The Tube Riders

by Chris Ward

  The Governor smiled. ‘Ah, yes. Even I have heard the stories. So, you were discovered by chance by this gang, and they witnessed you martyr the Ambassador?’

  ‘Unfortunately –’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes. And –’ Clayton could barely bring himself to say the next words. ‘We suspect they may have been in possession of a recording device. A digital camera.’

  The Governor’s face tensed so slightly as to be almost unnoticeable, but in that moment Clayton felt a flash of white heat cross his face and felt that same sudden incomparable terror he had once felt when a fugitive had pulled a gun on him. Clayton had fired first on that occasion, but he could still remember seeing the darkness inside the barrel like a tunnel into Hell. This time, he knew he would get no chance to fire first.

  ‘Well. That is . . . unfortunate. You say your best agents are now looking for these Tube Riders?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘And what is the likelihood of these Tube Riders being caught and . . . silenced . . . before they can get this information into dangerous hands?’

  ‘I would say very high, sir.’ Though he wasn’t sure he believed it.

  ‘Mr. Clayton, you live in London, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So you know what it is like to live here?’

  ‘Sir . . . ?’

  ‘You know about the violence and the riots. You know about the problems we have in London, while in other parts of the country things are working like, how to say? Clockwork.’ The Governor lifted a pearl white hand and ran it through his hair, the milky curls bouncing back into shape as it passed. ‘To be honest with you, Mr. Clayton, London GUA is close to becoming a lost cause. Our electrical generation is performed near entirely in the Scottish wind farms, our gas is still produced in the North Sea . . . most major manufacturing has been moved to the Bristol and Birmingham GUAs. London isn’t policed with the quality and efficiency with which it should be, and the funds don’t exist to improve it. London is waiting to implode on itself, and unfortunately the people feel it too. The city is a mess, a turgid swamp of human detritus, churned up, mixing in on itself and . . .’ The Governor paused, appearing to get caught on his words. He coughed slightly, and then continued. ‘So, within that chaos, you think your agents can find these people quickly enough to prevent outsiders hearing about this or seeing this potential footage? The terrorism funding aid we could have pushed for from the EC is in jeopardy.’ He flapped his hands. ‘If they find out we killed their man, they could mobilize themselves for war, and our space program, our military . . . we can crush a revolution from within but we don’t have nearly the strength to stand against the entire European Confederation.’

  ‘Don’t worry sir –’

  ‘There are a million places out there a mouse can hide. And a homeless mouse, always on the move . . .’ The Governor smiled, almost sadistically. ‘You have no chance.’

  ‘I assure you –’

  ‘Never assure me!’ the Governor roared, slamming both hands against the window with a resounding plastic thud. ‘Never, ever assure me of anything you can not prove!’

  Clayton took a step back. The whole room vibrated around him. Paintings tapped against the walls, and expensive vases shuddered on their glass shelves. His heart pounded and he wiped the sweat from his hands on to his trousers. This could end badly, he knew. But, he promised himself, if the Governor called for the Personal Guard, or worse, closed the door to leave them both alone . . . he would go down fighting. He would die with blood on his clenched fists.

  The Governor was breathing hard, hands still pressed against the window. Little rings of condensation had formed around them.

  Clayton, who’d survived similar outbursts before, knew the only course of action was to relent, admit his failings, and allow the Governor the authority to suggest a better answer.

  ‘What do you suggest, sir?’

  ‘I think we both know there is only one way to catch these people before they have time to cause harm. We must deploy the Huntsmen.’

  Clayton gasped despite himself. The idea was madness. The Huntsmen were near uncontrollable and the Governor knew it.

  ‘Sir . . . if I may suggest, that might be a little unwise . . .’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘The Huntsmen, they’ve been out of service a long time –’

  ‘There are newer models. Our laboratories are always improving their capabilities. Dr. Karmski has assured me that the newest Huntsmen are the best yet.’

  ‘They’re untested.’

  The Governor’s face tilted sideways and Clayton saw the back of a smile. ‘Then now is the perfect time.’

