Crazy Paving

by Louise Doughty

  Joanna shivered. There was nothing out there.

  The old bat gets more barmy by the day, she thought. Gives me the creeps.

  Chapter 5

  On the footbridge at Hither Green station, Annette hesitated. It had just been announced that the eight eighteen to Charing Cross was running four minutes late. The eight seventeen to Cannon Street was about to pull in on Platform 3 but if she got that she would have to change at London Bridge. She was one of a group of twenty or so commuters on the bridge, hovering uncertainly, looking down the line. As the eight seventeen became visible in the distance, most of them broke off and began to clatter down the steps. She watched them as they trotted down to the far end of the platform, where the train would be least crowded. It was a Wednesday. She was tired. She didn’t feel like changing at London Bridge. She wanted to get a seat and stay in it all the way to Charing Cross. She wandered along the bridge to Platform 1, to wait for the late-running eight eighteen.

  When it arrived, it was more empty than usual; most of the regular passengers had been sucked in like plankton by the previous train. She found a corner seat in an end carriage and slumped into it, her handbag on her lap. She carried a paperback novel each day but rarely opened it. Reading made her feel dizzy and sick but she didn’t like to be without something in case the train got stuck somewhere (she always urinated just before she left the house for the same reason and carried mints in case she had a coughing fit). The woman sitting opposite Annette was reading. She caught a glimpse of the title, Living God, black letters on a bright yellow background. The woman was wearing black patent shoes with thin straps and buckles. Underneath them, she had white cotton socks. Her feet looked like little hooves. A red mac was belted loosely around her small frame. Her face was shiny. How, thought Annette with some distaste, can any woman get to the age of thirty and not have discovered translucent powder?

  She was staring out of the window as the train pulled into New Cross and it was then that she saw Helly, smoking fiercely, her bag slung over her shoulder. As the train pulled to a halt, she dropped her cigarette onto the platform and opened the door to the carriage in front of Annette’s. I didn’t know she lived out this way, thought Annette. She would have to wait a while at Charing Cross, to let Helly get ahead of her. They still weren’t speaking to each other after their argument over the leave form. It was the week after Annette had reported the theft of Joan’s money to Richard. She was expecting to turn up any day and find that Helly had gone. The last thing she wanted was to bump into her on the way to work.

  The carriage filled up. A business couple in identical beige macs squeezed in next to the Living God woman and sat in silence, staring straight ahead, holding hands.

  As the train began to lurch forward, Annette saw that someone had tied an orange balloon to the New Cross sign at the end of the platform. It had a grinning stick-on mouth, a stick-on nose and one, off-centre, stick-on eye. It was caught in the train’s slipstream as they passed and fluttered madly, banging against the post, its open mouth an obscene chortle – as if it knew something they didn’t.

  They pulled in to London Bridge. The man from the business couple kissed his wife lightly on the mouth and got off the train. The Living God woman continued to read. A few other passengers got on. The eight seventeen pulled in next to them at an adjoining platform, a minute later than them after all. Annette congratulated herself on having made the right decision as she had hovered on the bridge at Hither Green.

  They sat.

  Then, from somewhere towards the front of the train, there was a bang.

  The sound was unmistakable. Annette knew the quality of it from the explosion she had heard at work some weeks ago. It was not the volume of the noise that made it so distinctive – although it was very loud – it was the density. There was no echo, no reverberation. The entire compass of the sound had been compressed down into one short, omnipotent blast.

  The passengers sat in the carriage, frozen with doubt. Nobody met anybody else’s gaze, although they all glanced around. Annette fought a battle of logic with herself. It was a bomb. A bomb had gone off inside the station. It could not be a bomb. This was a Wednesday morning and she was on her way to work. She was a secretary for the Capital Transport Authority: slogan, Organising Transport All Over The Capital. It could not have been a bomb.

  The door to their carriage opened and the man who had just left got back in. His wife looked up at him. He sat down next to her. Then he said simply, ‘I think there’s been a bomb.’ They took each other’s hand and sat as they had before, staring straight ahead.

