by Geoff Ryman
At the last possible moment, he grabs his briefcase and gets off. He is going up the long escalator when he realizes—his portfolio is still on the train. His hand hurt, he didn’t want to pick up anything with it.
The folio is full of expensive colour reproductions of his best work and will cost 500 quid to replace. Lack of chocolate combines with a sick panic in his tummy. He tries to run up the escalator, but runs out of breath. He rests, leaning on his knees.
At the lost property counter, an elderly lady in line in front of him has lost a clock. By the time he gets to the counter, an old scarecrow of a white man asks him the time of the train. Debendrath guesses. The scarecrow smiles with satisfaction. ‘You’ll be lucky to get that back,’ he says. ‘There’s been a bit of a crash.’
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116
MR ANUP AGNIHOTRI
Outward appearance
Large man in blue overalls. Beatle haircut, double chin, razor-proof stubble. Briefcase at feet has paint splattered on it. ‘Doohrs,’ he murmurs. ‘Doohrs.’
Inside information
Indian/Ugandan here for many years, running a small but successful electrical contractors. Currently carrying out a small rewiring contract with the Office of Publicity Procurement. Usually takes the van, but all his tools are safe inside the OPP, so he took the tube.
What he is doing or thinking
Looking at the people. It is strange to see how many of them are not English. It is as though he has been locked away in his own world. No wonder his daughter finds him so old fashioned.
Yesterday, one of the managers of the OPP came up to talk to him. What was he doing? The man looked polite, friendly, interested. Anup explained that he was fire-proofing the doors to the main panels. He paints them on both sides with fire retardant.
The man nodded, smiling, friendly, and then asked again. What was he painting?
‘Doors,’ replied Anup.
‘Sorry?’ replied the man.
‘Doors,’ replied Anup. ‘Doors.’ He swung them back and forth, getting a bit of the paint on his fingers.
‘Oh!’ said the man. ‘Doors.’
Anup has lived in this country nineteen years and still people cannot understand his accent. He looks at the fireproof paint on his fingers and the nearby faces from around the world. How do they do so well here? He is a happy, outgoing, capable man. How much further does he need to go? Can he go?
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MR EDWARD GOSSART
Outward appearance
About 26, suit and overcoat rucked over huge shoulders, ruddy face, jet-black hair. Holds a teddy bear in a Tesco bag.
Inside information
A sales and service executive for Lloyds Bank. Went to Rugby School where he was a star athlete. Will take the teddy bear to Christies at lunchtime to have it valued for his Aunt Ella who needs to sell it.
Teddy speaks estuary English with fluent glottal stops. His job pays shit and he lives in a ground floor flat in Stoke Newington. His aunt lives in a large house in the Cotswolds and thinks the Queen doesn’t speak properly. The family made its money running wool mills. The mills and the money have gone.
What he is doing or thinking
Teddy is surprised by the level of resentment he feels. His aunt plainly imagines he drives to work in a BMW. ‘Perhaps your girl could take it round for me,’ Ella said.
She can’t remember where he lives. When friends from work visit, she asks them, ‘And how do you like our clean air?’ or ‘Stoke Newington? We drove through there once didn’t we?’ When they’ve gone, she forcefully suggests that Teddy might like to have some more local people around. Jenny Morriat, perhaps. The Morriats owned mills too. Jenny is on heroin.
Ella has no money, and can’t shake the flu. Teddy doesn’t mind helping her. It’s just…she makes him feel like such a failure for learning how to live with a changed world.
A teddy bear. Does she really think it’s worth anything?
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MR ANUK DHOTRI
Outward appearance
Shell-shocked businessman. Black hair in plastered, diving-board angles, dark stubble. Staring, bag-encircled eyes.
Inside information
Down from Solihull for a job interview with University of the South Bank. Spent the night with his bachelor cousin Vikram.
What he is doing or thinking
Anuk is drunk with lack of sleep. He imagines he smells of garbage.
At family gatherings Vik is always immaculately groomed: blazer, brogues, hair-sprayed coiffure. Anuk has only ever seen Vik’s London flat once before when Vik had cleaned it.
It is a hell of filth. Vik has a medical condition, and there are used bandages everywhere. The kitchen shelves are coated with dried ketchup. The fridge has mould inside. Outside, pubic hairs are glued to marmalade stains. Eight full garbage bags were decaying in the front hall.
Vik offered Anuk the floor to sleep on. It was sticky and crunchy at the same time. Vikram’s cats sniffed Anuk’s face and padded up and down him. In the middle of the night he was awakened by a terrible smell. The cats had torn open the garbage bags and coated Anuk in orange peel and discarded curry. He fled to the bathroom to wash. It was in such a nightmarish condition he couldn’t use it. He spent the rest of the night outside on the freezing balcony.
Vikram emerged in the morning, cheerful and immaculate.
Anuk can’t think straight. The carriage is swimming. To turn up at any university in this state will do him more harm than good.
