Subway 4

by Violet Hunter

  Chris was sitting in front. He turned and nodded at me.

  “Make a banner and hang it where a lot of people will see it. I’ll give you the slogan and you organise the time and place. Get as many together as you can.”

  People started talking. Tyler held his hand up.

  “This is a small, though important, action. I’m planning something bigger. Some of our brothers and sisters are coming over from Scandinavia. They’ve got strong networks there. I want to learn from them. We need to find ways of closing our borders. The Border Agency is letting people in under the radar. The Tories and UKIP are all talk but they don’t change anything.”

  He paused for a moment. Things were getting serious now. The thought of meeting a group from abroad was exciting.

  “I’m in contact with the main man from Norway. We’re discussing time and place. I’ll get back to you when I know more. Get on with organising the flash mob.”

  I bought two cans of black spray paint and Chris got a white sheet off his mum. We met up in a garage belonging to a mate. Chris said my writing was better than his so I was doing the work. Tyler told us the slogan he wanted us to use, ‘Diversity is White Genocide’. That would get people talking. I planned out the lettering in my mind though when I did it I had to make the letters of ‘Genocide’ smaller to fit in the space. Still, it looked good.

  8

  VALERIE

  One night Anton came to see Wounded Home. I could sense his presence and it seemed to give my whole performance more meaning.

  Afterwards in the bar he said, “You’ve got Chrissie, she’s totally believable. I loved that scene where it’s just you and the mirror.”

  He’d always been honest about what he thought so I was really pleased. We chatted about the play and the other performances. Later he told me he’d had another row with Leila and this time their relationship was over. Surrounded by music and noise I couldn’t decide what I felt. When we left the bar he said he was heading back to his dad’s place. We walked to the Tube.

  At the entrance I said, without thinking about the future, “Come back with me for a while, so we can go on talking.”

  For an instant I thought I was being too forward, too pushy, but he said, “I was hoping you might say that.”

  Back at the flat we stood in silence looking out of the window. The branches on the trees stretched up and out like country lanes on a map.

  I went into the kitchen, took two mugs from the cupboard and placed them side by side. A tall green one and a wider blue one. I studied them. The blue didn’t seem right so I put it back and took out the other green one. I put coffee in both and waited for the kettle to boil. I leant against the sink and pointed the toes of one foot out in front of the other, like a ballet dancer would do. What did I want? I poured water into the mugs. The milk was nearly finished. I divided it between us. I was certain that ‘a while’ was what I meant when I suggested it, but now? I shut my eyes and thought I felt his lips brush my cheek.

  We were at each end of the sofa, not breaching the unspoken boundary. The pattern on the fabric seemed more pronounced than usual, orange circles and crimson spirals on a dark background. I liked it when I first moved in. My hand rested on it. The fingernails were painted silver; the varnish on my little finger was just beginning to chip. Was it too soon? Would we spoil what was good and precious?

  Looking at him I took in his face, wide cheekbones and mouth, his long neck, the turquoise shirt open at the top, small curls of black hair showing.

  I want him. That was the thought in its purest form. It was like a perfect globe, a new marble, with no bumps or imperfections. Nothing could disturb it and it would not be denied. I placed the globe between us and spoke its thoughts.

  “Will you stay?”

  It hung suspended for a moment then he spoke.

  “Yes.”

  It was all that needed to be said.

  We looked at each other and I could see it was the right moment after all.

  He put his hand against my cheek; I could feel the warm roughness of his palm. I put my lips on his. They were smooth and cool.

  He was familiar and unfamiliar, I knew him and I didn’t. I knew the shape of his body clothed but when he revealed it, it was surprising, captivating. Strong arm and thigh muscles, a compact frame over longer legs.

  Sometimes, with other boyfriends, I’d felt shy with my own nakedness but now was different. I took off my clothes and fitted myself against him. There was time, time to notice everything and to feel how it was. The window was open at the top; I felt a breath of air move across my back. I put my cheek against his, hands under his shoulders, breasts pressed against his chest. When I looked closely his eyes had flecks of gold amongst the dark brown, his hair had grown in the last year and was starting to twist into shapes. I curled my fingers into them and around them. His hands were across my back, palms flat, pulling me in, enclosing me.

  He said, “This is how it should be, this close. You are just right. Don’t go away from me.”

  Outside someone laughed. Inside we breathed deeply, I breathed in what he meant. I took in his thoughts. He breathed on my hot skin, “You and me, Valerie. Us.”

  The night passed. Sometimes we slept. We didn’t let go of each other. There was an arm against an arm, a cheek against a chest, a hand resting on the inner curve of a thigh. A quietness after a passion.

  In the morning we ate breakfast, sharing the last three pieces of toast, the coffee with no milk. I wanted to say something, something about the night but I couldn’t shape it into the right words, so instead I told funny stories, watching him laugh, wriggling in his chair at my ridiculousness.

  He said he had to go but he’d be back as soon as he could.

