Chapter 16: Deep underground

All was well until we arrived at Paddington. It was busy, but not too busy for the crowd to give us half a second so we could lift Edwin’s stroller over the infamous gap and onto the platform. But then there’s an escalator, a fairly long one that leads back to street level. You see, the track slopes downward from Edgware road to Paddington. Trains aren’t generally good at inclinations, but it’s a fair distance between those stations.

One of the escalators was being serviced: a man in a blue overall stood in a grimy gap at the base of it, which would normally be covered by a metal floor plate. It stood to the side, next to a vending machine and behind some yellow plastic barriers. That left only one escalator going up, so it was rather crowded as the train emptied out. Another train had just stopped at the opposite platform. Kate and Diana patiently waited for Mel and me to decide how we would go about this.

“How about we fold it up and I’ll carry him?” said Mel.

“Probably for the best,” I agreed. And so we started the routine of unbuckling Edwin, releasing catches, tightening straps, you know the drill if you’ve been around kids. We were practiced, but it still takes a minute or so. Most of the people who had emerged from our train were now on their way up, but I knew there’d be another train right along.

“I’m sort of desperate for a pee. D’ya mind if I go up first and meet you there? Say, in the ticket hall?” asked Diana.

“Oh, sure! Yeah, no problem,” said Kate. Bless the UK for having (mostly) useable public toilets. I love my birth nation, the Netherlands, but we’re a bunch of fucking savages when it comes to providing public loos. In Paris you’ll find four hundred ‘sanisettes’, those self-cleaning toilets where the door slides open if you’ve not done your business within twelve minutes. Berlin has well over a hundred public toilets, most of them with an attendant. That’s fantastic. London is great, too. It’s less structured, but many cafe’s, bars and restaurants are all quite willing to let you use their facilities, sometimes for a small fee. But Amsterdam? Fuck Amsterdam. One public lavvy per 275.000 inhabitants! There are THREE public toilets in all of Amsterdam, although it’s slightly better for men because there are a few dozen urinals for us. But what are those 7 million annual tourists supposed to do, go back to their hotel room for a wazz? Nope, for them it’s ‘customers only’. Those urinals are terrible, by the way: they’re little more than a curved metal wall in an S-shape. If someone’s using it, the whole world sees them standing there and can watch the piss stream down the drain. It’s the main attraction when you’re in the queue for the Anne Frank house. Oh, and women can’t use them, because everyone would see their bum. And it’s the same misery in the rest of the country, really. How can we be so enlightened when it comes to choosing your own time and place to die, but not give a damn if women end up pissing themselves? Boggles the mind, it really does.

I’m stalling again, aren’t I?

Diana joined the queue for the escalator while I battled the straps for the stroller. We don’t usually fold it all the way up (or in, whatever), because it just needs to be small enough to fit in the boot of the car, but now I had to do it properly while Mel held Edwin in her arms and gave helpful advice I really could have done without.

“It’s the red...”

“I KNOW. It just won’t ... bloody...”

“It won’t slide unless...”

“I DID THAT. It’s like a fucking Rubik’s Cube, isn’t it? Look, let’s move out of the way a bit more, there may be another...”

“Martin, you need to fold in the wheel or it won’t...”

“YES THANK YOU KATE, I CAN MANAGE.”

That’s when we heard the explosion.

We were quite a long way away, so it wasn’t all that loud. And I can’t say there was much of a pressure wave either, because the fucker who detonated himself did so in the central entrance hall, where the barriers and the information window are. And all the people. But the screaming, that was very clear. It started far away, but then people on the escalator started doing it and then some people who had just come down to the platform joined in. I looked at Kate. We didn’t need to say ‘what was that’, because it was blindingly obvious. London has had its share of bombings. This was another one.

I stood there, hunched over a stroller, almost frozen. What the hell do you do in a situation like that?

“Tunnel,” said Kate.

“No. Not yet. Trains are still running.”

At that moment, the lights on the platform went out. Not all of them, because a thin rail of LED ceiling lights, no doubt powered by a local battery, flicked on. The bright, slightly warm light was replaced by a bluish, sickly hue.

