Tubing Page 4

  Jas’s expression suddenly changed: his eyes grew so wide, she thought they were going to pop out of their sockets and roll across the desk. ‘No … ’ he said. ‘It’s not Alicia, is it?’

  Polly thought for a second. Should she? Then she slowly nodded.

  Jas erupted from his chair, bouncing up and down with excitement. ‘She is fucking filthy – I knew she was.’

  ‘Jas, Jas!’ Polly exclaimed, trying to calm him down. ‘This is just between us, right? I promised I wouldn’t say anything.’

  ‘We’re safe,’ he replied, his eyes glazed in the midst of a fantasy.

  ‘So?’ said Polly. ‘How did you find out about it?’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah. I was doing an … ahem … ’ he looked up at her sheepishly ‘ … an online chat thing.’

  Polly looked back at him confused.

  ‘You know what I mean, right?’ he continued.

  She had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘OK, OK, I was in a sex chat room,’ he admitted, his face flushing slightly. ‘Some dudes were talking about it.’

  ‘But how did you get involved? Arrange a hook-up?’

  He was still for a second, then swivelled his chair round and stood up. ‘Sit down, Polly,’ he said, pulling a spare chair up to his desk.

  She sat. Then he sat.

  ‘I’m going to be honest with you, just like you’ve been with me about Alicia. We can trust each other, right?’

  ‘Of course.’ Polly could feel the butterflies in her stomach.

  ‘I’ve never actually done it … ’ Then he added quickly, ‘Tubing, I mean.’

  The butterflies dive-bombed to the pit of her gut. ‘Oh.’ It was hard to hide her disappointment.

  They were both silent, neither able to look the other in the eye. Then Polly said, ‘Well, what did they say about it in this chat room?’

  ‘OMG, it was total filth. This guy started — ’

  ‘No, no, not that,’ Polly cut him off. ‘I mean, about how they met. If they were strangers, how did they know who to approach?’

  ‘No idea. I googled it, but couldn’t find anything. I think it’s a secret thing – only people in the know are allowed in, not mere mortals like you and me, Polly.’ He laughed. Polly didn’t. ‘That, or … ’ He trailed off.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘You know what blokes are like. It’s probably a load of shit.’

  ‘No, it’s definitely not … ’ She stopped herself.

  Jas looked surprised. ‘You what? Polly? Tell, tell.’

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ she said hastily, backing out of his office.

  She left him shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Polly!’ he said. ‘Alicia’s one thing, but you … ’ She darted down the stairs.

  She went home that evening feeling depressed. It got the weekend off to a bad start. Oliver kept asking her what was wrong, which made her feel worse – not only had she cheated on him, but she was in a foul mood because she couldn’t figure out how to do it again. The more elusive tubing became, the more she wanted it. They were supposed to have dinner with a group of Oliver’s friends on Saturday night. She couldn’t bear it, so faked a migraine and spent the evening alone in the flat eating chocolate and cheese, and watching Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet. She knew every line.

  She reeled between elation at the memory of what had happened, and a kind of despair over the loss of it. The entire encounter had probably only lasted four minutes at the most. She’d only seen him and known him for four minutes. But she’d never felt anything like it; the experience had been so raw and exhilarating. She had to see him, she just had to. She felt consumed by the memory, consumed by him. In moments of lucidity she could see how ridiculous she was being, but the feelings overwhelmed her and she could think of nothing but him and how he’d touched her and how the other people on the train had been around them, standing right next to them, not seeing them, no idea what was happening right under their noses.

  On Sunday she felt rotten. She’d overindulged and now had a migraine for real. She spent most of the day in bed feeling miserable.

  By Monday, the fingertip bruises on her thighs had almost gone. Only four barely distinguishable yellow marks remained.

  When she pressed on them, she felt nothing. All hopes of finding him were fading.

  Six

  Polly scrunched her face up in disgust.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said.

  She heard the words before she realised she’d said them out loud. The couple sitting across from her looked up and exchanged glances.

