The Detective's Daughter

15

Thursday, 13 January 2011

The countdown began when Jack brought his train up to the buffers at Ealing Broadway. He had a break of seven minutes and thirty seconds before his last run to Barking, after which he would return to Earls Court and his journey would be over. He had agreed to do a day shift, despite it following so closely on his previous shift, because he never knew when he might have to ask a favour. Driving in the light was an experience he did not want too often. However, the coming night was his own and he celebrated this with hot milk from the coffee stand. Despite the odd choice of drink, the woman serving did not look at him throughout the transaction. She would not remember him: his driver’s uniform was an ideal form of anonymity.

The motor refused to respond; the train had become a clunky weight that would not do his bidding. He reported in over the transmitter, feeling the pricking at the back of his neck: the train breaking down was another sign. Swiftly he headed through the carriages, ushering passengers to the south platform to wait for the replacement train, avoiding conversation. He, as staff, would ride in the cab with the driver, a custom Jack disliked but had to respect or it drew attention. The incoming train would drop him to the depot; he was now a relief driver. This was not a relief – it meant he had no set number: no sign.

The next train pulled in punctually at 2.58 and 30 seconds. He checked the set number: 236, trying not to think too hard or his mind would go blank. He had the impulse to walk away to evade fate. But fate comes in many guises and there could be no escape if he did not know in which direction was ‘away’.

He knew the young driver; he had recently qualified and, once they were in the cab and the train moving, the man became rigid with tension, gripping the handle, skin taut over knuckles like lumps of gristle. He performed each motion like an automaton. If he carried on like this he would be exhausted, but at least it meant he did not attempt conversation. Two years ago Jack had been made a trainer, so he was used to the terror the novice drivers endured, terror he had not experienced; driving a train through dark tunnels with hundreds of people at his mercy came naturally to him. As soon as he had settled into the swivel seat, manoeuvred the levers, depressed buttons and powered the train into the tunnel, Jack was at home; the Underground was his ultimate Host.

Jack sat on the right-hand side of the cab, his shoulder bag at his feet, and took sips of the milk.

Despite the chill afternoon, he asked if he could have his door open. He did not like sharing a confined space with another human being and since he was not driving he could properly contemplate the cables, the gantries and glinting rails of the other tracks. It was against regulations for the doors to remain open while the train was in motion but Jack could endure the driver’s increased discomfort.

The train clattered up from Turnham Green station, where no one disembarked and no one alighted. In the distance Stamford Brook was like the stations Jack had saved up for with his pocket money: compact and transportable, with a tessellated roof canopy over each platform, a toy awaiting its part in the game.

He drank the last of the milk and at the same moment his phone vibrated. He didn’t recognize the number but did get the last three digits: 236.

The train’s set number.

Jack was so astonished that despite the driver he pressed the green button.

‘Hi there, this is Jackie speaking from Clean Slate – for a fresh start. It’s short notice, but one of our clients needs a cleaner at 4.30 this afternoon. We hoped you could do it.’

He knew about a fresh start. Jack turned to the open doorway to avoid the driver hearing: ‘Don’t you need references? Ms Darnell said something about a trial run in the office.’

‘We will follow them up in due course. We trust you. On paper you fit and this is an emergency. Call it the trial.’ ‘Jackie Speaking’ gave a tinkly laugh indicating she did not trust him.

A Piccadilly line train was speeding towards them from Ravenscourt Park; these trains to Heathrow, as frequent as the planes in the sky above, went like bullets on this section of track because after Hammersmith the stations were District line only.

Jack smiled: after all, he had not miscalculated Stella Darnell. He squashed the cup in his hand. The driver was slowing too soon; Stamford Brook was way ahead. He stopped himself from saying so; he was not a trainer now.

He was also right about the manager at Clean Slate: her confidence in him lasted until she got off the line. Jack had bought a tranche of telephone numbers off the internet and, applying a different ringtone to each, routed the numbers given on his references to his mobile. All he had to do was remember the referee meant to answer. When Clean Slate appeared on the LCD screen the ringtone was a man whose house Jack had for a while thought of as home. He was tempted to turn it off, but it would only mean calling back later.

‘Nick Jarvis?’ He kept his voice low although the driver, now in a flop sweat, was watching the station approaching as if it were a mortal enemy.

It was rather a shame the driver wasn’t listening, Jack was proud of how well he brought Nick Jarvis to life with a faithful rendition of the harassed accountant’s clipped speech. Time is money. Nick’s reference was to the point, and not effusive. Yes, Harmon had done a decent enough job, didn’t know he’d been given as referee, but yes, could recommend him.

Jack let the second call divert to answer machine. He did not want to risk Jackie picking up any similarity in his imitations; she struck him as sharp and the driver’s increasing hesitancy was beginning to get on his nerves.

Over the transmitter, a voice crackled that the next westbound District train was at West Kensington. The controller reported that it would terminate at Richmond because they were suspending the Ealing Broadway service until Jack’s broken-down train could be shunted to the Acton depot. The eastbound District train and the westbound Piccadilly train would reach Stamford Brook together; he loved these moments, except this train was too slow: the driver, nervous of overshooting the platform, was applying the brake early.

Jack lifted his bag from the floor and ducked under its strap, adjusting it over his chest like a child’s satchel, fastener facing in; he could not risk it being snatched or rifled by pickpockets. Along with the private notes which no one must see, he could not bear to think of his possessions – his purse, his notebook, his pen – lost in the world, effectively orphaned; even the idea made him desolate.

The Piccadilly train was upon them, its ca-clunk-ca-clunk loud through the open door. They were crawling, which meant he could see in its windows: the passengers were shop dummies. Tourists bound for Heathrow, late commuters asleep or reading free newspapers were plugged into headphones; people noticed little. His driver jerked the brake and their train jolted to a halt three feet short of the platform’s end. A reportable offence.

‘Take it right up.’ Jack was calm. ‘Get your passengers off, we don’t want them pitching on to the line.’

The man worked his mouth as if in rapid and silent conversation. Jack covered the hand with his own and manipulated the stick, nursing the train the necessary inches until they were fully berthed.

‘I’m getting off here. You’ll be OK?’

The driver nodded grimly, fixing on the platform monitor by his open door.

Jack stepped past him. He would recommend him for more training; in the meantime he wouldn’t kill anyone.

On his way to Shepherd’s Bush Green to meet Jackie Makepeace, as Mike Thorpe of ABC Design and Print, Jack rang her and explained in a breathy, walking-down-the-street manner that he was on his way to a client, but could confirm that Jack was a great cleaner and all-round brilliant guy. He could follow up with a written testimony in the studio tomorrow. Jackie told Mike this was not necessary. Sold.

Jack pulled up the collar of his overcoat; forecasters were saying the wind came directly from Russia.

It was extraordinary how trusting people were. It gave people like him freedom.