“Fuck this,” said the man stood in the maintenance hole of the escalator. He put his hands on the floor next to him and hoisted himself up. His left leg found purchase on something and in a split second he was out the hole and ran up the non-functional escalator ahead of him, leaving behind his toolbox and the plastic barriers. At the same time, a few commuters hurriedly came downstairs, fleeing whatever was happening upstairs.

“Why is he running towards the explosion?” asked Mel, very quietly.

“Where else is he going to go?” said Kate, who until ten seconds ago had wanted to run down a dark subway tunnel with an electrified rail and quite possibly running trains in it.

Mel was crying. Not bawling, or even scrunching up her face. Just crying. Tears rolled down her calm face as she held Edwin against her. He didn’t seem to understand what was going on, but a good cry was brewing on his face.

“What do we do?” I asked.

Yes. I asked. The man. The one who was always accused of leaving behind a trail of dead bodies, belonging to men who had wanted to harm his girls. The one with the temper. The broad-shouldered one nobody in his right mind would pick a fight with. The supposedly clever one. I asked my girls what to do. One of them, all of twenty-eight, was holding my son of thirteen months. The other one, all of 160 centimetres, was my kid sister. Both had extensive experience in show business, and very little else. And I was asking them what we should do. Because ... Because FUCK me, that’s why.

“Do you think that’s it?” asked Kate. “Just one bang?”

Some sounds came down from the wide, sloping tunnel that held the escalators. They were muffled by distance and distorted by the tiled walls, but they were crystal clear.

Tat. Tat. Tat. EEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIHHHHH!

“They’re shooting,” said Kate.

“Martin. Do something. For Edwin. Please,” whispered Mel.

“Maybe we can try the tunnels now. Maybe the power is cut. May...”

At that moment the rails began to whistle, as they always do when there is a train approaching. There may be a better word than whistle, but you get the idea. It starts soft and builds to a crescendo as the air pressure builds slightly and lights appear in the distance. Then the train emerges in a waft of soot particles and worrying smells as the brakes kick in. Ten seconds later the doors open and dozens, if not hundreds of people spill out.

Except not now. There was a train, but it didn’t stop. The driver just pressed his airhorn and with a mighty POOOOOOOWAAAAAARP! the thing just thundered past, no doubt instructed by the control centre to give this station a miss. I saw dozens of shocked faces behind the window, staring at us on the platform, necks swivelling to track us.

At the far end of the platform, two young men in cheap jackets got up from the bucket seats they had been occupying. They had dark hair and neat beards. My grandmother would have called them ‘swarthy’. I won’t repeat what my dad calls them.

I hadn’t noticed them before. In fact, I thought the platform was empty. They seemed dismayed by the fact this train wasn’t stopping. One kneeled and opened a sports bag.

“God no...” said Kate.

He took out a blade. A sword, actually. Except it wasn’t straight or all that long, but bent and about the size of my upper arm. The other one disappeared into a tunnel that connected both platforms. I guess they had been hoping for a platform full of people to assault, after the bomb on the surface had started things off. Instead, they had to make do with whoever loitered, or rather cowered, on the platform right now. Which was us four, a middle-aged man in an army trench coat and a very inappropriate knitted Peruvian hat with tassels, who was sat next to a massive rucksack, and an Indian lady on white sneakers whom I judged to be some sort of low ranking civil servant because of the logo she had on her blue windbreaker. She was frozen, staring at the men just like us. But she was quite a long way away from us and I’m sorry, I really am very sorry, but I was staying with my girls and my little boy.

These two people were closest to the guy with the blade and I watched in stunned horror as he lifted up his arm and just tore into Peruvian Hat. I don’t know where he hit him, but he went down like a sack of potatoes. It seemed as if his assailant was a bit shocked by the effectiveness of his tool, because he looked on with interest after his first strike. Only then did he seem to remember this was also a branding exercise.

“ALLAHU AKHBAR!” he shouted.

“Big surprise there,” muttered Kate, who can be sarcastic in the most stressful circumstances. It’s a defence mechanism. I for one would rather have a machine gun.

