Tubing

by K. A. McKeagney

  ‘No, I’ve got stuff to finish off here,’ she replied.

  ‘You sure? If you don’t mind me saying, you look like you could do with some feedin’.’ Alicia smiled at her with so much warmth, it felt as if she’d reached out and stroked Polly’s hair.

  ‘I can’t.’ And she meant it: she didn’t think she’d ever feel like eating again.

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  She watched Alicia sashay her way out the door.

  Polly went back to Google. In the news section she noticed a story had come up as a related link. She clicked to open it. It was a different news story about a young woman who’d committed suicide by throwing herself under a tube train. She’d done it in rush hour on her way home from work. Her friends and family were distraught; none of them could understand why or how it had happened. She was twenty-six and had worked for an ad agency in the City. Polly scrolled down the page until she found a picture. Her hands went up to cover her mouth in horror. It was a picture of Mousey.

  Twenty-seven

  When she got home that night, Oliver had ordered in Chinese takeaway. He got her favourite – pork with honey and egg-fried rice. She couldn’t eat a mouthful, not even to please him. She was sick with nerves about what she had to do in the morning. She had no choice but to tell the police. Even if Oliver did find out, it was a risk she’d just have to take.

  Oliver wolfed his food down, using his chopsticks as a shovel rather than as the delicate pincers intended. Polly pushed the food around her plate. She tried to hide what she hadn’t eaten by burying the pork under the rice. But Oliver was watching closely. He gave her plate a disapproving look as he cleared it away. When she went into the kitchen after him, she found him filling up a Tupperware box with her leftovers. He put it in the fridge so she could take it to work for lunch tomorrow.

  When the alarm went off the next morning she felt lost in her own personal purgatory. She was relieved that the night was finally over and she no longer had to lie in the dark with just her thoughts, but the day had arrived. Her stomach cramped and grumbled continuously.

  Her plan was to get to work early and make the call first thing. As soon as she got in, she dumped her bags on her desk and went straight to the kitchen to make herself a cup of camomile tea. When she got back, Lionel was there waiting for her.

  ‘Prayers, Polly,’ he barked, then turned on his heels and went back into his office.

  Polly had managed to avoid the weekly ‘prayers’ meeting for the last couple of months. On the mornings she remembered there was a meeting she’d call in sick; otherwise she’d make up important appointments she had to attend, or just not bother turning up at all. She’d completely forgotten about the early morning meeting he’d arranged. Of all the fucking days to come in early, she berated herself.

  Lionel’s tiny office was already rammed. The only free seat was right at the front, practically nose to nose with him. She reluctantly sat down. She’d brought a notebook and pen so busied herself, pretending to take notes as soon as the meeting got under way, but it didn’t take long for her to drift off.

  She stared at the phone on Lionel’s desk while unconsciously doodling on the page, a series of interlocking stars and triangles. She needed to make the call to the police, get it over and done with. Maybe she would make the call from Lionel’s office when he popped out for lunch – that way she could have a bit of privacy. She had no intention of giving her name, so using her mobile was out. But then it occurred to her that it wouldn’t take a genius to work out who made the call from the office: she and Alicia were the only women in today. Suddenly calling from work seemed like a stupid idea. If she made the call from a phone box she could remain anonymous. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. The more she thought, the harder she pressed, until she ripped through the sheet of paper to the page below. She was so consumed, she didn’t notice the office had gone quiet and all eyes were on her.

  ‘Polly!’ Lionel shouted.

  Her head snapped up.

  ‘If you’re quite finished,’ he said, tipping his head towards her scribblings.

  She quickly placed the notebook face down on her lap.

  ‘Your update, please. What’s going on with legal?’ he said, picking up his fountain pen and taking out a clean sheet of paper ready to make notes. He had a large black stain on the inside of his right index finger from the leaky pen.

  Polly had nothing to offer. There was a pile of unopened letters and bits of paper on her desk that she hadn’t touched for months, not to mention her bulging email inbox.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lionel, I didn’t have time to prepare for this morning’s meeting so I don’t have an update for you.’ She tried to sound firm and in control. Her fingers were crossed under her notepad.

  ‘Well, just give us a brief run-down, off the top of your head if you like. We don’t need anything in detail right now.’

  She couldn’t even do that.

  Lionel looked up from his empty page. ‘Can you give us anything, Polly?’ he sighed. He looked at her as if he’d resigned himself to the fact that she’d fall short even before she opened her mouth.

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Right, well, let’s not waste any more time.’

  He moved straight on to Ron – the only staff journalist. Lionel was suddenly back to his jovial self, cracking jokes with Ron and having a laugh with everyone in the room – everyone except Polly; his gaze kept flicking over her as if she were invisible.

  When the meeting was over, Polly was first up. She was almost out the door when Lionel said, ‘Polly, a word please.’

  She stopped and let the others out from behind her.

  ‘Shut the door,’ he said when everyone had gone.

  She did as she was told.

  ‘Sit down.’

  She sat down.

