Tubing

by K. A. McKeagney

  Thirty-nine

  Her next dilemma was how to get out of the flat without Sebastian following her. For all she knew, he might be camped out in one of the flats across the road, doing a proper surveillance job on her. She wouldn’t put anything past him.

  Backing on to the bedroom of their flat was a roof terrace, of sorts. It was essentially the rear end of a mini-mart that fronted on to the road to the other side of them. There was a small courtyard behind, which was mostly filled with old bits of junk and rotting rubbish. If the wind was blowing the wrong way on a sunny day the smell of ‘bin juice’ was unbearable. At the back of the terrace was a rickety old fire ladder that should have been ripped down and replaced years ago. Outside on the terrace, Polly stood over the ladder and gave it a good shake. She heard a chime as one of the screws holding it together came loose and fell on to the floor below. But it seemed secure still; if she could climb down it to the courtyard, she could cut through the alley next to the shop and get out on to the road on the other side.

  Oliver was due home at eight p.m. that night. She made sure she was ready and gone by seven-thirty.

  Once out of the front door of the flat, she went down the stairs to the half-landing where the door to the roof terrace was and climbed out on to it. The nights had started drawing in, but it wasn’t quite full dark as she tiptoed across the terrace to the ladder. She didn’t dare risk shaking it again in case more screws came loose. She put her bag over her shoulder and fastened her jacket, then climbed on to the first step. The ladder instantly made a loud creaking sound and dropped down a couple of centimetres. Polly yelped, then tried to stay very still while it settled itself into its new position. Once she was sure it was steady, she slowly began to climb down.

  What she hadn’t realised from looking at the ladder from above was that it didn’t go all the way to the ground. It stopped about six feet short. There was a large industrial bin to her left, and she stretched out her leg to try to reach it, but couldn’t quite get there. ‘Bollocks,’ she muttered. Her only other option was to let herself drop. She continued climbing down the ladder until she was crouched on to the last rung, then slowly let her feet come away so only her hands were holding on. She thought she almost had it until her arms gave out just as she got her legs a quarter of the way down. At least there were plenty of rubbish bags to break her fall. She just wished one of them hadn’t exploded when she landed on it.

  She stood up and brushed herself off as best she could. She had just turned to start down the alley when she had a thought. She went over to the large industrial bin and pushed it closer to the ladder: she might need this as an exit again.

  Once out on the main road, she was suddenly nervous; it felt all wrong being outside. She checked all around her, but she didn’t see him. She checked the time on her phone: it was just after 7.45 p.m. She knew Oliver would be coming back through Shepherd’s Bush tube station, so she went in the opposite direction to Hammersmith. She caught the Hammersmith and City Line, changing at Baker Street to get the Bakerloo Line to Oxford Circus.

  It was as she was getting off at Baker Street that she suddenly stopped. This was where the whole mess started, where she saw him push Sarah under the train. She found herself walking to the westbound platform. She could pinpoint the exact spot where it had happened. She stared at the spot, reliving the moment in her mind. She could have stopped him; she had seen what he was doing, slowly inching Sarah closer and closer to the edge of the platform. Why hadn’t she stopped him? Had she been that deluded, so infatuated with him that she had passively stood by while he murdered another human being? She fought hard to stop tears from coming.

  It was then that she noticed the tracks. She moved closer to get a better look at them. They were flat on the ground, not raised like they usually were. She’d never noticed it before. As far as she could remember, tube stations had raised tracks. She suddenly had a thought. Sarah had been killed at this station, and this was the station they had been pulling into when he attacked her. She went up to the ticket hall. A craggy-faced man in his fifties, dressed in a blue uniform and peaked cap, was slumped over the baggage gate.

  Polly went over to him. He begrudgingly stood up straight and motioned to open the barrier for her.

  ‘It’s OK, I’m not going out,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to ask a question.’

  He slammed the gate shut, annoyed at her for disturbing his slump.

