Underground

by Tobias Hill

  ‘Fucking cunt-fuckers! Go on then, it’s your turn. Hope you have better luck with the fucks than I do.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Casimir watches the skinhead walk rapidly away towards Southwark, the trolley skewing ahead of her. Then he goes into the box, dials Operator Enquiries and waits, the door easing shut behind him.

  ‘Good evening. Which number do you require?’

  ‘Kentish Town Police Station. London.’ He memorizes the number, feeling in his pocket for change, sorting it out on the flat of his hand. Then he hangs up and redials, holding the bust receiver together.

  ‘Kentish Town. How can I help you?’ The voice is male, with the same quality of control that Casimir remembers in Phelps’s speech. ‘Hello?’

  It is hard to speak, the words grating in his mouth. Part of him stays detached, disgusted. But he needs the authorities now. Needs their control. ‘I need to speak to Phelps.’

  ‘Police Inspector Phelps is in a meeting. Can I help at all?’

  ‘No. I will hold.’

  ‘She may be some time. Can I ask – hang on, she just – just a minute, please.’

  The line goes quiet. Casimir looks up at the telephone-box windows. They are crammed with prostitutes’ advertising cards: FRESH GIRL, PRIVATE FUNCTIONS, HOLE IN ONE. The line clicks open and he turns away. ‘Phelps here. Who is this?’

  ‘Casimir.’

  ‘I’m busy. What do you want?’

  ‘You asked me about homeless people. There is something I didn’t tell you.’ He closes his eyes. As if the movement could stop him hearing his own voice. ‘There is a girl. At nights she sleeps on the Underground. She looks like Rebecca Saville and Marion Asher. Enough for it to matter. She has been arrested many times as a juvenile, at least once for violence.’

  The line goes quiet again. From outside the telephone comes a rattling sound. Casimir opens his eyes in time to see the skinhead with the trolley go running past, back towards the Bull Ring.

  ‘I made a mistake.’

  ‘Yes, you did. How long have you known about this?’

  He thinks back, trying to ignore the checked anger in the policewoman’s voice. ‘A week.’

  ‘A week. What you’re saying is, you knew about this before Asher was killed. She must be pretty, your Underground girl, if she looks like Saville and Asher. A week. I hope it was good, because it may have cost a life. I hope you can live with that.’

  ‘Nothing was clear a week ago.’

  ‘If it turns out this girl’s the killer they should put you away. Accessory to murder and withholding evidence. What about sex with a minor, can I do you for that? Now listen. I want you to tell me her name and describe to me exactly where she sleeps.’

  He leans back, the root of his skull against the glass. ‘Jacqueline Chappell. I don’t know if it’s her real name. Sometimes she is called Alice, or Jack Union. She has lots of names. She sleeps in an underground storeroom at South Kentish Town Tube station.’

  ‘There is no South Kentish Town. Are you trying to –’

  ‘There is. It was closed down eighty years ago. It’s on Kentish Town Road, under a shop called Cash Converters –’

  ‘All right. I know it, yes. Red-tiled building, just like Camden station. Christ, it’s minutes away.’ The policewoman sounds disgusted. As if she can smell the killings, like smog pollution. ‘OK. Right. I’m going to call Northern Line Management, for maps and access. As soon as they get to me, I’m going down to find Jacqueline Chappell, or whatever her name is. I want you there too, in case we need to identify her. Inside half an hour, please. Is that all quite clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  As he puts the phone back in its cradle the mouthpiece falls off, trailing wires. The telephone’s liquid crystal display goes dead. Casimir steps out of the box, looks left and right. The wet-black stone façade of Waterloo station looms up over the Bull Ring. He puts his head down and begins to run.

  The sky over South Kentish Town is grey-orange, London’s last evening light reflected up against the rain clouds. Casimir is still half a mile away from the abandoned station when he hears the sirens. An ambulance speeds past him northwards from Camden, its headlights flashing. He starts after it, breaking into a run again.

  In front of Al Araf Saunas the pavement is crowded with police and London Transport officials. Casimir stands in the wet street, hands open by his sides, watching the mass of movement and urgent, quiet conversation.

