by Lee Kerr
The desperation to escape surges through me now and I bite her hand as hard as I can, until I feel my teeth sinking through the flesh and I taste the warm blood flowing through her angry veins.
I hear the knife drop as she grabs her bleeding hand. ‘You total bitch,’ she says, a hand gripped over the wound, blood trickling down her arm. ‘I’m going to get you for that and you’ll never leave now. I’m going to tie you up and leave you for the monsters to feast on your bony, little corpse!’
I shake my head, determined that she will do none of these things. Enough has been taken from me already. The life I was promised has been picked apart piece by piece and now there is nothing left to celebrate, nothing left for me to aspire to. I feel the rage rise up within me as I think about the life I will never have. I feel myself move forward, stretching an arm out to punch her. I think she sees it too: she grasps the bannisters again, but it’s too late for her – I’m too angry now and she is too weak. In this moment I finally understand that I will die alone and so with all my hatred for what I have become I smash into her body, the force lifting her into the air.
I watch as everything happens slowly. She screams but it doesn’t mean anything; it won’t change what will happen now. Her bum lands on the edge of a step and her face wrinkles up. Those angry eyes are still angled at me as her head hits the back wall and there is the inevitable cracking sound, seeming to freeze every bit of her in time. As her body finds its final resting place it becomes scrunched up like a ragdoll, all twisted and deformed. The small patch of blood on the wall is the only clue as to what has happened. She fell; it was just a nasty accident – that’s what I’m telling myself, although I’m quite sure I will never have to tell anyone in authority about this.
I step down towards her. Her vacant stare tells me that she is most definitely dead. My first bold decision of the new world has resulted in me removing a significant obstacle to my day and life in general. This worries me, not just because of what I have just done, but because of how unaffected I feel by it. I don’t look at her as a human anymore, but rather an issue that had to be resolved; maybe I murdered her, maybe I didn't, but I know that I don't feel guilty about it.
It doesn’t matter now because she has gone to another place, leaving me to pick up the pieces of what remains and to try to survive just a little longer. I think about dragging her down the stairs and into her own flat and leaving her there – a problem to deal with tonight or tomorrow, but when the shouting on the street gets louder I decide that I should leave her. I decide that if I do survive the day then my reward to myself will be dealing with what remains of my life and this new, bold me.
*****
As the station entrance comes into sight, I see the big metal gates being pulled shut. The noticeboard outside the station is barely visible through the crowds but I am briefly able to catch a glimpse of it, with its big, pronounced writing that declares: ‘Station closed.’ These are such bold words for so early in the morning, as if someone has finally dared to break the routine that has kept London together this long. I think about how far I will need to run to get to Victoria, or any other station, and how they might be shut too. It makes me run quicker, determined that I will be one of those last few to squeeze through the closing gates.
I know that I am not alone, not the only one rushing towards something and away from something else. Most of the people around me are running now, their hands outstretched as if they are trying to pull themselves past the next person. It has truly become every human for themselves. There are women with children, and a few older people, but they stand no chance. It becomes obvious that the few winners past this line will be the younger, alpha males and maybe a few unimportant hopefuls like me.
Sweat is streaming down my face, and my coat is smothering me. My bag is so heavy that I feel like it is trying to anchor me to the same spot, whilst everyone else seems to be getting ahead in this new fight for freedom. My legs get heavier as I keep pushing myself forward, now certain that this is my only chance of escape. My walk from the flat had quickly turned into a light jog, as I overheard people telling each other that the barricades had fallen. I listened to them, hearing that despite the sheer numbers of our brave soldiers, they were overwhelmed within minutes. I heard someone else shout that the newly built city defences had been breached and all remaining troops were being airlifted out, so that some resemblance of an army still remained. That’s when I knew that I had to make it out of here. I didn’t know where but since everyone was running towards the station I did the same, figuring it was time to catch that train to the countryside, to my parents and whatever fate awaits us all.
As I see the tube staff step back behind the invisible boundary that will soon become their only safety, I already know in my heart that it’s too late, that these gates will shut for good. I wonder if going underground is the right thing to do. It will mean my phone is useless and will perhaps deprive me of my last chance to tell my parents that I love them. I feel my phone vibrate again in my pocket and I know it’s them: my mum will tell me to come home, my dad will tell me I should have done it days ago. I don’t stop now; I don’t even think about answering it. I think only about getting into the tube station, getting up to Euston and catching the train, any train, out of London and closer to them. I will call them later, when I can, and that call will tell them that I am on my way home and that we will not be defeated.
I focus every ounce of my being on getting towards the entrance and the few police officers who are trying to calm down the onslaught that approaches them. When I am ten paces away I see that they are giving up, as they retreat into the station and take hold of the two metal gates. They start to push them shut as the people who approach and squeeze through become the lucky final few. The rest of us are clearly destined to become the mob, an ever-growing onslaught of flesh against these gates of freedom.