  ‘Go on, then,’ he said, sighing. He had a thick yellow-tinged moustache that had grown down over his lips, making it look as though his moustache was speaking to her, not his mouth.

  She put on her best, most polite voice. ‘I’ve noticed that the train tracks in this station run along the ground, and I just wanted to know why?’

  ‘You what?’ He looked at her as if she was mad.

  She replayed what she’d just said in her mind and realised how nonsensical it sounded. ‘The train tracks,’ she started again. ‘They’re usually raised with a big gap underneath them, but in this station they’re not.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said nodding his head, ‘I get ya. Not all stations had suicide pits dug out in them. Most stations on the Circle and Hammersmith and City Lines don’t have ’em.’

  ‘Suicide pits?’ repeated Polly.

  ‘Yeah, during the Depression in the 1930s, every bugger was killing themselves by jumping under trains. Trenches were dug out under the tracks to try and stop ’em, like so if they did jump they’d fall below the track underneath the train. That or to help with drainage, whichever you prefer.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Oh,’ said Polly.

  ‘Works as long as the idiot don’t touch the third rail, mind, otherwise they light up like a flippin’ Christmas tree.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Polly again, her mind far, far away.

  ‘Bloody nightmare when some poor bugger does himself in at this station,’ he continued. ‘Makes one hell of a mess; they got absolutely no chance.’

  That was why Sebastian had used this station. Polly turned and walked away in a daze. A large tube map hung on the wall opposite. She stopped and took a closer look. Mousey had been killed at King’s Cross St Pancras – it was on the same line.

  ‘Hey, you better not be thinking about doing anything stupid,’ he said after her. ‘I don’t like that look you got on your face.’

  Polly barely heard him.

  ‘Hey, girl, my shift’s ending in half an hour and I don’t wanna be spending it scraping you up off the tracks,’ he shouted after her. ‘Hey, you listening to me?’

  Polly got to Oxford Circus just before nine p.m. She left the station and went out on to Oxford Street. It felt safer being around people, even if they were strangers.

  She went to a coffee shop and ordered a soya latte. She was still shaken as she sat down at a table at the back of the café. She couldn’t believe how logical and ordered he was, using a particular tube line to kill them so there was no chance they would survive. It was difficult to reconcile her feelings: she’d been besotted with him, but he was a murderer. How could her judgement have been so off? Part of her felt relieved to have survived the affair, but the other side was horrified, repulsed even.

  At half-past ten, she went to the ladies to get herself ready. Once her make-up was done, she took a long, hard look at herself in the mirror. She had no idea what she was doing. She just knew she had to do something.

  She went back to the station at 10.55. She was wearing a skin-tight black Lycra dress and her red satin stiletto heels. Her hair was slicked back into a tight ponytail and her eyes were made-up with thick kohl liner and false lashes, her lips cherry-red. She looked like a silhouette.

  She spotted the guy on the platform immediately. She couldn’t say how she knew it was him, she just did. At this point, she had every intention of walking away. It wasn’t Sebastian, so what was the point in staying? But in spite of everything her heart suddenly started pounding in anticipation, and she followed him on to the train. She wanted him; she wanted to do t
his. It wasn’t about what Sebastian or Oliver or anyone else thought. Alicia suddenly came to mind: ‘if something feels good, then it is good’. She allowed herself to focus solely on what she wanted; she went with her gut, her own desires, and she refused to feel bad about it. It didn’t matter how all this had come about. For the first time in her life she made her own choice.

  He was in his early thirties, handsome, with sandy hair and cool blue eyes. Polly stood at the far end of the carriage and just watched him for a while. He waited patiently, only looking up when the train stopped at a station to see who was getting on.

  After a couple of stops he finally noticed her. He smiled at her. She smiled back.

