Close to the Edge Page 6

  Dad nodded and Laurie carried on, ‘I mean, I know she was in a car, not on the Tube, and I know it was ten years ago, but something’s got a hold of my subconscious. I’m thinking about that man a lot, but I often feel as though she’s the one I’m seeing in my dreams.’

  ‘At least you know what happened to him – know it was an accident. With Mum, we’ve never quite known.’ Dad sounded almost ruminative.

  ‘You mean the open verdict?’ Laurie asked. ‘Well yes, but the awful thing is, I got the impression that the police were leaning that way with this man too – talking about psychiatric reports, that sort of thing. Even though I saw him fall.’

  ‘Well, at least you could tell them what you saw. With Mum, I didn’t have that certainty.’

  ‘Dad!’ Laurie exclaimed. ‘You don’t really think Mum killed herself, do you?’

  Dad blinked, clearly taken aback by her vehemence: ‘Laurie, I’m quite sure that Mum – the Mum we knew – would never have done anything to hurt us. And God knows we were both hurt by her death. But she was ill. The open verdict was the best we could have hoped for. As far as the police were concerned, there was very little doubt.’

  Laurie lay in bed, eyes wide open, analysing the evening’s conversation, regretting the way she had broken it off so quickly. Why didn’t they talk like that more often? But it probably wouldn’t do any good if they did. Mum was dead. Why rake up the past?

  Laurie thought back to herself as a teenager, to the black pit she’d found herself in after Mum’s death, to her attempts to self-medicate for grief with anything she could lay her hands on. The world would have found it so logical, wouldn’t it, if she’d killed herself then, so soon after her mother had apparently done the same? Well, she hadn’t. She was still around.

  With her eyes shut now, Laurie thought about Mum – the periodic check that she could still remember her face, her hair, her smell – but newer images kept pushing themselves into her mind: that afternoon’s ride, the glorious leap over the gate contrasting with the time she found herself launched out of Roxanne’s saddle. Then it was no longer herself falling, but the man on the Victoria line platform, desperately grasping at the air.

  Now there was a memory that wouldn’t go away. Dad was right that at least she knew what had happened, could be absolutely certain it was an accident. Surely that was something she could fight for? Would anything convince the police?

  In her mind’s eye, Laurie began replaying the events leading up to the accident. There was the man, brought back to life by the magic of Laurie’s memory, elegant, smiling in a way that Laurie found infectious. He leaned across to talk to her, pointing at his nose. Laurie remembered his hand as a fist from which only his index finger protruded. Why should that have made an impression? Isn’t that the way people always point? Ah yes, he was holding something in his hand, something connected to a small brass disc.

  Laurie knew what was coming next. She had to force herself to continue, to kill the memory she had just recreated. The tunnel roared; the crowd shifted. Somehow, the man was spun off-balance. How? Did Laurie’s memory contain any clues? No. She was looking at his face – at that awful sequence of surprise, realisation and panic – and at his hand, stretched out towards her, his last hope of salvation.

  Then Laurie remembered. The man’s hand was open – supplicating, grasping at thin air, but also empty. It was the same hand that had been pointing at his nose a fraction of a second earlier. Laurie was sure of that. There had been something in it, and now there was nothing. Whatever it was, he could only have dropped it as he fell.

  Sunday, 26 July – 9 a.m.

  Dad was cooking breakfast when Laurie came down. It was all part of their usual routine. He would do the works: fried bread, tomatoes and sausages with scrambled eggs. She would tell him not to waste his time on something she’d never be able to finish; he would cook it, and she would eat it all. It was reassuring, the idea that they could go back to normal after their conversation last night. He looked round as she came in and put the eggs on to cook. Laurie sat down. Now was not the time to speak.

  Two minutes later they were sitting opposite each other, their plates gently steaming.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dad began.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ Laurie interrupted. ‘I shouldn’t have run off like that. Quite apart from anything else, I must have left you with the washing-up.’

  Dad smiled at the reference – they always had shared the same sense of humour – but he had more to say. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought up the subject.’

  ‘It’s OK. We had to talk about it some time. Are you really sure it wouldn’t have done any good to challenge the verdict?’

  Dad was silent, for long enough for Laurie to realise there was no good way for him to answer her question. It was time to change the subject. At this point, if she were following custom, she would be asking about the provenance of the food on her plate. Instead she tried something different. ‘I’ve been thinking. I might get an earlier train back – the half eleven, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  Laurie could hear the disappointment in Dad’s voice. He deserved some sort of explanation. ‘It’s just that after talking to you last night I thought through what I saw of the accident a bit more. It made me realise something. I just want to check it out.’

  Dad was as gentle as ever. ‘Laurie, you know you don’t owe this man anything.’

  Laurie thought about the way the man’s smile reconnected her with the world. She did owe him something, although she wasn’t going to tell Dad that. ‘It’s for me as much as him. The police as good as told me they think he killed himself, while I know he didn’t. You were told much the same about Mum. I just can’t let it rest there.’

