Tubing

by K. A. McKeagney

  They met at Shepherd’s Bush tube station. It was a little close to home, but she figured it would be OK.

  She got on the train at 9.13 p.m. It was Sunday so there was hardly anyone on board. She saw him immediately. He was seated at the far end of the carriage, reading a newspaper. There were only two other people near him, an old black lady with a red headscarf on and her eyes firmly shut, and a young guy buried in a book. He had the paper lifted high up in front of his face. He lowered it slightly when she got on, then lifted it straight back up again to hide his face. He was playing too.

  She nonchalantly made her way over, carefully placing one stilettoed foot in front of the other as though she were walking a tightrope. She kept her head down, watching her pointed toes follow the invisible line. She knew he was watching her; she could feel his eyes on her.

  She stopped in the vestibule just before his row of seats. She glanced up and caught him peeking around his newspaper. Her cool, sexy demeanour was momentarily lost when a smile broke out on her face; she couldn’t help it. With a little shake of her head she regained her composure, then lifted her hands high above her head to stretch. The hem of her mac lifted, revealing her naked thighs. She saw his eyes light up. He pulled the paper close to his face, so only one eye was exposed, and waited for more.

  She nervously glanced at the other two passengers. Neither had noticed her. She took out her train pass from her pocket and waved it at him. She turned around and dropped it on the floor. In a rush of nerves, it went a little further than she’d hoped. She had to take a step forward to get herself in the right place, then, keeping her legs and back perfectly straight, she pivoted forward from her hips to pick it up. She felt the material of her mac rise up the backs of her legs and over her buttocks. She lingered there for several seconds, then stood up and snapped round to face him.

  As the train came to a halt in the next station, he got up with his paper still in his hand and went over to the corner of the carriage, where he sat in the side seat near the door. She followed, but stopped just before she reached him. She was enjoying herself too much; she wasn’t done playing yet. She leant against one of the handrails and started toying with the leather belt of her mac. She teased the bow slowly, allowing the loop to slip through until there was only a very loose knot holding it together. She ran her hands over the lapels of the jacket, drawing it open millimetre by millimetre until the bottom curve of each breast was revealed, then the smooth skin between her ribs, and finally her belly button – all the time watching him watch her.

  ‘Pol?’

  The voice came from behind her just as the train was pulling away. She recognised it immediately.

  ‘Pol. What are you doing?’

  She grabbed the belt and fastened her mac shut before swinging round.

  It was Oliver.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, near-hysterical.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked again.

  ‘I’m on my way home,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh,’ he said eyeing her suspiciously. ‘You do realise you’re heading into town, not back home.’

  ‘Am I?’ She looked up at the tube map just above her head, feigning confusion. ‘I must have got on at the wrong platform.’ She laughed nervously. She could feel her cheeks flushing and tiny droplets of sweat gathering above her lip.

  Oliver wasn’t looking much better. His face was pale and clammy, not his usual rosy self.

  ‘Wait,’ she said suddenly. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were already in town watching the rugby.’

  ‘Yeah, I was,’ he said, before pausing to clear his throat. ‘But I got a message from a friend who said he needed my help. No idea what’s going on with him, he’s been sending me all kinds of cryptic messages about where to meet.’

  It was her turn, ‘Oh,’ she said.

  They both stood looking at one another.

  ‘You’re sweating,’ she said to him, more to distract from her own appearance than anything else.

  He lifted his hand to wipe his brow then brought it down in front of his eyes to inspect it.

  ‘So I am. It’s hot out tonight, right? You must be boiling in that mac,’ he finished with a weak laugh.

  They travelled to the next station together in an awkward silence. Polly kept her back to him. She desperately wanted to turn round and explain what had just happened, but she couldn’t risk it. Instead she stayed facing Oliver, trying not to look directly at him, pretending to read the ads running along the top of the carriage.

