Tubing

by K. A. McKeagney

  ‘What?’ He sounded genuinely shocked.

  ‘The papers say she committed suicide a couple of weeks ago, under a train, just like Sarah.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  They eyed one another suspiciously.

  He was the first to speak. ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you, Polly?’

  There it was again, her name. Every time he said it, it threw her off course.

  ‘Well … ’ She paused, suddenly unsure of herself. ‘It’s a bit of a coincidence.’

  ‘Whoa, whoa.’ He was on the defensive, his hands up in front of his chest. ‘I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t even know about it until you just mentioned it.’

  Polly didn’t know what to say. Had she got it all wrong? She’d been so sure, but now …

  ‘I hooked up with her a few times,’ he continued. ‘She wasn’t well – depressed, I think. She seemed really destructive, and not just to herself. I stopped seeing her in the end.’

  She remembered the way Mousey had pushed him when she’d seen them on the train together. She had seemed really mad. Polly thought it was because he hadn’t warned her before ejaculating in her mouth, but maybe it wasn’t that – maybe she had been unstable.

  ‘Polly.’

  There it was again. She looked up, dazed. He smiled his perfect smile.

  ‘The reason I wanted to meet with you was to tell you something.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘This whole thing has been a total nightmare. I can’t believe what’s happened. Every time I think about Sarah … ’ His voice caught in the back of his throat, stopping him from talking.

  Polly instinctively reached out for him. She couldn’t hold herself back any longer. She put her hand on the back of his neck. He leant forward until their foreheads were touching. His skin felt soft and warm. Her entire body melted into his touch.

  ‘I’ve had enough of all this. I’m done with tubing and this place. I’m leaving London.’ He pulled back to look at her. ‘Will you come with me?’

  She looked at him, aghast. Was he for real?

  The train’s tannoy suddenly sprang into life, announcing that they were approaching Baker Street. Their eyes were still locked. He leant forward to kiss her. Polly started to move forward but then stopped – her name – how did he know her name?

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  He stopped dead.

  ‘And where I work, how do you know where I work?’ she continued.

  He sucked in his cheek until it left a hollow in the side of his face. Her words hung in the air between them. He quickly turned to check behind him before his hand darted out, grabbing her round the throat.

  It happened so fast, she didn’t have time to react. The span of his hand almost encircled her entire neck, his fingertips pressing deep into the hollows either side of her spine while the base of his thumb pushed down hard over her voice box. He bore down on her, concentrating every ounce of strength he had.

  Within seconds her lungs were scrambling for air, her diaphragm opening and contracting in a desperate bid for breath. She tried to scream, but all that came out was a heavy, rasping sound.

  She looked over at the guy still sitting in the bank of seats behind them. His eyes were firmly shut, with the peak of his cap pulled down low.

  Polly could feel herself going. Her eyes were filled with black and white blocks. Weakness engulfed her. She didn’t have long; she had to do something.

  She used every ounce of strength she had to buck her body forward. By sheer fluke her knee caught him square in the groin. His grip loosened as he instinctively bent forward. She let herself drop straight down, kicking her legs out from beneath her and sliding across the floor towards the seats behind. He moved to follow, but stopped when he noticed the man. He was looking over, bleary-eyed, to see what all the commotion was about.

  ‘You stupid cunt, you’ll ruin everything,’ he said through gritted teeth, his face scrunched in pain.

  The train doors opened behind him. He took a long, hard look at her and said, ‘Life as you know it is over, Polly.’

  Then he turned and was gone.

  Twenty-nine

  The man looked over at Polly for a while debating whether or not to help her up. After a couple of seconds he closed his eyes again and pretended to be asleep. Polly stayed on the floor, breathless, for a few moments before reaching up and pulling herself on to the seat behind her. She couldn’t believe what had just happened. Her hand went up to her neck. She tried to swallow, and her throat bobbed several times before she finally managed it; it felt as if it had collapsed in on itself.

  The train pulled out of the station and entered the tunnel. She looked across at her reflection in the darkened window. She could see red marks around the side of her throat where his finger had been, and a larger red area at the front. She prayed bruises wouldn’t develop.

  She sat in the same seat until the train reached the end of the line. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen for it. He’d convinced her that she’d got it all wrong; she’d even believed for a moment that he wanted them to leave London together. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d stood there listening to his lies while he got ready to pounce – it almost defied belief. She was in no doubt about what he would have done with her. She could almost see the headline: Woman grieving loss of father throws herself in front of tube train. No one would have been any the wiser.

  By the time she got home her neck was in agony. She didn’t know what to do – whether to go to the hospital to get it checked out or just hope for the best. In the end she decided to keep her fingers crossed. There was no way she could explain what had happened without getting the police involved.

  As soon as she was through the front door of the flat she went straight to the wardrobe in the bedroom and dug out a chunky wool roll neck jumper. It was still about twenty degrees outside, and she started sweating the instant she put it on.

  Oliver noticed the jumper as soon as she walked into the lounge. ‘What are you wearing that for? You must be boiling.’