I take one final look around and see the masses that are gathering behind me, crowds of people funnelling down every street that lead to this one last place of apparent safety. As I look forward again I see the paint has been scraped off the metal gates; I see the shock in the eyes of the police officers, who must be wondering if they will ever be able to hold back the tide of bodies that are lapping against them. Behind them I see a few more officers with cylinders of pepper-spray drawn, threats to unleash their contents filling the air and openly warning everyone as to what will follow, should we not stand back and leave.
The gates are nearly closed now as too many people try to force their way into the tiny space. I see a man smash into the gates, his screams distinct. Several other people start to push at his back until his voice can be heard no more. ‘Let us in,’ they shout, a mixture of pleas and demands, all wanting to be the one who is heard.
When I reach the front of the crowd, I think about what to do next. I know that I will be crushed if I don’t do something soon. I put a hand on each door, as I look through the small gaps to find the young man who has the keys to my survival. I catch his eyes and he sees me, before his concentration turns back to the bundle of metal jingling in his hands. The other around him are shouting now, demanding that he finds the right one and that he does his duty. Behind them, the officers with pepper spray release it into the crowd. There are screams all around me – the yells of those caught with pain in their eyes. They have nowhere to move, and I hear the cries of those who are being crushed against the metal slats, their skin pushed through any small space until it turns red and raw.
The man with the key’s failure may well be my salvation, as the two big men either side of me prove to be stronger than our uniformed foes on the inside. They manage to get the doors open, just enough for a few people to squeeze through. Two younger guys push past me and make their way in, their bodies twisted sideways, so desperate that they contort and bend themselves until they are successfully through. The police fight them back at first, until they regroup with the obvious realisation that their aim must be to permanently seal
this station from the endless masses of desperate invaders.
I push and I fight but I still don’t seem to get close enough to get through. Those men inside seem to regain control as the doors come closer to joining, which will seal the fate of those outside. I think about giving up, and about how I can escape this nightmare and find some space to rethink my plan, maybe even find some like-minded people.
I’m about to turn away when a thick, hairy arm comes out of the mess of limbs and bodies. I look up past many tattoos, each one seeming to have a story behind it, eventually finding the face of a man the age of my dad but with the determination and bulk of a sailor, and a week’s worth of stubble that’s about to become a beard. ‘Get in there,’ he says through gritted teeth in a deep, Irish accent. He pushes me forward, and I pass through a gap so narrow you would never have thought it possible.
I look into his eyes; they are dark and determined, like he’s seen a few of these battles in his time. He looks back at me as he tries to withdraw his arm and I realise that I’m now in another place from him. I’m inside, the dim lighting of the underground station entrance starkly different from the world that’s now a whole foot away from me. I grab his hand, feeling the thickness of his warm fingers. I pull him, somehow willing my saviour to join me, but it’s too late. The gates close, and over the clanging of metal I hear the cries of my man, his forearm trapped as our worlds are separated.
I quickly let go, realising the pain I have caused him. He falls to the floor and I fall with him, making repeated tearful apologies to my hero and to all those who are with him. Big, black boots soon surround me as the officers unleash their spray on him. He screams in pain and pulls his arm out and back towards his body. Blood flows down his leathery flesh as I see this new wound has cut to the bone.
People push against his head as he rubs his eyes and tries to focus on me. I reach my hands through one of the gaps. I know that I am risking getting my fingers chopped off, but I’m determined to hold him. I stroke his chin as he grabs my hand and pushes my fingers against his stubble. ‘Are you an angel?’ he shouts, his head banging against the metal, his face covered in tears, blood and oil.
The boy with the keys returns but he’s still shaking too much to work the lock. One of the other men grabs them off him and pushes him across the floor. He lands a few feet away and I soon hear that the keys have been successfully turned in the lock. The police stand back, and I hear the flick of batons, as I sense that horrific spray filling the air ahead of me. They fire indiscriminately into the crowd, trying to make them withdraw, determined to make them realise that staying in this place is no longer an option. I don’t think they understand that those at the back can’t see this; they haven’t realised what is happening and they are pushing further forward, impatiently demanding their turn at the front of the queue.
I look at my man and see that his head is falling. I grip his hand harder, reminding him that I’m still here. He suddenly comes back to life, as he smiles at me through all that pain. I see blood flowing down his forearm and tears streaming down his face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, starting to cry at what I have caused.
His head hits the metal gate again. He reacts by pushing the people back with whatever energy he has left, for what might be the last time. ‘Don’t say sorry, angel, say thank you.’
I reach further out, deeper into my despair, until I can run a finger through his black hair. ‘Thank you,’ I say, several times, until he finally responds with a smile.
I suddenly feel hands on my back, reaching under my arms, and I’m quickly pulled to my feet. I turn round and see that one of the officers is shouting at me. It takes me a second to find his voice amongst the hundreds, and then I realise that he is telling me to get down the escalator. I ignore him and turn back to my hero, my man who was fresh to the fight. I try to kneel down but the officer still has a hold on me and is shouting from behind me.
