Tubing Read online

  Advance praise for Tubing

  ‘A highly original thriller with a fantastic hook!

  Tubing is a gripping and racy read, with plenty of shocks to be had along the journey. I tore through the final pages with my breath held.

  I will never be able to travel the tube again without thinking about this novel…’

  Sam Carrington

  ‘Tubing is a cracking read with an intriguing premise – as the twists racked up, I found it impossible to put down’

  Elizabeth Haynes

  ‘A modern-day Looking for Mr Goodbar’

  Fay Weldon

  ‘Sharp, smart and deeply erotic, this intelligent thriller offers surprises all the way to the end of the line. Essential, compulsive reading’

  Matt Thorne

  Early reader reviews

  ‘A very good read with plenty of twists and turns’

  ‘Love love love this story. Read it all in one sitting’

  ‘It gripped me from the first page and I loved the twists in it. I have no hesitation in recommending this book’

  ‘A well written tale. I would definitely read more by this author’

  ‘A five-star read that will blow your mind’

  ‘A sharp, original, erotic thriller with numerous twists and turns’

  ‘The book cracks along at a terrific pace and was different enough from anything I’ve ever read before for me to enjoy it’

  ‘I read this book in a day … it is the perfect novel for losing yourself in for a couple of hours.

  And who knew the tube could be a setting for more than a commute?!’

  ‘This was an enthralling, mysterious novel that kept you on your toes and made you second-guess who you could trust’

  TUBING

  TUBING

  K.A. McKEAGNEY

  Published by RedDoor

  www.reddoorpublishing.com

  © 2018 K.A. McKeagney

  The right of K.A. McKeagney to be identified as the author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover designer: Clare Connie Shepherd

  www.clareconnieshepherd.com

  Typesetting: WatchWord Editorial Services

  www.watchwordeditorial.co.uk

  For Dan, my one constant

  One

  She stood with her back against the toilet door. She could see her reflection in the mirrored tiles on the back wall above the cistern. Mascara and eyeliner stained her cheeks. Her hair fared no better: a halo of frizz had formed around the crown, while the rest lay lank on her shoulders. Pressure built in her nose and throat until tears were rolling down her cheeks again.

  ‘Polly?’

  She held her breath.

  ‘You in there?’

  The door pushed against her back. She’d unwittingly picked a cubicle with no lock.

  ‘Polly!’

  It was Alicia. Polly had been in the toilet for the last half-hour while Alicia sat in the bar waiting for her.

  The door pushed into her back again. She stood firm.

  ‘Please leave me alone,’ she whispered, barely audible, through gritted teeth.

  They were in a bar on Chancery Lane. It was high-end – abstract art, thick glass-panelled walls and blue-tint lighting. They’d chosen a table at the back and ordered a jug of mojito to share. Polly hadn’t been enjoying the evening. Not the fault of Alicia, her drinking companion – she was just too preoccupied with thoughts of what she wished she’d been doing.

  Polly had only known Alicia for a couple of weeks. She was the new receptionist at work. The role suited her: she lifted the mood in the otherwise stagnant office. Polly would often find herself tittering behind her laptop while Alicia batted off advances from the mostly middle-aged men in the office using her quick wit dressed up in her South London accent. They flocked to her; she was impossible to miss. Today she was wearing a tight black pencil skirt and a neon-pink bustier top so small that every time she leant forward her breasts bubbled over.

  ‘So, hon,’ Alicia had said, after the third jug of cocktails had arrived, ‘I’ve been chattin’ for ages. How’s you?’

  She was right, she’d been talking solidly for the last few hours, but Polly didn’t mind; she wasn’t in the mood to talk. She was just entering the ‘tired’ phase of being drunk on an empty stomach. ‘Fine,’ she replied. She could have said more, but hoped she wouldn’t have to.

  ‘Just fine? There must be more going on than just fine.’

  Polly looked at Alicia; she was beaming at her expectantly.

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual … just the usual.’ She tried to shrug her shoulders but her entire body felt like a dead weight.

  ‘How’s your fella? Oliver? That’s his name, right?’

  Polly gave a single nod.

  ‘What does he do again?’

  ‘Orthopaedic surgeon.’

  ‘Sweet,’ Alicia said, her eyes suddenly wide and shining. ‘You bagged yourself a doctor – lucky lady. He got any cute doctor friends?’

  Polly smiled, but didn’t bother to answer.

  ‘You guys been together long?’

  ‘Three years to the day,’ Polly replied with a snort.

  ‘It’s your anniversary? Today?’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘What the hell ya doin’ here gettin’ drunk with me?’

  Polly slumped down deeper into her seat and started flicking the straw in her cocktail glass.

  ‘Oh,’ said Alicia.

  ‘We never said we’d make a big deal of it,’ said Polly, suddenly defensive. But she had been hopeful. Unfortunately, no big surprise had materialised. She’d seen Oliver briefly that morning. He’d left barely the impression of a kiss on her forehead as he ran out of the door, saying he was due in surgery all day and not to wait up.

  ‘You wanna talk about it, hon?’ Alicia asked.

