The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 2002, Volume 13

by Stephen Jones

  ‘I want to see everybody’s hand, now.’ Sixteen, and the four at the rear of the ticket hall. ‘Keep right under cover, out of the rain. You at the back, tuck in, let those people get past.’ Seventeen, the clown, eighteen, nineteen, the Siamese twins, twenty, the sad boy. ‘We’re going to go through the barrier together in a group, so everybody stay very, very close.’ I noticed Deborah studying me as I marshalled the children. There was disapproval in her look. She appeared about to speak, then held herself in check. I’m doing something wrong, I thought, alarmed. But the entry gate was being opened by the station guard, and I had to push the sensation aside.

  Getting our charges onto the escalator and making them stand on the right was an art in itself. Timson, the class clown, was determined to prove he could remount the stairs and keep pace with passengers travelling in the opposite direction. An astonishingly pretty black girl had decided to slide down on the rubber handrail.

  ‘We step off at the end,’ I warned. ‘Don’t jump, that’s how accidents happen.’ My voice had rediscovered its sharp old timbre, but now there was less confidence behind it. London had changed while I had been away, and was barely recognizable to me now. There were so many tourists. Even at half-past ten on a wintry Monday morning, Finchley Road Tube station was crowded with teenagers in wet nylon coats, hoods and backpacks, some old ladies on a shopping trip, some puzzled Japanese businessmen, a lost-looking man in an old-fashioned navy-blue raincoat. Deborah exuded an air of weary lassitude that suggested she wouldn’t be too bothered if the kids got carried down to the platform and were swept onto the rails like lemmings going over a cliff.

  ‘Stay away from the edge,’ I called, flapping my arms at them. ‘Move back against the wall to let people past.’ I saw the irritation in commuters’ faces as they eyed the bubbling, chattering queue. Londoners don’t like children. ‘We’re going to be getting on the next train, but we must wait until it has stopped and its doors are open before we move forward. I want you to form a crocodile.’

  The children looked up at me blankly. ‘A crocodile shape, two, two, two, two, all the way along,’ I explained, chopping in their direction with the edges of my palms.

  Deborah gave me a wry smile. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever told them to do that before,’ she explained.

  ‘Then how do you get them to stay in lines?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, we don’t, they just surge around. They never do what they’re told. You can’t do anything with them. The trouble with children is they’re not, are they? Not children. Just grabby little adults.’

  No, I thought, you’re so wrong. But I elected not to speak. I looked back at the children gamely organizing themselves into two wobbly columns. ‘They’re not doing so badly.’

  Deborah wasn’t interested. She turned away to watch the train arriving. ‘Crocodile, crocodile,’ the kids were chanting, making snappy-jawed movements to each other. The carriages of the train appeared to be already half-full. I had expected them to be almost empty. As the doors opened, we herded the children forward. I kept my eyes on the pairs at the back, feeding them in between my outstretched arms as though I was guiding unruly sheep into a pen. I tried not to think about the entrance to the tunnel, and the stifling, crushing darkness beyond it.

  ‘Miss, Raj has fallen over.’ I looked down to find a minuscule Indian child bouncing up from his knees with a grin on his face. I noted that no damage had been done, then lifted his hands, scuffed them clean and wrapped them around the nearest carriage pole. ‘Hang on,’ I instructed as the doors closed.

  ‘Miss, how many stops is it?’ asked a little girl at my side.

  ‘We go to Swiss Cottage, then St John’s Wood, then Baker Street, then we change from the Jubilee Line to the Bakerloo Line and go one stop to Regent’s Park.’

  ‘Miss, is there a real cottage in Swiss Cottage?’

  ‘Miss, are we going to Switzerland?’

  ‘Miss, can you ski in Swiss Cottage?’

  ‘Miss, are we going skiing?’

  ‘We’re going skiing! We’re going skiing!’