  “I’ll see you then?” he said in an urgent, worried tone as if he was afraid I might say no.

  * * *

  A part of me knew I’d fall in love. We were hovering on the brink and that felt right.

  One day I was in Oxford. I passed a small designer shop on a side street and went in. I looked around, searching for the right thing. There were shirts on a rail, lemon yellow, purple, green, all of which would look good on him. Then at the side a mannequin caught my eye, it was clothed in black, around its throat was a scarf. Pink and orange stripes that swirled downwards, elegant, flamboyant, joyous. When I touched it I knew it was silk.

  The young woman wrapped it in tissue and smiled when she handed it to me.

  I put it in a padded envelope with a postcard from the Tate Gallery, a painting by Matisse of a view from a window. I wrote, ‘When I saw this I knew it was yours. Valerie xx.’ I posted the scarf and walked home across the park; pink light was glinting through the trees, streetlamps were flickering on one by one. I was smiling to myself, wondering how long the parcel would take to arrive, imagining him opening it.

  When he called he said, “It’s perfect, the colours are beautiful. I’ll wear it when I next see you.”

  The next two weeks went by in a blur. If I didn’t think about it three days went by. Other times I sat and looked at the clock waiting for a minute to pass. I hardly needed to sleep. I floated through performances. Renee said, “You seem different. Is it the play? It must be good for you.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” I said.

  I hadn’t told anyone about Anton. Usually I couldn’t keep secrets but this was so new, so fragile, I didn’t want anyone to say, “But hasn’t he just split up with Leila, isn’t it too soon?”

  * * *

  The few weeks run of Wounded Home passed quickly and it was soon to finish. I would miss the other actors and Chrissie, who’d become part of my life. There were reviews in the local papers. One I was really proud of – ‘In her first role, Valerie Wilding puts in a performance that is both powerful and nuanced.’

  I thought I’d remember
those few weeks forever, the time of my first play and becoming close to Anton. I couldn’t say it was the first time I’d been in love. I’d had other boyfriends who I’d loved but it was the first time the passion had linked up with something else, a deeper connection, a sense of being on the same road.

  Anton’s run had finished too and he texted to say he was coming for the whole weekend. He was arriving on Thursday, he had something to do that evening but he’d come round on the Friday. I couldn’t wait to see him.

  The flat was a mess so I changed the sheets and smoothed out the patchwork bedspread, which I’d made from pieces of African fabric that I collected from markets. I was ridiculously proud of it. I put the mugs and plates away and dusted the plant on the windowsill. I looked out across the park. There’d been a thick frost in the night and the grass was still wet. Two men were walking towards the gate, hands in their pockets, deep in conversation. There was something about them that I didn’t like the look of, a thrust of a fist, the swagger of the one on the right. I turned away.

  9

  JIMMY

  Two hours before the action we sent a text to our members. ‘Footbridge A13 4.30.’ We picked up the banner and placards and headed for the meeting place.

  About twenty others turned up. There was loads of traffic on the road below and we started attaching the banner to the railings of the bridge. When Chris gave us the thumbs-up we unfurled it. Someone was filming from the side. The black letters on the white sheet looked brilliant. We could see people in cars looking up as they went underneath. We were definitely getting our message across. Some hooted and one passenger unwound his window and gave a thumbs-up.

  We’d been there for about an hour when a cop car arrived. The two blokes that got out were friendly and there was no threat of arrest just a polite, “move along now folks, some people have complained about your message,” so we pulled up the banner and told them we were on our way. Job done. A group of us headed back to the pub to celebrate. Billy got the first round in.

  The TV was on and someone was saying that the leader of a far right party in Ukraine had been allowed into the UK. Tyler talked about him as if he was something special. He believed that gypsies should be put in ghettos and that Jews were part of a conspiracy and that he had a lot of power in his own country. We crowded round to watch the TV, which showed him giving a speech. Protestors had tried to stop him by blocking the Tube station but his supporters had arranged a second location and he spoke uninterrupted.

  We cheered when we heard that and drank a toast to the new white England.

  Billy and the others left the pub first. Chris and me stood outside for a while smoking, draining our pints, cigarettes glowing, Chris telling crude jokes. Our laughter flipped up and echoed off the block of flats opposite. The atmosphere was loose. We were ready, like fighting dogs on a leash.

  * * *

  A man on the other side of the road was looking at us. As I watched he slipped something in his pocket and walked away. Chris was finishing his pint.

  “There was someone over the road, a nigger, he had a camera,” I said.

  “Which way did he go?”

  I pointed to a narrow street.

  “You sure he was taking photos?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s get after him then.”

  We left the pub and crossed the road, walking close together. On one side of the street was a high wall with barbed wire curled along the top. We passed large shuttered gates – at the end of the road was a gasworks – huge and dark. He was about a hundred yards away. At a junction he crossed and went straight ahead. We followed silently. We were catching up then Chris coughed. He turned and saw us and began to run.

