Page 10 of 59 Minutes
CARRIE
The armed people in uniforms are inside the station now.
Carrie doesn’t know if they’re police, squaddies, some kind of secret military unit, or something else entirely.
What she does know, is that these long guns and masked faces have not brought her the reassurance she’d hoped.
Clusters of identikit armoured bodies that have beetled out of handle-less doors, hidden around the station like military ant hills.
A uniformed group stands rigidly at every visible exit.
Now that no one else can get in, those already inside have rearranged themselves in the pockets of space.
While a huge number must be down in the underground, people left at surface level have filed into the shops and restaurants, wedged themselves in the toilets or simply pressed their bodies against the wall.
A man nearby is crying, his head on another man’s shoulder.
Not soft sobs but great ragged cries. Both are suited, black shoed.
They look shiny and professional. They both look like they’d have a lovely ‘signature scent’, a favourite sour cocktail and an annual bonus.
From what Carrie can make out, the crying man’s wife is currently giving birth in another part of London, one he can no longer reach.
‘He’ll be born poisoned,’ the man weeps. ‘Or he won’t be born at all.’
Babies. New lives. She is winded by thoughts of Clementine’s soft skin. Of this morning, refusing to wear the outfit put out for her by Emma before she left for work at the recruitment agency. A hated job so at odds with everything about Emma, that Carrie trips over that detail as if it’s not true.
Picking Clementine’s clothes was a way for Emma to weave herself into their daughter’s day before leaving for work.
But Clementine was having none of it this morning.
Oblivious to the bittersweet ritual, she stood defiant.
The concave of her lower back pronounced, shoulder blades so sharp they could split open and sprout angel wings.
Three years old but still baby shaped, her belly jutting out like an apple.
Did Clementine even remember this morning?
Did she hold on to the frown, the outrage of ‘the wrong clothes, Mummy’?
Did she remember being briskly wrestled into different jeans and a neon-yellow jumper of her choosing instead?
Did she remember the laughter afterwards?
The goodbye kiss at nursery? Carrie’s lips had barely grazed her puffball cheek.
Why didn’t Carrie just stay home with her?
Call them both in sick? Better yet, get Emma to call in sick too.
The whole family hunkering down together. Why didn’t they just do that every day?
Some people are filming on their phones, taking photos of the huge ‘seek shelter’ warnings. Others are smiling into their screens as they record, talking rapidly of happy memories. ‘The way you looked at me that day,’ a man in his fifties says into his phone, ‘was worth a million lifetimes.’
There is currently no way to post on social accounts or send videos anywhere, the network is still down, but maybe it’s a soothing habit.
Maybe they just have no better ideas right now.
A woman a bit younger than Carrie sits cross-legged on the floor, recording a video into her phone.
She is also sobbing as she says, ‘If I don’t survive and you find this video, please get it to my family at 17 Dungordan Gardens in Wednesbury. Please tell them I love them.’
Behind her, a fight is brewing. It’s not spilled over yet but she can tell from the sounds alone, the vibe shift. The grumble of male voices overlapping, the shuffle of heavy feet circling each other.
Whatever is going on has attracted the attention of the uniforms and they stand rigid, watching the fracas carefully, no longer interested in her but still unwilling to let her through.
If only she could … An idea forms. Her agency filmed an advert here last year.
It could only be shot in the early hours, when the station was almost empty, and she’d volunteered.
Carrie can never resist a sneak peek into a secret place.
And on that night last year, she and her colleagues were all guided through a warren of tunnels, a disused bit of track that led to …
Yes. She knows what to do.
People press themselves to the wall ahead of her, oblivious to the secret door set into it. But … But.
If they open the door to let you out, all of them out there will rush in.
The same applies here. An open door will attract a flood and it will become as dangerous down there as it is up here. A crush in the dark, on the stairs, on the tracks. She tries to look incidental as she weaves her way towards it, brain wheeling for a way to slip through unnoticed.
When she’s a few feet away, a bony hand grabs her arm. She looks at the fingers in alarm, then up into an old man’s face. ‘Help me, please,’ he says, clutching his chest with his other hand. ‘It’s my heart.’
She watched her dad have a heart attack and that looked totally different. But she helped her mum through plenty of panic attacks after he died, and those looked just like this.
The man’s rheumy eyes hold her gaze and she knows she could reassure him. But … But.
Carrie prises his soft, cold fingers off, one by one. ‘Just keep breathing slowly and you’ll be okay,’ she whispers as he stares back, pupils ringed in white.
‘Help!’ she shouts. Her voice a whip-crack against the communal hum. ‘This man needs medical attention!’
‘What?’ he gasps, pressing both hands onto his chest.
‘Help!’ Carrie screams now. ‘Is there a doctor here? Anyone?’
The crowd pulsates, people jostle and move slightly closer to rubberneck. No one is looking in the direction of the secret door any more, they are all looking at Carrie and the old man.
‘I’m a doctor,’ a middle-aged woman says, hesitantly. She wears a bright yellow jacket that makes her look nautical. As the medic walks hesitantly towards the old man, the sea-crowd parts around her. They are still watching the doctor when Carrie slips away, unnoticed.