Tubing

by K. A. McKeagney

  Polly didn’t leave the flat all weekend. Oliver was playing cricket on both the Saturday and Sunday so she barely saw him. She’d thought she would have heard from James or Gin, but no one called. She tried desperately not to think about Sebastian and what was happening to him, but the harder she tried, the worse it got. Had the police taken him in yet? Had he confessed? Been arrested? Would she need to give evidence against him in court? She paced the flat constantly, drinking mug of tea after mug of tea. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten – and even that thought didn’t make her feel any better.

  When she got to work on Monday morning James was already at his desk. She smiled as soon as she saw him. He didn’t smile back.

  ‘Everything OK?’ she asked as she put her bag down.

  He glared, his eyes levelled straight at her. Clearly everything was not OK. ‘We need to go to the police station.’

  ‘What? Now? But I’ve only just got in.’

  He didn’t answer. He got up from his desk, picked up his briefcase and gently tucked his chair under his desk.

  ‘I’d better tell Lionel first,’ she continued, flustered. She didn’t want him thinking she’d skived off for another day.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ve already spoken to him and he’s fine with it.’

  As if by magic, Lionel appeared at his office door with a mug of something hot in his hand. She could see steam rising from his cup in the sun’s rays through the windows behind him. He took a long slow sip as he carefully watched her.

  She smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.

  ‘You didn’t tell him did you?’ Polly asked, suddenly panicked. Lionel knew Oliver’s parents; she didn’t want word getting back to them or Oliver. She’d thought she could trust James; now she wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Just pick up your bag and let’s go.’

  ‘I’m not sure I should. Sebastian might still be following me. If he sees me going into a police station … well … I don’t know what he’ll do.’

  James turned and looked at her. ‘Drop the act, Polly.’

  ‘What?’ said Polly in disbelief, but he was already halfway down the corridor.

  He held the lift for her until she arrived. They went down to the ground floor in silence. Polly was lost for words. Her mind was racing: what the hell was going on? They left the building by the main door and went to where James’s car was parked. Polly nervously followed, constantly checking behind her for any sign of Sebastian.

  James’s car was a sleek black Jaguar. The interior was padded white leather. It still had that ‘new car’ smell. Radio 4 blasted out of the stereo as soon as James started the engine. His hand leapt up to turn it off. She asked him again what was going on, but he carried on as if she hadn’t said a word.

  They arrived at the West End Central Police Station on Savile Row fifteen minutes later. James parked down a side street. He turned to look at Polly as if he was going to say something, but stopped himself and just frowned instead. He got out of the car. Polly followed.

  At the custody desk, James asked for DS Watson. They were directed through reception and down a corridor to an interview room. Gin and a uniformed officer were waiting for them. It was a grimy room with off-white walls and no windows. A naked strip light in the centre of the ceiling was all that lit it. There was a metal table with two uncomfortable looking hard-backed chairs on each side. Gin and her officer were on one side, a pile of typed notes between them, James and Polly sat on the other. A laptop was set up in the middle of the table.

  The room was silent, all eyes on Polly. The tension in the room was suffocating. Polly found herself taking short, sharp breaths, in need of air.

  Eventually Gin spoke. ‘Polly, thank you for coming in to see us.’

  Polly wanted to say that she hadn’t had much choice in the matter, but instead mumbled, ‘It’s OK.’

  Gin introduced the officer sitting next to her as Inspector Phillips. He nodded at her, his face serious. Then said, ‘Do you mind if we record this interview?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Polly.

  ‘We just need to go over your statement again. We need to keep a record of it.’

  ‘OK,’ muttered Polly.

  Gin signalled to the wall behind Polly and James. Polly turned round to see a large mirror behind them. It was on the same wall as the door, so she hadn’t noticed it when they first walked in. Whoever was behind it did as they were told and a red light appeared just above the mirror. Gin got on with the formalities, stating the date, time and case number, and listing who was present in the room.

  ‘We’ve asked you to come back in today, Polly, because we’ve uncovered a few inconsistencies with your story that we’d like to clear up.’

  Who the hell is ‘we’? thought Polly. When she’d met with Gin and James before the weekend it had been kindly ‘I’s; now it was ‘we’. She turned to look at the glass screen behind her again. Why was she in an interview room, being taped and watched by God knew who? This was all wrong.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Polly. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘I assume by “him” you mean Mr Sebastian Black,’ Gin said, staring straight at her, her posture perfect, her hands clasped together resting in front of her on the table. ‘Yes, we interviewed him over the weekend.’

  ‘Well, what did he say?’

  ‘He tells a very different story from you, Polly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He claims that you were stalking him, not the other way round.’

  Polly was floored. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘That’s insane,’ she said. ‘Why on earth would I be stalking him?’

  Gin looked down at her notes. ‘When we last spoke you told me that you’d never met Mr Black before the evening you saw him push Sarah Wilson under the train, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said.’

  ‘I know that’s what you said, Polly, but is it true?’

  Polly hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes.’

  Gin took a deep inhalation flaring her nostrils, looked straight at James, then back at her notes again.

