Tubing

by K. A. McKeagney

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, despairing.

  She took no notice.

  ‘Polly, I’m talking to you.’ He started following her out of the room, but then thought better of it and turned back.

  She reached into her handbag and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up her face in the darkened hallway, it said:

  I saw what happened. can we meet tomorrow?

  It was him. He’d been there and seen it all. She messaged straight back. He replied with a time and place.

  When she went back into the lounge Oliver was sat on the leather chesterfield by the window, legs crossed and staring into space.

  She stood in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  He wasn’t impressed, and turned his head to the side to let her know. She went over and sat on the arm of the chair.

  ‘I don’t know what got into me,’ she continued.

  ‘This is exactly what I’m talking about,’ Oliver said. ‘You’ve waltzed back in here as if … as if nothing just happened … and now … What’s going on, Polly?’

  His voice was pleading and she felt sorry for him. He was a good guy; he didn’t deserve this. But what could she do? She was seeing him tomorrow.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m just tired, and I think I’m getting my period.’

  That put a stop to the conversation.

  Eighteen

  The next morning, Oliver was up early and whistling. Polly rolled over in bed to check the time on her alarm clock. It was 7.19 a.m.

  ‘What the … ?’ she muttered. It was a Saturday morning and he was up being useful, ironing his shirts for the week and tending to the houseplants.

  At times she found him infuriating. He was always so content and happy. She tried to imagine what it felt like to breathe his air – clean, refreshing, like washing dried outside on the line. She hadn’t met a single person who had a bad word to say about him. When they had first met she’d been in awe of his good nature; she hadn’t been able to believe people like him actually existed, he was so kind and gentle. Right now, it just pissed her off.

  At nine-thirty Oliver marched into the room and playfully whipped the duvet off her. She fought to get it back, but in her groggy state lost the battle instantly.

  ‘Come on, Pol, up you get,’ he said. ‘I need to get these sheets in the wash, and you need to start getting ready.’

  Polly rubbed her face roughly with the palms of her hands. ‘What?’ she asked, her face screwed up like a piece of waste paper. ‘Why?’ She had been intending to spend the entire day in bed.

  ‘It’s Lord’s today.’

  Polly’s face scrunched up tighter.

  ‘The cricket. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’

  She had. They were supposed to be watching a one-day international.

  ‘Do I have to go?’ Her voice whiney.

  ‘Of course you have to go, everyone’s expecting you.’ By everyone, Oliver meant his friends.

  ‘Can’t you just say I’m ill or something?’

  ‘Last time it was a migraine – what do you want me to say this time? They’ll begin to think you don’t like them, Polly.’

  Going to the cricket scuppered her plans. Being out all day meant she couldn’t take her time getting ready for later; she had to get everything together before they left. After much deliberation in front of the open wardrobe, she pulled out a short, cap-sleeved floral dress and a pair of flip-flops. In her bag she hid her jute belt, red satin stiletto heels and lots of make-up.

  She hung back a few metres behind Oliver all the way to the cricket ground. If he was going to make her go, she was going to make sure he knew how pissed off she was about it. He didn’t seem bothered, and marched on ahead of her.

  Once there, she was quickly relegated to the ‘wives and girlfriends’ benches directly behind the men. She was relieved to see Charlotte wasn’t there. At times Charlotte felt like their shadow. Polly couldn’t understand why she chose to hang around with her brother the whole time. Admittedly Polly didn’t have any siblings of her own to com pare her with, but from what she could gather most people were quite happy to get away from their brothers and sisters when they left home, whereas, when Oliver had moved to London, Charlotte had moved to be within walking distance of him.

  Polly sat down right at the end of the bench. A couple of the women tried to draw her into conversation, asking about her job and where she got her pretty dress from, but she could see through their bullshit questions and didn’t give more than one-word answers. There was no common ground between them; they had at least ten years and three stone on her. After a while, Polly put on her shades and started playing with her phone.

  Lunch was a cobbled-together picnic. Everyone had brought along a dish – everyone except Polly. She vaguely remembered Oliver mentioning something about it a couple of weeks ago. He shot her an angry look as everyone started getting out their Tupperware. They laid down a banquet of stuffed olives, dolmades, goujons, Greek salad, sliced meats, cheeses and flatbreads.

  Polly used an old trick she’d learnt at the clinic: she filled most of her plate with leaves, making it look as if she had a full meal. The bits of feta that did make it on were quickly disposed of in her napkin. She didn’t want to eat. She didn’t need to. She was beginning to feel like herself again – weightless, her limbs buoyant and her mind floating. At times like this, she felt as if her body could sustain itself, hunger feeding hunger.

  She took a large gulp, draining the contents of her plastic wine glass. It immediately went to her head. She sat back and watched the others stuff mezze into their already bulging cheeks. She felt sorry for them: this was as exciting as it got for them. If only they knew, she thought, a giggle escaping her lips.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ Oliver asked as he threw a handful of olives into his mouth and chomped down on them. She could hear the squelching as his teeth mushed the food in his mouth. She wanted to jump on the table and tell them all what she’d been doing. She would have loved to see their reaction, jaws dropping to the floor, choking on bits of pitta.

