Journalist, author and the man behind London's indie club night How Does It Feel to Be Loved? Ian Watson has written his debut novel, The Tunnels. Described as a "suburban science fantasy ghost story", it's loosely set in and around Ian's stomping ground of West Norwood, taking inspiration from everything from West Norwood Cemetery to the local B&Q.
Here's an extract from the book, which publishes on 26 February 2026.
"Where are we?"
"We're in the catacombs," said Takara, sounding surprised. "Haven't you been here before? I thought everyone round here had done the tour. Through the hidden wooden door, down into the darkness with candles and macabre stories, exploring the labyrinth, thrilling at the spookiness of it all. Such fun. They say there's over 3,000 coffins down here, you know. The cemetery was getting overcrowded, so they opened a new wing."
“3,000?” said Sam, sounding amazed.
"Yes. So many dead people. Best of all, we're in the part of the catacombs that’s under the Dissenter's Chapel, so all this lot are bound to be the misfits and the ingrates and the wrong-believers. By which I mean the interesting people. The people who discover things."
"What kind of things?"
"Well, just…things!" replied Takara. "No one ever really has an original idea, you know. They follow what's been done before, decide to have a stab at it themselves, and some of them get it wrong and do something else, entirely by accident. That's when invention happens. When the lightning hits the pond scum. Or the body parts, thoughtfully provided by our dear friend Dr Bloom."
"That’s not true," said Sam. "What about inventors. People like Da Vinci and Edison and…"
"Fakers! All fakers! Tried to copy, messed it up, fronted it out!"
Takara took a pair of glasses from deep within the lining of her jacket and slipped them on.
"Anyway, enough history lesson. Time for me to get scrubbed up."
She opened the gate at the end of the chamber and walked into a large, equally dank tunnel. Rusted gates leading into similar chambers were dotted along the sides of the tunnel, like a prison for the dead. It looked endless, the tunnel and the gates stretching off into the gloom in both directions.
"Now, I've got a couple of options and I'd like to know what you think. Which do you prefer? Do you like this?"
Takara tapped the right side of her glasses and everything changed. The blue suit and black brogues were replaced by a vivid white wedding dress, so white it was practically fluorescent, like a Christmas tree made out of lightning, absorbing all colour and all hope. The fabric pulled and gathered and cascaded, seemingly in constant motion, an avalanche of elegance and imminent danger, all offset beautifully with lace that had buried centuries of unsuspecting bridegrooms. Across Takara's face was a veil fashioned to resemble barbed wire, the twists and knots obscuring her features, leaving only the eyes and mouth visible, while on the body of the dress there were rough red splotches of what had to be blood, as if she'd come straight from paintballing in an abattoir, as if whoever she'd just bludgeoned to death had tried to clamber up her body in their desperate final moments.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Takara beamed. "I once had a dream that I attended a fashion show in a plague pit and this supernova of a supermodel wore this very dress, and as she glided along the catwalk, everyone she passed by dropped gracefully to the floor, giving up the ghost in an instant at the sight of such perfection. The evening began to rapturous, overwhelming applause, and ended in silence, with myself, the last woman standing, sighing with joy, my hands clasped together in supplication.
"When I woke up, I was wearing the dress. And I haven't wanted to take it off for even a second since that day."
Takara frowned, her bottom lip jutting out slightly.
"But it can be a bit much, I do have to concede that. So I have a second option. What do you make of this?"
She tapped the right side of her glasses once again. The wedding dress blinked out of existence to be replaced by a black suit, cut for a matador. The jacket had high shoulder pads overlaid with panels of dense material covered in obsidian sequins while the arms and body were plastered in twisted black embroidery. The trousers were tight and tapered leading to dramatic pointed black shoes. Everything was covered in a layer of white dust, and the previous owner of the outfit had clearly attended the same paintballing party as the murderous bride, as dark red splodges of blood complimented the dust, the embroidery, the mirrors and the sequins perfectly. Perched on Takara's head was a black collapsed top hat — like a normal top hat were it being sat on by a huge invisible vulture. And just below the hat, a thin, fastidiously groomed moustache ran along the edges of Takara's top lip and then gave a theatrical, swashbuckling twist at either end.
"My god Takara," spluttered Sam. "You've turned into a man."
"I have?" Takara replied with a mildly surprised tone. "Oh yes, of course, that's right. It comes with the outfit. I'd forgotten all about that."
Takara had a twinkle in her eyes that suggested that she knew full well that a gender switch accompanied the outfit, and that seeing people react to it was a huge part of the appeal.
"I have to admit that this wasn’t entirely what I was thinking of when I ordered this getup," Takara went on, brushing some of the white dust from her upper arm. "In my mind, it was going to be rather more voodoo megalomaniac — part Willy Wonka, part Papa Lazarou. You know the thing. Half wildly eccentric chocolatier trying to prove a grudgeful point to an uncaring world by leaving a trail of distended and distorted children in his wake…"
"Didn’t one of them die?" interrupted Sam.
"One? All? Who’s counting?" retorted Takara. "So, yes, half that and half disturbing voodoo bogey man, with lots of skulls and little white crosses, and the most dreadful teeth, like a shaman in desperate need of a makeover. Not my usual style when it comes to presenting myself to the world, I'll grant you, but I thought a change of pace might be fun. But then my subconscious got to work and this kind of shaman matador outfit arrived, and I am quite taken with all the sequins and the mirrors, not to mention the delightful cobweb embroidery. So I've decided to run with it."
"Do you feel different being a man?"
Takara frowned slightly. "I’m not a man," she tutted, raising a hand as if to twiddle her moustache. "That's just how I present for this outfit."
"So what are you then?"
"Now, that is the question!" beamed Takara. "But it's not fair to answer your question before you've answered mine. Which is it to be — traumatic nightmare death bride or creepy nightmare circus demon?"
Takara looked at Sam expectantly.
"I'm starting to think that none of this is real and therefore nothing I say or do really matters."
"Yes?" Takara nodded, smiling in encouragement.
"So stay as you are — saves the bother of having to switch back."
Takara raised her hand to the right side of her glasses for a moment, hand poised, trembling, apparently ready to tap the glasses once more, and then she whipped them off her head and slipped them back into her jacket.
"Excellent!" she said, clapping in delight. "You really are getting into the swing of things."
The Tunnels by Ian Watson is published by Secret Name Books on 26 February, and available now for pre-order.
