As with most tube related exploits, they tend to have only one means of access. Like a maze without an exit, once in the only way out would be to backtrack to the start. As such, like a rat cornered in a hole, should exit be closed, locked or blocked by workers, you genuinely have no form of escape, or anywhere to hide (In most cases). You fate resting in that at the entrance be it workers, police or a train.

Originally built by the Great Northern & City Railway in 1904, the Northern City Line (NCL) ran from Moorgate to Finsbury Park with tunnels built to accommodate the widths of mainline trains. In 1913, the NCL was sold to the Metropolitan railway, becoming part of the Northern Line in 1933 when the underground lines were nationalised. In 1964, as a result of the extension of the Victoria Line to Finsbury park, the NCL service was cut at Drayton Park, sections of the tunnels becoming disused, laying dormant between the active tunnels of the Victoria Line ever since.

Both sections of the NCL Tunnels follow the rules listed above, one way in, one way out. The abandoned sections are a fairly relaxed affair, with little to no reason or possibility for workers to frequent our access point the only danger would come from stragglers along the adjoining Victoria Line tunnels. The semi-active tunnels are different. Due to the upgrade work over the past few years, this section is an unpredictable, on-off hive of activity that you just have to play to chance.

The streets were quiet, both nature and man falling silent for the night. With the only noise from a clicking relay board, we took the plunge and headed in. Having visited before with no surprises i was fairly calm, the danger of being caught stricken from my mind. Quietly and calmly we walked along the tunnel, spending small moments to take photos. ”There’s workers coming up the tunnel”. I froze, my mind struggling to decode the situation, like man with no thumbs attempting a rubix cube. We ran for the abandoned sections, the tunnel plunging into darkness, every clang, every kicked piece of debris increasing our speed, till we came to the end, a brick wall. With no better options we hit the deck, taking refuge behind a mound no higher then half a meter.

We sat there, speaking only when nessacary, every sound and subtle movement reverberating within the tunnel. We were trapped, like lambs to the slaughter, we had no choice but to wait for that fateful moment when the axe drops. With the increase in stress levels and paranoia at its peak, your mind plays tricks on you. Are those footsteps? Is that torch light? Each instance plunging the group into a moment of extreme silence, each time only serving to delay the enivatable fact that sooner or later, we would have to leave the tunnels.