  ‘Sir, the Huntsmen, are . . . unpredictable. Innocent people could die.’

  The Governor scoffed. ‘Out in that slum of a city there are very few innocents left, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

  ‘Sir –’

  The Governor turned from the window. In the dim light those glowing eyes were dark, like coals. Clayton felt his back tense, his toes curl.

  ‘You have served me a long time, haven’t you, Mr. Clayton?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The Governor nodded. His rumbling, thunderous voice dropped. ‘You have a good record. I would hate for your memory to be soiled, Mr. Clayton.’

  Clayton’s jaw tightened. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then don’t jeopardize your life by disobeying me. You will send the Huntsmen to clear up this matter.’

  Clayton nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ The Governor turned back to the window. ‘Now get out of my office and do not return until these Tube Riders are dead.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Help

  The Tube Riders made their way out of the old Kew Gardens station. Simon and Paul helped Switch to walk while Marta and Jess carried the clawboards. The roads were quiet but from time to time they passed other people, young and old alike who gave them barely a second glance. They were faceless unless they had worth, and signs of fighting, like Switch’s injury, made them even more avoidable.

  ‘It hurts,’ Switch muttered.

  ‘How far is it to where this friend of yours lives?’ Marta asked Paul.

  ‘Out past Richmond so we need to catch a bus. It’s too far to walk.’

  They found a stop not far from the station on Sandycombe Road, but the street was quiet and they were waiting almost quarter of an hour before the next bus came. By that time they were edgy and uncertain, glancing over their shoulders as though the Cross Jumpers or the DCA would appear at any moment.

  ‘It’s a damn good job it isn’t serious,’ Switch muttered as they finally climbed on board.

  They knew it was a government bus because the driver had a uniform, a terse expression and probably a knife or club beneath his seat. That was a relief in itself. It wasn’t uncommon for free-owned buses to pick up passengers and then make a detour down a side street where a group of thugs would come on board and rob you or worse. When she was alone Marta always sat by the rear doors in case she needed to make a quick getaway, with one hand on her pepper spray can.

  They climbed to the top and sat near the front, looking out through cracked, dirty windows at the city as they passed. They had the road pretty much to themselves because the traffic out in the suburbs was nowhere near as busy as Marta remembered from her childhood. There were still cars, of course, but their numbers had dwindled over the years. Petrol was expensive and rare, these days used almost exclusively by the rich or for government-run buses and trains. As the bus rumbled along the street, abandoned, stripped-down cars lined both sides, long ago dragged out of the middle of the road and dumped on the pavement by the government’s clearing crews.

  Marta remembered the time years back when horses had been a common sight, bred, apparently, in huge farms north-east of the capital, another madcap plan to solve the growing transport crisis. To a ten-year-old, the city had started to remind her of
the Medieval Britain of picture books, and sometimes she’d imagined she was a princess as she looked out from her bedroom window, waiting for a prince to rescue her. Only years later, after the GFAs had been totally closed off and the supply had fallen away, did Marta learn that for many years horsemeat had been a savored delicacy amongst the lowest classes.

  ‘I can’t believe we had to cross-jump,’ Switch said with a smirk. ‘I need a shower now. I feel dirty.’

  Simon smiled. ‘Me too.’

  ‘It’s not so difficult,’ Paul said. ‘Doesn’t have much fun to it, though, don’t you think?’

  ‘You make it or you don’t,’ Simon said. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘You know, they choose their leader by whoever makes the shortest jump,’ Switch said.

  Marta frowned. ‘How do you know that? Is there something you aren’t telling us? You’re a turncoat as well as an asshole?’

  He shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. I keep my ear to the ground. I overheard a group of guys once. I think one of them was a Cross Jumper, but I didn’t hear his name. It was probably “cock-sucker”, or something like that. Whatever, I doubt anyone’s ever come close enough to have their shoe taken off. Makes me their new leader. That’s kind of cool. First thing I’d do is tell the bastards to fuck off and get a decent hobby, but I think I’d rather have my shoe back.’

  ‘You were lucky,’ Marta agreed. ‘Do you have others?’