  The train pulled away and everyone screamed. For a moment I sympathized with Deborah. I looked out of the window as the platform vanished. When I married Peter we moved out to Amersham, at the end of the Metropolitan line, and stopped coming into central London. Peter was a lecturer. I was due for promotion at the school. In time I could have become the headmistress, but Peter didn’t want me to work and that was that, so I had to give up my job and keep house for him. A year later, I discovered that I couldn’t have children. Suddenly I began to miss my classroom very badly.

  ‘Miss, make him get off me.’ Timson was sitting on top of a girl who had grabbed a seat. Without thinking, I lifted him off by his jacket collar.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ said Deborah. ‘They’ll have you up before the Court of Human Rights for maltreatment. Best not to touch them at all.’ She swung to the other side of the central pole and leaned closer. ‘How long has it been since you last taught?’

  ‘Twelve years.’

  ‘You’ve been away a long time.’ It sounded suspiciously like a criticism. ‘Well, we don’t manhandle them any more. EEC ruling.’ Deborah peered out of the window. ‘Swiss Cottage coming up, watch out.’

  II: Swiss Cottage to St John’s Wood

  Many projects to build new Tube lines were abandoned due to spiralling costs and sheer impracticability. An unfinished station tunnel at South Kensington served as a signalling school in the 1930s, and was later equipped to record delayed-action bombs falling into the Thames that might damage the underwater Tube tunnels. The Northern Heights project to extend the Northern Line to Alexandra Palace was halted by the Blitz. After this, the government built a number of deep-level air-raid shelters connected to existing Tube stations, several of which were so far underground that they were leased after the war as secure archives. As late as the 1970s, many pedestrian Tube subways still looked like passageways between bank vaults. Vast riveted doors could be used to seal off tunnels in the event of fire or flood. There was a subterranean acridity in the air. You saw the light rounding the dark bend ahead, heard the pinging of the albescent lines, perhaps glimpsed something long sealed away. Not all of the system has changed. Even now there are tunnels that lead nowhere, and platforms where only ghosts of the past wait for trains placed permanently out of service.

  Trying to make sure that nobody got off when the doors opened would have been easier if the children had been wearing school uniforms. But their casual clothes blended into a morass of bright colours, and I had to rely on Deborah keeping the head-count from her side of the carriage. In my earlier days at Invicta the pupils wore regulation navy blue with a single yellow stripe, and the only symbol of non-conformity you saw – apart from the standard array of faddish haircuts – was the arrangement of their socks, pulled down or the wrong colour, small victories for little rebels.

  I avoided thinking about the brick and soil pressing down on us, but was perspiring freely by now. I concentrated on the children, and had counted to fifteen when half a dozen jolly American matrons piled into the car, making it hard to finish the tally. I moved as many of the children as I could to one side, indicating that they should stay in crocodile formation. I instinctively knew that most of them were present, but I couldn’t see the sad little boy. ‘Connor,’ I called, ‘make yourself known please.’ An elliptical head popped out between two huge tourists. So unsmiling. I wondered if he had a nemesis, someone in the class who was making his life hell. Bullies are often small and aggressive because of their height. They go for the bigger, softer boys to enhance their reputation, and they’re often popular with games teachers because of their bravado. There’s not much I don’t know about bullies. I was married to one for twelve years.

  ‘I’ve got these new assignment books in my bag,’ said Deborah, relooping her hair through her scrunchie and checking her reflection in the glass. ‘Some government psychology group wants to test o
ut a theory about how kids look at animals. More bloody paperwork. It’s not rocket science, is it, the little sods just see it as a day off and a chance to piss about.’

  ‘You may be right,’ I admitted. ‘But children are shaped far more by their external environment than anyone cares to admit.’

  ‘How’s that, then?’

  ‘They recently carried out an experiment in a New York public school,’ I explained, ‘placing well-behaved kids and those with a history of disruption in two different teaching areas, one clean and bright, the other poorly lit and untidy. They found that children automatically misbehaved in surroundings of chaos – not just the troubled children but all of them, equally.’

  Deborah looked at me oddly, swaying with the movement of the train. Grey cables looped past the windows like stone garlands, or immense spider webs. ‘You don’t miss much, do you? Is that how you knew Connor was hiding behind those women?’