  At Liverpool Street a glut of late-night travellers boarded the carriage. There were enough people around for her not to be in any danger. She went to him without further hesitation. He put his hands around her waist and gently guided her through the crowd of passengers to the corner of the carriage. He tried to push her up against the small side seat at the back. She stopped him, gripping on to his forearms, her nails digging deep. He looked confused. She pulled him round and pushed him down on to the seat, then draped her right leg up over his lap. He smiled at her and pushed up against her naked crotch.

  Forty

  Polly got back to the flat just after midnight. To her relief Oliver was already in bed.

  She went straight to the bathroom to take a quick shower. Just as she was getting in, her mobile vibrated into life. It made her jump. She climbed out and went to her handbag, which she’d dropped behind the door. She picked up her phone and took it out, flicking the screen. The message read:

  oxford circus – u just can’t help yourself can u – dirty slut

  She sat down on the edge of the bath and just stared at the message. Her hands started to tremble and she was in danger of losing it. He’d either been following her or seen the tweet and gone to watch the meeting, not realising it was her. She was pretty sure he hadn’t followed her; the lengths she’d gone to on leaving the flat made it near impossible. How could she use this? There must be something. She sat lost in thought for so long that the water from the shower ran cold. She looked up to see all the steam disappearing from the bathroom. She had a quick, cold strip-wash at the sink then went to bed.

  She barely slept that night. Her mind was racing chasing down every possible eventuality, but she just couldn’t work it out, it all felt so slippery.

  When she did sleep, she had a nightmare about Oliver. Oliver was chasing her through a tube station. She made it to an escalator and started running up it as fast as she could. But no matter how hard she ran she couldn’t get away from him. In her dream she didn’t realise she was running up the down escalator. Oliver grabbed her round the back of the neck and dragged her to the platform. Sebastian was there waiting for them. Oliver put his arms round her waist and started moving towards the edge of the platform. Polly was totally powerless to do anything, as if she’d been drugged.

  Sebastian looked on, sizing up what he was doing. ‘Maybe try linking your hands together in front,’ he said putting his hands out to demonstrate.

  Oliver did as he was told.

  ‘That’s it. Maybe hold her a bit higher up. She’s less likely to flop forward. You don’t want to drop her before the train comes.’

  ‘OK,’ replied Oliver, changing his position. ‘Yeah, that’s much better.’ He hung her over the platform edge. He started dropping her slightly then pulling her back so he could practise.

  ‘Are you ready, Oliver? Here comes the train.’

  She woke up just as he let go.

  ‘Morning, Pol,’ said Oliver cheerfully from the other side of the room.

  She immediately shrank back under the duvet. For a second she wasn’t sure if she was awake or still dreaming.

  They’d barely spoken since their argument. By making herself scarce or going to bed early, she’d managed to avoid seeing him pretty much altogether. She eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he asked playfully.

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘It’s after eight – you getting up for work?’

  He was being nice to her. Why was he being so nice? It was as if the other evening hadn’t happened, as if she hadn’t accused him of cheating on her, as if he hadn’t suggested she was on the edge of some kind of breakdown. She couldn’t figure out whether he was just trying to ignore it or was lulling her into a false sense of security – most likely the former, knowing Oliver. All she knew for sure was that she couldn’t trust him.

  ‘Earth to Pol,’ he said after she still hadn’t answered.

  ‘I’m not needed until later,’ she finally replied, pulling the duvet over her head and pretending to go back to sleep.

  She lay there listening to Oliver moving around the flat getting ready for work. She was braced, ready for him. She wasn’t expecting him to attack, exactly; she just knew she should be ready for anything. Her breathing was slow and hot under the duvet.

  When she heard the front door slam and Oliver’s footsteps on the stairs, she threw the duvet back and sat up, taking big gulps of cool, fresh air.