  ‘Mister Kazimierski?’

  He looks round into the glare of a flashlight. Beside him is a policeman, his face slack and characterless under the low brim of his hat. Casimir raises one hand to shield his eyes.

  ‘Can you come this way, please.’

  The man’s quick monotone turns the question into an order. Casimir follows him through the crowd towards the back of the building. Phelps is standing in the open yard entrance, talking to a small black woman, their heads bowed together. From inside the corrugated-metal wall comes the whine and growl of an electric screwdriver. Both women look up as Casimir reaches them.

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘You’ve found her.’

  Phelps shakes her head, frowning, still watching Casimir. ‘No. We’ve been through the whole complex with keys to every room, excavation plans, floor-plans and the lighting turned on. There were three juvenile males down there and a middle-aged homeless couple. None of them looks remotely like Rebecca Saville.’

  ‘She knows the Underground too well. She is here.’

  ‘No. But fortunately for you, it seems she was.’ Phelps looks down, sheltering her notebook under its plastic cover. ‘Two of the boys saw her tonight. All three maintain they don’t know her name, but they described her all right. They also say that she sold them drugs, including a syringe of blue liquid we found in their room. Pentobarbitone. It’s a tranquillizer used to put down mad cows. The ambulance crew tell me it’s got value as a street drug.’

  She glances back up at Casimir, eyes wide and staring. Aggressive. Looks down. ‘The older male fell running down a flight of stairs. He’s getting medical treatment now, but I’ll be talking to him soon. The woman won’t say anything, not unless you count “Get off me, I’m the fucking First Lady”. This is Margaret Stone, by the way. From Northern Line Management.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve become so involved, Assistant Casimir.’

  ‘Yes.’ The manager’s hand is cool and dry, even in the rain. He watches her, remembering her voice clearly on the controlroom telephone. Low-pitched, very calm. It is about Rebecca Saville. It is unfortunate. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘The station will be sealed.’ She speaks up over the sound of hammering from inside the yard fence, turning away from him as she finishes. Her profile is sharp, the nose aquiline and Asian. ‘I have to go. Inspector, I’ll need an image of the girl for the posters. A clear photograph of Asher or Saville would help.’

  Casimir steps forward. ‘What if Alice is still down there?’ He is nearly twice the height of the Line Manager. She doesn’t look round. Phelps glances up at him and away.

  ‘We’ve looked. She’s not. I’m afraid all I’ve got here is a photocopied shot of Marion Asher. PC Hill, there’s a black folder under the passenger seat in the van, can you get it, please? Fast.’

  ‘Yes, m’m.’ The policeman beside Casimir turns away, pushing through towards Castle Road.

  Casimir looks round. Through the open corrugated-iron door he can see the entrance to the abandoned station. Two workers in London Transport overalls are bolting a new door into place. Its blue-grey metal surface shines with rain. The wooden door lies off to one side on the decomposing piles of carpet, split almost in two. As Casimir watches, the taller worker leans a two-handed machine against the door. It whines, high-pitched, driving a heavy bolt into the old brick.

  He turns back. Phelps and the Line Manager are going through a folder, the policeman a gaunt black figure behind them. Margaret Stone stands back, holding a sheet of photocopied
paper.

  ‘Will that do? I can send on a better copy later.’ Phelps is handing the folder back to the policeman.

  ‘It’s a start.’ The Line Manager looks down at the photograph. Casimir comes up beside her, standing close. It is the picture of Marion Asher and the second girl. Leaning forward, laughter caught and frozen. Stone’s measured voice is almost inaudible. ‘It is a cruel face.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  The Line Manager looks up at Phelps, unsmiling. ‘This will do, thank you. I must go now. Goodbye, Inspector. Assistant.’ She walks away towards the alley, small and hunched against the drizzle.

  Casimir turns back to Phelps. ‘The girl, Alice. She knows the Underground very well. Better than us. There are places she knows which we may not even have mapped –’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Mister Casimir. That’s why I sent twenty-five officers down to look for her. She’s not there, and she’s not getting back down there either.’