White Sneakers didn’t hang about and finally legged it towards us. We screamed (yes, me too) and decided anywhere was better than here. And so I bustled Mel and Kate towards the upwards escalator. It turned out the white sneakers were mostly for show, because Scimitar (I’ve looked it up, that’s what the sword was) caught up with her fairly easily. I stopped looking, because I needed to watch my family. Don’t judge me. Don’t you dare judge me.

“NO! NOOOOO!” I heared.

“ALLAHU AKHBAR!”

“NO, PLEASE, NOOOOO!” she pleaded. I will never forget that sound.

Just as we were about to step on the escalator, more screams came from upstairs. And not just screams, but more gunshots. Kate was already on one of the steps, but turned around.

“MARTIN!”

I still don’t know what she expected of me. I didn’t have so much as a toothpick on me and now I was stuck between weapons fire and a dick with a sword. Screams came from the other platform, too. A female voice was screeching and another gunshot rang through the tunnels, the sound bouncing off a million white, rectangular tiles.

Mel got off the escalator, pushing me back as well. We were all upset and there was no chance of us having a tactical tête-à-tête. That may be how it works in action movies, where you get to hide behind a wall while the bad guys waste ammunition, but this was real life and I was shaking and terrified. My wife was here. My child was here. Kate was here. I couldn’t possibly shield three people. I couldn’t even have managed that when I was at my fattest!

So the guy on the other platform clearly had a gun. That must have been some toss-up. ‘Okay Mustafa, who gets the sword and who gets to pick off people comfortably from a distance? Rock paper scimitar? Ah, you picked scimitar. Guess that’s settled, then.’

I’m stalling again. It’s hard to think back to all this and it’s not as if I was making notes, anyway. There was screaming from all sides, there were lunatics with guns and swords, I had no idea where Diana was and it was just fucking awful. And I’m no hero. I’d like to stress that. Not. A. Hero. I’m a father, a husband and a brother and I’d like to remain that for a very long time. There’s a reason I’m not with the police or the fire brigade: I don’t crave excitement and I’m not all that keen on helping others. Not unless they’re family or friends.

So we were at the foot of the escalators, in some kind of lobby where you might find someone with a guitar playing Wonderwall (except the hard bit), or a music student doing something that was actually impressive but not so impressive you’d want to loiter in a bloody subway corridor to hear more. Between the escalators was a concrete staircase of about one hundred steps. The escalator that was supposed to bring people down here was out of order, for maintenance. The hatch was still open and the mechanic had already bolted. To the left was a platform where a man with a blade was murdering anyone he could get near to, to the right was someone with a gun and above us were gunshots. I figured I’d go for the gun. If I went for the sword, I’d be up against a gun with just a fucking sword. And I knew a bit about guns, because Wayne had let me shoot his in his barn all I wanted, although that was ages ago now.

So, right it was. I’d probably walk right into the line of fire, but what else could I do?

“TAKE THE ESCALATOR,” I hissed to Mel and Kate, even though I could hear gunshots coming from upstairs. Scimitar was having a bit of a struggle with White Sneakers, so there was still a bit of time. Or maybe not, but I was panicking and I wanted that gun!

I turned the corner onto the platform and was greeted by a wall-sized advert on the other side of the track, that read: ‘You can do more than you think’. I think they advertised sportswear. To my left, two men were wrestling. Gun Man had run into ‘Not Having It’ man, a broad-shouldered giant in a grey Mac who had decided he was going to get this little shit’s gun off him. Further down the platform I saw two people lying face down. The tracks began to hiss again.

Not Having It-man was basically trying to wrench off Gun Man’s arm, which seemed like a very good idea. At the end of the arm was a hand with a gun, but it was currently pressed against the glass of a red vending machine. I wanted to run towards them when Kate called me. Why weren’t they halfway up the escalator by now?!

“MARTIN! TAKE THIS!”

I turned round and she handed me a crowbar that could pry open a tank. Escalator mechanics don’t mess about, that much is clear. The handle was so heavy I decided I could use it as a billy club. I ran towards the fighting duo, who weren’t fighting so much as doing arm wrestling and foot stomping. Small fragments of my Armstrong training came to me. Where to hit where it counts. Not to hesitate. How hard it is to knock someone out, compared to causing them so much pain they’ll drop to the ground in an instant.