  He had all the windows wide open; there wasn’t even a hint of a breeze.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, trying to ignore the sweat beading down her neck and back.

  He made room for her to sit next to him on the sofa. She chose to sit on the chesterfield opposite.

  He shrugged, turning his attention back to the documentary he was watching on the TV.

  The shock that had afforded her some protection earlier slowly started to disappear and she was gradually exposed to the harsh reality of her situation. His words rang in her ears. Life as you know it is over. The more she thought about it, the harder it was to breathe. It was as if his hand was back round her throat, crushing her windpipe, each breath getting shallower and shallower until she was only able to take tiny snippets of oxygen into her mouth before they were lost. Her nails dug into the soft leather of the seat she was sitting on. All at once, pins and needles were spreading up her limbs before overwhelming her insides until they were spasming. Everything was spinning, and her head felt so heavy she couldn’t keep it up any longer. She crumpled forward, falling to the floor with a thud.

  ‘Oh my God, Polly.’ Oliver’s voice came from a faraway place, then silence.

  She woke up in bed. The room was in darkness except for the soft glow from the bedside lamp. Oliver was sitting beside her, holding her hand. She tried to sit up, but felt too weak to move.

  ‘Hey, you’re back with us,’ said Oliver. The relief on his face was palpable.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You fainted.’

  She suddenly realised she didn’t have her jumper on any more. Her hand shot up to her neck to cover it.

  ‘Don’t move, you need to rest. Would you like some water?’ he asked.

  She was still barely able to swallow, her throat felt so swollen, ‘Yes, please,’ she said, her voice croaky.

  As soon as he was gone, the darkness in
the room loomed around her. She reached up to her neck; it still felt tender but there was no swelling on the outside. She prayed it hadn’t bruised – how on earth could she explain to Oliver? She felt scared, more scared than she’d ever been in her life. She burrowed deep under the duvet. By the time Oliver came back into the room, only two little eyes were visible from underneath.

  ‘What are you doing under there?’ he said as he rounded the bed and put the glass on the bedside table.

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘What’s going on, Polly?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re not right, are you? Tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘I guess I’m just still really missing Dad.’ She winced as she said it. She couldn’t keep using his death to cover this mess up.

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else?’

  ‘I … don’t … ’ She trailed off.

  ‘Is it something to do with the girl you saw jump under the train?’

  He was spot on, but not in the way he thought. Tears were suddenly stinging her eyes. ‘Hug me,’ she said.

  He looked at her as though he was about to ask another question.

  ‘Just please hug me,’ she said before he could get the words out.

  He pulled back the duvet and curled his body around hers.

  ‘I love you so much, Oliver.’

  She desperately needed him to say the same soothing words back to her.

  ‘I love you too, Polly.’

  Thirty

  They lay wrapped in each other’s arms all night. A couple of times Oliver tried to get up, but Polly wouldn’t let him, gripping on to him as tight as she could. He said he needed the loo and wanted to brush his teeth, but she couldn’t be alone, not even for the few minutes it would take him to use the bathroom. She stared at the alarm clock on her bedside table until three a.m., and after that she couldn’t remember anything.

  When she opened her eyes it was daylight. Oliver was gone. She could still feel the impression of his body on hers, but it was cold, as if he’d been gone a while. She panicked and called out to him. What if he’d gone out and left her on her own?

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said coming back into the room with a steaming mug in his hand. ‘I was just making you a cuppa.’

  He was dressed in a pair of khaki chinos and a blue cotton shirt.

  ‘Why are you dressed? You’re not going out are you?’ Polly asked.

  ‘I’ve got to go to work.’

  ‘It’s Saturday.’

  ‘I know. I swapped shifts around, remember? I did tell you.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Polly said, suddenly panicked. She couldn’t be on her own, she just couldn’t be.

  ‘Come here,’ he said sitting down on the bed and putting his arms around her. ‘You’ll be all right. I’ll be back before you know it. Why don’t you go for a walk to the Green, stop at that pâtisserie you like for a big slice of cake. It’s a lovely day.’

  There was no way she could leave the flat. What if he was watching her? She was desperate to tell Oliver what was going on: her life was in danger, and she knew Oliver of all people would do whatever he could to protect her. But how could she, after what she’d been up to? Then she’d have no one.

  ‘I’d better get going,’ he said, kissing the top of her head and getting up.

  She had to use all the strength she possessed to hold herself back, not to jump up and grab him, beg and plead with him to stay with her.

  Once Oliver was gone, she burrowed down deep into the duvet. Her senses were on high alert; every sound cut into her, making her nerves sting. Their flat was one of three in a converted town house. Polly had never noticed how much noise came from their neighbours before, but now it was all she could hear: floorboards creaking; a door slamming; the low, bassy drone of voices. Suddenly there were footsteps thundering up the communal staircase that ran alongside their bedroom wall. Had they stopped at their front door, or gone on up to the next set of stairs? She strained to listen. Maybe it wasn’t one of the neighbours, maybe it was him. He knew her name, where she worked – who was to say he didn’t know where she lived too. She pulled the duvet over her head and lay as flat as possible pretending she didn’t exist. Soon the air under the duvet became hot and sticky and suffocating. She carefully peeled back the cover, her eyes sweeping every corner of the room. Her bladder was painfully swollen; she’d needed the toilet since before going to bed some twelve hours ago. She had to get up.

