Tubing

by K. A. McKeagney

  ‘I wish you’d told me how ill she’s been. I could have helped.’ Again he waited for her input. ‘Anyway, that’s by the by. I know a specialist at the hospital who deals with cases like your mother’s, ones that end up doing the usual round of referrals and getting nowhere. I’m going to give him a call when we get back and arrange an appointment. I’ve told your mother she can stay with us while he assesses … ’

  ‘Shut up,’ Polly said, her teeth gritted so tightly they could have shattered.

  He stopped abruptly. ‘Polly,’ he said, letting each letter hang in the air in disbelief.

  Every muscle in her body clenched, trying to keep herself under control. She couldn’t believe she’d been foolish enough to leave them in the house alone together.

  He was quiet for a few moments, then sighed heavily. ‘She said you might react like this. You two need to sort out your differences.’ He reached out to take her hand. She held it tightly against her leg, refusing to let him hold it. ‘I’m here for you, Polly. She told me about what happened when you were younger. She thinks you may be having a relapse, you’re looking very thin, and I’m inclined to agree.’ He started talking fast, back in the swing of his speech, ‘But you don’t have to worry, I’m going to look after you, get you fighting fit again. I’m due some time off from work so we can start spending more — ’

  ‘Shut up!’ Polly screamed.

  Oliver visibly jumped when her high-pitched squeal pierced the air.

  She put her hands over her face and started crying. She just wanted to get back to London, to him – fuck everything else.

  Twenty-four

  Eleven days after getting back to London, Polly hadn’t received a single message. She was pretty certain she’d blown it. The longest time between messages in the past had never been more than a week. Why hadn’t she just replied to the message that came when she was at her parents’ house? The should’ves, could’ves, if onlys taunted her relentlessly.

  Out of desperation, she had replied to the message four days after returning to London. She’d written, I’m back and ready for action. It sounded corny, but she didn’t care. She’d got no reply. A couple of times her thumb had hovered dangerously close to the call button of the numbers he’d texted her from. But she could never go through with it – she knew the rules. If she called, it would be over for sure.

  She tried posting on Twitter. She used her fake handle, @44oro, and wrote:

  Woman looking to meet man. Northern Line.

  Leicester Square southbound. Second carriage. 6 p.m. tonight. #TubingLeicesterSquare

  It was at Leicester Square that she’d seen Mousey and him, so she was hopeful that he would search the hashtag and find it. Also, he knew her handle, maybe he was still keeping an eye on it. She didn’t have to wait long; half an hour later someone left a reply. It said:

  timewaster. no show

  He had found it; the reply came from the Twitter handle @can852ran. She was at her desk at work when she checked her phone and saw it. She put her head in her hands. She felt as if she had nothing, there was just nothing. Lionel walked past her desk several seconds later. He stopped and put his hand on her back. She looked up at him, bleary-eyed.

  ‘I think you’ve come back too soon,’ he said.

  At first she had no idea what he was talking about, then it dawned on her: he was referring to her dad.

  ‘No, no, I’m OK,’ she replied, cringing inside, she felt like such a fraud. ‘I just need a moment.’

  ‘If you’re sure. I’m happy for you to take more time off if you need it.’ He looked so concerned.

  She smiled awkwardly and turned back to her desk, willing him to go away.

  Oliver, true to his word, was there to force-feed her dinner every night. He managed to swap his surgeries around so he could be home before she got back from work. He sat across from her, carefully watching as each forkful passed her lips. But he didn’t stop there: he’d wait patiently until he saw her throat bob, swallowing it down – her mother had obviously filled him in on the protocol. There was no getting away from him. She soon learnt that the quicker she ate, the sooner she could get the bath running and get rid of it.

