Tube Riders, The (5 page)

Owen wasn’t done. While Paul watched in horror, his brother grabbed the discarded metal pipe and slammed it down on the man’s nose. Blood sprayed across Paul’s shoes and he jerked back out of the way. ‘Jesus Christ, Owen–’

‘Come on!’ Owen shouted. ‘We’ve got to get out of here! The pigs are coming!’ He kicked the looter square in the face, and Paul was dismayed to see a couple of the man’s teeth fall loose. ‘Fuck you, man!’ Owen shouted and aimed to kick the looter again but Paul dragged him backwards.

‘Owen, what did you do…?’

‘Nothing he didn’t deserve. Now let’s get out of here.’

Owen tugged on his arm and Paul let himself be dragged away. Behind them, the looter groaned, trying to pull the screwdriver free. Paul was sure that would only cause the flow of more blood, speeding up his fate.

His brother had effectively just killed a man.

They dashed out of the alley, crossed the street and slipped through a small city park, overgrown with weeds and with pulled-up swings lying on their sides across the path. On the other side of the park they slipped down a quieter residential street, then another, and finally the sirens and the shouts of the looters were gone or too distant to fear.

Paul stopped and grabbed his brother’s arm. He swung Owen round to face him. While he knew his brother had maybe saved them both, he was angry.

‘What did you do back there, Owen? Is that what Mum or Dad would want from you?’

‘Someone had to do something,’ Owen looked at his shoes, a kid again.

‘That man might die because of what you did!’

‘No, Paul. He’ll
probably
die. I say fuck him. Eye for an eye, Paul,’ Owen said, looking up, his eyes defiant.

Paul flicked his ear. ‘Don’t get cocky with me! I know what he did, but that doesn’t excuse you. Look at the mess this country’s in. Perhaps if people just stopped hurting each other–’

‘The government wouldn’t have to worry. They could just continue to fuck with us as much as they want.’

‘Where did you get that screwdriver from? We don’t even have one in the house!’

‘School.’

‘You stole it?’

‘They gave it to me.’ Owen matched his brother’s stare. ‘Yeah, that’s right. The teachers at my school gave me, and everyone else, a screwdriver. Said to use them to protect ourselves if necessary. Said they were sorry they couldn’t give us anything better, but that’s all they could get.’

‘Seriously? What the hell kind of school is that?’

‘They’re teaching us to survive. They said to twist it as you shove it in because it causes more internal damage and is harder to pull out. We practice in Lifeskills class on old armchairs.’

Paul was flabbergasted. ‘Your school is allowed to teach that?’

Owen shook his head. ‘Not all of the teachers know. Only one or two. But we trust them, because they look out for us. Like you do for me. Like you
try
to do.’

Paul had a sudden moment of realization. Owen was right. It had been the looter or them, and they had won. He smiled, and the tension was broken. ‘You know, I was only two seconds away from sticking that guy myself.’

‘Oh,
really
. What with? That bicycle wheel?’

‘Yeah, I was going to ram it over his head. Then I was going to pickpocket your screwdriver and stick him with it.’

Owen laughed, a comforting sound. ‘You’d never be able to get me like you do all those rich people.’

Paul smiled, forced it to look convincing. Picking pockets was what he said he did down around Piccadilly, Westminster, and Charing Cross at night. That’s where he said their money came from. Owen didn’t need to know any different, didn’t need to know the truth.

‘Can we get dinner now?’ Owen asked.

‘Sure.’

Paul put an arm around his brother’s shoulders, surprised at just how tall Owen was getting. Maybe it wasn’t so unusual for Owen to protect him anymore. He certainly had better survival skills than Paul had.

As he led his brother away, he hoped that the fish n’ chips shop hadn’t been looted by a different mob. He was starving.

Chapter Five

Dreggo

Dan pulled the cap off the cola bottle and took a long swig, coughing right after. He retched, spitting bile on the ground. The cola was long gone, and Dan had filled the bottle with rum instead, using the soft drink bottle as cover to keep away any alcoholics or drunks more desperate than he was. Alcohol was difficult to procure, and hard liquor had a high price. Dan, who earned enough to stay alive by selling marijuana and black-market cigarettes in the dark recesses outside major train stations, had taken himself to a new level with the rum. In the aftermath of breaking his association with the Tube Riders, he had needed something to reaffirm himself.

Now, with the black fuel burning inside of him, he was searching for a new association.

He had wanted to be part of a gang. Gangs were everything in London, comradeship and protection. Allowed into the circle of the Tube Riders, Dan had felt whole again, the meandering of his life from one mistake to another forgotten for a while. The gang had given him purpose, and he had wanted to be one of them so much.

Cast out, the only thing he could think of was to destroy them.

Paul ... they were friends but Dan had never trusted him much. They hung around the same regrettable places at night, and while Dan knew what Paul did, he had seemed like a cool guy otherwise. Paul had said he knew some guys who hung out, asked Dan to come along. Said they were straight up, and Dan had taken a chance. Simon, he’d thought was cool. A bit feminine, but cool. And Marta ... with near-black hair that was a mixture of braid and dread framing that cute, pale little face, those bright, smart eyes that saw everything ... and with her body tight from all that tube riding, he had been pretty hopeful they would get it on. God knew he needed something to keep him warm at night, and he could have handled a piece of that no problem. She would have done nicely.