He decides to get off at Waterloo.
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MR GARY COLLIER
Outward appearance
Beefy man about 32, spiky black hair, pock-marked face, black jeans, leather jacket. Scowls broodingly.
Inside information
Works for the Met Police in the Maintenance section. The lover of Amanda Stinton.
What he is doing or thinking
Last night Gary told his wife Toni that it was over, he’s leaving her. As she’s two months pregnant, there was a bit of a scene. She rang her mum. Mrs Greene came over with murder on her mind. The wife is in the bedroom crying, Mrs Greene is shouting.
‘What are you playing at? What’s so special about this girl, then? You just get on that phone now and tell her it’s over.’
Gary took it for a while and then let her have it. ‘I don’t have to answer to anybody, let alone you, you old cow. Keep out of it.’
Gary smiles: he has to admit, it was all a bit strong. Mrs Greene is going to do everything she can to make his life a misery. He can’t blame them really. You open a jack-in-the-box, you expect it to explode.
The train stops.
Gary gets off at Lambeth North. Two cars ahead, out comes Amanda. He saunters up behind her. ‘Boo,’ he says smiling.
‘Oh. You, is it?’
‘Sorry about Sunday. I got something to tell you,’ he says.
‘So have I,’ she says.
They both speak at once. He says, ‘I told Toni. I’m leaving her.’ She says, ‘It’s over, Gary.’
Both of them stop, and stare. They don’t move as everyone else walks by.
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MS ELAINE CLEMENTS
Outward appearance
Young woman, short hair, grim mouth. Felt coat in brightly coloured patterns, like a break for freedom. Reading Sense and Sensibility.
Inside information
Works in the British Film Institute Bookshop. It’s a gig. She hates movies. At least no one will turn Sense and Sensibility into a film.
What she is doing or thinking
Elaine is consumed with hatred for her flatmates. Things were fine until Rita’s boyfriend Sedgely more or less moved in.
They fuck like ferrets. Last night, havin
g invited themselves to dinner, they were overcome with passion between the soup and main course. They retired to the bedroom. Elaine made polite conversation over their gladsome cries. Her friends, embarrassed, left early. Quiet descended long enough for Elaine to go to bed. They started again. Their headboard thumps. At 1.00 AM they finally stopped and Elaine got some sleep.
They were at it again in the morning. Elaine put on the kettle, went back to shower, and found that the two of them had migrated to the bathroom and were saving water together. ‘Oh God, oh God, I want you inside me!’ Rita howled.
Elaine trudged into the kitchen, and drank coffee, her mouth tasting of dead cats. The coffee had its effect. Her bowels started to move. She thumped on the door. ‘Oh Elaine!’ raged Rita. She and Sedgely stomped out angrily, towels around their midriffs. Rita’s glance said: do you think you own the place?
Actually, she does. Elaine wonders: if she threw them out, would it stand up in court?
Knowing Sedgely, something probably would.
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WHO?
Outward appearance
Plump, all in grey. Restless, chooses not to stay in his seat, but walks up and down in the doorway area, head cocked sideways in an open, friendly, but somewhat vacant, manner. Iridescent green collar around throat. Pigeon-chested, pigeon-toed.
Inside information
Lost on the Underground system since Baker Street, and separated from his wife whom he misses with a vague yearning. Who is hungry as always. He keeps an eye out for something to eat.
What he is doing or thinking
Investigates a briefcase that smells tantalizingly of proteins, polish, and discarded skin like a corpse in the roadway. Who pecks it experimentally with his beak, but it isn’t rotten or crushed enough. Shoes smell inviting too, but they keep moving, and the place where uppers meet soles looks suspiciously like smiling lips over teeth.
Who looks up and sees the lights, as bright as daylight and escape. Leaps up towards them, and pecks at the solidified light, then settles down again. He is no longer mystified by glass. Congratulates himself for being rather with-it, knowing about windows and all. The noise and motion stop, the doors open like jaws, and he scuttles backwards in fear.
Someone tries to herd him towards the doors. Who panics and flies further down the aisle. Suddenly feet, like an avalanche of boulders, move all around him. He flutters up, and people duck. His wings avoid touching their entangling hair.
The doors rumble shut and he is swept on towards the Elephant, and again, he tries to fly upward, towards the light and freedom.
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MR JOHN KENNEDY
Outward appearance
Flash git, about 25. Cobalt blue shirt, yellow tie, beige slacks, gelled hair. Looks perplexed.
Inside information
Works at Blote the Bookmakers on Kennington Road. Greets customers like a game show host or computer salesman or boy at Harrods. Unlike his hair, it doesn’t gell.
What he is doing or thinking
Yesterday, at lunchtime in Archbishop’s Park, John saw an Asian courting couple stoned by kids. At first he thought it was a game of catch. Something arched up into the air and smashed down into a girl’s face. Without thinking, John shouted. ‘Oi! You! Stoppit!’ To his surprise, they scattered, well-dressed lads in slacks. They looked a bit like him.