“GET HIM!” bellowed Not Having It-man, as he saw me approaching. I swung the crowbar over my head and crushed Gun Man’s shoulder. Sadly, the tip hit the glass window of the vending machine, which shattered but did not break. They’re very vandalism-resistant, those machines. And so the crowbar first hit the glass, then the shoulder and it sort of ricocheted on his ear, which started to bleed instantly.

I know what you’re thinking: I should have smashed his face in. And I would have, but Not Having It-Man was using every inch of his body to keep him pressed against the vending machine and I didn’t want to hurt the wrong guy.

“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” howled Gun Man, and sank to his knees.

“Thank God for that,” sighed Not Having It-man, who unlike me didn’t even seem to be out of breath. (I’d been running for, oh, twenty metres or so. That’s me done for the day.) We both scrambled for the gun.

It went off...

“Oh fuck,” said Not Having It-man and fell over, grabbing my jacket in an attempt to remain standing. Only now did I see his face. He had a grey moustache. We both toppled over. A red spot appeared over his stomach. He didn’t let go of my clothes, which restricted my movement.

“ALLAHU AKHB...” bellowed Gun Man, who had switched his gun over to his arm with the functioning shoulder. He was aiming at both of us, no doubt not particularly bothered who he would hit. I swung the crowbar once again and this time I did hit him in the face, causing his jaw to move at least five centimetres to the left. Which is fine if the rest of your face moves along with it, but if not it’s a serious medical problem. He grabbed his head and seemed to forget all about us. The screeching noise coming from the rails got louder and louder.

“I wanna ... umpf...” said Not Having It-man, finally letting go of me.

“GRWAAAAAAAHHH!” yelled Gun Man, straightening himself up with a furious expression. Blood sprayed everywhere. He raised his gun to shoot me and I still don’t know why I did it so casually, but I just prodded his shoulder with the crow bar. He grabbed it, so I let go, like a bully on the playground. I looked him in the eye as he lost his balance and fell off the platform. It’s not even a metre, but you do land on either concrete or a metal rail. He didn’t actually fall on his ass and I watched as he scrambled to place his hands on the yellow edge, to hoist himself up. I kneeled down and simply took his gun out of his hands.

“I’ll have that, thanks,” I said. And then I stepped back.

POOOOOOOWAAAAAARP!

Inasmuch people with disconnected jaws have any facial expressions (they do, but it’s mostly the eyes - the rest of them is permanently going ‘whaaaaa??!’) his changed from rage to fear. His black curls tousled in the wind that was pushed out of the tunnel by the Hammersmith & City train and then he was crushed between it and the platform. You know about the gap, right? The gap you’re supposed to mind? Well, that’s where I saw him being dragged along a couple of feet, before his head disappeared from view. The train didn’t stop.

I’m ashamed to say I never bothered to find out what had become of Not Having It-man, who now lay motionless on the platform. Well I did find out, but I got that from the news: he bled out. At the time I was focused on the gun. I leapt to my feet, briefly considered vomiting my guts out after what I’d just witnessed, decided against it and ran back to the escalators. Hopefully Scimitar had not caught up with my family yet ... If all this had taken less than, say, three seconds, I’d still have a chance.

I only found Kate. And I found her at the top of the working escalator but looking down and brandishing Edwin’s stroller like a club, while Scimitar was in pursuit with his blade. Do I need to explain how absolutely terrifying that was? But Kate didn’t run, presumably because Mel and Edwin were ahead of her and she was covering their escape. That’s my Kate. That’s my girl. But surely she could outrun him, if her life was at stake? Kate actually works out. Mostly on rowing machines, but still. First things first: I hit the emergency stop button so hard I cracked the plastic, causing Scimitar, who was just over halfway up, to lose his balance and fall backwards. Sadly, he managed to grab the handrail with his free hand. He lost his sword, which clattered down three or four steps and then remained there, stuck in one of the metal slots.

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This Is Your Carstairs Speaking

Ron Dudderie

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