  In the end she just said, ‘Nothing,’ and went back to playing with her phone.

  When the match finished, they all moved to the beer garden of a pub across from the ground. Polly cursed herself when she saw how red and blotchy she was in the mirror of the ladies toilets. She hadn’t brought any sun cream with her and, despite her best efforts to keep in the shade, she had burnt across her shoulders and the bridge of her nose. She tried to cover it with foundation and concealer. It took some of the redness down but not all of it. She made up the rest of her face in heavy, bold colours to compensate.

  She’d spent most of the day worrying about how to get away, but by eight p.m. everyone was slaughtered. Once she was done with her make-up, she just slipped out of the pub unnoticed.

  On the tube she changed her shoes and put on her belt. She pulled the waist of her dress up over the belt so the hem hung just below her buttocks. Next she took down her ponytail and used her fingers to tousle her hair as best she could. She checked herself out in the blackened tube train window. She looked pretty hot, even if her drunken self did say so.

  She changed trains a couple of times to get to the Piccadilly Line to meet him. He hadn’t specified a station, just that she should get on and he’d find her. The train took her north, further out of London than she’d been before. As her journey continued, the time between stops got longer and fewer passengers boarded. She was beginning to get impatient.

  He didn’t board until the train was almost at the end of the line. As soon as she saw him she wanted to rush over and throw her arms around him. But she stopped herself. He did not look pleased to see her.

  ‘What went wrong?’ he asked, striding up to her. ‘Last night, what the hell were you playing at?’

  Polly was completely taken aback. ‘I … I … don’t know … He was just … you know … you saw, right?’

  ‘Yes, I saw. I saw you makin
g a scene in front of a train full of people with a very powerful man.’

  Polly couldn’t speak. She couldn’t believe what he was saying.

  He moved closer and lowered his voice, although he didn’t really need to; there was only one other person in the carriage, and he was over the other side with his headphones on.

  ‘Do you have any idea who that guy was?’

  ‘No,’ replied Polly, her lip starting to tremble. She’d vaguely recognised him, but wasn’t sure where from. Now she thought about it, she might have seen him in the business pages of a couple of newspapers. She wanted to say that she didn’t care who he was – he tried to rape her – he deserved whatever he got. But she stayed quiet.

  ‘I thought you understood what this was all about. You could have exposed him with your little outburst.’ He sighed heavily and started rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. ‘You’re making this very difficult for me.’ He looked up at her. ‘I don’t think we can do this any more.’

  Polly swallowed hard. A gulping sound escaped from her throat, it couldn’t have been more exaggerated if she did it a hundred times over.

  Suddenly a voice came over the tannoy announcing that they were approaching the final stop. He didn’t acknowledge it. He remained still, studying her face.

  She willed herself to find her voice. Say something. Anything.

  The train pulled into the last station. The same computerised voice instructed everyone to disembark.

  The guy down the end of the carriage got off, but he didn’t move, so neither did Polly.

  After about thirty seconds, all the lights in the carriage went off and the doors closed. The tube station was above ground so she could still just about make out his face in the moonlight. He was still watching her.

  Suddenly the train’s engine jolted back into life and it pulled out of the station. They travelled back along the line until they were underground again. In the tunnel it was so dark that her eyes played tricks on her; tiny green dots flashed in front of them. She reached for him. She found his hand; he squeezed back.

  After a few minutes, the train stopped in a disused station. The platform was only dimly lit and there were none of the usual signs on the walls to say where they were.

  The train’s lights came back on making Polly jump.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘They leave some of the trains in these old stations for maintenance work.’

  Polly heard a door slam then the driver’s footsteps echoing down the empty platform as he walked along looking in each window to check the train was empty.

  ‘Get down,’ he said.

  They knelt down below the window. He pushed her close up under the sill so they were completely hidden from view. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, then he leant forward and kissed her. She closed her eyes taking in a deep breath, inhaling him.

  When all was quiet, she turned to look at him, ‘I shouldn’t have made a scene last night,’ she said. ‘I got scared. I felt like the guy was pushing me too fast.’

  He stood up, then reached down to take each of her hands, gently pulling her to her feet.

  ‘You need to relax.’ He moved his feet wider apart and pulled her into him. Her body melted into his. ‘Let yourself go.’

  His hands ran up the flimsy cotton of her dress then slowly undid the four flower-shaped buttons fastening the back. The relief she felt at his touch was overwhelming. He pulled the sleeves of her dress down over her arms, then pulled back to undo her belt. He let it drop to the floor along with her dress. He took a step back and looked her up and down. She was standing in just her underwear. His eyes came to rest on her face. She stared back at him. Their connection was undeniable; it brooded in the space between them.

  Without saying a word, he took both her hands and led her over to the row of seats that lined the carriage. Once there, he turned her round and placed each of her hands on an armrest so she was bent over. He stood behind her. He ran his hands roughly over her back, making her body sway from side to side. Then he flicked the clasp of her bra open. She watched as it fell down on to the seat below her. She felt his hands slide down either side of her body until they reached the top of her knickers. He slipped them inside and brought them with his hands as they pushed on down her legs. She lifted each foot so he could take them off altogether.