  She made her way silently to the bedroom door, then very carefully opened it. She held her breath as she poked her head out into the hallway. Once she was sure there was no one there, she dived across and into the bathroom.

  After she’d used the toilet, she examined her neck in the bathroom mirror. Much to her relief it hadn’t bruised, but it still looked a bit red and was still tender to the touch. She then turned around, put her hand on the door handle and braced herself to leave.

  Back in the hallway, she picked up Oliver’s golfing umbrella that sat below the coat hooks by the front door. She carefully searched the rest of the flat, the umbrella wielded high ready to attack. When she was satisfied there was no one there, she checked all the windows were locked, closed the blinds and double bolted the front door.

  She sat on the sofa in silence for the rest of the day. She didn’t want to sit in silence, she wanted noise. She’d take any form of company right now, no matter how artificial. But what if she missed something? What if the TV or radio drowned out the sound of him coming up the stairs or trying to break in through the front door? She couldn’t risk it. She positioned herself right in the corner of the sofa so she had a clear view of the lounge doorway through into the kitchen. With every sound her head snapped round to chase it.

  Without thinking her fingers went to another mosquito bite on her arm. Her nails scratched around the small scab, looking for an edge to work their way in. It hurt, but the sensation translated into relief rather than pain. It wasn’t until her fingers felt sticky that she realised how deep she’d gone. She looked down to see blood pooling from the skin around the scab. Her fingernails had dug down through layer upon layer, unchecked. The once small bite was now a deep gash.

  Oliver put his key in the lock at half-past six. He struggled with the door, kicking it twice before knocking hard and calling her name. As soon as she heard his voice she went running to unbolt it. She fell into his arms the second he was through the door.

  ‘Whoa,’ he said, trying to put down the bags he was carrying and close the door behind him.

  When they went into the lounge Oliver started fussing with the blinds, opening them up. Polly started to protest, but knew it was pointless. Oliver liked the blinds pulled up halfway, with the top slats fully open. He was annoyed that she’d had them closed all day.

  ‘Right,’ he said, looking her up and down – she was still in her pyjamas, ‘are you in the shower first or am I?’

  ‘What?’

  He looked at the time on his watch. ‘We’ve got to be there in an hour, need to start getting ready.’

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘Dinner tonight, remember? It’s Crispin’s birthday.’

  Crispin was Oliver’s closest friend. They’d gone to medical school together. A group of them were having dinner tonight to celebrate his birthday.

  ‘I can’t go,’ said Polly, shaking her head.

  ‘Why not?’ said Oliver.

  ‘Well, after last night … ’

  ‘You fainted is all, no lasting damage,’ he said.

  She stayed silent.

  He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower, then went into the bedroom. After a few moments she followed him. He was standing in just his shirt and pants, rifling through the wardrobe for a pair of trousers. His boxers were too tight; the fly gaped open at the front.

  ‘Can you just call him and say we’re not coming?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’ he snapped, annoyed at the suggestion.


  ‘Oliver, I still don’t feel well. I think I’m coming down with something.’

  ‘Polly, come here,’ he said sternly.

  She did as she was told. He put his hand on her forehead.

  ‘You seem fine to me. Come on, go get ready.’

  ‘I can’t. Please just call him.’

  ‘What is with you? Why are you always doing this? We’ve a perfectly nice evening arranged with friends and suddenly you don’t want to go,’ he said, exasperated.

  She started to chew her lip.

  ‘Look, if you’re really not feeling well, stay here, but I’m going. There’s no way I can cancel on my best mate’s birthday. OK?’

  Polly looked out of the window. It would be dark soon. Spending the next five or six hours alone in the flat just wasn’t an option.

  They met in a Mexican restaurant in Notting Hill. Polly persuaded Oliver to get a cab even though they were only two stops away on the tube. Despite being safely inside the taxi, she spent the entire journey on high alert. Oliver kept asking if she was OK. She evaded the question. In the end he left her to it, thinking she was in a mood about something or other.

  The restaurant was a small, intimate place set over two floors. The ground floor only had enough space for a couple of tables; the basement housed the main part. Polly could see them all sitting at the back of the restaurant as they made their way down the steep steps and through the windowed door to the basement.

  They were greeted with cries of ‘Polliver’ as soon as they walked in. Oliver’s friends often referred to them by one name made up of both their names. Polly hated it. It made her feel like a non-person, nothing more than a part of Oliver.

  The decor was Mexican tat: fake cacti, fairy lights, sugar skulls, plastic skeletons, and candles burning in empty tequila bottles on every table. It was owned by the son of a rock star and accordingly become the place to hang out. Oliver hadn’t made the booking and was struggling to hide his discomfort. He preferred fine dining that he could clearly see on his plate – not food inspired by South American street vendors served in dusk.