TITLE THE HIGHGATE TUNNELS
AUTHOR Vivienne
RATING PG-13 ....for the moment!
DISCLAIMER All BTVS characters and certain other aspects of this story belong to Joss Whedon, Fox, ME and associates.
SPOILERS Diverges from canon somewhere early in season six.
THANKS To Wayland (Clare) for her unstinting beta-ing.
FEEDBACK I have read so much first-class feedback on the kitten board. I would be delighted to be on the receiving end of some of that.
The Highgate Tunnels
Chapter 9
Willow walked towards the fire in Giles’s study, rubbing her arms. A chill breeze had sprung up as she and Tara walked back up from the bottom of the garden, cold enough to dispel the heat generated between them under the oak tree. She made room for Tara beside her. Together, they stood with their backs to the fire, soaking up the warmth as they watched Giles rummage amongst the heaps of paper, books and files on his desk.
‘I know it’s here somewhere,’ said Giles, accidently elbowing a small pile of books onto the floor.
‘It’s ok, no need to help, or anything,’ he said pointedly.
Tara and Willow exchanged a smile.
‘If we knew what you were looking for . . . .’ said Tara.
‘Aha!’ Giles held up a slim, academic paperback, ‘This is the one. All the known Vinca symbols and pictograms with various theories as to their meanings. Not that anyone knows for certain, of course.’
‘Your sandwich, Mr Giles,’ said Jones, entering the study with a tray, which he set on the coffee table. ‘Shall you take some coffee, ladies?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ said Willow.
‘But you’re cold, Miss Willow,’ said Jones, ‘Please, allow me to build up the fire.’
Willow and Tara moved gratefully onto the couch and poured themselves some hot coffee while Jones shovelled more coal on the fire.
‘You might be a little under-dressed for an English October,’ said Giles, looking at Willow’s thin shirt and Tara’s tee. ‘The sunshine looks well enough, but this isn’t California.’
‘Well, um . . . .’ said Tara.
‘We didn’t really think about packing . . . .’ added Willow.
‘Not as such,’ finished Tara.
They both looked a little shame-faced as they remembered how their ‘packing’ had been. Willow recalled how, tight-lipped and white with anger, she had blindly thrown an armful of miscellaneous, mis-matched clothing in her bag. Tara, flushed and distraught, had done much the same. It was not a good memory. Willow put down her coffee and took one of Tara’s hands in both of hers. They looked at one another. It was a look that lasted for perhaps half a second but managed to say,
‘how stupid we were, we’re sorry, we forgive ourselves,’ and,
‘so we are only human, after all, oh - aren’t we funny?’ All those things passed between them in a moment, in a glance and a flashing smile.
‘We were kind of in a hurry,’ Willow said to Giles.
‘Yes, well,’ said Giles, his head deep in the pictogram book.
‘I guess it’s true, though,’ said Tara to Willow, ‘we should do something about sweaters - and maybe even jackets.’
‘Hmm,’ said Giles, looking up, ‘Why don’t you take a run into Exeter and do some shopping this afternoon? We can’t make any plans until Charley calls back with our list, and I might have something from this by the time you get back,’ he said, waving the book, ‘Jones will drive you, won’t you, Jones?’
Willow looked unconvinced. One the one hand, the house, Giles’s presence and the apparent absence of enemies had combined to reassure her and so increase her sense of safety. Also, an afternoon’s carefree shopping with Tara was an attractive prospect. On the other, she felt a nagging urgency. It seemed to her that they were making slow progress with the Tartaria mystery, and surely there were things she could be doing to help Giles? Yes, they had arrived woefully under-equipped, but Willow did not want to do anything to draw attention to their whereabouts. But in the end it was a worried-looking Jones who answered Giles.
‘Forgive me, Mr Giles,’ he gave a small cough, ‘Is this altogether wise? I appreciate Exeter is something of a backwater, but one never knows,’ Jones stopped. He still looked worried, but now he also looked embarrassed at having disagreed with Giles.
Giles brow creased, ‘Perhaps we should err on the side of caution.’
