The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  The sound of bumping, painful searing, the gears of a large train slowing, caught their attention. They craned their necks looking. Was it him? The window of the driver’s cab was smeared with something, but Pete’s cheery face came into view. His warm brown eyes and laughing smile were a real charmer. He opened the door with a flourish, “Come on, love birds, get yourself in. You wouldn’t want to miss this extra special experience now, would you?”

  It was really too small inside for three. Chris wedged himself on the floor by the controls, and she stood by the shaking door. The train gave a little wheeze and teetered backwards for a fraction before rushing forwards into the darkened tunnel.

  “Wow,” said Rhonda, her eyes wide with shock. “In here it looks so different. I can’t believe I go this way every day! Is there anything to see down here?”

  “Not much,” said Pete airily, “That’s why we get so bored. You see the odd rat scurrying off the tracks, once I thought I saw a fox, but nah, there’s just lots of rubbish that gets blown through the system. Sometimes you get to thinking you see things though!”

  Chris was no longer smiling; his voice, when it came out, didn’t sound like him at all,

  “It’s the people who do the weird shit. You should see some of the CCTV footage, fucking, shitting, you name it.” For half a second, her heart jumped in her mouth. But he couldn’t, could he?

  His flat voice continued, “All golden boys and girls all must, like chimney sweepers turn to dust.”

  “Yeah,” said Pete, “and after doing a double shift again, I’m half way there!” It was an old joke; working underground was akin to being buried alive in the heart of the city. She’d heard that some of the workers felt weirder on the surface when they scurried home.

  The endless enclosure of the tunnel distracted them. It was an eternal penis that stretched for miles. The train bucked along at a pace, eating up the stations one by one: Piccadilly Circus, Green Park, Hyde Park Corner, familiar London just metres above. At Knightsbridge, Chris said, “Get ready, babe.” His voice was still uneven, as if he needed to wash out his throat. Normally he was high now, anticipation dancing in his veins. But she would show him. The train slowed down, through the window the colours of the tiles changed. Pete, hand on the brake stick, said, “On the count of three.”

  She had the door in her hand and it was half open before the train had even come to a halt. Heart racing, she jumped out into blackness, careful to keep away from the rail. She pointed her torch at a recent wall that had been built over the old platform and cut her hands trying to clamber over it. Ouch! There was something sharp on its edges, some barrier trying to keep them out. Behind her the train door was slamming, just seconds to get out of the way before being seen by one of the punters. The train groaned onwards.

  “Chris?” she shone her torch at the empty space where the train had been. Impossible, surely?

  For some reason, she’d been left alone in the dark.

  At first she sat and waited, indignation filling her with hate energy. She felt hot and stupid, panicking in the dust. Why had he done this? The idiot, dumb fuck! She’d kill him when she saw him. The remains of the platform were indistinct, half rebuilt with a raised area, the rest in disarray. Now she was here, it didn’t feel real. She’d always descended below with another man, first Chris, then the others. Alone it had a different feel, the only thing she longed for was to be out of there.

  The strangest thing was, it wasn’t pitch black. Although it hadn’t been used as a station since 1934, the lights were on, although their colour was dusty, sepia-like. The curve of the walls seemed about to fall and engulf her. Torchlight was more romantic, you didn’t get to notice the asbestos dust from the brake linings, the rat droppings and oozing mildew. An ancient track plate remained in place. If she ignored the abandoned building project that cluttered the platform, she could imagine she really was waiting for a train, and not for Chris to reclaim her. Perhaps she should start counting the passing trains that galloped dangerously close, buffeting her hair with their passage of air. The noise, like the trains, would come and go. She could have been here minutes or hours.