  ‘We need to talk about what you’ve been up to over the last couple of months.’ He clasped his hands together on the desk and looked at her solemnly.

  Polly was perched on the edge of her seat legs crossed, nervously picking at her lip.

  ‘I know things have been tough for you recently, with your dad passing, but that really can’t excuse the work you’ve let drop. James and I have had several chats about it and things simply can’t carry on this way.’

  She was surprised. She thought she’d done a pretty good job of hiding her lack of work. The fact that they’d been having little chats about her behind her back made her feel defensive.

  ‘How can James possibly know what’s going on? He’s never around,’ she said, a little too aggressively.

  ‘Well, this is the thing, Polly: recently he’s been in and out of the office several times a week, and you’re the one who’s never here.’ He was shaking his head at her with his lips pursed.

  She really had no argument. She could feel her face starting to crumple, ready for tears to come.

  Lionel suddenly softened and reached his hand across the desk.

  ‘If you’re struggling with things, you need to let me or James know.’

  She couldn’t answer. She desperately didn’t want to cry in front of him. She was scared that if she started she might never stop. They sat in silence, Lionel like a therapist waiting for his patient to open up. She didn’t; she couldn’t.

  Eventually he spoke.

  ‘Why don’t you take some time off? Get that surgeon of yours to take you somewhere nice for a few days. How is Oliver?’

  Oliver’s parents were good friends with Lionel; they were the reason she’d got the job in the first place.

  ‘Fine,’ she murmured.

  ‘I hear he’s thinking about moving into paediatrics.’

  It was news to Polly. She nodded non-committally.

  That was the extent of his small talk. When it became clear things weren’t going to progress any further, Lionel let her go. She said she’d think about taking some time off and let him know.

  By lunchtime she’d plucked up enough courage t
o leave work and make the call. She was jittery with nerves as she walked over the road to the phone box across from her building. She hoped she’d faint or collapse on the pavement before she got there so she wouldn’t have to go through with it – but no such luck.

  The phone box was a modern affair, not an old-style red box. It was made almost entirely of glass except for the black metal frame that ran around the edges. Inside, several cards had been stuck on the back board where the phone was attached: women in various states of indecency were ‘waiting for your call’. It felt as if she’d just opened an oven when she yanked open the door. It was a sunny day, about twenty-five degrees Celsius, but it must have been about forty degrees inside the box. She held the door open for a few moments to let the hot air escape. She was tempted to linger longer, but stopped herself. The sooner she got on with it, the sooner it would be over.

  She put her hand on the receiver and took several deep breaths before finally lifting it up. Her last hope was that it wasn’t working, but when she put it to her ear she heard a healthy dial tone. She dialled the first 9, then the second. She was just about to press it for a third time when something caught her eye. Someone was waving at her from across the street outside her office block. She couldn’t make out who it was at first. She moved her head forward, accidentally banging into the glass. She moved back a little and focused her eyes.

  It was him.

  She immediately slammed down the phone and ducked down to hide. She kept still, holding her breath for several seconds. What the hell was he doing there? Had he followed her?

  Suddenly there was a rap at the door. She turned to see a young Indian man shaking a dead mobile phone at her through the glass. Polly stared back, unable to move a muscle. Eventually he opened the door.

  ‘You finished?’ he asked.

  Her eyes remained wide and blank.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, waving his hand in front of her face as if she was blind.

  ‘Is there a man standing across the road?’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’ the man asked. Her voice was so thin it was barely audible.

  ‘You see the white building across the road,’ she said a little louder.

  He craned his neck round the phone box door to look across the road. ‘Yep, I see it.’

  ‘Is there a man standing outside it?’

  He narrowed his eyes and jerked his head forward to look.

  ‘No, there is no one there.’ He turned back to her. ‘Now, if you please,’ he said, pointing to the phone.

  Polly very carefully inched her way out of the phone box, her head peeping round the door then darting back to safety again. The man watched her, eyes narrowed, as though she was insane. When her foot finally crossed the threshold, he impatiently pushed his way past and pulled the phone box door shut behind him. She looked across the road to where he’d been standing – there was no one there. Despite the heat, she hugged her arms around herself and shivered.

  When she got back to the office she was in tears. What the hell was going on? He couldn’t possibly know where she worked – she’d not told him a single thing about herself. He’d insisted, no personal details. Maybe she’d just imagined him standing there. No, he had definitely been there. He already knew her name, where she worked – what else did he know?

  She could feel everyone in the office watching her as she tried to subtly mop up her tears. It didn’t take long for word to reach Alicia. She came rushing over, arms outstretched. ‘Hon, what’s the matter?’

  Polly couldn’t speak.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, taking her hand and guiding her to the toilets. A hush rippled round as they made their way through.

  Once inside, Alicia locked the toilet door.

  ‘It’s so tough when you lose someone close to you,’ she said, walking over to the toilet and putting the seat down so Polly could sit on it. ‘When I lost my mum I was a total wreck. I couldn’t do nothin’, I was crying all the time.’