  Polly could feel tears pricking her eyes.

  When they had first arrived at the bar, it’d been empty, but now several hours later it was packed. The noise of chatter and pounding minimal-techno was making her head hurt. She turned to look at the table next to them. It was swarming with City boys, all eagerly licking their lips, waiting for the slightest sign of encouragement. This was the last place she wanted to be. She needed to get out.

  ‘I gotta go to the loo.’ Her voice breaking, she grabbed her bag and got to her feet.

  ‘Oh, hon, don’t cry,’ Alicia said, reaching forward. But Polly was already up.

  ‘I’m OK,’ she said, swallowing hard, trying to make the lump in her throat go away. ‘I just need a minute.’

  Polly had to fight her way through the crowd to get to the ladies’ toilet. She was almost there when she heard someone call her name. She turned around.

  ‘Polly? Oh, my God, it is you. What on earth are you doing here?’

  It was Charlotte, Oliver’s older sister.

  Charlotte glided through the crowd as it parted for her. It was the way things were for Charlotte; she had the kind of poise that meant she floated everywhere. She looked beautiful, a crossover dark green dress wrapped her enviable figure, her make-up was perfect, and her soft blonde hair
was swept up effortlessly away from her face. Polly couldn’t help looking down at her own clothes. She winced when she realised she was wearing her trainers; she’d left her heels under her desk at work.

  Charlotte leant over and air-kissed Polly on each cheek, blanketing her with a heavy, sweet scent. ‘I didn’t know you drank here,’ she said, giving her a quick glance up and down. ‘Can’t imagine it being your sort of place.’

  ‘I don’t usually. Just came down for drinks after work.’

  ‘Is Oliver here?’ Charlotte said eagerly, looking round for her brother.

  ‘No, just me and a friend from work,’ Polly said sheepishly.

  ‘Oh … ’ Charlotte looked confused. ‘I thought you and Oliver were — ’

  ‘Charlotte!’ someone shouted from behind, cutting them off. They both turned to see a guy in thick-rimmed glasses making a gesture to ask if she wanted another drink.

  ‘Be there in a sec,’ Charlotte called back in her sweetest voice, before turning back to Polly. ‘Jesus, I can’t wait to get out of this bloody place. Muggins here has once again been tasked with taking the visiting surgeons out to see the sights and sounds of London. I might put on a couple of stone and stop washing so they don’t ask me again,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Shame Oliver’s not around,’ she continued. ‘He’d have them tied up in knots over the new diagnostic guidelines for arthroscopy to treat meniscal tears,’ she finished with a chuckle, then stopped when she realised Polly hadn’t got the joke.

  At the mention of Oliver’s name, Polly felt tears burning her eyes again.

  Suddenly Charlotte paused. ‘Did he … ?’ She grabbed Polly’s left hand, gripping her fingers hard, then said, ‘No, good.’

  ‘What?’ Polly said, pulling her hand away, shaking it after the unnecessarily hard squeeze.

  ‘Nothing. I have to go.’ And Charlotte was gone, the crowd parting for her as it had before.

  Polly pushed her way through to the ladies’, tears streaming down her face.

  She listened carefully, waiting to hear Alicia leave. When she was sure she’d gone, she slowly started bouncing the back of her head against the toilet door. It made a satisfying clunk with every hit. Polly knew what she needed to do to make herself feel better. She turned round, lifted the toilet seat and vomited. She didn’t need to put her fingers down her throat – she’d been doing it on demand since she was fourteen.

  She emerged from the toilets twenty minutes later. The table she and Alicia had occupied had been taken over by the City boys. They’d managed to ensnare several pretty young things and were busy scheming on them. Alicia was nowhere to be seen. Polly headed straight for the door.

  Once outside, she checked the time on her phone. 12.23 a.m. Three minutes until the last tube home. There were five missed calls on her phone and the voicemail icon throbbed angrily in the corner of the screen. She chose to ignore it. She dived across the busy main road and into Holborn tube station.

  As she ran through the station to the platform she could hear the train doors beeping, ready to close. She flew down the last few steps and rounded the corner. There was no way she was going to make it. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, someone ran on ahead of her and managed to get an arm and a leg through the doors, forcing them to bounce open again. She jumped in after him.

  The train was busy, the last one of the night always was. There were no seats free, so she made her way to the smaller, less crowded vestibule at the end. The carriage was stifling. The weather in London was unseasonably warm for June and the heat from the day was still trapped underground, making it humid and sticky. Polly leant back on the cool metal archway of the doorframe. She closed her eyes, too drunk to keep them open any longer.

  She occupied herself with thoughts of food. She needed comfort – bread slathered in soft butter and nutty chocolate spread. She could almost taste the salty-sweet goo in her mouth. She decided to stop at the all-night corner shop on the way home and get a baguette, if not a sliced white loaf. Also a pint of full-cream milk to wash it down with – and some laxatives, if they had any.

  The train jerked to a halt at the next station. More late-night revellers pushed their way into the carriage, pressing Polly further back. She begrudgingly opened her eyes and reasserted her bit of space in the corner.

  It was then that she noticed him.