  How many trains had gone by? Ten? Twelve? Noise travels differently underground, already she was disorientated. It was hard to breathe the musty old air. Her eyes were aching with the dust. Her mask, water, mobile, and extra provisions were all in Chris’s rucksack. And there was no exit now. The MOD and Territorial Army had locked shut all access to the entrance above. If Chris didn’t come back, she was trapped. She’d punch him when he turned up. In the gloom, her mind worked overtime, trying to work out the meaning of his voice in the cab. Lately, they’d grown apart. She was no longer sure she could trust her instincts about him. But he was a bastard to do this! Her seething temper kept her company for a while, but as her anger cooled, and she could feel the station’s dampness entering into her throat, she started to feel the first chill fingers of fear.

  And then the sounds started. Up there, right above her! A clank, like an iron pail being hit with a hammer. The air seemed to get even thicker. Now a scraping, quick footsteps, but who could it be? The walls crouched over her, thick, impenetrable. Something trickled over her fingers. A spider? She jumped to her feet, not sure in which direction to run. Along the half renovated platform a series of wooden, rotting partitions afforded a multitude of hiding places. She could still see the tiles, with their familiar brown, green and cream paint, but underfoot, the dust was so thick it felt like wading through sand.

  She started running, breathing as quietly as she could, and shone her torch into each partition. Nothing but dust. Wasn’t that what Chris had said? What was it, “All golden girls and boys all must, like chimney sweepers turn to dust?” Could it be Chris, somehow having a laugh? Secretly filming her panic? She stood pensively, shining her torch on the corridor ahead. Abandoned rooms gaped empty from off the corridor, each entrance painted a familiar green. Chris had told her the military had taken over this complex during the war. She moved towards the first room, noting how inside here the dust was thicker. A sharp smell assailed her senses.

  It was like a museum piece. Old strategy maps hung on the walls. Coloured pins still clung to ancient boards. Why had they left it? Somewhere outside there was a clunk as if something had fallen. She froze, felt prickles forming on the back of her neck. She crouched by a table. Louder now, a sound like dragging steps. Was she imagining it? Perhaps this place was haunted. She’d heard that in the wartime, lots of accidents had happened, the details of which had been suppressed. There were rumours that some of the stations had been deliberately built through plague pits. And of course there were the suicide victims. But, surely the noise was getting louder?

  Wasn’t that a man’s voice, talking to a woman? And another conversation, there in the corner, and there from the other room. All around her now, there was a searing singing, she could hear bubbles of noise, as if a crowd of people were talking all at once. She caught a few syllables here and there, but nothing distinct. It was as if the station was a hive of underground operation again, and she was stuck in time with her wires crossed. She crouched under the desk. If she made herself as small as possible, perhaps they wouldn’t find her.

  The sounds were louder now. They sounded like fireworks, way off distant. Perhaps it was bombs like in the blitz. After each crash of sound, the silence that followed it seemed louder. The room seemed to vibrate, there was an perceptible energy in the room that frightened her. A red heat seemed to be peeling her scalp away. Her eardrums recoiled, her breaths came out ragged and harsh. Her mind was racing, like a bicycle being pedalled by a demon. Abstractly, she thought about having a cigarette and inhaling all the fumes along with the nicotine. Quick as a flash, she recalled her hands slinking into Chris’s bag, taking out the photographs. She was suddenly sure that the last corpse had been her donor with the silver streaks. He’d said his name was Jimmy. And now Jimmy was dead.

  The air was getting heavier, she could feel h
er lungs struggling to cope. These rooms hadn’t been ventilated properly for decades. Scrambling out on her hands and knees, she stood up and looked around the room again. Strangely, although it was the same, its colour and edges had become indistinct, and it was the shadows that pulled her eyes in. In front of her, the brown was becoming muddied, as if the very clay behind the façade of the walls was glowing. She fancied she could see shapes writhing within, taking form. Up above now, the booming resumed. She ran, choking as she went, trying not to fall over old bricks and planks of wood. Now she was really afraid, the platform stretched out even more, its uneven surface treacherous. Ugh! Something had got to her, she was spiralling out of control in the air. The pain lit her adrenalin for an instant, making it burn brighter, before her head hit the corner of a wall. A thin trickle of blood slid out of her nose.