  It took Polly a second to catch on. ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said, sitting down.

  ‘It gets easier.’ Alicia reached out and rubbed the top of Polly’s arm. ‘But, to be honest, you ain’t really got no option but to wait it out. Grief’s like that: you can’t do nothin’ about it.’

  Polly sighed.

  ‘You wanna talk about it?’ Alicia asked.

  ‘It’s not just Dad – there’s loads of stuff going on at the moment.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Polly considered for a moment. She was sorely tempted – she certainly couldn’t carry on the way she was. She needed help from someone.

  Suddenly her mobile vibrated against her hip. She reached into her pocket for it without thinking.

  we need to talk. tonight 7.35 kings cross st pancras metropolitan line westbound, first carriage

  The phone shook so violently in her hand that she almost dropped it.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Alicia, leaning forward to try and get a look at the message Polly had just read.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Polly said, stuffing the phone back in her pocket. ‘I’d better get back to my desk,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  ‘It’s all right, everyone knows what you’ve been through – they’ll understand if you need some time out.’

  But Polly was already up and unlocking the bathroom door. She let the door slam shut behind her without another word.

  Twenty-eight

  The message remained on the screen of Polly’s phone for the rest of the afternoon. Every time it started to dim ready to turn itself off, she’d brush her thumb over the top to keep it there. She felt as if she was having an out-of-body experience. Her out-of-body self looked down on her from the ceiling, screaming at her to delete the message. How could she even contemplate meeting him after what she’d seen him do? But she didn’t. She just sat there staring at the message.

  At seven-thirty she found herself walking down the steps of King’s Cross St Pancras tube station. A train arrived at exactly 7.35 p.m. She got on. The first carriage was busy, much to her relief. At least if he tried anything, there were plenty of people around.

  He was already on the train. As soon as she saw him, Polly was immediately on her guard. She stayed right in the middle of the carriage, close to the double doors. She noticed a red panic lever above her head to the right of the handrail. She moved closer to it. He saw.

  ‘Polly, it’s OK,’ he said as he moved towards her. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.’

  His hands were palm up in front of his chest as if to surrender. He was still as beautiful as ever.

  In spite of everything that had happened, her heart skipped a beat.

  ‘I know how bad it must have looked the other day, but I can explain. Will you let me explain?’

  She glanced behind him. A burly man with a baseball cap perched on his head was sat on the bay of seats. Close enough. She gave one quick nod of her head.

  He took a few too many steps towards her. She flinched, so he stopped immediately.

  ‘The girl you saw me with … ’

  ‘Sarah,’ said Polly.

  ‘Sarah, was that her name?’

  Polly looked at him, dismayed.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know her name,’ he said, his head bowed. He exhaled loudly before looking back up to continue. ‘She was threatening to expose everything.’

  ‘What?’ said Polly.

  ‘Tubing. She said she was going to the police, the press, whoever would listen.’ He lifted his hand up to the bridge of his nose and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘She got hold of my phone. She had a list of the phone numbers of everyone involved.’

  ‘What?’ said Polly, the pitch of her voice rising.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘It was my fault. I was a total idiot. I had a bad feeling about her from the first moment I met her, but the guy who introduced us said she was cool.’ He took his hand away from his face and looked up at Polly. ‘She was a journalist, working unde
rcover.’

  Polly was taken aback. It took a couple of seconds to collect her thoughts and get back on track. ‘But in the paper it said she was an investment banker.’

  ‘I guess they’re trying to cover it up.’

  ‘But they interviewed her mum in the paper … ’

  ‘I’m sure they did.’

  She stared at him, waiting for further explanation. He stared back. After a couple of seconds he shrugged his shoulders, unable to offer anything more.

  ‘Why would they do that? Go to all the trouble of covering it up and putting in a fake interview with her mum?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Polly.’

  Her name – it jarred. How did he know her name?

  ‘None of this makes sense,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘How do you know my — ’ she started.

  Suddenly he lost patience. He slammed his fist against the metal frame next to her, making her jump. His cool demeanour was replaced by a flushed, pinched, mean-looking face. ‘What do you want me to say? I did what I had to. I didn’t mean to kill her; she struggled and it just sort of happened,’ he said, lowering his voice and moving in closer, as if suddenly remembering where he was.

  Struggle? There was no struggle, Polly thought. She opened her mouth to say so, but he cut her off.

  ‘Can you imagine what would have happened? You have no idea how many people are involved in this – some of them in government, in the media … you … me.’ He ran his fingers through his hair to smooth it down. ‘I had to stop her. I did it to protect everyone involved.’ He reached out and touched her face. ‘To protect you.’

  ‘But you killed her,’ Polly said matter-of-factly.

  ‘I know, and I have to live with it for the rest of my life.’ He dropped his hand away.

  Polly thought she could see tears welling up in his eyes. She felt the urge to console him, but she didn’t; his story wasn’t right.

  ‘What about Mousey?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The girl I saw you tubing with just after we met.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s dead too.’