  They got off at the next stop together. Oliver said he couldn’t be bothered to carry on chasing round town to meet his friend and that he’d just go back with her. As she stepped down on to the platform, Polly glanced back. He was still in the same place, leaning against one of the side seats, his paper held up, covering his face. He dropped his paper slightly so he was peering over the top. She gave him a weak smile, trying to convey as much information as possible. She hoped the look said, Sorry, my boyfriend’s just turned up so I have to go, I’d much rather be with you right now. He raised an eyebrow at her, then lifted his paper back up.

  Once the train had pulled away, Oliver took hold of her hand and led her to the correct platform. She was worried that he’d ask her where she had been going or why she was dressed in a mac and stilettos, but he didn’t. He looked lost in his own thoughts. They sat on an empty bench in the middle of the platform, waiting for a train home. Polly stared at the LED board in front of her. She didn’t read what it said, she just watched the shapes of text running over and over. The message read, There is currently a good service on all London Underground lines.

  Twenty

  For the next two days Polly couldn’t concentrate on anything, and moped around, not really knowing what to do with herself. All she could think about was the way he’d looked at her as she got off the train with Oliver. What did the raised eyebrow mean? She prayed that it was some kind of acknowledgement, but what if she was wrong? What if he hadn’t clicked that Oliver was her boyfriend? What if he had no idea what happened? Maybe he thought she was a prick-tease and had just been playing with him.

  She considered texting him. He contacted her from a different mobile phone number each time, but she had them saved. She scrolled down the numbers, trying to figure out which one to use. In the end she didn’t. From looking back at Twitter, she’d been able to work out which username he’d used for the meeting with Mousey. It was @can852ran. She thought if she searched for it she could find his other meetings and try to see him again that way. But all she found was a totally blank profile that had only been used once to set up that particular meeting.

  At work, James was on her back constantly. He kept dropping by unexpectedly, leaving her to-do Post-it notes if she wasn’t at her desk. So far she’d managed to cross off only one of his fifty-nine items, the one that said, Clear up your bloody desk. With the rest she was seeing how many she could fit on to the edges of her screen before obscuring it altogether. Not even Alicia’s witty replies to Ron’s dyslexic emails could cheer her up.

  She avoided going home as much as possible. Oliver seemed to be around all the time. She still felt so annoyed with him for turning up like that and ruining everything with him. Whenever he put his arm around her or reached out to kiss her, her shoulders were instantly up round her ears.

  On Tuesday evening she went shopping after work on Oxford Street, but it didn’t last long. Nothing seemed to fit right. She was sure she’d lost weight, but all the trousers she tried on made her hips look big, and the fabric felt as if it was pinching around her bum and tummy. She tried on armloads of clothes just to make sure, but she hated all of them. When she was in the changing room of one shop, the assistant told her the skinny jeans she had on looked as if they’d been made for her. Polly bought them even though she was sure they made her legs look like carrots.

  She was glad her first purchase was over and done with. It was usually the way that as soon as she bought one thing she’d be on
a roll and there’d be no stopping her. She desperately needed that to happen tonight. But when she took her second purchase to the counter, a tight black jumper with bronze sequins around the shoulders and a peephole fastening at the back, her card was declined. The shop assistant tried it again out of courtesy. Polly stood back, pulling her best confused yet slightly annoyed face. She told the assistant she’d have to call her bank and would be back in to collect the jumper later. She didn’t go back for it. She didn’t need to call the bank.

  By Wednesday she decided to set up a meeting for herself on Twitter. She hoped maybe he’d see and meet her.

  Female looking to hook up with male. Charing Cross. Northern Line northbound. Second carriage. Tomorrow 7 p. m. #TubingCharingCross

  She didn’t bother to tell Oliver she was going out after work; he had cricket practice on Thursday evenings so there was no need. She hung around the office until six before making her way to Charing Cross tube station. That morning she’d dressed for work with her tubing meeting in mind. She wore a skin-tight black Lycra dress with no bra underneath. Over the dress she wore a sheer olive-green shirt that made her look business-like, but was easy to take off on her way to her meeting. She wore zebra-print ballet pumps on her feet, but carried her red satin stiletto heels in her bag.

