The Spiral Page 2
Moorgate.
“You’re Bernard Harris?” the foreman at Stratford had asked last Monday, checking his clipboard. It felt like Benny’s life had been one of being passed from clipboard to clipboard in the last year. “Good. You’ve got your boots. You can get your helmet and gloves from that mobile over there. Tea break at 3 a.m., same unit. A bloke in the pit will give you something to do until then.”
“They call me Benny,” he had said.
But the foreman wasn’t listening anymore. He’d already turned away. Just like the others. Keep your head down, thought Benny. Just keep your head down and carry on.
When the Tube doors opened at Bank, Megan was first out of the carriage. She’d already stood and worked her way through the rocking train as soon as it had left Liverpool Street.
She tried not to be one of those typical Londoners, always in a rush even though they weren’t going anywhere special. Grunting if you forgot to stand on the right going up escalators. But these were special circumstances. The train was moving extra slow because of the incident the driver kept talking about. What would it look like at Rank and Tudor Chambers if she arrived even five minutes late for her second interview at the legal firm?
Arrive at least 10 minutes before. That was the unspoken rule. Not 20 minutes early, that showed desperation. Not five minutes early either. That was too blasé. On time or even a minute late, well you didn’t really want the job, did you?
As soon as Megan shot off the train, she realised she was in the wrong place. The exit was at the opposite end of the platform and was already filling up with people waiting to get around the corner and into the escalator area. She cursed.
She’d never worked in London. Hadn’t even been to the capital that much. Only shopping, really. Her dad wasn’t even very keen on that. But after college she’d swung a job as a financial secretary and general dogsbody at a local solicitor’s in Epping. She’d studied for three years part-time to be a legal secretary because that was where the money was. But she had had no luck at all getting an actual legal job.
Until now and this second interview. Would Dad be proud if she got it? Not likely. And now her chances of landing the job at Rank and Tudor were trickling away, stuck behind this crowd.
It would peter out, Megan knew that, but did she have time to let it?
She spied a man in the deep blue uniform of the London Underground. He’d just announced (again) that the Central Line was all backed up and was replacing the radio handset back on his belt.
“Hi, can you help me?” she said as calmly as she could. “I’m late. Is there another way to the Northern Line?”
The station announcer looked up at the crowd waiting at the end of the platform and returned to look at Megan. She had failed to ask as calmly as she’d thought. The announcer had clearly heard the desperation in her voice and offered a thin, sympathetic smile.
“If you head to the other end, you could go down the stairs,” he said. “It’ll probably take as long as getting past this lot though, but it’s worth a try.” He looked down for a moment at her flat shoes. “At least you’re not in high heels.”
He chuckled, though Megan didn’t know why.
Megan headed back the way she had just come. Maybe it would take as long, but at least she was doing something.
I take decisions and act on them. I use my initiative, act quickly when the circumstances require it. It’s really a question of getting the balance right, isn’t it?
Megan walked quickly and cursed her slow start. She didn’t run. Who could run in this bloody skirt? She’d bought it for the interview. In Heals it had looked good. Smart and businesslike, attractive too. But in front of the mirror after an early breakfast, she realised she’d been kidding herself. It was way too tight, a size too small, at least. It bulged in all the wrong places, particularly the worst place.
She’d pulled it on and off four times, trying it against her usual work skirts. But they all looked way too old, too faded for a second interview. She couldn’t wear the other new skirt, the one she’d bought for the first interview. That would show sloppiness, lack of ambition. She’d learned that watching The Apprentice. The new skirt it had to be.
Her dad wanted to see her, all dressed up in a new suit, before she left. He grunted, disapproving. And now she was late. She was still touching up her makeup while she waited for the train out of Epping.
Megan saw the sign for the Northern Line and headed down the narrow corridor until she found the staircase. A pale-looking man in a smart suit was standing dead still at the top, as if considering whether to take the plunge. He looked up and smiled. Almost invited her, with a nod, to pass him. She smiled back. She took a shallow breath, nipped past him and onto the stairs.
“Thanks, just in a rush,” she said as she passed, throwing back a brief glance of apology.
Giles pulled the knot of his thin tie further down his chest, looking for less stuffy air on the platform and finding only the faint taste of dirt and grime. He wore a smart business suit, patent shoes, the lot. But he would not do up his top button and pull up his tie until he’d gone past security and was right there in the lift, heading to the 13th floor of The Shard.
Asswipe would be waiting, that was guaranteed. Loitering by the front desk of Fastex Commodities like a fart. He wouldn’t be tapping his foot impatiently for Giles. He would just be waiting. Just so he could look up with a raised eyebrow that said: ‘Mr Laws, what time do you call this?’ and then he’d make a note of it in some stupid file he’d pull out next appraisal time.
Andy Asquith. His boss. He had gone to Cambridge, just like Giles, but had made far more of it. Just 24 years old, but lords it over everyone else on the trading floor. Some milk-round had leap-frogged him over the hard grafters working the trades like Giles, and put him in prime position.
