The Verdict

by Nick Stone

The train idled on the platform.

  An announcer apologised for the delay. They were waiting for a driver.

  I watched the doors – the entrance, and the inter-carriage one – waiting, hoping, praying no one else would get on.

  Another announcement: the driver had arrived and we’d be leaving in a few minutes. Once again, apologies for the delay and thanks for our patience.

  The train finally left.

  And no one had got on after me, or entered the carriage through the connecting door.

  I was instantly and overwhelmingly…

  Relieved.

  I relaxed. My bunched-up neck and back muscles loosened, my fists unclenched like a pair of unsprung traps, and my nerves stopped nagging my brain.

  Now I needed a piss. The toilet was in the middle of the train, down two carriages. Off I went, through connecting doors, past a couple of young families, some pensioners and their grandkids, a few solo travellers with wadded backpacks.

  When I was done and going back to my seat the pre-recorded station announcement was saying that Redhill was the next stop.

  I pushed open the door to the second from last carriage and started heading down.

  And then I saw her.

  A young woman with short dark hair, sitting on her own in the middle, looking out of the window.

  At least that’s what she was doing now.

  I’d sworn I’d caught her looking my way an instant ago – a quick glance, then back to watching the view rushing by in a blur.

  The woman who’d followed Swayne out of Wellington Arch had had short brown hair. And a slight build. And…?

  So had the woman who’d killed Fabia.

  Could it be her?

  Wait…

  What was I thinking?

  First up:

  I hadn’t seen the Wellington Arch woman’s face. I was too far away.

  Second:

  I didn’t know what Fabia’s killer looked like. Just the description. Oriental features. This woman looked Eurasian.

  But…

  If she was following me, surely she’d have sat in the same carriage, not halfway down the next one, with her back to the interconnecting door.

  So, I was being…

  Totally paranoid.

  So paranoid I hadn’t noticed the train had stopped at Redhill and the doors had opened, and people were getting out, and others were waiting to get in.

  As for the woman – she stood up and got off the train.

  I was still standing there, in the middle of the carriage.

  Paranoid twat.

  I went on back to my seat.

  The train carried on to:

  Nutfield.

  Godstone.

  A man got on with his daughter. I thought of Amy and taking her and Ray down to Stevenage.

  Edenbridge.

  Penshurst.

  Then I thought of my mum taking me to London and showing me the sights for the first time. The Tower of London, Tower Bridge, Madame Tussauds, Harrods at night, Westminster Abbey to light a candle even though she never went to church. She’d always made sandwiches and packed a can of Sainbsbury’s own-label crisps and lemonade for the trips.

  Leigh.

  High Brooms.

  Tonbridge.

  Last stop on this part of the ride.

  Change for Tunbridge Wells to Hastings, via Frant.

  I found the connecting train and got on the last carriage again.

  Seven fellow passengers. No one from my carriage came on.

  OK. I absolutely, definitely, was not being followed.

  Thank God.

  That was all that mattered.

  I enjoyed the view. Fields, lakes, golf courses, woodland. The pre-recorded station announcement reminded all passengers that the train would divide at Tunbridge Wells and those of us wanting to continue on our journey should move to the first four carriages.

  I got out of the train and headed up to the other end of the platform.

  And then I stopped bang in my tracks.

  What was she doing here?

  Hadn’t she got off at Redhill?

  Yes, she had.

  The dark-haired woman was standing in the middle of the platform, staring straight ahead of her – at a blank wall.

  I’d got it right the first time.

  She had been following me.

  Without thinking, I hurried towards the exit.

  I navigated my way through the clump of passengers and went up the stairs, moving as fast as I could.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  She was coming after me, but was also caught up in the crowd, queuing to get up the stairs to the exit.

  At the top of the stairs I had a brainwave:

  The exit was to my right.

  To my left was a covered footbridge leading to the opposite platform.

  I ducked down and crouch-ran along the bridge.

  I went down a few steps, squatted down.

  Then I peeked around the side.

  The woman hurried up the stairs and rushed out of the exit.

  I counted to ten.

  Then I crouch-ran back down the bridge.

  Took the stairs two at a time, made it on to the original train platform.

  The train had been separated in two.

  First four carriages.

  First one. I tried the door. It wouldn’t open.

  Next. The same.

  The train was on the verge of leaving.

  Then I saw the guard leaning out of the front carriage, beckoning to me.

  I dashed down the platform and leaped on.

  I looked out of the door.

  Fuck.

  The woman had rumbled me.

  She was back in the station, bounding down the stairs.

  She reached the platform and jumped into the nearest open carriage.

  Except…

  She’d got on the wrong part of the decoupled train. She was going back to London.

  The guard closed the door.

  Moments later we left for Frant.

  I collapsed in a seat.

  Sweaty.

  Relieved.

  Scared.

  Confused.

  All I could think about was my family: a future widow and two orphans.

  And for what?

  For who?

  Why?