I look at this eternally brave man and he looks up at me. His face is covered in new gashes, which have been caused by the wild crowd in the few seconds since I left him. ‘Run now, angel,’ he says, his battered face looking defeated, but his spirit somehow still with me.
I shake my head, tears still streaming down my face. ‘Thank you,’ I mutter.
I can’t see what he offers back or witness the pain he will now endure in the name of my safety. My body is spun around, until I’m pointing towards the escalators. I feel dizzy when I try to turn back, but I’m met with the yells of the officer, for what I think might be the last time. I obey and run through the ticket barriers, which have been open for days now.
I don’t dare turn around, and instead I join the back of the small crowd of the other lucky ones. They funnel themselves into a line, and I push my way onto the escalator. I move over to the left side of the escalator, hopeful it will be slightly quicker, and that once I get down there I will feel better. I see the tracks and look up at the board, thinking only of the future, knowing that salvation in the form of a long metal cylinder will soon speed into sight to take us all away. If I can get on that northbound train, I will know I can make it, and if the tube is working then the trains might be running too. I keep telling myself this, remembering the regular briefings I have had as a lucky member of the press. The human urge to keep things regular, to protect our way of life, will ultimately save me, I know it will.
But today there is no quick movement, and no chance of pushing in. The people on both sides of the turned-off escalator remain totally still. I try to look past the man in front of me. He’s wearing a black coat, his briefcase still in his hand and a thin line of dandruff runs across his shoulders. I wonder if he realises what is happening – how far the depths of his denial go, and if they make it all the way to a tie still wrapped firmly around his neck.
I can hear shouting ahead, ‘Move down the platform, now! Just fucking move!’ It makes me think of how busy it is down there. Perhaps it is just as chaotic down there as it is outside, where my hero still hopefully fights to survive. The shouting doesn’t stop. People seem to be shoving their way forward, pushing everyone else deeper into the tunnel.
‘There are severe delays on the Victoria Line,’ the computer announcement says, swiftly followed by the tube staff saying the same thing, shouting down the platform, trying to make sure everyone knows just how screwed we really are.
I squeeze past people, fitting through spaces so small that you wouldn’t think it possible. I don’t know where I’m heading but I figure that the further I go the more space I might find, as though despite everyone huddling together on one part of the platform, there might still be a lot of space that no one has spotted yet. I keep moving, trying to get to the same spot I go to every morning. I look down, trying to find the chewing gum caked into the floor that marks my regular personal space where I always stand.
I get near but I’m not as close to that spot as normal. I see two members of tube staff, all snuggled up in their bulky silver and blue coats, and I figure being next to them would be a good place to wait, certainly as safe as anywhere else. The boards have no times displayed on them and these two are frantically talking to each other whilst pinning their radios to their ears. They stop for a second to give each other a look; it’s at this moment that time literally freezes and all the drama and people demanding around them means nothing.
I move closer, ready to ask something.
One of them starts talking into their microphone and it takes me a second to realise that what he is saying is being announced across the PA system. I can see and hear the choking in his voice and the fear in his eyes. ‘There are no more northbound trains, I repeat, there are no more northbound trains,’ he says, much to the shock of everyone standing with me on the northbound platform.
Someone grabs him, pulling his arm and demanding his attention. ‘It’s only 7:15 in the morning so how can this be?’
He pushes them off him and his colleague comes closer. They stand side-by-side, as if safety in numbers wil
l ever help them. Their uniforms make them targets for questions I don’t think they can answer. They huddle together, their attention back on their radios and the secret things that only they know.
‘Control room, come in please,’ one of them says, tapping his radio whilst staring at his partner. ‘Control room, say again.’
They suddenly look at each other. That kind of gaze has become too familiar to me now. ‘It’s down here, on the tracks, in the network,’ one of them says, his eyes bulging with horror.
The other one grabs his mouth as those around them start to ask what they mean. ‘Everyone needs to board this next train,’ he shouts. ‘This train will be heading back south.’
People start grabbing them again. They try to pull away, but they don’t know where to go any more than the rest of us do. They hold onto each other as questions, demands and pleas come in from every angle.
‘We need to get to Camden,’ this woman says, staring at them through red, worn-out eyes, whilst cradling her two young ones nearby. ‘My husband is there and we need to get to him.’
‘There is nothing northbound,’ the man says again, turning away from her as soon as he has finished his answer, her face probably not even registering in his mind.
She must need more, must be desperate for someone to help, because she pulls at his coat, then taps on it with a skinny finger. ‘Please help me,’ she says, her face scrunched up and tears streaming down her face. ‘He didn’t come home last night.’
The man brutally pulls her hands off him without any of the emotions any human would normally feel in such a situation. His exhaustion and confusion has conditioned him to this new way of life. ‘I just told you: there is absolutely nothing north of the river.’
She turns to me, her face begging. She can’t hold things together now, not even for her children. ‘What does he mean?’