Giles had called in sick a few too many times lately. He couldn’t get away with it today, even though they’d all been out last night. Asswipe had been out with them, of course. Buying drinks as if to remind everyone how much more he was paid. That his bonus was bigger than theirs.
But he always ducked out early, never followed through. He’d get them pissed enough to want to carry on into the evening, then wag his finger at them the next morning as they straggled in.
Tuesday is the new Friday. Lately the new Friday had been Wednesday and Thursday too. Friday was always Friday. That was a given.
Giles stopped at the top of the spiral staircase down to the Northern Line and tried again to shake away the pounding in his head. Took a swig of Lucozade. One hundred and twenty-eight steps. Seemed like he’d counted them every day, Monday to Friday, since starting this shitty job. When was that? Five months ago?
Winchester College for school. Then to Trinity College, Cambridge for university. Second eight in the rowing team. Extra tuition, so he managed to scrape by with a 2:2. All paid for by his oh so lovely parents, living the life of millionaires in the countryside, without the trouble of, say, bringing up a kid instead of packing him off to boarding school.
And all for what? Unsociable hours of hard work and peer pressure?
It wasn’t the job. It was his life. He’d been on the wrong track from the start. He could have opened a coffee shop. Or become a firefighter. Or even police. Only, that’s not what guys like him did. Banker. Business strategist. Consultant.
Giles didn’t even know what a consultant did.
His head swam. For a moment he thought he might faint. This hangover was a killer. Could he sit down here, just for a second?
A woman in a smart cream blouse and grey A-line skirt nipped past him with a smile. He welcomed the relief of not having to go down just now. He smiled back and stepped aside to let her through. Be my guest, you look much more keen to get on with your life.
He looked at his watch. It showed ten to nine and that he was going to be late.
What a shame.
Bank.
Benny opened his eyes again. The doors had s
wished open, but they hadn’t closed again to complete the rhythm. The interruption had pushed him out of half-sleep. Passengers were poking their heads out of the doors. They were glancing up towards the front carriage as if they could catch the driver’s attention and remind him of his job.
“Ladies and gents,” a muffled voice came over the tannoy in response. “Sorry to inform that I’ve just been told this train is stopping here because of an earlier disruption on the line. Repeat, this train will stop here. You are advised to step onto the platform and either wait for the next train, or to continue your journey by another route. All change here.”
The Tube train wasn’t particularly packed. Though to Benny it felt like late at night, it was really just approaching nine in the morning. A few passengers muttered under their breath, but most just stepped from the train in familiar resignation.
Benny rose, picked up his small leather toolbag and stepped onto the platform. He used a Tube map on the wall to consider his options, struggling to share the space with an overweight man in a cap. His stomach bulged over his waistband and meaty pink arms flapped out of his short-sleeved shirt as he traced lines on the map with fat fingers.
Whichever way it went, it was going to be an extra 20 minutes, maybe even half-an-hour’s travelling time, before Benny reached East Acton. Only then could he could take a shower and go to bed in a room with windows too bright for him to sleep properly.
He could try to swing round in a triangle on the Tube lines, and end up back on the Central Line at Holborn or Tottenham Court Road. But who knew where the blockage started and ended? It could be just as slow further up. He traced the black line northwards from Bank.
He could get onto the Northern Line, change at Moorgate onto the pink line - what is that, the Hammersmith and City Line? - then at least he wouldn’t have to change again until it had worked its way round to Wood Lane Station. Then, if he was knackered, he could switch back on the Central Line and go one stop to East Acton. But considering the Programme accommodation was half-way between the two, he might as well get off and walk the rest. If his body had anything left by then.
Benny looked up and headed towards the sign for the Northern Line. His way was blocked on either side by the obese man with the cap, who was heading in the same direction, dragging a suitcase behind him.
The two went down a narrow corridor, offering Benny even less space to go round, and they reached the top of a spiral staircase together.
Shit. This is the wrong way down. It would take an age, particularly if he had to follow this guy. But going back onto the platform, then up to the other end, then round the corridors to the escalators, would take just as long. And make his feet hurt just as much.
“Jeees, I dunno why you guys don’t got no elevators,” the guy muttered behind him, turning to looking at Benny for the first time. Benny nodded and offered an apologetic smile.
“Oh…,” the guy said, and turned away from him.
It was an ‘oh’ that Benny was familiar with. The tourist had taken one look at Benny, the colour of his skin, his stubble, the builder’s clothes and ever so slightly backed away.
The tourist tried to wedge his bag under one flabby arm, but it was too heavy. He’d have to bump it down. He grabbed for the handrail.
“You better go on, son,” he said, wheezing, flicking his head toward the stairs below. “I don’t move so fast on my feet.”
“Thank you,” said Benny, going around the tourist. “Listen, there is another way down. Where are you going to?”
He didn’t reply. He looked unconvinced, glancing Benny up and down, eyeing his worn fingernails and mucky boots.
“There are escalators. At the other end of the platform. It’ll help with the bag.”
Still nothing.
“Okay, at least let me carry it down for you. I think this is a long one.”