  The policewoman looks away towards the crowd, then down at her watch. ‘I’d like you to leave now, sir. One of my men will drive you back to your lodging house. If and when I need you again, I’ll be in touch. Until then try to live a normal life, yes?’

  The police car smells of pine freshener and urine. Casimir makes himself sit back, knees against the side-door and the partition in front. There is no door handle, no window button. He looks out at the city as it goes past, smooth and quick and bright. Rain runs sideways against the car window. As if I am travelling upwards, he thinks. Away from the Underground and Alice. He wonders what he is travelling towards.

  He thinks of her laughter, breathless, rippling through her into him. The smell of her wet hair, which is sweet, like her sweat.

  The car stops outside the take-away on Lower Marsh. The side door clicks open. One of the policemen in the front seats looks round at Casimir.

  ‘All right? Take a bit of friendly advice, stay in tonight, watch the telly. You won’t die of boredom. There’s Blind Date, you’ll like that. Right, off you go.’

  Casimir gets out of the car and goes up the lodgers’ stairs without looking back. The stairwell bulb is still out and he stands outside his door, gritting his teeth against the dark, feeling for the keyhole, the key. He unlocks the door and reaches inside, batting blindly for the light switch.

  The room jumps into visibility, stark in the bare electric illumination. Casimir breathes once, twice, eyes closed. There is a noise from the hallway outside, voices of other lodgers going past and down. One measured, the second roaring drunk. Female. Briefly Casimir thinks of the dog woman and his legs ache suddenly, the body remembering its hurt.

  He opens his eyes. On the mussed blankets of the bed is a plate of food, stale white toast and cold fried chicken left unfinished. Casimir walks to the window and opens it, letting in air and the smell of rain. A car goes past up Spur Road, light running along its blue lamé. On the far side of the road someone is putting up posters in the rain, white rectangles trailing away from a single dark figure. Its pale face turns upwards and away.

  Casimir goes to the bed, sits down, leans back. After a few minutes he props himself up on one elbow and starts to eat methodically, forcing the oily meat and dry bread down. The newspaper lies crumpled against the foot of the bed and he picks it up and reads, concentrating on the food and his own simple hunger. The headlines, distracting and irrelevant: BLOW HOLE SUICIDE. WEB BOMB FACTORY.

  ‘Mister Casimir?’

  He stands up, walks the three steps to the door and unlocks it. Mrs Navratil is waiting in the hall. Her face looks pinched and drawn in the bad light.

  ‘You’re becoming rather popular. There was another letter for you.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I have it. Come up.’

  Casimir follows the landlady upstairs. Blue television light fills the doorway of her flat. He steps through. The landlady is bent over beside a tasselled red lampshade. It colours her face like a light bulb seen through skin.

  ‘It came this evening. You haven’t shaved.’

  ‘I have been busy.’

  ‘You also smell. You must take better care of yourself. Living on restaurant premises.’

  In the middle of the far wall is a massive flat-screened television. A news programme is showing with the sound turned down low, the reader staring out, unsmiling. Casimir thinks of fish in tanks, mouthing oxygen. Video cases are stacked around the television. One lies empty in front of the screen. Dully, Casimir realizes that Navratil is watching her newsreader on video.

  The landlady straightens. ‘Here it is.’ She is holding out a brown envelope. ‘Maybe it’s from the police. What did they want with you?’

  Casimir takes the letter. His address and first name are written in thick pencilled capitals.

  ‘I was helping them with their enquiries.’ He holds the letter sideways, to the light. Something shifts inside, tiny and papery. There are stamps above the address but no postmark. ‘Who brought this?’

  ‘A delivery man.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Fat. Don’t bring the police here again, Mister Casimir.’

  Navratil turns away towards the television. As Casimir leaves he looks back once. The landlady is still standing, her eyes on the newsreader. Her hands clasped in front of her.