  He found her straight away. He was in his thirties, good-looking, with close-cropped blond hair. He wore a slim-fitting linen suit and a pair of metal-framed glasses. He kept his jacket on despite the heat in the carriage.

  He sidled up beside her and began touching her from behind. His fingers crept up the back of her thigh and under her dress. They remained in the packed vestibule amongst the crush of commuters throughout the encounter. Polly lost herself in his touch. He kept his hands on the outside of her underwear. He didn’t need to do any more than that. She stared blankly in front of her while he worked his way over her body. Even when she began to shudder all over she still managed to remain focused, her eyes fixed dead ahead.

  The commuters around them were oblivious. They pushed past them as they got on and off the train, going about their business. It was as if Polly and her partner were frozen – hustle and bustle all around, while they barely moved in its wake.

  He asked for nothing in return. Once she was finished, he pushed her hair back and planted a kiss on the soft skin behind her ear. She didn’t turn to watch him leave; she couldn’t rouse herself from her dream-like haze until the next stop.

  She got off at Euston station. Just as she stepped on to the platform, she spotted him. He was standing right in the corner of the train, next to the doors. He looked at her between the heads of a couple chatting. She tried to scramble back on to the train, but the doors had already started closing. He was smiling at her. As the train pulled away, he blew her a kiss.

  Twenty-one

  She did her best to get home before Oliver. She wanted to have a quick shower and get to bed before he got back from cricket practice. When she looked up at the lounge window from the road she could see the flat was in darkness. ‘Yes,’ she whispered pumping her arm in the air at the same time.

  She slammed the front door shut and dropped her bag in the hallway. She went straight to the bathroom, kicking off her heels and flicking on the bathroom light. She leant over the bath and turned the shower on hot. Steam instantly filled the room. She quickly unbuttoned her shirt, and pulled her dress off over her head and threw it on the floor. She was standing in just her knickers, taking her earrings out, when she felt someone watching her.

  She turned to face the bathroom door. Oliver was there. She let out a little yelp in surprise and her hand instantly went to her heart as it leapt out of her chest.

  ‘Oliver,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise you were in.’

  She didn’t know what time it was, but guessed it was about nine o’clock. She could see the streetlights and headlamps brushing through the lounge window. Oliver was leaning against the doorway. The light from the bathroom illuminated only part of his face, leaving his left eye hollow and his lip-line protruding.

  He didn’t say anything. She reached for a towel to wrap round herself, suddenly self-conscious. His silence was making her nervous. After a couple of seconds she said, ‘I’m going to get in the shower now,’ and pushed the bathroom door shut with the flat of her hand.

  He stopped the door with his foot just before it hit him, kicking back gently, and said, ‘Come into the lounge. We need to talk.’

  She swallowed hard. Did he know? She panicked. Regardless, she wasn’t going to talk right now.

  ‘Later,’ she said, pushing the bathroom door harder.

  ‘No, we need to talk now.’

  ‘I’m just about to get in the shower. It’s a bit inconvenient right now. You’ll have to wait.’

  He caught the bathroom door in his hand and held on to it. She used all her strength to push against it. It wouldn’t budge. ‘Oliver, tsstt!’ She was getting frustrated.

  ‘Please, Polly, let’s go into the lounge and talk.’

  He only ever called her Polly when he was serious about something.

  ‘I’m having a shower,’ she said very slowly, as if he was slow or foreign and couldn’t understand her. ‘You’ll have to wait,’ she continued.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  She started pushing at the door again. Her towel was coming loose, so she had to stop to pull it up round herself.

  ‘Oh, just leave me alone, will you,’ she finally shouted, red-faced and panting from the exertion.