  When she came to, she thought she’d woken in the wrong house. Her head was burning and an insane thirst coursed through her body. She pushed herself roughly to her knees. The realization hit her like a brick. She was still trapped. Alive but underground. She wandered along to the edge of the platform. She could see in the dust her footprints where she had climbed over the wall. A peculiar silence hung in the air. They must have turned off the rails by now. She stopped, made herself count to 240. Every few minutes, a train leaves on the Piccadilly line. If she counted to 240, and no train went past, then it was safe to proceed down the tunnel.

  “A hundred and one, a hundred and two.”

  Now she didn’t care who heard. She had to get out of here. When she shone her torch at the mouth of the tunnel, it stared back at her. It would be like walking into a lion’s mouth, the most dangerous thing that she had ever done. Her dry tongue tried to suck some moisture from the gaps between her teeth. She’d run the whole length, shining her torch the whole way. It could only be three minutes to South Kensington, two and a half if she went really fast. She could press the station alarm button once she got there. Say she got drunk and must have got out at the wrong stop.

  Silence. Only the settling of the dust seemed audible. Most of London must be asleep. She had to go before the first train started, otherwise she’d be trapped here for another day. And she couldn’t bear that. Having counted all the way, she wanted to wait a moment, perform another ritual. But there was nothing safe to cling to, the only thing to do was run.

  The first thing she noticed was that it was hard to move quickly through the tunnel. The going was tricky, she had to take care not to trip on the rail. Anyway her head hurt and she felt sick. The scorch of burnt engine oil had soaked into the roof above her, and the air was acrid to breathe. She picked her way forward, steadier now, she’d got into a rhythm, forcing herself to move quicker. Now the tunnel was sloping sharply down, if she didn’t keep her balance she might fall. Funny, it was harder going downhill than on the straight. A drip of water startled her from overhead. Could it be a leak? No, she had to keep going, she was not so desperate yet that she had to drink where that had come from. At the start, she’d thought she could see the end of the tunnel, but now it was stretching on, winding round corners, it felt like she would never get to the end of it. But it was too late to go back. Had to keep going. It was hard work though, her breathing was more precarious. If only she could breathe some real air, get the edge of fear out of her nerves. She was trotting like a pony, pumping her arms up and down, until at last she could see the end, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Faster now, only another ten metres, it was getting light and easier to breathe every step.

  She feels it before she hears it. The sound of a train galloping in the distance. Is it in front or behind? Doesn’t know, runs on. The whole tunnel vibrates, as if in orgasm, as her sweating, dirt-encrusted figure struggles, makes a break for it.

  Why haven’t all those attempted suicides told anyone how loud it was by the track’s edge? Her head will explode before her heart does. She almost dives through the edge of the tunnel, a dusty, demented thing. Instinctively, she heads into the welcoming air and light. The last Piccadilly train rushes to greet her.

  To the last few waiting passengers, it seemed that she’d lain in wait to do this all along. “Suicide dive”, the papers called it. A new and growing menace. The driver was suspended until further notice, owing to reports that an unidentified friend had accompanied him on that fatal night. A friend who had laughed hysterically as Rhonda’s blood splattered the cab from underneath.

  NB Brompton Road Station really exists. To find out more about the abandoned stations of the London Underground, check out this site: http://www.starfury.demon.co.uk/uground/index.html

  The Courtyard

  Robert Buckley

  Arnold stepped back to inspect his mirror image. He still liked to dress, no occasion necessary. It was a matter of style and class, concepts long-faded from the modern world, he thought. A neatly pressed, summer-weight ivory suit and a crisp white shirt, silk embroidered vest, and a hat trained just right to complement the suit. His shoes gleamed with a high polish; he polished them himself, though at his age he lamented the passing of the neighborhood cobbler with shoe-shine service.