  She spent a lot of time in the bath – it was the only place she could be alone. She’d lie in the piping hot water, letting her limbs float to the surface and her mind drift away. For those precious minutes she just hung there, existing. No thoughts crossed her mind, darkness behind her closed lids, no sound with her ears dipped just below the water, no sensation in her body except for the cushioning warmth of the water. But it didn’t last. The water would start to go cold or her skin would wrinkle up so much that it no longer felt like her own, and her hands and feet would get itchy and hot and irritated.

  Sometimes in her dazed state he would come to her. She couldn’t stop herself from tilting her head up ready to kiss him, reaching her hand out to touch his chest and run down his ribs. But just as suddenly she’d realise where she was, open her eyes and see that she was in Oliver’s cold, windowless bathroom. She’d plunge herself under the water, holding her breath until her lungs were clawing up her throat for air. A couple of times she left it too long and the world started to go fuzzy.

  Her mother had been in contact – not with her, with Oliver. Polly came home one evening to find him pandering to her on the phone. The second she walked in and saw him on his mobile she knew it was her. She stood in the doorway and stared at him until he noticed her. He was sitting on the chesterfield. He had a holiday brochure resting like the roof of a house on his crossed legs – he’d decided it would do her good to have a little break away somewhere. The brass globe floor lamp dangled above his head, illuminating the start of a bald spot.

  ‘It’s your mother,’ he mouthed when he noticed her.

  She left the room and went straight to the bathroom. She ran the bath while she vomited in the toilet and cried like a baby.

  She was beginning to give up all hope. But then, quite by accident, she found him again.

  She was on her way home from work. The Central Line was closed due to a signal failure – the Underground was in chaos. She attempted to get the Piccadilly Line to South Kensington but it was totally rammed. In the end she walked to Euston Square, where she got on the Hammersmith and City Line.

  It was 6.02 p.m., rush hour. A seemingly impossible number of passengers piled in at every stop. Although summer was fading, the heat of the day underground was trapped in the unventilated carriage. She found herself pushed up against a businessman in the main vestibule. He didn’t seem capable of breathing through his nose so had his mouth open, blowing each exhalation directly in Polly’s face. His breath smelt like cow shit. Polly managed to turn away slightly, but then he lifted his hand up and gripped on to the rail above. The smell from the dark sweat patch on the armpit of his shirt forced her to turn away from him altogether. No one around her was particularly happy about it, but she just couldn’t stand it. In her new position she grabbed on to the rail above and let herself hang. She closed her eyes and pretended she wasn’t there. It wasn’t long before she was thinking of him – that first time, how he’d looked at her then moved forward and kissed her, running his hands down her back. Her stomach knotted up. She started to rock ever so slightly, soothing herself.

  When she opened her eyes again, he was standing at the far end of the carriage. At first her eyes brushed straight past him, he was standing just as she had imagined in her daydream, but then her brain caught up and she snapped back in a double-take. When she realised it really was him she physically jumped – much to the annoyance of several passengers.

  He hadn’t seen her – there were too many people in the way and he was looking down rather than straight ahead. A spotlight lit him from above. She’d never seen anyone so perfect. Among the sea of faces around him, he didn’t look real. The other commuters were flustered and red, struggling with the heat, but he looked totally unfazed, completely cool, perfect.

  She immediat
ely started making her way towards him. It was nearly impossible to get through the crowd, but she ploughed ahead as best she could. There were lots of grunts and groans followed by quick ‘sorry’s from Polly’s lips. He was quite far down towards the end of the carriage. She tried to move quickly before the train reached the next stop and he got off or she lost him, but she kept getting bogged down in the other passengers. She was forced to stop altogether, halfway down the carriage, where the crowd was so densely packed there was no getting through. A French family were taking up most of the room. She said, ‘Excuse me,’ several times, but they were too busy arguing over the flimsy tube map being snatched from hand to hand to notice.

