Off the Rails

∨ Off the Rails ∧

7

Falling Angel

She was wearing a poppy red dress. You didn’t see too many women on the tube wearing bright red dresses. Even better, it had white polka dots on it. If the dots had been black she’d have looked like a flamenco dancer, but they matched her white patent leather heels and her jacket, which were also covered in polka dots. She was glossy-haired and pretty, and maybe she’d been ballroom dancing, except it was the middle of the afternoon and she was reading a copy of The Evening Standard, or at least trying to, for she was jammed between two arguing Italian teenagers with ridiculous amounts of luggage.

Time to bump into her lightly, nudging a spot between her shoulder blades.

Make sure you’re quick to apologise.

She did not bother to look up.

Check your watch. 15.40.

A flooding feeling of elation. Of rising triumph.

Is it possible to dare think that this could be the end of the problem? The best chance to get rid of the ever-present fear, the terrible nagging terror that keeps you awake all night, that’s been haunting your every waking hour?

Push it out of your mind, it’s making you sweaty and creepy. You know you can’t allow that. Concentrate on something. Study her carefully.

From the tips of her shiny white shoes to the white plastic barrette in her neatly combed hair, nothing was out of place. It took a minute or two to figure out her job, but suddenly it was obvious. The scent was the first clue; they always smelled like candy. The yellow plastic bag at her feet confirmed it.

If you lean forward on the tips of your sneakers, you can take a peek inside and see the free sample tubes.

She worked on a cosmetics counter at Selfridges department store.

It was all too perfect. Everything fit. Time to move a little closer without arousing suspicion. At Warren Street the Italians got off, dragging their huge suitcases with them, and suddenly there was space. But danger, too, because now she could get a clear view.

Move to one side, but be careful not to catch her eye.

She was skimming the pages, not really reading, just immersing herself in an activity that kept her from having to look at other passengers. As the train slowed on its way into Euston, she folded the paper shut and looked for somewhere to put it.

You can’t get off now, a voice screamed. If you leave now, everything will be ruined.

The platform appeared. The train came to a halt and the doors opened. She moved a little nearer and looked out. A silent plea rose:

No, don’t do it.

Was there such a thing as telepathy? Because moments later she changed her mind and reclaimed her spot in the middle of the carriage.

As the doors slid shut and the train lurched away, it was time for the next phase.

Remove the mobile phone from the pocket of your jeans and slip it into the palm of your hand, deftly operating the buttons without needing to look.

One shot, two, three. A manoeuvre practised in the bedroom mirror for hours. No need for a flash in the bright compartment. Together the pictures scanned her entire body. Perfect.

My hands are so sweaty I almost dropped the phone putting it away. For Christ’s sake, be more careful.

Her eyes flickered over, attracted by the suddenness of the movement, but there was no thought behind her glance. A very faint smile appeared and faded.

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.