  ‘We asked Mr Black about the evening in question, the evening you allege he murdered Sarah Wilson. He doesn’t know anything about it. He says he was working from home, didn’t leave his flat all day.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ Polly said. ‘I saw him there. I saw him push her under the train.’

  ‘His fiancée has corroborated his story.’

  She would, thought Polly. ‘She’s lying.’

  Gin paused to look at her notes again.

  ‘We had a look at the tube station’s CCTV of the incident.’ She paused, holding Polly’s gaze for several seconds.

  ‘Well?’ asked Polly impatiently.

  ‘We didn’t see him on the footage.’

  ‘But he was there, right next to her – you must have seen him.’

  ‘We saw you, but not him.’

  Polly suddenly remembered the baseball cap he put on as he got off the train. ‘He was wearing a baseball cap. Did you see anyone wearing a baseball cap standing next to her?’

  Gin just stared at her.

  Polly turned to James for support, but he was looking straight ahead, still not acknowledging her.

  ‘Mr Black claims you made the whole thing up, Polly.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘He claims that you did it to get back at him.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Mr Black says that you two were having an affair. When he ended the relationship you started stalking him and made up the story about him pushing Sarah Wilson under the train.’

  ‘What?’ Polly couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘That’s bullshit.’

  Silence.

  ‘So you weren’t having an affair with Mr Black?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Now is the time to tell me the truth, Polly.’

  ‘I was not having an affair with him,’ she replied belligerently.


  ‘OK.’ Gin reached over and opened up the laptop sat in the middle of the table. ‘Polly, I’d like to show you something.’

  She switched on the computer. She tapped a couple of keys then turned the laptop round so it was facing her and James.

  The screen was poised at the start of a video. A large Play button throbbed in the middle of the screen, waiting to be clicked on. Gin leant over and used the mouse at the bottom of the keyboard to start the video.

  Polly couldn’t make out what was going on at first. The picture was dark and she could hear lots of rustling, as if someone had their hand over the camera’s microphone. This went on for several seconds until the camera began to pan back. She recognised the blue and red surroundings instantly: it was the inside of a tube train carriage. The picture moved round to show the back of someone’s head. It was a head she knew – not one she saw very often, but one she knew well. The camerawork was jerky and the picture was moving all over the place – it soon became clear why.

  She could tell that it had been taken using a camera on a mobile phone. She watched in horror as the camera slowly moved down until the top of two milky white buttocks filled the screen. She desperately wanted to turn away, but she couldn’t. The camera continued on until she could see the penis thrusting. She heard a gasp, a familiar voice. The camera stayed put, recording the intimate act. The detail was so graphic it was animalistic.

  Polly looked round at James. He wasn’t looking at the screen; he was still staring straight ahead past Gin at the dirty wall in front of him.

  She looked back at the screen to see the camera slowly pan back until it had a full shot of the person in front. Just above in the glazed window of the train a reflection of the faces of both people were clearly visible. It was Polly and Sebastian.

  Polly’s heart dropped as if it had just fallen out of her body. She remembered that moment. She’d had no idea he was filming, she couldn’t fathom how he’d managed it without her noticing. She stared back at the girl on the screen, the girl from six weeks ago. It seemed as though a lifetime had passed. She couldn’t even begin to explain.

  The room was silent. Polly prayed that no one would speak, no one would ever ask her to give a reason for what was on the screen. For a few seconds no one did, but the stay of execution didn’t last long.

  ‘So now you understand our problem with your story, Polly.’

  Her face burned with shame.

  ‘Let me ask you again. Had you ever met Mr Black before you saw him allegedly push Sarah Wilson under the train?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly. The evidence was indisputable.

  ‘Did you have an affair with Mr Black?’

  ‘Yes.’ She put her head in her hands. How the hell was she going to explain?

  ‘You know, Polly, we’re well within our rights to charge you with wasting police time.’

  Polly lifted her head, dragging her hands down over her face to look at her. ‘But I did see him push the girl under the train.’

  ‘Did you? Did you really?’

  ‘Yes, I swear it.’

  ‘The problem is, we can see you on the CCTV footage of that day, but not Mr Black. All the evidence we have suggests that he was at home when Sarah Wilson committed suicide.’

  ‘He’s lying! He was there!’

  Gin exhaled loudly. ‘James tells me that you’ve been under a lot of pressure recently, I was sorry to hear about your father passing away. I’m going to let this drop. We won’t be pressing charges against you.’

  ‘Against me? I didn’t do anything.’ Polly stood up abruptly sending the chair she was sat on flying behind her. ‘He killed her. I was there, I saw him.’

  ‘Sit down, please,’ commanded Gin.

  ‘This is insane. He’s twisted everything.’

  ‘I said sit down.’

  The uniformed officer, DI Phillips, got up ready to grab her.

  ‘For Christ’s sake sit down, Polly,’ shouted James. They were the first words he’d uttered in the room.

  Polly picked up the chair from behind her and sat down. She was shaking uncontrollably, every ounce of her body trembling with frustration. The laptop was still turned on. Her face filled the screen. She put her head on the table and started to cry.