  70

  Frant station was a ragstone block structure of tiled steepled roofs, chimney stacks and recessed windows, more nineteenth-century rectory than train stop. I could see why Swayne had picked it: a blink-and-miss place, strictly in the know and right in the middle of nowhere.

  I was the only person off the train, and the only person on either platform. There were fields directly in front of me, sheep grazing in one, and acres of swaying wheat in another. The only sound I could pick up was the breeze caressing the trees and the sound of a single car driving up a nearby road.

  The stationmaster was sat behind the ticket counter, reading the Daily Chronicle with the radio on in the background. He jerked to when I tapped at the partition.

  ‘I’ve come about this,’ I said, holding up the brass key.

  He squinted through the glass. ‘Locker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Number?’

  ‘Seven,’ I said.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Swayne.’

  He got up and took a file down from a shelf behind him. The radio was saying something about a demonstration in central London.

  I looked around the small office: at the season ticket poster; at the leaflet rack stuffed with tourist brochures for Historical Hastings, the Kent coast and, angled in one slot, a stack of postcards identical to the one in Swayne’s flat. When had he last been here?

  The stationmaster unlocked the door to a room opposite the ticket office and waved me in.

  There were a dozen numbered lockers fixed in two rows along the wall, all fitted with different-sized padlocks.

  When I opened up locker 7 I foun
d a large manila envelope propped up at the back. Nothing else.

  The envelope contained a single sheet of plain paper, folded over several times.

  I opened it up on the ground.

  It was the size of a large poster.

  I was looking at a professional drawing of a floor plan. I noted a reception room, a kitchen, toilets, multiple units – and a handwritten legend in a small box in the right-hand corner.

  There was nothing else in the envelope.

  An hour later I was on the train back to London.

  What did I do now?

  I was definitely being followed.

  They had me.

  They’d lost me.

  They knew I was on to them.

  Should I go to the police? Call DCI Reid?

  What could she do? Put me under police protection? Hardly. Not enough grounds. And zero proof. The best – and the most she’d offer – was to take a statement and file it away for future reference.

  In other words, I was out on my own here.

  The train started slowing. Next stop: Tunbridge Wells.

  As the platform came into view, I tensed up and slid down in my seat and searched the faces of the waiting passengers for the brown-haired woman.

  I didn’t see her.

  Charing Cross was crowded. Nothing unusual about that in itself but there was something wrong with the scene. No one was moving. People in the main concourse were standing around, talking on their phones, talking among themselves, their expressions worried to bemused. Small crowds were spilling back out of both exits, all heads turned to the outside, as if they’d been stalled by heavy rain and were waiting for it to let up. No one looked like they wanted to leave.

  As soon as I got on to the Strand I understood why.

  There was a big demo happening in Trafalgar Square, but it had started going wrong. Small groups were running up the road, all wearing balaclavas or bandannas, wielding baseball bats and bars. They were stopping just long enough to take swings at shop windows. One group was attacking a McDonald’s. Clubs to the window pane, then feet, then their shoulders. A couple of bins were on fire.

  No police around at all.

  I stood in the street, near the zebra crossing, gaping at what was happening, fascinated and fearful.

  There was a silver chopper in the air, hovering low almost directly above me. I looked up and squinted into the bright blue sky. I thought it was the cops. But no, it was Sky News.

  And then, suddenly, I was grabbed.

  Hands locked around my upper arms, lifted me off my feet and propelled me forward towards the road. A car with tinted windows screeched to a halt in front of me. The back door was flung open.

  I turned to my left. A bald man had one arm. To my right was the brown-haired woman who’d been following me. I couldn’t believe how strong she was.

  They pushed me towards the car.

  I tried to get free, writhing and wriggling; but their grips were tighter and faster than tourniquets.

  I kicked out. Got a foot to the passenger-door window, another to the rim of the roof and pushed back.

  I heard shouting all around me.

  ‘It’s the fucking cops!’

  ‘Let ’im go!’

  A semicircle of people, all bandannas and baseball bats, had formed around us.

  Suddenly the hand on my left arm went.

  I fell to the ground, hitting my arse on the kerb. The woman started dragging me towards the car.

  The bald man punched one of the bandannas in the face, and circle-kicked another in the jaw. They went down simultaneously. A third swung at him with a bat. Baldie punched him in the throat. His attacker dropped his bat and fell backwards, both hands reaching for his throat, his body convulsing.

  Next thing I knew I’d been dragged into the back of the car. Baldie got in next to me. The door slammed.

  ‘Fucking drive!’ yelled Baldie.

  What was that accent? American?

  I knew him.

  I recognised him.

  It was Jonas, the man who opened the door when Swayne and I went to Rudy Saks’s house. Swayne spoke to him in Hebrew, translated the writing on the tattoo on his arm.

  David Stratten had said the ‘tax inspectors’ came to his house with a big bald bugger.

  Fabia had said she’d last seen Evelyn Bates talking to a bodybuilder-type with a shaved head.

  It was him.

  Was that Rudy Saks at the wheel?

  The car took off fast.