Jones looked relieved.
‘What about you Tara, what do you think?’ Giles asked.
While they were talking, Tara had taken off her sneakers and propped them in front of the fire. She was in the act of peeling off her socks.
‘Leaky sneakers,’ she said to Giles over her shoulder, ‘the grass is so damp,’ and Tara sneezed.
‘Oh baby,’ said Willow, ‘you’ll catch a cold. Here, let me help.’ She unrolled Tara’s other sock, and hung them both over the fireplace like Christmas stockings.
‘I’ll go upstairs and fetch a dry pair,’ said Willow.
‘Um, I think, actually, these are the only ones I have with me,’ Tara shrugged apologetically.
Willow looked at Tara’s worn, stained jeans and at her own faded shirt as if seeing them for the first time.
Bag ladies, Willow thought,
all we need is a battered shopping cart. Tara sneezed again and, as if Willow needed further convincing, the breeze outside gained in strength, hurling a few spits of rain at the windows.
‘Ok, if we’re quick and careful, I think we should go,’ said Willow, looking at Tara who nodded her agreement.
‘If you’re sure?’ said Giles.
‘It won’t take long,’ said Tara, ‘just a couple of stores should do it.’
‘Keep an eye on them, Jones,’ said Giles.
Jones had no choice but to acquiesce. He gave them a bow and went out to the garage.
***
Willow studied her silhouette in the long mirror. On the drive, she had argued with Jones that a large department store in the city centre would be safest, since they could do their entire shopping relatively quickly under one roof. Jones had persuaded her and Tara that it would be better to find a side street with a range of smaller shops. He pointed out that then he would be able to park the Citroen in the same street, and keep a lookout. Tara and Willow had immediately seen the sense of this and were delighted to find just such a street, close to the city centre, but out of the way of the main crowds. They had stocked up on toiletries and cosmetics in the little drugstore – even treated themselves to perfume – and were now trying on clothes in one of the several exclusive designer boutiques dotted up and down the street. Jones was hovering discreetly outside; occasionally glancing through the window to check all was well.
Willow pirouetted slowly. She was wearing a chocolate-and-flame tube dress in fine jersey. The price tag fluttered from one sleeve as she turned. She raised an enquiring eyebrow at Tara.
‘Yes! Must have,’ said Tara, smiling, ‘Just the ticket for dinner in the old country house,’ she went on in a fake English accent.
Willow giggled, ‘I oughta wear boots with it,’ she looked at Tara anxiously, ‘do you think?’
‘Sure, brown leather, two to three inch heels,’ Tara had barely got the words out of her mouth before the boutique assistant had asked Willow her shoe size, converted it to UK measurements and found her the appropriate footwear.
‘How about you?’ said Willow.
‘Oh, I like this,’ said Tara dreamily. She held up an above-the-knee shift in soft blue silk.
‘Nice,’ said Willow, ‘but maybe not so warm?’
‘Oh, but madam would wear this underneath,’ said the assistant, producing a smoke-blue jersey tube in the same length. Tara disappeared into a cubicle to change. When she re-emerged Willow’s eyes widened.
‘Strappy sandals,’ she said, firmly. The assistant rushed to comply.
‘You look fantastic,’ Willow said.
Tara blushed and was about to reply when the strappy sandals appeared. She put them on and took Willow’s place in front of the mirror.
‘Madam looks very well, very well indeed,’ the assistant clasped her hands in front of her ample bosom, looking pleased.
‘Madam sure does,’ said Willow.
‘This is great,’ said Tara, ‘but we need some everyday clothes.’
‘Mmm, action clothes,’ agreed Willow quietly.
They spent the next twenty minutes selecting sweaters, tees, jeans and socks. Tara chose a pair of knee-length boots in black leather and they both added a couple of pairs of new sneakers to their purchases.
‘Jackets!’ Tara suddenly remembered the original impetus for their shopping trip.
Willow giggled. She was enjoying herself. Alright, she had never been exactly fashion-conscious, but even her standards had taken a dip recently. The best thing about it was seeing Tara having a good time. She picked out a soft shearling jacket in teal and put it on.
