Authors: G. L. Watt
Summer ended in a late blaze of glory but autumn was wet. In the underground network of railway track beneath the streets of London, the weather was immaterial. Even day and night were all the same to the travelling public. Ben Jacobs finally was coming home to London, the city of his birth from his tour of duty at the British Embassy in Paris. It was nearing the end of October and six thirty at night the worst possible time to travel.
If they still attached roof-straps to London Underground trains, Ben would have hung on to one. Instead he hunched his body against a pole and held the position against all on-comers. I should have caught an earlier flight, he thought. Then I wouldn’t have to battle with bloody train commuters as well. There were around eighty other passengers in his carriage, all trying to ignore each other, but Ben’s cases seemed to be in everyone’s way. Suddenly he felt tired and very alone. His marriage was over and he had no-one to come home to.
The train was on a direct route from Heathrow Airport Terminal 3, yet the fourteen mile journey to his final destination had so far taken him longer than the flight from Paris. Thank God I’m on the Piccadilly line. I won’t need to change trains with these bags in tow, he thought. What was that? What did it say? An onboard announcement was competing against the background noise for his attention. That’s a relief. It must be my stop next.
Inside the railway tunnel, the nearer he got to Russell Square station, the more claustrophobic he felt. Get a grip, he thought, and patted his overcoat pocket. He was checking that the keys to an apartment he had never seen, owned by a man he hardly knew, were still safely in place. A flash of light and the train re-emerged from the gloom. It thundered to a halt alongside the platform edge. Elbowing through the swell of people overflowing the carriage, he lurched sideways onto the platform. He put his cases down while he waited for the crowd to disperse. Despite the station looking depressingly dingy, it was a relief to stand there quietly while the subterranean habitués passed by. Don’t think I could do this every day, he thought. I’m sure the Paris metro system wasn’t as busy as this.
He pulled himself up to his full height, squared his shoulders, and looked for a sign to the way out. Seeing the exit, he picked up the bags once more. Not much to show for a two-year tour of duty, is it? Well, in fact three years really, if you take that car crash fiasco into account. Don’t think we’ll ever really know what happened to them in the
Alma
Tunnel. My money’s still on some kind of plot. Still, no “mud did stick”, he thought and things could have been a lot worse. At least Paris is a civilised city. I just wish I could have finished the work I started in Bosnia—seen it through to a proper conclusion. Three years earlier the aftermath of the 92-95 war was still raw. Ben and his colleagues from the peacekeeping force were trying hard to bring back some kind of normality to the region when he was sent without warning to Paris.
He shrugged his shoulders and set off along the platform. A lift took him from deep beneath London to ground level. He followed the crowd out of the station into the dark of the dismal evening.
“Infernal rain. Hope we’re not going to have a wet winter,” he muttered. “Hope I can find this place of Guy’s without too much trouble. October—ugh.”
He tried to turn up his collar and pull his scarf tighter around his neck but people jostled him as they pushed past and he gave up.
In spite of the clamour, he was surprised how much like Paris it was. There were even market stalls outside in the street. This must be the first time I’ve ever been to this station, he thought, staring behind him at the Art Nouveau designs framing the station entrance. It’s really trapped in a time warp. Shabby, too, compared to the Paris
Metro
. Then he remembered. One of the reasons he avoided Russell Square station was the horror film set here he saw as a boy. He had been terrified by it and shuddered at the memory of the creature staggering, howling along the underground track.
“Roses, lovely roses, ten for a fiver.” A distant voice shouted to no-one in particular, and in the dark a taxi horn blared at pedestrians spilling out from the pavement onto the narrow road.
Ben looked around. So this is Bloomsbury. Funny, I’ve never really thought about it before. It’s probably the closest thing I’ve seen to the
Rive
Gauche
, this side of the channel. I feel like I’m walking in the steps of history with all those famous intellectuals who lived here in the past. Not to mention the artists. I feel sure University College London is nearby somewhere, and I know The British Museum’s just down the road. As he tried to cross the road, the traffic seemed fast and furious. It’s almost as bad as Paris in the rush hour, he thought and smiled. Strange it’s become a memory when only yesterday I lived in the place. And, to think, I didn’t want to go there.