  ‘No, that’s just instinct. But I’ve been reading a bit about behavioural science. It’s very interesting.’ I didn’t tell her that before I was married I had been a teacher for nearly fourteen years. The only thing I didn’t know about children was what it was like to have one.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, I know it’s a vocation with some people, but not me. It’s just a job. God, I’m dying for a fag.’ She hiked her bag further up her shoulder. ‘Didn’t your old man want you to work, then?’

  ‘Not really. But I would have come back earlier. Only . . .’ I felt uncomfortable talking to this young woman in such a crowded place, knowing that I could be overheard.

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘After I’d been at home for a while, I found I had trouble going out.’

  ‘Agoraphobia?’

  ‘Not really. More like a loss of balance. A density of people. Disorienting architecture, shopping malls, exhibition halls, things like that.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t look very comfortable back there on the platform. The Tube gets so crowded now.’

  ‘With the Tube it’s different. It’s not the crowds, it’s the tunnels. The shapes they make. Circles. Spirals. The converging lines. Perhaps I’ve become allergic to buildings.’ Deborah wasn’t listening, she was looking out of the window and unwrapping a piece of gum. Just as well, I thought. I didn’t want her to get the impression that I wasn’t up to the job. But I could feel the pressure in the air, the scented heat of the passengers, the proximity of the curving walls. An over-sensitivity to public surroundings, that was what the doctor called it. I could tell what he was thinking: Oh God, another stir-crazy housewife. He had started writing out a prescription while I was still telling him how I felt.

  ‘We’re coming into Baker Street. Christ, not again. There must have been delays earlier.’ Through the windows I could see a solid wall of tourists waiting to board. We slowed to a halt and the doors opened.

  III: Baker Street to Regent’s Park

  The world’s first tube railway, the Tower Subway, was opened in 1870, and ran between the banks of the Thames. The car was only ten feet long and five feet wide, and had no windows. This claustrophobic steel cylinder was an early materialization of a peculiar modern phenomenon: the idea that great discomfort could be endured for the purpose of efficiency, the desire to reach another place with greater speed. An appropriately satanic contraption for a nation of iron, steam and smoke.

  ‘This is where we change,’ called Deborah. ‘Right, off, the lot of you.’

  ‘Can you see them all?’ I asked.

  ‘Are you kidding? I bet you there’s something going on somewhere as well, all these people, some kind of festival.’ The adults on the platform were pushing their way into the carriage before we could alight. Suddenly we were being surrounded by red, white and green-striped nylon backpacks. Everyone was speaking Italian. Some girls began shrieking with laughter and shoving against each other. Ignoring the building dizziness behind my eyes, I pushed back against the door, ushering children out, checking the interior of the carriage, trying to count heads.

  ‘Deborah, keep them together on the platform, I’ll see if there are any more.’ I could see that she resented being told what to do, but she sullenly herded the class together. The guard looked out and closed the train doors, but I held mine back.

  ‘How many?’ I called.

  ‘It’s fine, they’re all here. Come on, you’ll get left behind.’

  I pushed my way through the children as Deborah started off toward the Bakerloo line. ‘You worry too much,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘I’ve done this trip loads of times, it’s easy once you’re used to it.’

  ‘Wait, I think we should do another head check—’ But she had forged ahead with the children scudding around her, chattering, shouting, alert and alive to everything. I glanced back anxiously, trying to recall all of their faces.

  I saw him then, but of course I didn’t realize.

  Four minutes before the next train calling at Regent’s Park. I moved swiftly around them, corralling and counting. Deborah was bent over, listening to one of the girls. The twins were against the wall, searching for something in their bags. Timson, the class clown, was noisily jumping back and forth, violently swinging his arms. I couldn’t find him. Couldn’t find Connor. Perhaps he didn’t want me to, like he didn’t want Deborah to notice.

  ‘Let’s see you form a crocodile again,’ I said, keeping my voice low and calm.

  ‘Miss, will we see crocodiles at the zoo?’

  ‘Miss, are you the crocodile lady?’