  He knelt down by her feet and kissed each of her toes in turn, then his tongue began working its way up her left ankle and on to her calf. She bent her head down so she could watch him. He didn’t look at her; he was too busy working his way up her thigh and between her legs. She took a sharp inhale of breath when he reached her soft, fleshy inner folds. His tongue flicked and teeth nibbled.

  He used his tongue to explore her, slowly moving back until he was between her buttocks. Polly moaned with pleasure. He very slowly pushed his tongue inside before inserting his finger. It didn’t burn the way it had before. He was much gentler, waiting for her to get used to it before pushing further. Polly allowed herself to move back and forth a little at a time. He stayed still, letting her do as she pleased.

  After a minute or so, he got up and undid his trousers. He pulled her buttocks apart then pushed his way in. She jerked away, but he grabbed her round the waist and pulled her back into him.

  ‘Let yourself go,’ he whispered gently.

  She tried to relax, but the sensation as he entered caught in the back of her throat and made her flinch. Once inside, he stopped, allowing her to get her breath back before moving very slowly back and forth. He pushed a little further each time. Her breath was mechanical as she got used to the intensity. He kept his arm firmly around her waist so she couldn’t move away. His other hand slipped round to the front and started rubbing her. Slowly the burning dissipated and every part of her body was flooded with pleasure.

  She lifted her head up. She could see him in the reflection of the darkened tube window. He was concentrating hard, his eyes open.

  She closed her eyes and let her head drop down again. The feeling inside her grew and grew until every part of her body was tingling and filled with sensation.

  Nineteen

  They made their way out of the abandoned tube station together. He knew the way.

  They left the train through the emergency door at the back of the carriage. He took her hands and helped her on to the tracks. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she jumped down. He used the light on his mobile phone to guide them to the platform edge.

  Suddenly they heard voices approaching. A group of maintenance men were making their way down the platform. He grabbed her hand and quickly pulled her into the mouth of the tunnel, where they waited until the men disappeared down to the far end. Polly’s heart was in her mouth; she was terrified they’d be caught. After a couple of minutes, he hoisted himself up on to the platform then turned back to help her. Her dress caught on a cable hook jutting out just below the lip of the platform. She ended up flailing awkwardly over the edge with her dress pulled up around her waist. Her cheeks burnt with embarrassment. He didn’t notice.

  When he was sure the coast was clear, they tiptoed across the platform. Once in the stairwell, they ran up the stairs two at a time. The old station was a labyrinth of crumbling tunnels and passageways. Polly had no idea where she was. She held on to his hand tight as he guided her up to the old ticket hall.

  ‘How do you know this place?’ she whispered.

  ‘I have my sources,’ he replied with a mischievous grin.

  They made their way to a set of metal shutters that would have once been the station entrance. Next to it was a wooden green door. He tried the handle; it wouldn’t open. He reached up to the top of the doorframe and picked up a key. He put it in the lock. Just before he opened the door, he pulled her close and said, ‘I just can’t get enough of you,’ then kissed her deeply on the lips, not with his tongue; he opened his mouth slightly and took a deep breath, breathing her in. Then they were out of the door and he was gone.

  Sh
e was on a night bus home when she spotted Oliver walking down Hammersmith Road towards the flat. She got off at the next stop and ran all the way to the flat to get back before him. She felt as though she was flying, her body light and giddy. Once home, she quickly scrubbed her face, stripped off and jumped into bed. He arrived moments later. She heard him open the bedroom door and turn the light on.

  ‘Hey,’ she protested from beneath the sheets.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Pol, I didn’t realise you were home. Everything OK?’

  ‘Too much sun and booze, I feel rotten,’ she said in her croakiest voice.

  ‘You poor thing,’ he replied. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

  ‘No, just need sleep.’

  ‘OK. Goodnight,’ he said closing the door as quietly as he could.

  She snuggled back into the duvet. She almost felt sorry for him.

  She couldn’t believe it when a message turned up the next afternoon.

  need another fix. meet me tonight

  Oliver was out that afternoon with friends watching rugby at a bar in town. He wasn’t sure what time he’d be home. He’d told her not to wait up as he went in for a kiss just before he left. She managed to dodge his lips so he ended up kissing the side of her head.

  She spent the afternoon getting ready. She exfoliated using a salt body scrub before lying in a bath scented with lemon balm oil for half an hour. She then got in the shower to wash off the oil and scrubbed her hair before applying a leave-in conditioner. She wrapped her hair in a towel and slathered her body in a coconut-scented moisturiser.

  Once she was done in the bathroom she put on some music. Oliver hated it when she put on her music. He said her taste was childish so they always ended up listening to his acoustic tracks. Alone, however, she went for it, spinning from room to room, ending up in front of the bedroom mirror doing a striptease with her towel. She stopped when the idea suddenly hit her. She quickly went to the wardrobe and dug out her beige mac and red stiletto heels.