The girl wept in her boyfriend’s arms. ‘We shouldn’t have been there,’ as if God were punishing her for being with a man. She had a Snoopy badge on her coat. They didn’t want to call the police.
John went back to work in shock. He told the story, with great drama. Everyone began to laugh, especially at the Snoopy badge. Sharon called out to some regulars. ‘Here, John’s just seen some Pakis being stoned!’
Why? Why did they laugh? It was as if they were saying: welcome to the big city. He’s beginning to understand: it was funny because, specifically, it happened to him. So what is it with him? Under it all, John’s a good Catholic boy from the quiet suburbs, who burns candles every Sunday, and confesses minor sins of lust or gluttony. He looks down at his tie and clothes and feels his ears burn.
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MR JOHN TEMPLETON
Outward appearance
Middle-aged man with goatee, russet jacket, collarless shirt, khaki trousers. Sits half asleep, smiling.
Inside information
Middle manager at Mosstains who fancies himself part of the company’s young, creative image. Not the kind of person you’d think works there, a good front man. His staff hate him. So do his two ex-wives.
What he is doing or thinking
He’s feeling good, on an upswing. Last night he got drunk and sorry for himself. He rang the Samaritans. This acted as a lightning rod for his depression. After ringing, he walked out into the cold night and looked at the stars. It was like looking at eternity. So what if the people at work bypass him, or tell him in taxicabs that they’ll fight him every inch of the way and he doesn’t have an idea what they want to fight him about? He doesn’t want to die, he’s just not suited for the job. This mood of philosophical resignation still cushions him.
He gets off at Waterloo and there is a shout. Deborah Payne grabs hold of his arm. ‘John!’ she says, ‘you don’t need to die!’
He’s still trying to figure out what this means when a black guy comes up and asks Deborah out. She looks stunned. Actually, John always thought he might ask Deborah out, if they ever got along.
‘Come out with me instead,’ John says trying to twinkle like one of the Musketeers. Deborah holds out both hands: stop. Shaking her head and muttering, she walks away.
And over John, the gloom descends again.
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MR TOM McHUGH
Outward appearance
Red thinning hair, pale face, shaving rash on neck. Puffy-eyed from a hangover. Black tie with lurid broken plates of colour, grey raincoat in a swirl on his lap. Lifts up foot to rest on opposite knee. Kicks foot of passenger opposite. Recrosses legs. Pats pocket. Can’t find something. Pulls out bits of paper and an opened condom packet (unused). Finds name badge. Tries to clip it onto shirt. The clip won’t close. Stands up to put on raincoat. Staggers and steps full onto the foot of the person across from him. Raincoat caught in the belt at back. Struggles with that and steps on neighbour again. Both trouser legs tucked accidentally into socks at back. Shirt untucked. Tries to tuck it in, but pushes raincoat down back of pants instead. Calvin Klein peeks up over top of belt. Picks up case as man opposite stands. Pushes man backwards with his bottom. Staggers to car doors to get off. Vomits copiously.
Inside information
Works for Beetlehide. Tom doesn’t know that he is the original inspiration for Ben Bevis’s character in Mind the Gap.
What he is doing or thinking
Had been congratulating himself on being so well organized. There he was, preparing early for his exit, sorting out his badge. He wishes he had not drunk so many Pimms last night, but he thought it was lemonade.
He finds vomiting very inconvenient, and a bit annoying after taking such pains. A cloud of hangover descends. He wipes his raincoat with a hanky and prepares to exit at the Elephant.
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LORD ANTHONY LOWICK
Outward appearance
Genial older man, short grey hair, grey bumfreezer, polished expensive shoes. Was once perhaps athletic. Sits smiling quietly, cat-like.
Inside information
Full name Lord Lowick of Lowick. His expensive wife is going overripe in the south of France. She lives near their painter daughter who is in the throes of her own divorce. Lord Lowick used to host rock festivals in the ’60s; then became a prominent ruralist and friend of Peter Blake in the ’70s. Now successfully a
nonymous.
What he is doing or thinking
On his way back to examine the last of the building work on his new home. It is the tower of the old American Church. The pinnacle has stars and stripes carved into it. The converted bell chamber is huge, with high churchy windows. Lower down, the windows are slits as if for shooting arrows. It is the only completely burglar-proof house he has ever owned.
He will play bagpipes in it. The staircase is wooden and shoots up in one continuous swirl from the ground to the peak. It echoes like a valley. He camped out in the belltower while the work was being done and practised at midnight. He looked out later and saw people gathered below, staring up at the tower with its strange sounds.
No garden to tend, no staff to hide from, the Hockneys and the Blakes safely lining the staircase. Lord Lowick is aware of having escaped many things. The work scared off the nesting kestrels though, and he regrets that. He, himself, will be harder to shift.