Yeah, Simon was cool, and Marta was hot. And Paul, well, he was okay.

That mutilated bastard Switch, though, him with the swagger and the look-how-fucking-good-I-am attitude, Dan would happily see him go under a train. Would do the pushing himself if chance allowed it.

He knew that by coming here he might get the others hurt. He didn’t really want that but they came together, and if they had to fall together, then so be it. Dan wanted the final word; no one would mock him again. No one would laugh at him; no one would ever imply he wasn’t good enough, just because he slipped.

‘Fuck you, you fucked-eye bastard,’ he muttered, swigging on the rum, seeing the entrance to the old London Underground station coming up ahead of him.

Bartholomew Road had been closed for fourteen years, but now he saw the metal gate stood open, a space there wide enough for a man to pass through. With the last of the rum clutched close to his chest, Dan squeezed through and headed down the stairs.

The smell was the same as St. Cannerwells, the scent of decomposing takeout mingling with
eau de
unwashed tramp. There was less litter here, a sign of more frequent passing.

Bartholomew Road was the third station he had tried today. Wapping Road and Coldharbour Avenue had both been quiet and empty with no sign of habitation. There were dozens of abandoned Underground stations across London GUA; he had known his search might only lead him as far as the rum lasted. But here, as he passed through the dusty, broken ticket gates, he heard the sound of voices up ahead.

Had he been more sober he might have taken more care, but with the rum sloshing around inside of him, Dan stumbled down the stairs and out on to the platform as though he were rushing to catch the last train.

A group of people inhabited the shadows at the far end of the platform. He staggered closer to them as a familiar roar built up in the tunnel. He glanced back, and saw those terrifying, demonic eyes rushing towards him. Drunk, his hands flexed, feeling for the clawboard he’d tossed away, while further down the platform, a row of people crouched down like sprinters at the start of a race.

Dan slipped behind a support pillar and leaned out to watch the Cross Jumpers in action. As the train rushed out of the tunnel they set off, sprinting towards the platform’s edge, moving in a staggered line, the nearest to him starting first, with each following jumper starting a fraction later in an unfolding human fan.

At the far end, one or two other people had started off far earlier than the others, their run-ups longer. Dan recognised them for what they were, because he’d been one amongst the Tube Riders: practicing novices, trying to become good enough to gain acceptance from the rest of the group.

The train roared along the platform. Dan winced as the Cross Jumpers disappeared in front of it like flies in the face of a battering ram. He listened for the sound of their impact, expecting a blunt thud as their bodies broke apart against the train’s flat nose, but he heard nothing at all until the end. It was barely perceptible, a hard knock, like someone’s hand on a wooden door.

As the train vanished into the far tunnel, Dan saw the Cross Jumpers now stood on the opposite platform. One or two lay on the ground, others stood around, brushing themselves off. Near the far end, a group had clustered around the platform edge, looking down. There were curses, gasps of shock, and the sound of a girl crying.

‘Garth broke twenty-five feet!’ Someone nearby shouted. ‘That’s a medal there!’

And further away, the voice higher, verging on panic: ‘Petey missed! Petey didn’t make it!’

Other people not active in the jump jogged towards the far end of the platform.

‘Oh God,’ someone shouted. ‘What do we do with him? Dreggo?
Dreggo!
’

Dan arched his neck, trying to see their leader. Then something struck him hard in the back, and he stumbled out from his hiding place, dropping the bottle on the ground.

‘Look what I found here!’ someone said behind him. ‘I got us a spy!’

Dan looked round to see a muscular, shaven-head man with a black tattoo of a hawk to the side of his left eye. Sober, Dan would have put up a decent fight, but drunk he had no chance. He grunted as a fist slammed into his face and he sprawled forward on to the ground.

‘Pick him up, Maul.’

‘He just watched Petey die, Dreggo. Want me to throw him under the next one?’

‘I said,
pick him up
.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Strong hands pulled Dan to his feet. His face ached under his right eye, but as he went to rub it he found his arms clamped to his side.

A young woman of no more than eighteen or twenty stepped in front of him. She was slim, with long hair that framed her face, and a hawk tattoo beside both eyes. If they were a sign of authority then Maul was merely a henchman.

She smiled and reached up to cup Dan’s face. Her skin was smooth but icy cold.

‘You just watched one of our group die,’ the girl said, in a soothing, serpentine voice. ‘Tell me why I shouldn’t have Maul do as he suggested.’

‘I didn’t–’

Dreggo’s other hand came across hard, and Dan recoiled from the shock of the blow, the rum doing little to mask the pain. She hit harder than the goon did.

‘Don’t waste time lying to me.’ The hand holding Dan’s chin squeezed tighter. ‘Answer my question.’

‘I want to join you.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yeah. And–’

‘And
what?
’

‘And I want you to help me.’

