Jesus, is that really sweat dripping from my forehead? Stay calm, you’re nearly there. One more stop. She is so artificial, the makeup’s so perfect, and yet she’s beautiful. How long does it take to get her eyebrows like that? And her figure, every girl on this train in drab jeans and a shapeless sweatshirt should be trembling with envy. Does she understand how her perfection shines through? Does she have any idea of the power she holds? She radiates so brightly that she’s lighting the entire carriage, giving it purpose.
She is saving my life.
With each passing second, as we draw closer to King’s Cross St Pancras, she restores me more and more. Maybe I’ll talk to her afterwards, tell her how she came to be so important. She’d be like a sister, full of private confidences.
The announcement brought passengers to their feet. Bags were gathered, newspapers dumped. The casual orderliness had a strange grace; each movement seemed choreographed for efficiency without connection. No two strangers ever touched. Accidentally brushing someone’s sleeve required an immediate apology. The doors opened, the carriage disgorged itself. The crowd’s speed was paced by its slowest component.
It was important to follow tightly behind her, right along the platform to the tiled hall and its bank of escalators. And to stand immediately behind, because it was time to take another photograph.
She never looked back, never noticed anything, her head somewhere else. She stepped lightly onto the moving stairs and was borne aloft like an ascending angel. She stood to the right with the middle two fingers of her hand brushing the black rubber rail, just enough to stabilise herself. Everything about her had a lightness of touch.
The banks of illuminated ad panels showed a bouncing cartoon orange. It might have been advertising a fruit drink, insurance or phones. Who knew anymore? Who cared?
Fire off two more discreet shots and palm the thing back in your pocket. Remember to keep the flash off this time – you nearly wrecked everything the other day. One more mistake and it’s all over.
They reached the top of the escalator and she stepped off. It was a walk of less than twenty metres to the exit barriers. Her patent leather heels were surprisingly high, and gave her carriage an overemphatic sashay, as if she was seeking to impress the men behind her. Women in heels like those learned to glide with one foot carefully placed in front of the other, if they wanted to avoid walking like farmers.
Her purse was already in her right hand, flipped open to her Oyster card. She was ready to release herself through the barrier and climb the first bank of steps. Beyond was the semicircle of the station foyer, a great snaking queue of tourists buying exorbitantly priced tickets. She deftly avoided oncoming fleets of commuters as she got ready to swipe her card across the yellow panel. After that there would be twenty steps to the first sign of daylight, and the concourse of the main-line station. As she stepped into the light, she would unconsciously trigger the pathway to salvation. The urge to stop her and thank her for saving a pitiful human life was strong, but that would have spoiled everything.
But she didn’t step into the light. Suddenly, right in front of the ticket barrier, no more than a few metres from the outside world, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Look out – you nearly crashed right into her, step around! Stop beside the electronic gate and look back.
Behind, commuters were stacking up, impatiently trying to get through the barrier. What the hell was she doing?
You can’t stop now, the voice silently screamed. Everything’s fine, keep going.
She seemed to be thinking about something. She pulled open her bag and stared into it, not seeing the contents. Then, with a smart turn, she headed back toward the escalators.
You stupid bitch, the voice yelled. You can’t do this, you’re destroying everything, you’re destroying me, there will never be another chance like this, you can’t take it away now! I almost had you!
Surely she wouldn’t go right back down into the station? The Oyster card had to be put away again; it was necessary to see what she would do.
Sure enough, she walked back across the concourse and headed for the Piccadilly Line, but one escalator was out of order and the other had a queue of passengers, so she headed for the central stairs, the static concrete ones that ran between the moving staircases, and in spite of her heels, began carefully walking down, descending and wrecking everything.
There were few people on the middle staircase. Nobody liked using them.
Get further forward, come in as close as you dare behind her.
She knew what she was doing, that was obvious now. She had done it deliberately, building up so many hopes just to smash them at the last minute. A torrent of furious filth rolled forth, silently.
I wish to God she was dead, the selfish bitch.
An anger rose up that could set fire to the world, reddening the tunnel, washing the walls in crimson flames.
She deserved to be punished, to have the life knocked from her body. It was odd to look down and see a disembodied right hand sharply rising to plant itself at the base of her spine. Suddenly she was propelled forward, just enough to throw the balance from those carefully planted high heels. She gave the smallest of gasps as she lurched forward at a startling angle, falling with surprising force and weight. She crashed into one, two other passengers on the staircase, but it wasn’t enough to break her fall.
The steps were steep and the drop was long. Several times it seemed as if her descent might be stopped by the human obstacles in her way, but on she fell. She hit the bottom step facedown and, by the time her body had settled to a stop, she was dead.
The yellow Selfridges bag landed beside her and burst open, rolling smashed cosmetic samples in an erratic rainbow of paint and powder around her, like a pair of iridescent wings.
∨ Off the Rails ∧
8
Born in Hell
“I like my tea strong but this stuff’s muscle-bound.”
Bryant sat beside his partner in the Paris Café, St Pancras International station, their elbows on the brushed steel counter, steaming mugs folded in their mitts, listening to the rain hammering at the great arched roof. Bryant refused to go to the Starbucks down the road because he was allergic to any place that attracted children, and was bothered by the little trays of glued-down coffee beans that surrounded their counter.
John May perched straight-backed in his smart navy blue suit and overcoat, his silver mane just touching the collar of his Gieves & Hawkes shirt. Bryant had receded so far into his moth-eaten raincoat that only his broad nose and bifocals showed above his equally threadbare green scarf. White seedlings of hair poked up around his ears like pond grass, and there was cake on his chin. Even after all this time, they still made an oddly incongruous pair.
“There has to be a way of drawing him out,” Bryant muttered. “He knows we have no way of finding him. But his pathological desire to stay hidden means he’s forced to keep covering his tracks. He’ll get rid of anyone who comes too close. His informants unwittingly provided him with knowledge of his victims, so he’ll have to surface if he wants to guarantee their silence. And that means he’ll reappear in King’s Cross.”
“You’re saying we should just sit back and wait for him to attack?”
“No, but we know where he operates. He’s tied to the area around the stations. We need to intensify surveillance. Never our strong point.”