‘Oh, snuggly!’ she turned to Tara, ‘what do you think?’
‘Good, but not rainproof. Here,’ she said, handing Willow a brown leather jacket with a warm lining. Tara was trying on a similar jacket in black leather.
‘Yes and yes, I think,’ Tara smiled.
‘I think we’re done,’ said Willow, surveying the massive heap on the counter.
‘Amex meltdown,’ observed Tara.
‘Doubt it,’ said Willow, ‘When was the last time we spent money on anything except groceries and utilities?’ She looked ruefully at Tara.
‘Never mind, baby,’ Tara consoled, ‘we’re making up for it now.’
All of it. I will make up for all of it, thought Willow.
‘Hey,’ she said to Tara, ‘we should wear some of this stuff now.’
They let the assistant remove the price tags from the jackets and boots, a couple of sweaters, socks and jeans, and took them into the cubicles. As Willow took off her old shirt she felt something fall out of one of the pockets. She picked it up from the floor.
‘What is it, Will?’ said Tara, shimmying into new jeans.
‘Acorn,’ said Willow, tucking it safely into the bottom corner of her jeans pocket.
‘Oh!’ said Tara, fishing for hers in her old jeans that she’d discarded, that now lay in a sorry pile with Willow’s clothes on the cubicle carpet. She held her acorn up to Willow before pocketing it.
‘No way am I losing that,’ she said, and they both smiled.
‘So, what’s next? Coffee? I saw a sandwich bar on the next block,’ Tara put on her jacket.
‘Sure, but did you notice the lingerie shop next to it? There’s some amazing stuff in the window,’ Willow gave Tara a teasing grin.
‘What did you have in mind?’ said Tara, dropping her voice.
‘I thought I could maybe replace the baggy pyjamas complete with faded pink kittens?’ Willow went on.
‘With?’ In spite of the confined space in the cubicle, Tara managed to move closer to Willow.
‘Oh, how about a basque? Black lace, with garters. Silk stockings, black of course,’ Willow arched an eyebrow. Tara’s eyes widened.
‘Wow,’ she said, softly.
‘So, what about you?’ said Willow.
Tara leant against the wall and put her hands in her jacket pockets. She looked at Willow speculatively.
‘A full-length negligee in ivory satin, with ribbon shoulder straps. White, lace-top hold-ups.’
Willow’s mouth fell open.
‘Will?’
‘Unnhh?’
‘You’re drooling.’
They left the cubicle. The shop assistant, flushed with the exertion of bagging all their purchases, not to mention the pleasure of an unexpectedly lucrative afternoon, was only too happy to agree to bin their old clothing. She handed them the receipt with a flourish and hoped they would return.
Jones was hovering unobtrusively on the sidewalk. Together, the three of them carried the bags to the car and loaded the trunk. He elected to wait two doors down by the newsagent while they went to the lingerie shop as ‘it wouldn’t do for a gentlemen to be seen loitering outside such an intimate ladies’ establishment.’ Inside, Willow and Tara tacitly agreed that it might push their self-discipline too far to actually try on stuff in ‘Night-Time HQ’. They both knew their own sizes well enough to beat another credit card into submission with much enjoyment and practically no effort. In less than twenty minutes they were back on the street with boxes and bags.
‘Coffee and a sandwich,’ said Tara, ‘as soon as we’ve got these in the trunk.’
‘I really need to pee,’ said Willow as Jones approached, ‘like, really, really.’
‘Jones, we need to go in there now,’ said Tara, pointing at the sandwich bar next door. ‘We could order you a sandwich while you put these in the car?’ said Willow
Jones’s eyebrows met in mutual anxiety over his nose. He looked from Willow to Tara and back again.
‘We can see the car from here. Nothing’s going to happen in one minute,’ said Tara.
Jones looked mutinous.
‘I need to use the rest-room, Jones. Urgently,’ said Willow.
‘Oh, oh. Cheese and tomato please, Miss Willow,’ and Jones had taken the bags and boxes, and was off down the street as if chased by wolves.