He enjoyed his stay in Paris, despite a shaky start. He liked the atmosphere and the cafe society. Maybe it was because he felt at home in mainland Europe—going back to his roots. But the posting nearly caused him to end his military career and resign his commission. I didn’t join the Army to become a small-talking bloody cocktail waiter, he thought. And that was what it felt like a lot of the time, having to play host at all those damned embassy receptions. The simple matter of how to make a living outside the Army finally put a lid on the notion of resignation.
What made the difference and saved his sanity was being told to set up the Joint European Intelligence Unit. Doing something worthwhile made his life much more bearable. Despite his initial resistance to the Paris posting, he asked to be extended by six months.
He noticed a well lit coffee bar across the street and, dodging the cars, decided to boost his energy before finding his future home. From a seat near the window he drank a large black coffee and watched his fellow customers. I always thought this area would be full of academics, he thought, not all these kids. Then the realisation dawned. Well, blow me, these youngsters
are
academics. Carefully tuning in to some of the conversations, he overheard animated debates about physics and philosophy, microbiology and art.
“God, this makes me feel old. I’m only thirty-five but I reckon some of the people in here are almost young enough to be my children.”
The young man clearing tables looked up and smiled sympathetically.
Ben drained his cup and left. Back out in the street he frowned. My father insisted that Kenton Street was directly opposite the station. “We started married life at Russell Square,” he used to say, meaning the underground station not the square itself. He said he lived there when he first married Ma. Well
I
can’t see it.
Opposite him, as well as the station entrance, a small terrace of Georgian houses stretched away to the east. A large Victorian hotel dominated the western end of the road, but to the north, where the other road should be, a flight of broad steps led up to a futuristic housing complex and a pedestrianised shopping mall bustling with people. There was no sight of the Victorian thoroughfare he was expecting. He turned left and started walking along the side of the development but still could not find the street he needed. Ten minutes later he felt that he was walking in circles. I should have bought a map. I’m sure I used to have an A to Z of London. Bet it was one of the things Julia got afterwards.
In his mind everything was before or after the divorce, a strange division that for much of the time had no basis in reality.
There was an apartment block ahead that looked promising. Then he realised the road he was in was Coram Street. “This is ridiculous!”
Still, he thought, looking about, at least the place is full of curry houses and shops. Won’t go short of anything!
He walked back to the station and then retraced his steps stopping at a large pub in Marchmont Street. Another ten minutes and a pint of beer later, he set off again complete with directions from the barman. At the top of the street, he turned right, then right again, and found himself standing in a quiet, Victorian road.
It was like stepping back in time. There was no sign of life in the street, which was strangely abbreviated and had obviously been partly demolished to make way for the new development to the South. Looking through the gloom for the apartment, he saw some Victorian mansion blocks standing side by side to his right, and a large red-brick building to his left. I wish Guy was more forthcoming. It’s my fault. I should have asked more questions, not just assumed I would be alright.
It must be here, he thought, studying the numbers on the side of one of the blocks. He tried a key in the entrance and, obediently, it opened. In the darkness in front of him was a tiny enclosed lobby with what looked like its original red and cream tessellated floor. On either side were the doorways to individual apartments. A short set of steps led up to the door he wanted that on inspection appeared to date from the nineteen twenties. Not lovingly restored though, more just unaltered, he thought. Maybe the building’s protected and they’re not allowed to change anything.
Ben paused. I must be sure, he thought. Can’t just try barging into a property already occupied by someone else. So instead of simply unlocking the door, he knocked. An eerie silence met him so he knocked again and waited. Doesn’t appear to be anyone here. He unlocked the door and cautiously let himself in.