  Now that the knowledge of what they had heard had been articulated, the passengers started to shift in their seats, look at each other, shrug. Outside the train, Annette could see other passengers standing on the platform, bemused.

  Then a voice came over the tannoy, speaking in the same flat nasal tones that habitually announced a platform alteration or a delay in the Maidstone service. ‘This is a message to all passengers. We are evacuating this station. Please leave in an orderly fashion by your nearest exit. We are evacuating this station.’

  The familiarity of the announcer’s voice seemed reassuring to some of the passengers. They got to their feet, picking up cases and coats, muttering. The Living God woman, who had sat frozen up until then, closed her book and rolled her eyes.

  The announcement was continuing as Annette stepped down from the train. ‘We are evacuating this station . . .’ She looked around. She was at the far end of the platform, furthest from the exit. To leave, she would have to walk towards the blast. She joined the crowd of commuters making its way slowly down the platform. Nobody spoke; all were orderly and silent. Then the tone of the announcer’s voice altered to something slightly more imperious. ‘Please leave by the nearest exit. Do not cross over to platforms 3 and 4. Repeat, do not go near Platforms 3 and 4. Leave by the nearest exit.’

  We are on Platform 4, Annette thought, as she continued to walk. This is really happening, and we are walking towards whatever it is that has really happened. She glanced around. If any of the other passengers shared her thoughts they showed no sign. Instead, they all continued their ghost-like, silent walk. The bodies around her seemed to be moving slightly up and down with each step. After the density of the blast, the collective clatter of their footsteps sounded muted. Already Annette was thinking, this is what will haunt me, this walk. We are all so slow and steady and quiet. Our pace is regular. We do not speak. Nobody is crying. We are walking towards what has happened. The air in her throat felt trapped. ‘We are evacuating this station. Do not cross over to Platforms 3 or 4. Please leave by the nearest exit.’ We are walking towards what has happened.

  As they neared the stairs that led up to the exit, Annette saw a man collapsed next to a telephone stand. He was in a slumped position. A briefcase, umbrella and newspaper were scattered nearby. He was sitting turned away from Annette but his breathing was audibly laboured. Three people crouched round him, one with an arm around his shoulders.

  Then she saw that walking alongside, to her right, was a tall young man in a navy blue suit with an older man beside him who had a hand on his arm and was talking quietly. The young man was nodding. He did not appear to be in any way distressed or in pain; they might have been discussing that morning’s meeting. The young man had blood trickling from his left ear.

  Just beyond the stairs, from the corner of her vision, she could see someone lying on the platform, with two people gathered round. She kept her gaze straight ahead, mounting the stairs briskly.

  As they spilled out onto the station concourse, her group dissolved and mingled with the hundreds of people coming up from other platforms. The announcer continued to intone his directions. Still, there was no panic. As Annette reached the entrance, the first emergency services were beginning to arrive. An ambulance swung silently into the station and pulled to a halt. No sirens, Annette thought. Even the ambulance is calm. Two policemen ran past her.

  O
utside the station she hesitated. To her right, passengers were pouring down into the Underground, like vermin. She could not believe that any of them were capable of boarding another train. Anyway, the mainline stations and their adjoining tubes would be closed down soon. She wandered out of the station.

  On the bridge, commuters rushed past. Two police vehicles came charging over from north of the river, sirens wailing. Other traffic continued. She gazed at it, bemused. Beyond the traffic was London, a vast ignorant world which did not know what had happened; a world in which people were, bizarrely, continuing their normal lives. She wanted to stop a passer-by and say, do you not realise how oddly you are behaving? Something has happened. A thing that always happens to other people somewhere else is happening here, now. It has happened to me. Her legs buckled. She felt a concrete paving slab strike her knees.

  She kneeled on the pavement for several moments, trying to breathe, trying to make her arms and legs regain their normal strength instead of the jelly-like uselessness they had suddenly acquired. The word shock came into her head clearly and distinctly. She imagined that she was standing next to herself, looking down and saying, you are in shock.

  Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘Annette,’ a voice said.

  She looked up. Helly was standing above her, leaning slightly. Her hair was hanging forward on one side of her face, which seemed in shadow. She looked expressionless. The air behind her was white. There were acres of space above.

  ‘Annette,’ she said again. ‘It’s me, Helly. I was on the station. You’ve collapsed. You’re in shock.’

  Annette shook her head. Her mouth would not work. I know, she thought, I know I’m in shock.

  ‘Here.’ Helly pushed her lightly on her shoulder and made her sit back on the pavement. Then she put her hand on the back of her head and pushed it gently forward. ‘Put your head between your knees. Breathe a bit. Just relax.’

  Annette felt the rough cotton of her coat graze her cheeks. The enclosure of the material around her face was comforting.

  ‘Does she need an ambulance?’ She could hear a deep male voice beside them.

  ‘Nah, don’t think so,’ Helly was saying. ‘Thanks all the same. Thanks.’

  Footsteps moved on.

  Then, Annette felt Helly leave her side and call out loudly, ‘Here! Here, over here!’ Helly returned. ‘You got money on you?’ she asked.

  Annette lifted her head. She frowned.

  ‘Oh never mind, you’ll have a chequebook indoors. Listen, be careful.’ Annette became aware that Helly was lifting her by her arm and that a man was at her other arm, helping.

  ‘She won’t be sick will she darling?’ the man was saying to Helly.

  ‘I’ll tell you to stop if she’s going to be,’ Helly was replying. As they walked her gently across the pavement she said, ‘Annette, listen. It’s Helly. Where do you live, just the area for now. Tell me where.’

  ‘Catford,’ said Annette.

  Helly and the taxi driver helped her into the cab. As the driver got back into his seat Helly said to him, ‘Not too fast.’ Then she turned to Annette and said, ‘Here, lie down.’ She swung herself onto the pull-down seat which had its back to the driver. Then she took off her coat, a long tweedy jacket several sizes too big for her. ‘Lie down,’ she repeated. As Annette lay down, Helly placed the coat over her and said, ‘Don’t think about anything. Just lie there.’

  The taxi driver had slid back the plastic partition. ‘What’s up?’ he called back to Helly as he drove.

  ‘Bomb,’ Helly said. ‘In the station.’

  The driver shook his head. ‘Rotten bastards.’ He leant forward and turned on the radio. The sports news was on. He turned it down and sat back. ‘Friend of yours?’ he asked, jerking his head back towards Annette.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Helly replied. ‘Can I smoke?’

  By the time they reached Catford Annette was sitting up, Helly’s coat still over her knees. She felt comfortable. She did not want to speak or move. She did not want the taxi to stop.

  At Rushey Green she said to Helly, ‘Next left, after the petrol station.’

  Helly tapped on the driver’s partition. As he pushed it back, the sound of his radio became audible. ‘Next left, after the petrol station,’ said Helly. A news summary was in progress; initial reports suggested two dead, forty injured, three critical. As they swung into her quiet cul-de-sac, Annette rummaged in her handbag and handed Helly her purse.

  The driver pulled up, leapt out with the engine still running and opened the door for them. He helped them both out. Helly paid. As she counted out two notes, the news announcer was saying, ‘No terrorist group has as yet claimed responsibility, but police sources are already saying that the attack bears all the hallmarks of the provisional IRA.’

  The taxi driver nodded towards the radio as he handed over their change. ‘Bright lot, our coppers,’ he said. Then he leapt back into his cab and swung round in a neat circle, pulling away.

  As the clutter of his engine faded, Helly turned to see that Annette was standing with her back to her, a few yards off. She was being sick, carefully, into a grey wheely bin which stood amongst several bins opposite the houses. On the side of the bin were the white painted numbers 1 and 6.

  Helly lit a cigarette and waited.

  As Annette walked back to her, she nodded at the purse Helly was still holding. ‘Key’s in there,’ she said. ‘Number sixteen.’