  She smiled weakly, then quickly turned to look out of the window.

  She was on a bus. Two weeks had passed since the tubing incident and she knew nothing more. She was doing her best to forget all about it; she’d wound herself up in knots with it and it was going nowhere. She’d decided to stop taking the tube. But the more she told herself to stop thinking about it, the more frequently the flashbacks came, each with a little more detail added until it had become the full-length porn version that had just popped into her head.

  She’d been thinking about something else entirely, working out what she needed to take to the dry cleaners, when out of nowhere she had been struck by an image of herself completely naked on a tube train. He was fully clothed. He sidled up behind her, running his hands up and down the bare flesh of her back, turned her round and bent her forward, placing her hands on the seat in front. The train was packed with people, but no one appeared to notice them. He undid his trousers, letting them fall to the floor, and then fucked her from behind. She was slippery with sweat, moaning as he pummelled into her harder and harder.

  It was filthy. But there was nothing she could do to stop it – the more she tried, the worse the fantasies got.

  The couple sitting opposite got off a few stops later. She turned front again. She gently massaged her aching neck until it eased.

  The couple had left their newspaper behind on the seat. Polly leant forward and picked it up. She had at least another fifteen minutes until she got to Holborn. Getting the bus to work every day was becoming a pain – it took half an hour longer than the tube.

  She flicked through the paper. There was nothing of interest. She stopped on a story about a farmer who got his arm trapped in a tractor and cut it off with his own penknife, and one about a woman who jumped in front of a tube train at King’s Cross, decapitating herself in the process. She liked the gruesome stories.

  She was almost done with the paper when she noticed a feature about a new dating site. It had been set up for men and women who wanted to hook up with people they spotted out and about in London. There was an interview with the couple who’d started the site. The girl had been sitting opposite the guy on a bus in Shoreditch. They’d smiled at one another and he’d even waved goodbye when she got off at her stop. At the centre of the feature was a picture of her getting off the bus and him waving to re-enact the scene. The girl had really regretted not talking to him, so had started a social media campaign to find him. She’d posted details everywhere: of the bus they were on, what time, description of him, description of her – she even had a hashtag going.

  The hashtag bit caught Polly’s attention. She pulled out her phone and typed #Tubing into the search, but only found herself scrolling through yet more pictures of people riding huge rubber rings down rapids and snowy mountains.

  ‘Urghh,’ she said aloud.

  Her stop was just coming up. She got to her feet and stomped off the bus. She was so preoccupied, she didn’t see the black cab hurtling towards her as she crossed the road. She got a mouthful of abuse from the driver as he swerved round her. She barely looked up from her phone.

  Once in the office, she dumped her bag down next to her desk and crumpled into her chair. She sat for several minutes before opening her laptop and typing ‘#TubingLondon’. It brought up a couple of twitter posts, mostly pictures of crowded stations or service messages. A map of the London Underground also came up. She stare
d at the names of the stations, then went back to the search and typed ‘#TubingHolborn’.

  She found what she was looking for immediately. The first post was from yesterday.

  Male hook up with male. Central Line. Holborn west bound train. Third carriage. 7 p.m. tonight. Wear green top. #TubingHolborn

  One user had liked the post. She clicked on their username: @terri127re. It took her to a blank profile.

  There followed other posts from earlier in the month. She clicked on the first handle; again it took her to a blank profile. She clicked on the next – again a blank profile. All the profiles were blank.

  She typed ‘#TubingLeicesterSquare’. The first post was from today.

  male hook up female. northern line leicester square southbound. last carriage 11pm. #TubingLeicesterSquare

  She clicked on the handle: @can852ran. There was no picture or any other information. The profile had only just been set up that month.

  Seven

  Polly was sitting in a pub in Maida Vale. She snuck a look at the time on her mobile. It was 10.22 p.m. – just over half an hour to go. It would take her at least that to get to Leicester Square from where she was. She drummed her fingers nervously on the table.

