Dalip remembered to breathe again. He was soaked with sweat, his face slippery, his first attempt at a beard prickling with the heat. Less of a dream, more of a nightmare, but at least the station was ahead. As was a fiery red glow in the distance, beyond the sickly light of the platform, where the tunnel headed east under the centre of the city.

He started to pull back even as Stanislav propelled him on. But he knew that he didn’t want to get closer. The red was thickening, growing more real, like looking into the heart of a furnace. He twisted and struggled.

Stanislav picked him up, one handed, and slammed him against the tunnel wall.

‘What?’ he roared, ‘Do you want to die down here? Do not fight me, boy. Do not ever fight me.’

Dalip tried to push the man away, the torch around his wrist dancing as he slapped at Stanislav’s chest.

‘We don’t want to go that way!’ he finally managed, just as Green Park’s lights failed with a sigh.

It wasn’t dark, though. Everything was suffused with red, and as the rest of the work crew reached the edge of the station, the first one burst into flame. His boilersuit caught with spontaneous ignition, starting at the front, rolling around him in a sheet until he was a candlewick, stumbling and tripping, arms holding the fire aloft. And another.

Bulbs popped, tiles cracked, plastic melted, metal warped and started to drip.

Stanislav’s clothing was smoking. So was his own.

Now they were going west again, and they ran with no pretence at calm. The air was thick, alive with shadow and rippling with heat, the soles of their boots sizzling on the ballast, the rails cracking like whips as they expanded.

There was a ramp up, like the ones that led to platforms, except that they hadn’t gone as far back as Hyde Park. Dalip lifted his torch and saw a brick wall, and that the wall had a door, and that the door had twisted out of its frame and was open just a crack.

He had no idea where he was, just that the infernal heat was behind him and the incredible noises were ahead of him. He turned aside and ran at the door, digging his fingers into the gap and pulling against the warped wood that seared the flesh from his hands even as he brought his foot up to gain leverage against the wall.

Stanislav used his own savage strength, and hinges squealed in protest. The door resisted, then gave, spilling them both to the baking ground. The older man was up first. He took Dalip’s collar and dragged him through the doorway, throwing him on to his back in the tiny room.