  After a couple of seconds, Polly decided she couldn’t wait any longer and pushed through them. She didn’t see the enormous black suitcase at their feet and walked straight into it. Everyone turned as she clawed on to the people around her to try to stop herself from falling. It made little difference. She fell awkwardly on to her shoulder then straight on to the side of her face. A woman close by helped her up. The French family just stared at her in disbelief.

  Once back on her feet, her only option was to stay put until the next stop, when she’d be able to hop out and then get back on through the doors closest to him. She felt a ripple of excitement run through her. He’d be so surprised to see her. She thought she’d play it cool, sidle up to him without letting on, then slip in behind him and go straight for his crotch.

  She was in a far worse position now than she had been before. It was difficult to keep an eye on him amongst the newspapers and heads bobbing in front of her. After a lot of ducking and diving she finally managed to get herself into a good spot with a decent view. But then out of nowhere a girl’s head appeared. Polly couldn’t believe it. The girl positioned herself directly in front of him, totally obscuring her view.

  ‘Get out of the fucking way,’ Polly said under her breath.

  The girl had her back to her at first, but then turned so she was facing front. She had a glazed expression on her face, as if she was in some kind of trance. It took several seconds for Polly to realise what was happening. And, when she did, everything drained away – everything except the girl. She was with him.

  She was beautiful – long, straight blonde hair with a heavy blunt-cut fringe, full, pouting, luscious lips, long, slender limbs – as untouchably beautiful as he was. Jealousy punched Polly repeatedly in the stomach. She swallowed hard as his face slowly came into view, nuzzling into her neck. She continued to watch as the girl’s eyes closed when his mouth moved across her neck to bite down on her earlobe. Polly could imagine what was going on down below where she couldn’t see. She knew the intimate places he’d be touching her and how it would make her feel.

  Polly’s eyes narrowed, projecting every ounce of hatred on to her. ‘Die, bitch, die,’ she muttered through gritted teeth.

  Suddenly the girl jolted. Her eyes flicked wide open and her entire body went rigid, then collapsed forward as if every muscle had just given out. There was something horribly awkward about her movement. Polly was immediately up on tiptoe trying to see what was going on, but she couldn’t see her any more; he’d caught her and swung her round so she was now hidden behind him.

  The train’s tannoy system announced the next stop, Baker Street. She saw him start moving towards the doors. He hauled the girl along with him. It was as if she had absolutely no control over her body any more; she was barely conscious. Once at the door, he paused for a moment to reach into his pocket. He took out a baseball cap and put it on his head with his free hand. He pulled the peak down low over his face.

  Polly pushed her way to the nearest doors so she could follow. Something told her that whatever had just happened was bad. Very bad.

  Once off the train, she watched as he half walked, half dragged the girl down the busy platform. Polly sped up to get a better look. The girl seemed to have regained some level of consciousness. Her eyes opened and closed as if waking from a deep sleep, but her arms and legs lolled as if she had no control over them. He stopped when they reached the bottom of the platform near the tunnel entrance. He moved close to the wall and propped her up against it as though she was a mannequin. He looped his arms under her armpits then put his hands flat against the tiles to support her. He looked around cautiously, checking to see if anyone was watching.

  Polly hid behind a large group of tourists. From where she stood it looked as if he was talking to her. She wasn’t responding; occasionally she’d lift her head up to look at him, but mostly it was flopped down to her chest as if she had no strength in her neck. Polly desperately wanted to hear what he was saying, but knew she wouldn’t be able to get close enough without being spotted.

  The platform was busy. It was a narrow platform so several rows of people began forming along the edge, waiting for the next train. His eyes kept flicking up to the LCD board. As soon as it said the next train was approaching, he put his arm around the girl’s waist and pushed his way into the front row of commuters. Polly followed, keeping a safe distance away from where they stood. She watched as he steered her round so she was facing forward and he was holding her from behind. He had his hands firmly around her waist, but her feet were dangling precariously close to the edge of the platform. She seemed to be coming round a bit more. She was looking left to right, trying to figure out where she was. Her eyes were small and squinting, as though she couldn’t see properly.