  Helly let them in. Annette went straight over to the sofa and sank onto it. She dropped her handbag to the floor. Helly closed the door behind her. ‘Loo upstairs?’ she asked. Annette nodded.

  When Helly came down, she went straight over to the kitchenette and plugged in the kettle. ‘Neat place,’ she said. ‘One up, one down. Not much of a home but a great love-nest. You on your own?’ Annette nodded slowly. ‘Lots of natural light,’ Helly said appreciatively. She was opening and closing cupboard doors as she spoke, looking for mugs. ‘Quite well-designed when you think how small it is – that big skylight up there, above the bed – but with the gallery you get the light down here as well.’ She poured boiling water into a cup. ‘I’m not too keen on modern housing myself but I can see why you bought it. Clean. Nothing needs doing.’

  She came over to the sofa holding a red mug. ‘Here.’

  As she was walking back to the kitchenette, Annette took a sip of tea and grimaced. ‘I don’t take sugar,’ she said softly.

  ‘You do today,’ Helly replied, without turning back. She made herself an instant coffee, then came and sat down on a round wicker chair opposite the sofa. ‘This is nice as well,’ she said. ‘But you could do with some cushions. And pictures. Very bare.’

  They drank their drinks in silence.

  Eventually, Annette said, ‘Do you want to use the phone?’

  ‘Work?’ said Helly. ‘They’ll know why we aren’t in won’t they? You could ring them later I suppose.’

  ‘I was thinking more of home,’ Annette said. ‘Isn’t there someone who’ll be worried?’

  Helly shrugged. Then a small smile twitched across her face. ‘Are you going to tell me to take a day’s leave for this as well?’

  Annette smiled wanly – only her mouth moved. ‘I don’t think even I would be that much of a cow.’

  Helly raised her eyebrows and smiled in similar fashion. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  Annette put her mug down. Helly got to her feet. ‘Well, I suppose I should be off.’

  ‘Sit down a minute,’ Annette replied, standing up and going over to the stairs. ‘I’ve got to brush my teeth. I want to explain about all that.’

  When Annette came back down, Helly was making herself another coffee. ‘Want more tea?’ she asked.

  Annette shook her head as she walked slowly back over to the sofa. ‘No thanks, the last one was disgusting.’

  ‘Got any biscuits?’

  ‘Sorry. Marmite.’

  Helly pulled a face.

  When they were both sett
led again, Annette said, ‘I wasn’t just being an old cow about that, you know. Richard had been very specific. I don’t know why. He’s tightening up on all sorts of things lately. I flew off the handle a bit, but he would have told me to dock your pay anyway.’

  Helly did not reply. Then she said, ‘The surveyors?’

  Annette shrugged. ‘Is that relevant?’

  Helly got to her feet. She went over to the patio doors which looked out over Annette’s tiny square garden, an evenly mown postage stamp of grass. There was no border. The wooden fencing surrounding it was very low and she could see over the side into the adjoining postage stamp. Annette’s neighbours had erected a plastic line where washing flapped lazily: two blue shirts, a sheet, a row of nappies. Beyond it could be seen the backs of neighbouring houses. In one of them, a sleeping Alsatian was sprawled in a wire cage. In another, a child’s tricycle lay on its side. Over all lay the stillness of a weekday suburb.

  Helly turned and leant back against the window frame, cradling her mug of coffee. She looked down into it, then back up. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Two people died, just a few yards away. It could’ve been us. Dead easy.’ Annette did not reply. ‘You know Richard’s bent, don’t you?’ Helly said.

  Annette frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, bent. Crooked. Skimming the cream off the top.’

  ‘He’s not. Really? Backhanders and so on?’

  Helly nodded.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Remember that time you sent me to Victoria? Raymond had forgotten his bleeper and was going to be in Chiswick all day. He rang up from South Ken, nearly having a cow. He was expecting that architect to ring back and confirm something or other and you had to be able to get hold of him. He came back on the District line and I had to meet him at the barrier and hand the bleeper over. Stupid git didn’t even say thank you. Just made me toss it over and then ran for it as if the place was on fire. Self-important arsehole.