Knife Edge

5.57 P.M.

The train from St James's to Victoria had been crowded. The walkways and platform leading to the Victoria line had been busy too, but the train which was now heading towards Oxford Circus was so jam-packed with people Doyle found it hard to breathe.

Beside him, Lisa clung to his belt, fascinated it seemed by the large man who was seated opposite her, his bald head gleaming beneath the lights inside the tube.

He was wearing a dark suit and he was clearly hot. Beads of perspiration were forming on his hairless pate and Lisa watched as one droplet edged its way slowly past his temple and began a slow journey down his cheek towards his jaw.

As the train slid to a halt, Doyle turned, trying to duck slightly to read the station name on the plate on the tunnel wall. Green Park.

One more stop.

No one moved as the doors opened.

No one got off.

Instead, the crush inside the train became even more uncomfortable as those at Green Park pushed and shoved their way into the already tightly packed mass inside the carriage.

Lisa was nearly knocked off her feet by a tall man in faded black jeans and a T-shirt. He seemed not to notice her and she moved closer to Doyle, who was gripping one of the overhead bars as tightly as he could.

The man in the black jeans was wearing a Walkman and the irritating rattle of the music he was listening to seemed to fill the carriage.

Behind Doyle stood a woman in her mid-forties. Her hair was impossibly immobile, as if the coiffure had been moulded then welded to her head. She was wearing trousers and a pair of trainers which looked dazzlingly white. She was holding a number of shopping bags, one of which was digging uncomfortably into Doyle's back.

He looked irritably at her, gazing into her eyes through her glasses.

She stared back for a moment then turned to the man standing with her.

He was wearing a baseball cap with nike emblazoned across the front, wisps of white hair poking out from either side.

'Are you OK, honey?' he said, in a loud accented voice, which attracted a number of stares from other passengers.

Fucking Yanks, Doyle thought.

The doors slid shut and the train moved off.

The carriage smelled of perspiration and perfume. Conflicting odours. There was a hint of garlic in the musty air too. Doyle looked around at his fellow passengers as if seeking the culprit.

Further down the carriage a young woman wearing leggings and a polo-neck sweater was sweeping a hand through her long auburn hair, trying to readjust her position as the train moved away. Doyle studied her face briefly then found his gaze straying to her breasts. Beneath the sweater they were unfettered by a bra. He could see the outline of her nipples pushing against the material.

Typical. I'm wedged up against some fat Yank and a bastard who smells of garlic. Why not her?

He held the woman in his gaze for a few seconds longer. The train lurched to one side and Lisa gripped more tightly to Doyle to prevent herself overbalancing. Not that she would have fallen anyway, the other travellers were too tightly wedged in the carriage to allow her to overbalance.

Christ, he hated crowds. Hated being so close to other people.

He rarely travelled by tube and, if he did, he tried to make sure it was after rush-hour.

Not like now. Right in the middle of it.

Doyle glanced at his watch.

The train slowed down.

Approaching the station.

It stopped in the tunnel.

What the fuck was going on?

There were a number of groans from inside the carriage.

The American woman with the shopping bags dug him in the back once more and this time Doyle spun round and glared at her.

'Why have we stopped?' Lisa asked.

Doyle didn't answer.

'Why have we stopped?' she persisted.

'I don't know,' he snapped back, the vehemence of his reply causing a number of people to look in his direction.

The train bumped forward a few yards, stopped again then continued on its way.

As it slid into Oxford Circus station, Doyle was already pushing his way towards the door, pulling Lisa along with him.

The doors opened and Doyle barged out, through the passengers waiting to board.

Lisa felt his hand gripping hers tightly. A little too tightly.

It hurt.

She tried to twist her hand inside his but the sweat on his palm made his skin slippery.

As he pulled at her in an attempt to rush her through the heaving throng on the platform, her hand slipped free of his.

Someone bumped into her, buffeted her away from him.

Doyle felt her hand slide from his.

He spun round.

The passengers both embarking and alighting seemed to swell into one huge amorphous mass. Faces passed before him as he scanned the crowd frantically for Lisa.