagon in half, ready to open up for public use in the summer.

It looked promising.

They'd greenlight a proper team.

If not, they'd break it up and pretend it never happened.

Our boots hit the ballast just past 5 a.m., geared up in our safety gear, filtered respirators,

toolbags and radios. The tunnel entrance was locked up with heavy-gauge chain-link

fencing, two layers deep, backed by timber boards and a padlock the size of your fist.

It looked like someone had gone at it with bolt cutters,

and it had been clumsily patched up.

Above it, the original cast iron arch loomed,

...