  ‘Paul can steal me some.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll just pop out while you’re in the doctors.’

  ‘Thanks, knew I could count on you. I’m size eight.’

  ‘Eight? That’s a girl’s size, isn’t it?’

  Marta punched Simon’s arm. ‘I’m not size eight! And I bet Jess isn’t either!’ She turned to the other girl, who was sitting by the window, her head leaning against it, eyes on the road outside. ‘Jess?’

  Jess sighed and looked up. She had tears in her eyes and her cheeks were red. ‘Is everything such a joke?’ She sat up and twisted around to face them. ‘We just watched two men die. If that wasn’t bad enough, we’re now fugitives. This may be fun for you guys, but it really isn’t much fun at all for me.’ She looked away again.

  Marta opened her mouth to speak but Switch got in first. ‘Look here, Polly Pocket, you didn’t just get a knife in your back. If I hadn’t done what I did you might be lying face down right now!’

  ‘That’s enough, Switch.’

  ‘No, it’s not, Simon. I ain’t the fucking villain here. I was happily going about my business when someone decides they want to bash me up. It’s a dog eat dog world, daddy’s girl.’

  ‘Shut up, you pig!’ Jess shouted. She aimed a punch at Switch but Marta got in the way and held her back.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough.’

  Switch’s hand came up and the blade appeared in his fingers. ‘You wanna know what it feels like to get a knife stuck in you, ask me any time.’

  ‘Shut up now –’

  Switch rolled his eyes. ‘Sit your ass down, Simon. Paul would have a better chance than you.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Take a guess.’

  Jess was crying again, Marta trying to comfort her. She glared at the three of them as they faced off.

  Paul stared at Switch for a few seconds. Then, his mouth creasing into a barely perceptible smile, he muttered, ‘Cock-eyed asshole.’

  For a moment Switch tensed, then the knife hand fell away and a small smile broke his face. ‘I see better with one than you do with two, specster,’ he said.

  ‘Sod off.’ Paul pushed the glasses up his nose. Simon had a smile on his face.

  ‘When exactly do we have to get off, Paul?’ Marta broke in.

  ‘Shit, now!’ Paul said, standing up. ‘Quick, next stop!’

  They crowded down the stairs. Simon tried to take Jess’s hand but she pushed him away. ‘Just leave me alone a while,’ she said.

  Marta paid their fares and they jumped out on to the street in front of a boarded-up coffee shop with Rebecca Hilton’s Star-fucks! followed by a phone number written across the metal shutter in pink graffiti and encircled with a left-leaning heart symbol. Across the street, an altercation had broken out between a group of tramps, with knives being waved about amidst shouting and pushing. Marta watched them warily as she ushered the others up the street.

  ‘Okay,’ Paul said. ‘It’s not too far. A couple more streets on we have to turn left.’

  Just at that moment a huge bang sounded in the distance, like a car misfiring but loud and powerful enough to cause the ground below their feet to tremble. A moment later there was another smaller bang.

  ‘What was that?’ Paul said. ‘A bomb?’

  ‘Sounded like it,’ Marta replied.

  ‘Terrorists?’

  ‘Could just have been a car blowing up,’ Simon said. ‘I guess we’ll have to wait and find out.’

  They started on. Within a few minutes they heard sirens in the distance but none heading their way.

  ‘If nothing else,’ it might draw a little attention away from us,’ Marta said. ‘Assuming we’re being searched for.’

  ‘We are,’ Jess said sullenly. ‘Of course we are.’

  ‘This way,’ Paul said.

  He led them up some steps to a Georgian terraced house with a blue door, now scratched and chipped. More graffiti adorned the walls and the gate at the front. Paul knocked on the door.

  ‘Are you sure this guy can help us?’ Simon said. ‘I feel a little exposed up here.’ He turned and looked down at the road below.

  ‘If he’s in,’ Paul said. ‘I haven’t been here in years, but my father used to bring me here when I got sick as a child. Don’t worry. Frank operates under the law. We have no worries there.’