The man clutched the suitcase even tighter. “No, I’m fine. Just fine as I am. You just go on ahead, son.”
The main waited.
Benny tried to smile at the guy. He had no choice but to push past the struggling man and leave him far behind. He worried his smile came out as fake as it really was. But he was trying. New name, new start.
“Okay, thanks a lot. Have a good day.” Benny squeezed past the tourist and headed down and around the spiral, leaving him far behind.
3
Megan headed down the stairwell quickly, conscious that someone was following her five or six steps behind. Probably the friendly guy in the suit. The spiral staircase was just about wide enough for two people to go down together, but the concrete steps gradually thinned into a small wedge on the right by the time they joined the central column. It was dodgy to try it.
Megan tried to walk in the middle. She hated small spaces. Someone walking with her would be way too close. She needed space.
At least the staircase was well lit. Megan could see about eight steps in front of her before the last one ran around the corner and out of view.
The handrail was thick iron and protruded from the staircase wall, marking the boundary between brown tiles below it and dull grey ones above. The roof was plain concrete, sectioned by small round lights embedded into the ceiling. The entire space echoed with Megan’s flat heels as they slapped on each step.
Her feet were chafing with each drop, but it couldn’t be much further. Then she’d be on the platform, onto the Northern Line and might just about make the interview with a few minutes to spare.
Ahead, Megan saw a brown blazer and the wispy thin grey hair of an older man moving much slower than she. For a moment, Megan backed up behind him. She didn’t want to crowd him. Just like she didn’t want to be crowded.
Instead, she followed him slow step by slow step as he gently rocked down the stairs, clinging tightly to the handrail. This was all she needed, extra minutes. Finally, she knew she had to move. She edged to the inside of the staircase, keeping a close eye on her footing as she passed.
“Sorry,” she said. “Do you mind if I?”
“No, of course.” The man’s breath was a little laboured. “Do you know how much further it is?” he asked.
She stopped and looked back up at the old man. The younger man in the suit was now directly above them both.
“Sorry, I don’t know,” she replied. She noticed beads of sweat had gathered in the old man’s thick white eyebrows. “It’s not much further I’m sure.”
The young man coughed, though he smiled again at Megan.
“Sorry, my boss is going to have me for breakfast.”
Megan and the older man moved to the side to let him pass. Megan took a breath, to deal with feeling a little cramped with two other people so close.
“Are sure you’re okay?” she asked the older man.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just taking it one step at a time. Doctor’s orders.”
Megan turned back down the stairs. Now the younger guy was in front of her and she was following him. At least he moved faster than the old man, who she could still hear shuffling behind her, wheezing with each step. Within ten more steps, he was out of range.
Out of mind.
Megan and the man in the suit didn’t speak. Londoners never do. They carried on down as a pair without even acknowledging each other’s presence. Soon, though, the man’s pace seemed to have sped up. Perhaps three steps for every two Megan took.
It felt like she’d been going down for five minutes, and the man in front was edging out of view. Or maybe it was Megan who was slowing down. Now she too was panting and her calf muscles were aching. She felt like the walls were getting closer, and wondered about the last time she went to the gym. Dad didn’t like her going to the gym. Mind you, Dad didn’t want her to work in the City either.
She didn’t remember her mum. Dad never spoke about her. Megan didn’t realise she didn’t have one until she’d started primary school. When she’d asked him - what was she, about five? - he’d just said she’d gone. Didn’t love us enough to stay.
Megan remembered crying all night. Then Dad coming in to tell her to stop being such a baby. The rest of the tears she saved for when he was out of the house: at the pub, or the betting shop, or putting in a ‘hard day’s work on the tools’.
Being from a single parent family wasn’t unusual at her school. But at least the other kids seemed to know why.
She’d kept herself to herself. Only had a few friends, the neighbours close to them. Only the ones Dad had done some building work for.
Dad rarely took her to playdates, or to birthday parties. He said he didn’t like the small talk.
They were a good pair, he said. We’re okay by ourselves. We don’t need anyone else.
But with Dad, it wasn’t us. It was him. Him, with Megan doing whatever she was told. Any achievements she made at school, she kept to herself. Any choices she made about school clubs, or subjects or projects, were hers alone. Dad just wasn’t interested.
He provided food, didn’t he? A roof over her head? Her school uniform? He let her play on the street with the neighbours’ kids. The TV licence cost a fortune too. What else did she want?
When Megan had her first period, it was the school nurse who explained. She’d kept the sanitary towels she used at home hidden, wrapped them in toilet paper, then dumped them in public bins on the way to school.
Megan looked at her watch. There was no way she was going to make her appointment now. Even at the bottom of the stairs, she’d have to find the correct platform and wait for the next Northern Line train. Perhaps if she went back up again, she could go the way the other passengers were headed. In fact, she could go right to surface level and call the Chambers’ reception and apologise for being late. Ask them to keep her interview slot open. She stopped and checked her phone.
No reception.
“Excuse me,” she called to the young man in front of her. She could now only see his shoulders and the top of his head as he continued beneath her. “Excuse me,” she said again.