  He stared at her in silence for a few seconds longer and then said, ‘Your dad died earlier today.’

  Her towel dropped to the floor, then she fell on to it.

  *

  At 4.44 that afternoon, Polly’s dad had had a massive heart attack and died. He was making a cup of tea in the kitchen. Polly’s mother was in her bedroom at the time. She didn’t find her husband until he’d been dead for over two hours.

  She had tried to call Polly from the hospital several times that evening, but Polly was underground with no signal. In the end she’d called the flat, and caught Oliver just as he was leaving for cricket practice.

  After she managed to pick herself up off the floor, Polly refused to believe him. She was sure he’d got it mixed up and that her mother was dead, not her dad. Her mother was the one who was always in and out of hospital. Oliver assured her that he’d spoken to her mother and it was definitely her dad.

  ‘Why him?’ she cried.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Oliver said as he pulled her into him.

  She kept her arms by her sides while he squeezed her tightly into his chest. ‘Why not her?’ she continued, but he didn’t hear her muffled words.

  She spoke to her mother briefly over the phone an hour later. Neither said they were sorry, neither felt they deserved the sympathy. To her surprise, her mother wanted her to come home straight away. Then it dawned on her that she needed a new carer now her dad was gone. Polly made an excuse about not being able to get a train home that late at night. Oliver tried to butt in, offering to drive her. She ignored him. She told her she’d get a train in the morning. She needed some time to get her head straight.

  That night, Oliver held her until she fell asleep. She wanted to pull away, but she needed his warmth and comfort.

  She arrived at her parents’ house just before lunch the next day. Oliver wanted to go with her, but she asked him not to. She said she’d be in touch to let him know the funeral arrangements.

  On the train journey home, Polly could think of nothing but her mother. She invaded her thoughts, not letting up for a moment. The familiar landscape triggered memories she’d managed to ignore since moving to London. She tried her best to block them, but every time she tried to think about anything else she ended up back in her mother’s bedroom, sitting beside the eight school exercise books strewn on the floor.

  In her mother’s paranoid world, Polly was the enemy. According to her rants, Polly had ruined everything in her mother�
�s life, from her body to her relationship with her husband. It was clear that she hadn’t wanted children, but had been persuaded by Polly’s father. Polly had never been able to fathom her parents’ relationship. All she knew was that they’d met at some church function when her mother was twenty-one and her dad forty-two. Her dad was a practising Catholic and had been active in his local church since moving from Ireland to England in the late sixties. They’d married a year after they met, and a year later Polly was born.

  She recorded in great detail everything she loathed about Polly. From the moment Polly was born, her mother was convinced that there was something wrong with her, something wicked. She wrote about wanting to hurt Polly, detailed fantasies about smothering her or drowning her in the bath. As Polly got older, her mother’s focus changed and she started to believe that Polly was wantonly trying to steal her husband away from her. The language she used was vile. She described innocent events with such perversion, Polly could barely read them. She went into great detail about how Polly would use her sexuality, parading around naked when her husband came home from work – she’d been five and it was bathtime. As Polly approached her teenage years and her body started to develop, her mother’s descriptions became more vicious, and she had started to imagine that Polly was trying to engineer an incestuous relationship with her husband. She didn’t believe her husband had any part to play in it all; he was the innocent victim.

  Polly had never told anybody about what she read, not even her dad. At first it was because she didn’t want her mother to find out that she’d been through her things, but later because she felt ashamed and embarrassed. How could anyone think such things about their own daughter? Maybe there was something wrong with her.

  These thoughts had consumed Polly. She had found it difficult to focus on anything else. Being at home was a nightmare. She tried to stay out of her parents’ way as much as possible, she didn’t want to give her mother any more ammunition, and as a result practically lived in her bedroom. She became moody and difficult to be around, and saw less and less of her friends. Her predicted high grades were forgotten as she barely scraped through her exams. Everything in her life was crumbling and there was nothing she could do to stop it or make things right again.