  He smiled at himself, still a straight-backed six-foot-one, not stooped like many men his age. He touched the brim of his hat with the silver-tipped walking stick as a way of salute. Then he frowned as the weather report came over the radio. It would become humid later in the day, and he tended to perspire heavily. He decided he would take a cab to the cemetery rather than make the round-trip via public transportation. He envisioned himself wrinkled and wilting on the way home and sighed.

  He called for the cab, then he stepped into the hallway, turning to lock his door. Sunlight poured through the cathedral windows at one end of the hall and reflected off the polished floor creating an ethereal gleam. He squinted into the glare as a figure made its way through the illumination. It was Ricker.

  He reached up and pinched the edge of his hat brim as a gesture of greeting, but old Ricker just sneered and tottered by. Arnold caught an intense whiff of body odor as the man passed, his faded brown fabric shoes shuffling with each step. He winced at the yellowed, short-sleeve shirt Ricker wore and the trousers, which were a nondescript brown, cuffs high above his scrawny ankles, and the waist pulled high, almost up to his armpits.

  Arnold shrugged and continued toward the elevator, but when Ricker entered it he decided to ascend the stairs. The box was too close to spend any time inside with a man who had sworn off deodorant since the death of his wife.

  Ricker was already in the lobby when Arnold emerged to await his taxi. He caught the hushed conversation of the fretting retirees who gathered with him. Ricker, of course, was leading the chorus of doom.

  “They’ll put us all out, that’s what they’ll do.”

  “But they just can’t put us out,” Mrs Califani replied. “Not if we’re paying our rents.”

  “Rents? The rents are going to go up. None of us will be able to afford to stay here. They got rid of rent control last year.”

  Mr Poole, his voice barely more than a whisper, said “Well, maybe we’re grandfathered.”

  “Yeah,” Pekins added. “Hey, why don’t we ask Mr Arnold; he’s a lawyer.”

  “Forget him,” Ricker hissed. “That shyster would probably charge you just for asking. You know you can’t trust that guy.”

  “But,” Pekins demurred, “he seems like a nice fella. I’ve talked to him before.”

  “Pekins,” Ricker yipped, “you’d be better off trying to move in with that son of yours that you’re always bragging about, the one in Georgia.”

  Pekins shrugged. “Well, Josh and Mary would be glad to have me, but they don’t have much space, you know, with the two boys and a baby on the way.”

  “Yeah, just as I thought. Kids don’t got much use for you when you live too long.”

  Arnold continued to let on he hadn’t heard them, and gazed past the lobby door. He recalled some weeks after settling his dad into elderly housing so many
years before.

  “Dad, so how do you like the place?”

  “Aw, the place is all right, but I can’t stand these old bastards.”

  Arnold had laughed at the time. “But Dad, you’re an old bastard.”

  His father had chuckled wryly. “Yeah, well these people are miserable old bastards, and they didn’t get that way just on account of they got old, they were mean and miserable all their lives.”

  Now Arnold smiled. Dad would have loved Mr Ricker.

  The taxi pulled up and honked. He stepped through the door, leaving his neighbors to ponder their future.

  Mount Auburn was as close as the rich and famous could come to taking it all with them. It was filled with ostentatious monuments to ostentatious lives. The tombstones and monuments read like a Who’s Who, and the place was more like a private park than a cemetery. He had the cabbie leave him at the main gate. He didn’t bother checking with the office, but strode into the magnificently landscaped necropolis with nothing but a clipping from the old Herald Traveler to guide him.

  The Major’s funeral had been covered by the newspapers of the day. The Traveler’s article included a photo of the tomb. It resembled the entrance to a small stadium, or perhaps the bow of a ship.

  Arnold continued to walk the grounds, stopping to enjoy a pair of hovering hummingbirds sipping at honeysuckle. Then he spotted it. He didn’t approach for some moments as he pondered why he had come. He hadn’t gone to her funeral because he wasn’t welcomed, and he certainly hadn’t attended the Major’s because he had no use for him. He’d never visited her grave before; he was not one for visiting graves anyway. What was there, after all? Grass and sod? Bones beneath?