  She was waiting for Charlotte to come back from the bar. Ever since Polly and Oliver had started going out, his sister had been insisting they meet up for monthly suppers, just the two of them. Charlotte said it was because she wanted them to get to know one another better, but it was a thin disguise for the regular grilling Polly received.

  She couldn’t believe it when she’d flicked through her diary that afternoon and seen the dinner date with Charlotte pencilled in. ‘Of all the fucking days,’ she’d muttered to herself. She had spent an hour building up the courage to call and cancel. She’d chickened out three times, hanging up before the first ring. It had occurred to her that maybe the dinner was a sign meant to bring her to her senses. In the end she had decided that was nonsense and finally let the phone ring long enough for Charlotte to answer. In a nervous voice, she’d told Charlotte she needed to work late so couldn’t make it. Charlotte had refused to accept her excuse, and had told her she’d be waiting for her at the restaurant as arranged. There was no arguing with Charlotte.

  Polly had arrived at the pub an hour late. She couldn’t quite believe it when she got there and Charlotte was still there waiting; she’d been hoping she’d have given up and gone home. There was a dribble of red wine left in her glass and a look of disappointment on her face.

  Charlotte had chosen a table right at the back, even though there were empty ones next to the full-length frontage that opened up on to the bustling pavement. The air was stifling this far back. Polly had picked up the menu from the table and used it to fan herself. Charlotte had immediately plucked it out of her hand and returned it to the table.

  Charlotte had been adamant that Polly order a main course, even though she only wanted a starter. In the end, Polly had relented and ordered a chicken Caesar salad with the dressing on the side. Charlotte had ordered steak and chunky chips. When their food arrived, Charlotte had wolfed hers down at speed. Polly’s dish arrived drenched in dressing. She’d spent most of the meal carefully dissecting the salad, hunting for dry leaves, while enviously watching Charlotte pop each forkful of rare meat and ketchup into her mouth. She couldn’t understand how Charlotte managed to stay so thin despite having the diet of a teenager. She should have been fat and spotty, with all the grease and sugar she consumed, but she was like a china doll, with her porcelain complexion and delicate features. She’d been single ever since Polly had known her, something she couldn’t fathom. There were always men buzzing round, but she never seemed interested.

  ‘Here we go.’ Charlotte was back from the bar. She put the drinks down on the table. Polly didn’t register her return.

  ‘Polly,’ Charlotte said in a shrill voice.

  ‘Huh? Oh, thanks,’ said Polly when she saw the drink in front of her. She’d asked for a Diet Coke. She’d already had a couple of glasses of wine and wanted to keep a semi-clear head for later. She took a sip; it wasn’t diet.

  ‘So, tell me about work,’ said Charlotte, getting comfortable in her seat again. ‘Oliver tells me the job is going well.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s great,’ she replied. She could feel the minutes slipping by. She needed to come up with a quick excuse and get going.

  ‘And Oliver’s flat – everything OK there?’

  She always referred to it as Oliver’s flat; it was a gentle reminder.

  ‘Fine,’ Polly replied, the tips of her fingers playing with the cold condensation running down the side of her glass.

  ‘Did Oliver mention I managed to get theatre tickets for Friday? Good seats too – we’re in the Royal Circle.’

  ‘Right,’ replied Polly absently.

  Charlotte turned her head until she was looking at her sideways like an inquisitive cat.

  ‘Is everything OK, Polly?’ she asked. ‘You don’t seem at all with it this evening.’

  Polly seized her chance. ‘Actually, Charlotte, I’m not feeling that great.’ She dithered for a moment – time of the month or diarrhoea? ‘Time of the month.’ It was a lie; Polly couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a period.

  ‘I have some painkillers.’ Charlotte picked up her handbag and unzipped it. From across the table, Polly could see it was immaculately packed and organised. She went straight to the buttoned-down secret pocket at the back and extracted two ibuprofen.