‘I hated doing that to him, but . . . .’ Willow opened the door of the sandwich bar.
‘Poor Jones,’ agreed Tara as they went in.
There were a few people, mostly young men, seated at the round wooden tables. A sign indicated that the rest-rooms were out back, past the counter.
‘I’ll order while you go,’ said Tara.
‘Ok, tuna mayo salad for me,’ said Willow.
She was about to scoot off, passing Tara and the one person – a woman - ahead of her in line at the sandwich counter, when the woman spoke. Her voice brought them both to a dead stop.
‘I cannot understand why you don’t incorporate apple into more of your sandwich fillings,’ she was saying, ‘It is surely one of the finest ingredients you could use. Instead of grape and Stilton, for example, with which I’m sure everyone
must be bored, why not try apple and Wensleydale?’
The barrista, a pale young man, looked at her patiently as he wiped down the glass.
‘Cheddar, red onion, celery and walnut all marry quite happily with apple. Thinly sliced Royal Gala would be my preference, of course.’
Willow and Tara, horrified, started to back towards the door. Unfortunately, the strap of Tara’s purse caught on a chair, dragging it over on to the floor. Pippa turned around.
‘Hello again!’ she beamed at Willow, ‘and this is a friend?’ Pippa looked at Tara.
Willow had little option but to introduce her to Tara.
‘How nice,’ said Pippa. She turned to Willow with a slight frown.
‘I don’t remember you telling me your name?’ she said.
‘Willow, it’s Willow,’ said Willow with some reluctance.
‘Lovely,’ said Pippa.
‘So good to see you again, you don’t mind if I join you?’ Pippa smiled sweetly at them.
‘Oh, well, we were just getting a take-out, I mean, we’ve been gone all day a-and we really should be getting back,’ Willow gave Tara a look of agonised apology, ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and headed for the rest-room, leaving Tara to deal with Pippa.
Once in the rest-room, Willow was as quick as she could be. She told herself that Jones would be there any second – maybe already was. She worried that Pippa might have recognised Tara from the train, but thought it not likely. It did concern her that she had left the train on the pretence of going to the buffet bar. That might be seen as at best, rude, and at worst, suspicious. Hurriedly, Willow air-dried her hands, picked up her purse and left the rest-room.
Willow stood quite still, except for her head which turned from side to side as she tried to make sense of the scene in front of her. She looked at the tables, the counter, again at the tables. Back to the counter. Again. And again. There was no-one behind the counter. The tables were empty. The shop was deserted. No Apple Woman. No Tara.
Every part of Willow’s being screamed that this could not be. Except her eyes. She found movement and ran from one part of the shop to another, mindlessly, looking, looking.
The jangle of the bell above the front door stopped her. Jones entered.
‘Tara – gone,’ was all Willow could manage.
Jones came to her and took her by the arms.
‘Gone? Miss Willow,
what do you mean?’
‘I went to the rest-room, when I got back Tara was gone, everyone was gone. We have to find her, they can’t have gotten far,’ Willow felt her voice breaking as her world threatened to fold in on itself and disappear.
Jones ran behind the counter, through the little kitchen and out the back door. Willow followed him. Nothing. They came back through the shop and ran out the front, looking desperately up and down the street, but there was no sign of Tara.
White-faced, they turned back to the sandwich bar. As Willow reached out to open the door, it disappeared. Then the entire shop front melted into nothingness, leaving a narrow, seamless expanse of red brick between the lingerie shop and the newsagent. It was as though the sandwich bar had never existed.
Willow fell against the wall. She raised her fists and battered on the bricks ‘No, oh no. Tara, no,’ she sank to her knees.
‘Oh milady Tara,’ said Jones in a broken whisper.
Carefully, he picked Willow up and, cradling her in his arms like a baby, he carried her to the car.
A few minutes away, a black Mercedes with darkened windows nosed out on to the eastbound lanes of the motorway. It would not stop until it reached London.
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so here is a somewhat short Chapter 10, just to warm up the Highgate engine. Normal service will be resumed . . . etc, etc. 