Inside the apartment, Ben realised that apart from the creation of a shower room in what had probably started life as a broom cupboard, nothing appeared to have been renovated since its inception in the eighteen eighties. A regency chair stood against the hallway wall and Ben deferentially skirted around it. All Guy said was he had a small flat behind the British Museum that he rented out to friends. Not one filled with breakables, he thought. Must remember not to sit on that. Looks too delicate to take a man’s weight.
The other rooms were small and set out with antique furniture. He examined each room in turn until he reached the kitchen and was relieved to see it was relatively modern and held a large refrigerator. In hopeful expectation, he pulled open the door but there was nothing inside. He sighed. “That’s my first task,” he announced to the silent air, “to fill up the ‘fridge.”
No, it’s not, he thought. The first task is to get something to eat. At least around here there seems to be plenty of choice. Not exactly the
Boulevard
St
Germaine
but quite good enough for me. If I go for a stroll, retrace my steps a bit and check out the neighbourhood, I’ll get a better idea of what’s available. Doubt if I’ll be able to get any cash but at least I’ve got my cards. Should be able to pay for anything I need with them.
He changed into casual clothes and hung up his suit in the large, empty wardrobe in the hope that by the morning the creases would fall out. A free-standing Edwardian mirror checked his appearance and, satisfied with its reflection, he left the building and went out into the street.
Instead of going back up the dark road, he turned right and walked in the general direction of the new development and, by default, the station. At the end of the street he came to a small enclosed garden but it was locked, and its railings plastered in prohibition signs. “Key Holders Only. No Dogs. No Ball Games. No Cycling.” Ben stared at it.
“Good God, it can’t measure more than six by eight metres. Where’s the room to cycle? As for key holders only, why would anyone want one?” Shaking his head, he looked at the concrete wall in front of him and saw the entrance to a walkway which, in one direction, led to a modern apartment block and in the other, to the shopping area. Out of the rain and into the shops, he thought, and turned in their direction.
Something bulky ploughed into him from behind and, for a moment, he almost lost his balance. Three young men surrounded and shoved him and a shot of fear gripped his stomach. It was instantly replaced by angry incredulity. Is this really happening to me? I’ve only been back in the country five minutes.
A knife was brandished in front of his face. “Give us yer phone! And yer wallet. Move it!”
“And his watch. Get his watch!”
Fuck you, he thought and lunged at his attackers. He grabbed two of them by their right arms and spun them round so they were between him and the third one. There was a clatter as something dropped onto the wet pavement. Ben brought his knee up into the back of the man he held with his right hand, and smashed his face into the concrete wall.
“Let me go. You’re breaking my arm,” the second one screamed and with a look of fear, the third hesitated then turned tail and ran.
Shocked, Ben realised his attackers seemed even younger than the boys who were debating in the coffee bar. “Think yourselves lucky,” he barked. “Where I come from they eat kids like you for breakfast.”
Now, what the hell to do with them? He looked over their bent heads but no-one was about. Not yet, he thought. Supposing matey comes back with some of his friends? Then things might get hairy. Let them go with a shove and a “don’t do it again” comment? Supposing their next victim is someone vulnerable, less able to defend themselves? I’m sure they don’t discriminate. God knows why they picked on me, but I
was
alone.
The first attacker moaned and blood ran down his face. Ben knew that his choice was stark. Either let them go or totally disable them, while he tried to call the police. This in itself would be difficult with his phone inside his jacket.
Breaking their arms is the only option I’ve really got. How old are they? Oy Veh.
Suddenly to his relief the door to the large, red brick building opposite, whose side wall faced the mansion block he had just moved into, opened and two men emerged.
“Hey,” yelled one. “What’s going on?”
“Help,” one of the boys shouted. “He’s a nutter, attacked us fer nothin’.”
The two men ran forward across the road. Oh bugger, thought Ben. I can’t take them on, as well. I’ll have to use these two lads as a shield. He pulled them in front of him and they cried out in pain.