  Some of the children at the back moved forward, so I had to start the count over. I knew right then. Nineteen. One short. No Connor. ‘He’s gone,’ I said. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘He can’t have gone,’ said Deborah, shoving her hair out of her eyes. She was clearly exasperated with me now. ‘He tends to lag behind.’

  ‘I saw him on the train.’

  ‘You mean he didn’t get off? You saw everyone off.’

  ‘I thought I did.’ It was getting difficult to keep the panic out of my voice. ‘There was – something odd.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ She turned around sharply. ‘Who is pulling my bag?’ I saw that the children were listening to us. They miss very little, it’s just that they often decide not to act on what they see or hear. I thought back, and recalled the old-fashioned navy-blue raincoat. An oversensitivity to everyday surroundings. He had been following the children since Finchley Road. I had seen him in the crowd, standing slightly too close to them, listening to their laughter, watching out for the lonely ones, the quiet ones. Something had registered in me even then, but I had not acted upon my instincts. I tried to recall the interior of the carriage. Had he been on the train? I couldn’t—

  ‘He’s probably not lost, just lagging behind.’

  ‘Then where is he?’

  ‘We’ll get him back, they don’t go missing for long. I promise you, he’ll turn up any second. It’s quite impossible to lose a small child down here, unfortunately. Imagine if we did. We’d have a bugger of a job covering it up.’ Deborah’s throaty laugh turned into a cough. ‘Have to get all the kids to lie themselves blue in the face, pretend that none of us saw him come to school today.’

  ‘I’m going to look.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Suppose something really has happened?’

  ‘Well, what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Get the children onto the next train. I’ll find Connor and bring him back. I’ll meet you at the zoo. By the statue of Guy the gorilla.’

  ‘You can’t just go off! You said yourself—’

  ‘I have to, I know what to look for.’

  ‘We should go and tell the station guards, get someone in authority.’

  ‘There isn’t time.’

  ‘This isn’t your decision to make, you know.’

  ‘It’s my responsibility.’

  ‘Why did you come back?’

  Deborah’s question threw me for a second. ‘T
he children.’

  ‘This isn’t your world now,’ she said furiously. ‘You had your turn. Couldn’t you let someone else have theirs?’

  ‘I was a damned good teacher.’ I studied her eyes, trying to see if she understood. ‘I didn’t have my turn.’

  There was no more time to argue with her. I turned and pushed back through the passengers surging up from the platform. I caught the look of angry confusion on Deborah’s face, as though this was something I had concocted deliberately to wreck her schedule. Then I made my way back to the platform.

  I was carrying a mobile phone, but down here, of course, it was useless. Connor was bright and suspicious; he wouldn’t go quietly without a reason. I tried to imagine what I would do if I wanted to get a child that wasn’t mine out of the station with the minimum of fuss. I’d keep him occupied, find a way to stop him from asking questions. Heavier crowds meant more policing, more station staff, but it would be safer to stay lost among so many warm bodies. He’d either try to leave the station at once, and run the risk of me persuading the guards to keep watch at the escalator exits, or he’d travel to another line and leave by a different station. Suddenly I knew what he intended to do – but not where he intended to do it.

  IV: King’s Cross to Euston

  There exists a strange photograph of Hammersmith Grove Road station taken four years after the service there ceased operation. It shows a curving platform of transverse wooden boards, and, facing each other, a pair of ornate deserted waiting rooms. The platform beyond this point fades away into the mist of a winter dusk. There is nothing human in the picture, no sign of life at all. It is as though the station existed at the edge of the world, or at the end of time.

  I tried to remember what I had noticed about Connor. There are things you automatically know just by looking at your pupils. You can tell a lot from the bags they carry. Big sports holdalls mean messy work and disorganization; the kid is probably carrying his books around all the time instead of keeping them in his locker, either because he doesn’t remember his timetable or because he is using the locker to store cigarettes and contraband. A smart briefcase usually indicates an anal pupil with fussy parents. Graffiti and stickers on a knapsack mean that someone is trying to be a rebel. Connor had a cheap plastic bag, the kind they sell at high-street stores running sales all year round.