  Once up, she got straight on to Oliver’s laptop and logged into her new fake Twitter account. She started going through the hashtags of stations she’d compiled in her mind. A couple of meetings had been set up for that evening. She chose the one that said:

  Male hook up with female. Central Line. Oxford Circus eastbound. 18.30 tonight. Third carriage. Red top, no knickers. #TubingOxfordCircus

  Forty-one

  She dressed the part for her meeting that evening – heels, too much make-up and a red short-sleeved top, as instructed in the tweet.

  She boarded the 18.34 train at Oxford Circus. It was packed and, despite the cooler autumn weather, it was stifling inside the carriage. She took off her jacket and found a spot near the single door at the back of the carriage and waited. But her wait was cut unexpectedly short when she saw Crispin through the crowd on the same train. ‘Fuck,’ she muttered, and quickly turned to face the other way, but it was too late, he’d already spotted her.

  He strode up to her, pushing his way through the crowd.

  Polly panicked. What if Sebastian turned up? She needed to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

  ‘Polly,’ he said as he awkwardly made his way round a large man stood in front refusing to move. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ she replied as they air-kissed each other’s cheeks.

  ‘Wow, look at you … ’ he said, eyeing her up and down. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you. On your way out somewhere?’

  She tugged at the hem of her skirt to try to make it longer. ‘Yeah, something like that,’ she mumbled.

  Suddenly a smarmy smile appeared on his face. ‘Your top – it’s red,’ he said.

  Polly looked down at it. What an odd thing to say. ‘Yes,’ she said as she looked back up again.

  He slowly started nodding his head, raising his eyebrow suggestively at the same time, then he leant in close to her ear and said quietly, ‘I think you’re here to meet me.’

  Polly froze.

  Once her brain had caught up, she quickly turned to move away. But he stopped her, grabbing hold of her wrist. ‘Where are you going?’ he said softly into her ear.

  ‘I’m not doing this,’ she whispered through gritted teeth, pulling away.

  ‘Why not?’

  She looked up at him incredulously. ‘Take one guess,’ she replied, her face screwed up in disgust, inches from his.

  ‘Oh, I get it. You’ll cheat on Oliver with a stranger, but not if it’s me.’

  ‘This isn’t about cheating. Well … it isn’t for me, anyway; it may be for Oliver.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Fuck off Crispin, you know what I’m talking about. I know all about what you, Sebastian and Oliver get up to.’

  He suddenly threw his head back and started to laugh, a burst of loud, haughty laught
er that made several people in the carriage turn and look at him.

  She stared at him, not sure what to make of it.

  When he’d calmed down a little, he managed to get a few words out between each snort of laughter. ‘You think Oliver … ’ Chuckle. ‘Oliver, tubing?’ Laugh. ‘Are you mad?’ he managed to finish.

  Polly just continued to stare.

  ‘Oliver doesn’t do tubing. Wouldn’t fit with his “principles”.’ He made speech marks in the air.

  ‘What?’ said Polly.

  ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear, Polly,’ said Crispin, sarcastically shaking his head and leaning into her again. ‘You’ve been shagging about while good ole Oliver’s been waiting home for you.’

  Polly wanted to gouge his eyes out. She wanted to gouge her own eyes out. Suddenly she couldn’t even remember why she’d thought Oliver was involved. What was wrong with her? It was as if she’d been living in some kind of parallel universe.

  ‘You know, I’ve been hoping to bump into you. I heard you were on the scene.’

  ‘What?’ snapped Polly.

  ‘You’re such a dirty girl. I bet you haven’t even got any knickers on, just like I said in my message.’

  He suddenly shoved his hand up her skirt, fumbling for her naked crotch.

  ‘Get off,’ she shouted loudly.

  Several commuters looked over.

  Polly lowered her voice and moved in closer.

  ‘What do you mean, you heard I was on the scene? Who told you?’

  ‘Calm down, Polly,’ he said, reaching out to stroke her hair. She flinched. ‘Come on, don’t make a fuss,’ he said condescendingly.

  ‘Tell me,’ she demanded through gritted teeth.

  ‘It was a while ago. I think it might have been Charlotte.’