  Up ahead was a line of trees. We were near the common. He crossed another road and ran straight into it along a diagonal path. He was quick but I was a good sprinter. He took a look back, saw me catching up and broke off to the right across the grass. I increased my pace, lungs filling up, pushing harder. Chris couldn’t keep up so it was down to me.

  I was getting close. I made a grab for his arm but he pulled it away and changed direction, heading for an area of trees. There was no way I was letting him escape. I was going to get that camera. He ducked under a branch and I followed. All I could hear was our breathing; his was loud and desperate. He stumbled over a log and I sprang forward.

  “Give me the fucking phone!” I shouted.

  His face was marked with fear and anger. He threw a punch at my chest but missed, he turned to run but Chris had caught up and was blocking his path. The man put his fists up.

  “Leave me alone,” he screamed.

  Chris sneered, teeth showing through thick lips. I crouched, ready for a move. He broke away and tried to run out of the trees but Chris and me moved together and caught him. A streetlamp was flickering on and off, illuminating him. Chris pulled something from his pocket. I caught a glimpse of the drawn blade just before it entered his body, under his ribs.

  “What?” I said.

  “Shut up,” Chris said, straightening up and darting a look around. The knife was in his right hand. There was blood on it. The man on the ground was groaning. His face was in shadow.

  “That’s done him. I’ve got the phone, go,” Chris said. I thought about an ambulance but Chris was already running.

  At the gate he hissed, “I’m turning right, go the other way.”

  * * *

  Turning left I started walking, not knowing where I was going. When I thought I’d gone far enough I sat in an empty bus shelter. My breathing was choppy as if the air was too thin. I saw the knife – a six-inch long blade and Chris’s expression, which was one of intent.

  I looked at my hands – the fingers looked like bones, as if the flesh had shrunk away. There were grey hairs on my jacket, I touched my head and felt thinness at the temples. I turned into an old man who remembered the knife. I shook my head trying to clear the vision but instead I saw him lying on his back under the bushes, one hand stretched out, pink palm turned upwards, blood seeping from his body into the dead leaves.

  A bus drew up, but I didn’t get on. A couple came and stood in the shelter so I started walking. I saw a street name and realised I’d been down it already and was heading back to the common. I turned and went the other way. I came to a station and got on a train to New Cross. The woman opposite kept looking at me warily as if I might pounce on her or something. I stared at the floor. I didn’t want anyone fixing my face in their mind.

  When I got back the house was dark. I knew I should wash my clothes but I couldn’t put the machine on without waking Mum. I went up to my room, took off my jeans and got into bed. I lay there trying to understand what’d just happened. One minute we were telling jokes in a pub then Chris was stabbing a man.

  I shut my eyes and tried to wipe away the images of the chase and the park. Maybe I’d imagined it like when I was young and drew a picture of Wayne with a knife in his heart. I made the shape and coloured it in. The blade of the knife was black and there were drops of red blood coming from the wound. His arms were up and his mouth was open. I hoped that if I drew it well enough I could make it happen.

  10

  VALERIE

  Kora music was playing. I fumbled for my mobile.

  “Are you awake?” Renee’s voice sounded distorted. The clock said 6.30 a.m.

  I pushed the phone closer to my ear. “What is it?”

  “Matthew just phoned.”

  I pictured him – tall, white, hair all over the place. He talked a lot and was involved in some political organisation.

  “What about?”

  “It’s Anton,” she interrupted.

  An atom of fear fluttered in my chest.

  “What’s happened?”

  “I can’t…”

  “What?” I said, insistent.


  “He was attacked last night.”

  Shock flowed through my veins like a piece of wire. Everything stopped, my breathing, traffic, the wind in the trees.

  “Oh God.”

  My hand went to the side of the bed where he was meant to be soon.

  “Is he alright?”

  “I’m so sorry, Matthew said he was taken to hospital but he died.”

  The words were like a flash explosion. Light from the streetlamp turned ice white. A sound emerged like a howl. I dropped the phone on the floor. From far away I could hear Renee’s voice calling, “Valerie, are you OK?”

  The cold of the room surrounded me.

  “He can’t be dead.”

  I wanted to hurl the phone at the wall.

  “Sorry, it’s terrible.”

  “What happened, who did… who was it?”

  “I don’t know; do you want Matthew’s number? You could talk to him.”

  She said she’d text me the number and call me later.

  I got out of bed, my body shaking and teeth chattering, picking up my jumper from the floor. I pulled it on but it didn’t stop the shaking. Holding my stomach I walked round and round the flat, retching sobs coming from deep inside.

  In the kitchen I took out a mug, the one he’d drunk from, imagining I could still feel the warmth of his hand. Keeping hold of it I went to the window and looked out, wanting to believe he was still alive and on his way to see me.

  In the park a low white mist hovered over the ground. No one rang the bell. At last I picked up the phone and dialled Matthew’s number.

  A voice said, “Hello.”