  From the reflection in the train’s darkened window she could see that he was staring at her. At first she thought it was a trick of the light, a reflection of a reflection, making it seem as though he was looking at her. But, as she slowly turned her head to the side, his followed, until they were both facing one another.

  She had no idea how long he’d been watching her. He made no motion to look away or hide the fact that he was staring. He just stood there, perfectly still and serious, his eyes like hooks in her. She stared back, stunned for a moment, then looked behind her to try to figure out what could possibly have provoked such a reaction. There was nothing. When she turned back he was still staring.

  Polly was struck by how incredibly beautiful he was. His face looked as if it had been carved of stone, it was so striking and perfectly symmetrical. His high cheekbones and brow caught the light, making his dark brown eyes almost black. His skin was lightly tanned and his thick, sun-kissed hair was pushed back away from his face in waves. He almost didn’t look real; there wasn’t a crease, wrinkle or blemish on him – he was flawless. Neither one of them moved, both remaining perfectly still, facing one another, but something was happening between them. Polly had no idea what, but it hijacked her senses. She could still hear the rattle of the train and the low hum of chatter, but everything was out of focus; there was only him.

  They stayed like that for several seconds, until Polly’s brain caught up and she looked away. Despite her coyness, she couldn’t help letting her eyes trail down his faultless body until they reached the floor.

  As the train pulled out of the station, he slowly moved forward towards her. Polly looked around at the other commuters. No one was looking at them. Most were unwillingly drawn to a commotion in the main vestibule, where a group of girls were talking and squealing loudly in Italian, while two guys strutted round them like peacocks.

  He stopped just before their bodies touched. They lingered millimetres from one another, eyes locked. She held her breath until she felt the palms of his hands gently come into contact with hers. His touch was so slight it was almost non-existent, like a fine powder. His hands slipped into hers, slowly interlocking with her fingers.

  He continued to hold her gaze, only breaking it for a second to look down at her mouth. He pressed his lips together, as though imagining what it would feel like to kiss her. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. Without thinking, she slowly moved closer.

  When their lips met, the soft resistance fired every nerve-ending in her body. She closed her eyes as they slowly started to kiss – softly at first, then gradually he started pushing into her mouth. He let go of her hands and slipped his arms around her waist. Her entire body shivered. He pulled her in closer so their bodies had full contact. She could feel something hard digging into her hip. He took several careful steps forward, forcing her back until she felt the metal doorway behind her. The pressure on her lips began to lessen, signalling the end of their kiss. She opened her eyes. His features had softened and there was the start of a smile on his face, a mischievous smile.

  He watched her carefully as he moved his hands downwards. They stopped just above the curve of her buttocks. She didn’t want him to stop there. He read the look and started moving down further, until he reached the tops of her thighs. Again he stopped. He looked at her. She slowly nodded her head.

  Suddenly there was urgency in his movement. His hands ran up under her skirt and on to her naked thighs. Her skin puckered instantly, every hair on her body standing on end. The tips of his fingers pressed deep into her flesh as they climbed up between her legs. Her breath caught as he slipped his hand into her knick
ers. He pressed and gently pinched, teasing, before sliding his fingers deep inside her. She groaned as he pushed harder and deeper, the knot in her abdomen growing as he slid his fingers back and forth. He worked faster and faster, applying more pressure with each movement.

  As the blackness of the tube tunnel outside was replaced by the bright lights of Oxford Circus tube station Polly let out a small cry, unable to stop herself, every part of her body alive and open, flooded with sensation. She gripped on to him until the feeling passed, then opened her eyes. He was smiling at her. She suddenly remembered where she was and looked round, embarrassed. No one appeared to have noticed. She quickly straightened her clothes.

  He leant in close to her, his smooth perfection brushing the side of her face. He whispered, ‘Meet me again.’ It made her heart flutter.

  ‘Wh-what do you mean?’ she stammered, still reeling from the intimacy.

  But she didn’t get an answer. He was already on his way to the open carriage doors. She watched as he got off the train and sauntered down the platform.

  She prayed he would look back. He didn’t.

  Two

  Polly slowly drifted into consciousness. She was in bed. Daylight seeped through the flimsy window blinds illuminating her eyelids. They felt heavy and sticky, a sure sign that she’d forgotten to take off her make-up before going to bed. She cursed herself, imagining the spidery trails left all over her pillow.

  She desperately wanted more sleep, but her throat was raw and her head ached. She lay crumpled on her left side; her crushed arm and shoulder throbbed painfully. She carefully rolled over, trying to uncurl her spine and release her arm in one motion. With her eyes still sealed shut, she twisted round and groped at the bedside table for a glass of water. Her hand scurried round, identifying objects by touch – lamp base, mobile phone, splayed paperback of The Woman in White, lip balm, hairband with a nest of rogue hairs attached, tube of twenty-four-hour moisturiser – but no water. She pulled her arm back in under the duvet. As she did so, she felt skin brush against skin as the top of her arm touched her breast. She slid her hands down her body, working her way down until she felt a towel wrapped around her waist. Why wasn’t she wearing her pyjamas?