  Casimir goes into his own room, locking the door behind him. He opens the letter quickly, not letting himself stop to think. Inside is a folded sheet of white paper. As Casimir unfolds it, a tiny white ball rolls out. He catches it as it begins to fall.

  It is a scrawled-up nub of paper, flecked and seamed with red, no larger than a bus ticket bunched up in a pocket. It is almost too small for Casimir’s fingers to unpick and he goes over to the bed and sits down, leaning forward, straightening the paper out between his large, blue-white hands. When he has it done he remains bent forward, trying to understand the one line of red text: GET AWAY WITH AN AWAY DAY!

  The paper is smooth with magazine ink, torn on three sides, discoloured with age. Under the writing is the edge of a picture, a faded blue line of what could be sky, a fluff of white cloud. Casimir shakes his head. The fragment of page looks to him like an advertisement or article headline. Now nothing is legible except the six words. Like an order, or a warning: GET AWAY.

  Casimir drops the paper. Beside him is the white sheet, still folded. He unfolds it on his lap. His throat clicks as he reads, the muscles opening and closing, heart lurching.

  HAVE YOU SEEN THIS CHILD?

  Jacqueline Messenger left her foster carer in Tower Hamlets five years ago. Investigations by her carer suggest that Jacqueline has been living homeless in the London area since 1990. Jacqueline Messenger is a tall child with fine features and blue eyes. Anyone with information on Jacqueline Messenger can contact the foster carer at:

  Messenger PO Box 191, WC1 8QX.

  Under the headline is a black-and-white photograph of a girl. Unsmiling, staring at the camera. To Casimir she looks ten or eleven. Her hair surrounds her face, wildly tangled. The light coming through the hair makes it bright as a corona. In contrast the face is darkened, the gaze unclear in silhouette. He sees that Alice’s face has changed as it has grown. It would be hard to recognize her from this child’s face. Hard to be sure of what she would grow into.

  He stops reading. Walks to the window. Looks out.

  Along Spur Road the posters shine, a row of white steps leading up towards the terminus. The poster hanger is gone now, but Casimir remembers him. He has seen him before. A man in black jeans and T-shirt, his face large but smooth, heavy-set and muscular. Not loosely fat. Big in the bone.

  As Casimir’s eyes adjust he can make out the headlines on the distant posters. The shape of the words, like those on the page behind him.

  The sense of déjà vu is sudden and dizzying. Casimir stands still, waiting for it to pass. When it doesn’t he leans his arms on the windowsill, head down.

  He tries to remember how many times he has seen
the poster hanger. He is present in Casimir’s memory in the same way Alice once was; as a figure seen many times, a face in the Underground crowds. He remembers him on a platform crowded with commuters, sticking papers up by the telephones, moving away with an odd fluidity. In a side-tunnel, the nails of one hand broken down past the quicks. An Underground oddity; another Rose. Flashes of other memories: hallways, stairwells, back streets. The take-away – he has seen the man inside the lodging house. A figure alone at its corner table, blending into the background, casting the faintest of shadows. As if he can be anywhere.

  He steps back from the window. Outside the rain has stopped and a breeze is picking up. The net curtains belly inwards, hollow and white.

  What have I done? In his thoughts the question has no rising intonation. It is hardly a question at all, more a statement of guilt.

  ‘What have I done.’

  Casimir’s whisper echoes in the bare room. A rustle of sound along the unpapered walls.

  His eyes flicker, staring at nothing, hands opening and closing at his sides. He leaves without closing the door, the room behind him remaining in light, the bulb swung by the wind through the open window.

  10

  Astrakhan

  Along the Volga is where the fish markets are. Really they’re just boats but each one is big and square as Gliwice town hall, with white domes and colonnades. Two steps behind my father, I look out of the portholes and see the kebab sellers pulling kindling off the waterfront birch trees, crows belching in the branches above them. Over the market racket I can hear singing. It comes from the mosques on the far river bank. The song shakes over the water. Like heat.

  This is Astrakhan. It smells of fish, spilled petrol and broken fruit. The smell is so strong that I feel drunk sick with it for a day. We’ve been here for two days now, looking for the Iranian.