  Behind the door, they heard the sound of someone descending a flight of stairs. Then a little grate opened about halfway up the door. They saw movement behind it. A thin, reedy voice said: ‘Who is it? What the hell you want?’

  ‘It’s the mailman,’ Paul said, grinning.

  ‘I don’t want any mail. Sod off.’ The little grate slammed shut.

  Paul pounded the door. ‘Frank, wait! It’s Paul. I was joking!’

  The little grate opened again. ‘Ha, I know. So was I.’

  The door swung open, revealing a tiny man of advanced years, no more than four feet high. Even from a couple of steps down they towered over him.

  His wrinkled face broke into a wide smile. ‘It’s good to see you again, Paul,’ he said. ‘You’ve grown. Outwards, particularly.’

  Paul smiled. ‘You haven’t.’

  Frank glanced at each of them in turn before his gaze returned to the blood on Switch’s hands and shirt.

  ‘You’re in need of a doctor, I take it.’

  ‘He got knifed,’ Paul said.

  ‘It was a fucking throwing knife. I practically got impaled on a train.’

  ‘You got money?’

  Paul raised an eyebrow at the others. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said.

  ‘Well come on in then.’ Frank stepped back and they filed into a thin hallway. The old man closed the door and pulled across several deadbolts. He pointed towards a door at the end of the hall. ‘That way to the surgery.’

  ‘Frank is a doctor,’ Paul explained to the others as they went through. He worked for BUPA, but when the company got dissolved the government wouldn’t pay him the same salary, so he went black market.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Marta said. They couldn’t afford a real doctor, assuming they even got to the front of the queue before Switch bled to death. She hoped this friend of Paul’s was joking about money too. She doubted they had more than a handful of change left between them.

  ‘Still collecting, I see,’ Paul said.

  Frank grinned, revealing chipped and blackened teeth. ‘Always,’ he said. ‘You never know when something in one of these shit heaps might come in handy.’

  In the hallway, junk filled every available space
. Books and stacks of newspapers balanced precariously on top of half-complete bicycles, shadeless lamps, dismantled tables, numerous kitchen appliances and at least half a dozen old stereo players. Frank was stockpiling for something, but Marta couldn’t imagine that this junkyard was worth much. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of piles of old teddy bears, cups and saucers spilling out of the open doors of old microwaves. Simon also looked amazed. Only Jess, who knew more about wealth than the others, and Switch, who was injured, seemed unconcerned by Frank’s thrift shop storeroom of a home.

  But in the back room, the ‘surgery’ was a stark contrast. Clinically white and scrubbed clean with an examination bed in the centre of the room, it was like going into another world.

  The others stood around while Frank examined Switch. With his bloody t-shirt off and the wound wiped down, Marta was relieved the blood had made it look worse than it was. A thin cut about two inches long clung to the side of his hip, a little wider at the top than the bottom.

  ‘I fucking twisted on it and pushed it in deeper,’ Switch said, as way of explanation.

  ‘You were lucky,’ Frank said, prodding it with a surgical instrument. It went in through the fat on your lower back and got stuck in the muscle here,’ he said, prodding Switch’s side and making him wince. ‘It was a small knife, I take it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You pulled it out yourself?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You still got it?’

  ‘In my one remaining shoe.’ He kicked it off and held it up.

  Marta smiled in spite of herself. Typical Switch.

  Frank plucked it out and held it up to the light. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Thrower. Proper one, too.’

  ‘You wanna buy it?’

  Frank smiled. He looked around at the others. ‘Well, I’m guessing Paul said you had money just to get you in the door. ‘I’ll trade it for stitching you up.’

  ‘Done.’

  Frank got to work cleaning the wound. Switch yelped in pain as he dabbed at the exposed flesh with TCP antiseptic liquid, but the only thing he could offer to numb the pain was a shot of some cheap homebrewed whiskey.

  ‘I don’t know what’s worse, the pain or this piss,’ Switch growled, gulping it down. Simon, who took an experimental swig after him, couldn’t testify to the pain but had to agree the taste was pretty bad.