  Still I struggled. Or tried to.

  The woman took out a syringe and grabbed my forearm. She shot a short jet of clear liquid out of the needle.

  Something smashed into the car.

  Then…

  WHUMMP!

  Bright white light filled the windscreen.

  Then it was covered in flame.

  The woman had let go of my arm an instant and covered her eyes.

  The car braked.

  The tyres screeched.

  We all jerked forward.

  My head went over the passenger seats, then I was thrown back.

  I saw the syringe still in the woman’s hand. Our eyes locked for a second, just as they had in the train. The adrenalin kicked in.

  The woman went for my arm with the needle, but I was faster.

  I grabbed her by the wrist, and slammed her syringe hand down on the driver’s seat.

  I meant to knock the syringe out of her hand, but instead the needle plunged into the driver’s neck.

  ‘Aaarrggh!’

  He grabbed at the syringe sticking out of him.

  Then he slumped hard over the wheel.

  The car shot forward.

  A bump, a sharp jolt, then we hit something.

  The car stopped moving for a couple of seconds. Then it started skidding sharply to the left, the tyres screeching on the road.

  The front of the car was still on fire, the window covered in flames, as thick black smoke and petrol fumes poured in through the vents.

  Jonas threw a fist at my face. I ducked. The punch slammed into the woman’s temple instead. Her head smashed into the window, cracked the glass and left blood. She slumped down.

  A mob had surrounded the car. They were kicking and pounding at it with bats.

  The windows were going. First the front, bursting in a shower of flame. Then the sides. Then the back.

  Suddenly I was grabbed from behind again. A chokehold round my neck.

  I was dragged out of the car, fighting for air.

  I landed heavily on my shoulders.

  Gasped.

  Screamed.

  Gasped again.

  I was surrounded by dozens and dozens of people, all masked. They were battering the car. Eight or nine or more of them had their hands to the sides and were rocking it, trying to turn it over. The tyres on the back wheels had ripped, and the rubber was flapping ragged around the still-spinning, sparking tyres.

  One of the mob picked me up.

  My head was spinning, my vision was going in and out of focus; my chest was burning, my mouth tasted of petrol and plastic.

  ‘Run, bruv! Run! RUN!’

  I was pushed away with force. I stumbled and fell. Then I picked myself up. Trafalgar Square on one side. Nelson’s Column, the lions, the fountain. And people. People. A mass of people. Everywhere. Running, shouting, yelling. Someone crashed into my shoulder and span me round.

  I heard sirens.

  I breathed in, deep. Smoke. Petrol. Rubber.

  My head cleared.

  And my body got another dose of adrenalin.

  And I ran.

  I just ran.

  And ran.

  And ran…

  71

  … all the way to the pub.

  I didn’t even stop to think about it.

  I wanted a drink.

  Nothing else would steady my shaking hands, and still my quaking legs.

  I wanted…

  No.

  I needed a d
rink.

  The Falcon in Clapham Junction had three kinds of Guinness on tap – standard, Extra Cold and – my all-time/old-time favourite – Export. They were also doing a two for one on Jameson. Pure Irish-combo heaven.

  The order popped right out of my mouth without hesitation and right on cue, like a line I’d been rehearsing in the mirror for years.

  I took my pint and double J and went and sat at the back of the pub, under a stained glass dome covering a skylight. It was cool and sombre there, dark wooden floors and panelled walls strung with faded satin drapes.

  I looked at the drinks on the table. The whisky fumes were sharp and heady, already making my head reel.

  Did I really want this? To do this, and undo everything else? My family, all those years of abstinence, the life I’d made since leaving the Lister…

  I’d last had a drink in 1994.

  That was 6205 days sober. Give or take.

  Think of:

  The pickled ruins in the Laughing Camel; and the creatures I saw through the window in this very place every Saturday morning.

  Did I want to end up like that?

  And wasn’t I just doing my would-be killers’ job for them?

  I still had a choice. It wasn’t a done deal yet. I could still get up and leave my transgression unconsummated, just like I had with Melissa…

  Yeah…

  RIGHT.

  I’d never ever cheat on my wife, but I’d always be true to my real mistress, the one I’d never got over or got out of my system; the one I’d always missed.

  Booze.

  Truth was: I hadn’t just liked drinking…

  I’d fucking LOVED it.

  The happy buzz the first few glasses gave me? Better than any drug I’d tried. I loved the way the high intensified; how the rush turned to soothing balm. And I loved the way I could forget my woes for a while, the six-to-eight-hour head holidays. I liked pubs. I liked talking to strangers, the pub philosophers and politicians, the barstool footballers and boxers and tennis players, the world-to-righters and the world-done-me-wrongers. No, I hadn’t liked the hangovers. I really hated those. And I hated the blackouts too. They scared me. And the morning-after depressions were horrible. All the lies I told – to others, and mostly to myself. All the friends I lost. Every single last one of them. But… that was a long long time ago. I was a different person now. I could handle it.

  Besides…

  I’d come this close to getting killed today.