  ‘Been drinking.’ Polly shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t really.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Charlotte said, shoving the tablets at her.

  ‘I really don’t like to,’ she replied. ‘I think I’ll just go home. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Polly was glad she’d chosen period pains over the runs. Charlotte, like all the other members of her family, was a surgeon, so had no time for trivial ailments – they dealt in real illness. She could see how much even a complaint of period pains was irritating her.

  Charlotte looked at Polly for a long time before speaking. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling unwell, Polly?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know … you seem different, and you’ve dressed up a bit. I never normally see you looking like this.’

  Polly instantly regretted keeping her heels on and doing her make-up in the toilets at work before she left. She’d even hitched up her skirt a bit and unbuttoned her top as much as she thought she could get away with.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Polly said as boldly as she could. ‘I always dress like this.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Charlotte suspiciously. ‘Looks to me like you’re planning on going somewhere else tonight.’

  ‘No,’ Polly snapped back.

  They sat in silence. Polly was too scared to say anything else.

  Eventually Charlotte said, ‘I have to go now anyway, I’m in surgery early tomorrow morning.’

  Polly was out of there like a shot.

  Outside the pub, she checked the time – it was 10.40. She walked quickly to the end of the road, then started running once she was sure the pub and Charlotte were out of sight. Her run only lasted thirty seconds, until she bent her ankle over the side of her heel. She limped the rest of the way to the tube station.

  Luckily a train was just pulling in when she got to the platform. By 10.50 she was at Piccadilly Circus. But at that point her luck ran out – signalling problems meant the Piccadilly Line wasn’t running. After a mad hobble along Coventry Street, she got to Leicester Square.

  Once through the barriers, she quickly made her way down the escalator to the southbound platform of the Northern Line. It was busy with late-night drinkers and tourists. She looked up at the board – a train was due to arrive in one minute. That was too early, the message had said 11 p.m. The one after was due in three minutes, which would make it 11.01 p.m., about right.

  Now her rush was over, her heartbeat caught
up with her and she realised she was sweating. She collapsed on a bench and used her hand to fan herself.

  A warm gust of air signalled the next train’s arrival. Most of the people on the platform moved forward to get on it. Polly watched the few that hung back. One of them must be here for the meeting. There were two guys huddled together chatting, a family of tourists, and a young woman on her own, gazing into space. Despite her vacant stare, she seemed nervous, constantly tapping and flicking the strap of the bag hung across her chest. It must be her.

  Polly couldn’t take her eyes off her. She was pretty, in a mousey kind of way. She had long, straight brown hair and a heavily made-up face. It was obvious she didn’t usually wear make-up – the colours didn’t suit her and she’d used too much or too little in all the wrong places. She was wearing a flimsy black sleeveless dress with pull ties at either side of her waist, and a pair of black-heeled ankle boots. It was a strange outfit. The boots weren’t meant for show; they should have been hidden under a pair of jeans or trousers. She didn’t have any tights on, either, so a milky expanse of skin was visible.

  The loud click-clack of kitten heels coming from the other direction interrupted Polly’s thoughts. She turned to see a tall blonde walking on to the platform. She was wearing a tight red dress and cropped leather jacket. She turned right and made her way towards Mousey and the end of the platform. She was alone. Polly was suddenly unsure. Perhaps it wasn’t Mousey – maybe it was the blonde? They were both standing at the end of the platform. Polly stood up, watching both of them, trying to figure it out.

  The train broke through the darkness of the tunnel and came to rest in the station. The doors beeped, then opened. Within seconds, disembarking passengers were flooding on to the platform. Both women stepped up, ready to board the same carriage. Polly followed. But then Mousey suddenly sidestepped and went for the end carriage. Polly suddenly remembered the message: the last carriage. She tried to catch up and lunged through the doors nearest just as they started closing. She hadn’t made it into the same carriage as Mousey, she was in the one behind, but there was a small windowed door adjoining them that she could see through.