With a flick of her hair Dreggo laughed. It was cold, like her hands. ‘Um, why? Give me one reason. This really is your last chance. It doesn’t bother me if you live or die.’

‘I’m a Tube Rider.’

Dan felt Maul’s hands tighten on his shoulders and begin to pull him away. In front of him, Dreggo’s eyes thinned, her face going hard.

‘
Was
a Tube Rider,’ Dan corrected.

‘Let go of him, Maul.’

The hands dropped. Dan allowed himself to breathe. ‘I left them, and –’

‘So you’ve broken their code by coming here. Regardless of what I feel about the Tube Riders, breaking codes is something we don’t believe in. Breaking the code of the Cross Jumpers means death under the trains.’ Dreggo took a step away from Dan and waved an arm back towards the platform. Her arms too, bore a number of tattoos. He caught a glimpse of her inner elbow, and saw the scars of old needle track marks there.

‘They have their code, and we have ours. But one thing links both – community. If you become a Tube Rider or a Cross Jumper you join a family. Our two families might feud, but dishonour is something we both understand.’ She gestured behind him. ‘Maul, take him to the track.’

‘I know where they are,’ Dan blurted.

He heard the intake of her breath, sharp, desperate. ‘Wait. Maul, leave us a moment.’

‘Are you sure–’

‘Yes.’

The big man shot a dark look at Dan and lumbered away towards the other Cross Jumpers, most of whom were looking down at Petey’s body. Some were openly crying now, others were comforting each other, cursing, punching the concrete pillars in anger. Dan wondered if the other Tube Riders would have acted like this had it been him lying down there on the tracks. He didn’t think so.

‘So, you know where they ride now,’ Dreggo said. ‘While I pity your disloyalty, I admit this is information I want.’

‘And what do I get in return?’

Dreggo smiled. Despite the coldness of her eyes she was attractive.
Pretty face, nice ass, pert tits
, he thought,
tucked away under that t-shirt of hers.
She wasn’t in the same league as Marta, but she would do well enough. The act of being completely asexual and robotic might be something she just kept up around her goon army.

‘Aside from keeping your life?’ Dreggo said.

‘I want to join you,’ Dan repeated.

Dreggo gave him a condescending smile. ‘Really? Well, it is normal for there to be an initiation.’

‘What?’

‘Do you understand what we do here, er – what’s your name?’

‘Dan.’

‘
Dan
.’ She rolled the name across her tongue like a piece of candy. Her tongue flicked out and ran across her lips, and she gave him a thin smile.
Oh yeah
, Dan thought, staring into her eyes like a hypnotist’s victim.
I definitely would
.

‘I know what you do,’ he said aloud. ‘You jump across the tracks as the train comes in.’

She cocked her head. ‘In a nutshell. Do you know how we choose a leader?’ Dan shook his head. ‘We mark the point at which we jump,’ she said. ‘And the point that the front edge of the train has reached at the moment of the jump. An average length is between thirty and forty feet for a normal train, higher for an express. The holder of the shortest jump ... is leader. And,’ she added, ‘remains so until that jump is either beaten or the leader dies.’

‘What did you jump?’

‘Did I say you could question me?’ Her hand shot up and her index finger stabbed into Dan’s cheek just below the bone. He flinched back. ‘But for the record, I jumped twelve feet. No one else has ever jumped under twenty.’ She smiled, dropping her hand again. ‘And landed with all their limbs.’

Dan knew about the dismount lengths that characterized tube riding. ‘How–’

‘Did I do it?’ Dreggo stepped closer to him and glared into his eyes. He felt a mixture of arousal and fear. She stared at him until he looked away. With his gaze on the ground, she said, ‘Because the day I made that jump, I didn’t want to make it to the other side.’

He couldn’t help but look up at her, his mouth dropping open in shock.

‘I wanted to die,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper. She leaned close, her breath tickling his ear. It too, was icy cold. Further down the platform Dan caught a glimpse of Maul looking decidedly pissed off.

‘I had no fear of it,’ she breathed into his ear. ‘You know what life is like in London GUA, don’t you, Dan? You have your nightmares, I’m sure. Let me tell you mine.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Do you remember the riots three years ago?’

He did. In the summer of 2072 some spy had got hold of a secret government file and a list of possible informers was pasted up on every lamp post or bus shelter in central London. Mobs had looted and smashed up the city, lynching those people named in the list who hadn’t gone to ground quickly enough. He remembered seeing people burned alive, noosed up off street lamps, beaten to death. The DCA had engaged in pitched battles with gangs of rioters and hundreds were killed. It was a wonder the Huntsman hadn’t been deployed to make it worse.

He said dourly, ‘How could I forget.’

‘My father’s name was one of those printed,’ she said, and he could hear the sadness in her voice. ‘He hadn’t done anything. He was just a postal worker who worked in the recorded post section, and somehow his name had gotten on that list. Didn’t matter. I came home to find my parents dead. My mother had been thrown from the top of the stairs and had broken her neck. My father had been tied to our kitchen table and gutted with a bread knife.’