  After a few moments she heard chair legs dragging across the squeaky vinyl floor. She looked up to see everyone standing up and getting their things together. James was at the door, briefcase in hand.

  ‘Wait,’ said Polly desperately. ‘What am I going to do?’

  He took measure of her, contempt written all over his face.

  ‘I suggest you go to the office and clear out your desk.’

  Thirty-eight

  Polly didn’t go back to the office. She had no intention of ever going there again. She went back to the flat – the only place she felt any semblance of safety. She resumed her usual position on the sofa.

  What now? He’d managed to prove his innocence and humiliate her all in one fell swoop, but she knew that wasn’t it. After what she’d put him through at the weekend, there was no doubt he had a whole lot more in store for her.

  It didn’t take long before her fears were confirmed. A text message arrived half an hour after she got home:

  big mistake, polly

  you can’t hide at home forever

  The phone fell from her hand on to the floor. There was a loud crack as it hit the ground face down.

  She immediately jumped up and ran around the flat checking the windows were locked and closing every blind and curtain. As she reached up for the bolt on the front door, she stopped herself. What was she doing? Was she going to barricade herself inside this flat for the rest of her life?

  With her back against the door, she slowly slid all the way down until she hit the floor. She slumped down lower and lower until her chin was touching her chest.

  She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t even do that; she had no tears left. She sat there, numb. It felt as if her body was shrinking into itself. Maybe that was the best thing that could happen; maybe she could just make herself disappear, die even.

  She held her breath, but after about forty seconds her lungs involuntarily opened and forced her to inhale.

  ‘You won’t even let me do that, will you?’ she said to no one in particular.

  There were no options left for her. He held all the cards, knew everything about her. She couldn’t stay locked in the flat forever. But then the second she walked through the door … She couldn’t trust Oliver, couldn’t go to the police, her dad was … Even if there was something she could do, Sebastian could easily put a stop to it. He’d got away with murder at least twice as far as she knew, but that was probably just the tip of the iceberg. He could buy off the entire world, or so it seemed. There was no one and nothing.

  Out of sheer despair she shouted, ‘Fuck you.’ Then, barely a whisper, ‘Fuck you, Sebastian Black.’

  His words went round and round in her head – Life as you know it is over, Polly.

  He was right: it was. It really was.

  She must have fallen asleep. When she came to, she was still slumped up against the front door. Her neck ached from craning over so long. For a few moments she was blissfully ignorant of her predicament, then it came flooding back to her, battering her entire body. She hurt everywhere, physically and mentally.

  She got up and went into the bedroom. Maybe she could go back to sleep again. Perhaps unconsciousness was the way forward. She fell down on to the bed that Oliver had made neatly before going to work. But her eyes wouldn’t shut, choosing instead to remain fixed on Oliver’s bedside table. She might as well just get it over with, call Sebastian up and tell him to just come and get her. But she couldn’t even do that; every text he sent came from a different mobile number.

  She had a thought and immediately sat up. Oliver must have an address or number or something for him. She wrenched open the drawer of his bedside table, pulling it right off its runners and spilling the contents on to the floor.
Torch, mobile phone charger, official-looking letters, a couple of paperbacks … but no address book.

  She went into the lounge and ransacked the bookshelves. Nothing. She went back to the bedroom and went through his chest of drawers, even his shelves in the wardrobe.

  ‘You must have something, you’re supposed to be mates,’ she cried out in frustration.

  Then she stopped. She knew exactly how to find him – tubing. She could set up a meeting. He knew her Twitter handle; she was in no doubt he would see. That way she could get it over with, get whatever he had in store for her done.

  And then it occurred to her that the reverse was also true, she could track him down through the tubing scene, without giving herself away.

  She got on to Oliver’s laptop and set up another fake Twitter account, @win44ty. She didn’t really have a plan, but figured her best form of attack was to surprise him, somehow engineer a meeting without him knowing. She had no idea what she’d do if she did track him down, but at least she was doing something; she wasn’t helplessly waiting. Maybe if she could catch him in the act or a compromising situation, or have it out with him and get a recording of a confession … He’d already admitted to killing Sarah to her, so it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility.

  She went to his Twitter handle, @can852ran. She could only find a record of the meeting he set up with Mousey and the reply he’d left on Polly’s message; the rest was blank. She ran a Google search too, but couldn’t find anything else.

  She then went on to search #Tubing for various tube stations. Maybe if she went along to enough meetings she’d find him, eventually. From what she could gather, the meetings were tweeted on the day or a day in advance, none of them planned any further ahead than that. She decided to target all the stations at which she’d met him or where she knew he’d watched. She didn’t need to make a list, she knew them off by heart.

  After an hour or so of searching, it was all beginning to feel a bit futile. Direct action was called for. Using @win44ty, she tweeted:

  Female hook up with male. Central Line. Oxford Circus eastbound. Third carriage. 11 p.m. tonight. #TubingOxfordCircus

  She drummed her fingers nervously on the table, waiting for a like or a reply. She was worried. He seemed to know her every move, she wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow knew about this new account too, impossible as that seemed. After fifteen minutes she got a like from @thr12356ty. She clicked on the profile; as expected, it was blank.