In the tunnels beneath the Police Station are moldering bones locked in cages, caught in traps, wrapped in wire, skeletons resembling humans, animals, or hybrids of the two--quarry forgotten by hunting parties or suspects detained and subsequently abandoned after arrest. Here, too, traces of Police: rusted badges, old boots, white gloves lying in dark, grimy pools. Shoved into an alcove is a tattered uniform smeared with soot but containing no body to speak of. Heavy footfalls splash down in slime in the dark at your back, whistles blow, deep voices shout echoing questions distorted to guttural, animal noise by the time they've reached your ears. Through cracks in stone or floorboards above you only glimpse what might be the warm light of candelabras, catch passing hints of music and the laughter of dining guests. These suggestions of city nightlife are illusory. You need concern yourself only with the cold grit and waste water that fills this labyrinth of stone slabs and iron bars. |