  Polly was suddenly aware of the sound of the train thundering towards the platform. She looked across towards the tunnel. Her hair lifted in a rush of wind to her face. She could see headlights cutting through the darkness. She looked back at him. His face was taut with concentration. The girl was now so close to the edge of the platform that her hair and dress blew up, caught in the warm gust, making her appear more vital than she was. Polly stared in disbelief – was he really about to do this? She started making her way towards them, reaching her arms out in anticipation, unable to stop herself, getting dangerously close.

  As the train sped into the station he let go of her. Polly stopped dead, transfixed as the girl fell in front of the train. The driver hadn’t yet started to apply his brakes, so he struck her at full speed. She exploded like a watermelon hitting the floor.

  Suddenly the station was filled with the sound of squealing brakes. No one moved. No one took a breath. When the train finally came to a halt, silence engulfed the crowd. It was as if the entire scene had been paused.

  The girl standing next to Polly was the first to make a noise. She lifted her hands to her face and cupped the scream between her palms. She went up an octave when she realised the damp, sticky fluid on her face was the girl’s blood. Polly felt something on her lip, and her tongue instinctively flicked out to lick it. The taste of hot metal filled her mouth.

  Chaos broke out. Everyone around her was malfunctioning, bouncing into one another, unable to take one step in front of the other. Screams whooshed past her like aeroplanes taking off. She stood in the midst of it, a hot ache of fear starting in her toes and rising up through her entire body until she was deafened by it.

  An announcement came over the tannoy instructing all passengers to make their way to the nearest exit. A man bashed into Polly in his confused state, nearly knocking her off her feet. The buzzing in her ears was suddenly gone and she was wrenched back into reality. The girl next to her had gone from screaming to crying and was being helped off the floor by a couple of guys in rolled-up shirtsleeves. She could hear bewildered voices further down the platform asking what had just happened.

  ‘One under,’ a voice replied.

  Then someone further down shouted, ‘What’s under?’

  Followed by, ‘A bomb. There’s a bomb under the train!’

  A tsunami of panic worked its way down the platform until, by the time it got to the bottom, word was that a bomb had gone off under the train. People started screaming and pushing to get to the nearest exit.

  Polly looked to her lef
t. He was still standing there, exactly where he’d been when he let go of the girl. But he wasn’t concentrating hard or staring forward any more. He was looking straight at Polly. His eyes were wide, surprised to see her, but they quickly narrowed when he realised she’d seen what he’d just done.

  Twenty-five

  He started moving towards her. For a second she couldn’t move. Her brain couldn’t quite get to grips with what had just happened or what she should do about it. When she finally did turn to run, she didn’t get very far. The crowds of people around her were like treacle, clinging to her in their disarray. She shook most of them off, but was soon caught behind a bottleneck heading for the stairs. She looked behind her. He was gaining on her, eyes on her, gliding through the crowd as if there was no one else there.

  ‘Please move,’ Polly shouted, but no one listened. She shoved the people in front with her shoulder, trying to force her way through.

  ‘Hey,’ said the man ahead of her without turning round. ‘We’re all trying to get out. A little patience, my dear.’

  ‘I have to get out, now,’ Polly said breathlessly, fear making her voice rise and fall in all the wrong places.

  ‘It’s all right, we’ll be out of here soon,’ he continued in his polite but firm manner.

  ‘You don’t understand!’ She was verging on hysteria, half sobbing, half screaming. ‘Please let me through,’ she screeched.

  The man turned to look at her. He flinched, taken aback by her appearance. The splatters on her face had mixed with her tears and were now streaming down her face as if she was crying blood. He was an older man, in his late sixties, but tall and well built enough to easily assert his authority. He grabbed the top of her arm and started making a path for her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the mass of people in front.

  ‘Join the queue, mate,’ said a fat, balding guy ahead of them.