  Dad stared at his plate long enough for Laurie to regret dragging Mum into the conversation yet again. Why did she do that? What could he be thinking? When he finally spoke, however, there was not a hint of reproach. ‘Good for you. Half eleven still gives you time to give Roxanne another outing. I’ll get going in the garden so you’ve got something to take home with you.’

  Laurie sat on the train as it pulled out of Castle Cary. Experience had taught her to prepare for having more to carry from home than to it, especially now it was high summer. The large wheelie suitcase she had dragged empty from London now contained a dozen eggs (carefully packed in old cartons and wrapped in newspaper), six ripe tomatoes, three firm but muddy beetroot, a large bundle of runner beans, a bag of French beans, four sweetcorns, five leeks, about a pound of new potatoes, a large punnet of raspberries and a head of garlic.

  That last item had apparently been an afterthought, shown to Laurie shortly before they left and popped into the suitcase ‘in case you meet any vampires on the train’. Laurie was pretty sure that Dad was proud of his garlic’s plumpness – it was a new thing for him to grow – and he was, in his shy way, calling her attention to it. Her pragmatic response included as much acknowledgement of his skill as she dared. ‘It smells as gorgeous as it looks. I’d better wrap it up before it goes in with everything else.’

  All of this was in accordance with the traditions Dad and Laurie had established in the year since she left home. Normality had returned. Nevertheless, things felt different for Laurie, at least, and she guessed they did for Dad too. As usual, he had insisted on bringing the suitcase onto the carriage before he got off to wave through the window. This time, as the train picked up speed and Laurie watched his figure gradually recede, she found herself wondering what he would do now. How did he spend his time when she wasn’t around? The garden, Roxanne and chicken coops were all very well, not to mention the A-level tutoring, but Laurie couldn’t shake off the idea that, a lot of the time, Dad must be lonely. The move to Somerset had served a purpose. She could see that now more than ever, but it had also circumscribed Dad’s life in a way he could scarcely have imagined when he was a brilliant physicist with the academic world at his feet. And then what had it cost him to encour
age her in the move to London, when Jess had produced that unexpected suggestion?

  Laurie got her book out of her shoulder bag. This was an integral part of her plan for coping with her first journey underground since the accident. She needed something she hadn’t read before but could be pretty sure she’d find absorbing. The bookshelf in Dad’s bedroom had yielded the perfect title: Sylvester. Georgette Heyer had been Mum’s favourite author, then Dad’s and, in the last few years, as she’d grown up and out of the girl she’d once been, Laurie’s too.

  By the time the train arrived at Paddington, she was deep into her book. Sylvester, Duke of Salford, had started to realise that there was more to the mouse-like Phoebe than he had previously thought. Laurie had to wrench herself away from Georgian England to get off the train. She was at the door when a man approached her. In an instant she was back at Euston police station, witnessing a shocking descent into violence. She flinched, but before she could put her fear into practice in any other way, the man reached out a hand for her suitcase, took it off the train and put it down. He had only been trying to help. Recovering her poise, she imagined herself a Regency maiden and bestowed a suitably grateful smile, trying to ignore the pounding in her chest.

  From where Laurie got off the train, it was a simple matter to pull her suitcase up the ramp to the footbridge over the lines coming into Paddington, walk across it to the ticket hall above the Hammersmith and City line, and descend to the eastbound platform. She had got herself back on the underground network, and apart from that one shaky moment she felt fine – in fact, pleased with herself. This far west, the Hammersmith and City line ran above ground; she had fooled her body into thinking she was only changing trains. Soon enough she was in a carriage, sitting down and engrossed once more in Phoebe’s plight.

  Laurie did not lose herself totally in her book. She was aware of the train heading into a tunnel soon after it left Paddington, and of the succession of brick-lined stations that followed, but she felt as if she were an observer of the journey, much as she was of the conversations between Sylvester and Phoebe, not an actual participant. It was only on arrival in King’s Cross that she took control once again, dragging her suitcase off the train, up a short flight of steps and along to the top of the escalator going down to the Victoria line.

  Laurie had been worried that she could have trouble here. She might already be underground, but now she really did have to descend. She took out her book, opened it to the correct page, and held it in front of her face with her right hand while her left grasped the extendable handle of her suitcase; a few steps more and she was on the moving staircase, sinking rapidly.

  The tines at the bottom of the escalator pushed the soles of Laurie’s feet away from the flattening steps. She was six again, being told off by Mum for putting her toes at risk. She started to walk before she could cause a pile-up behind.

  The advantage of doing this on a Sunday afternoon was that the Tube wasn’t crowded. The few people there were walking casually, with no air of hurry about them. Even down on the platform, now only one stop away from the site of the accident, Laurie could maintain a sense of detachment, helped by the fact that a good portion of her brain was engrossed in Sylvester and Phoebe’s journey on a snowy road from Marlborough to Newbury. Nevertheless, she was careful to stand well away from the tunnel entrance as she waited for the southbound train to arrive.

  Laurie didn’t even bother to sit down on the train that eventually came. It was a simple matter to stand holding the guardrail, still reading her book, propping up her suitcase between her hip and the side of the carriage. In less than a minute, she felt the deceleration that indicated the train was arriving at its next stop, heard the difference in engine noise that announced it had emerged from the tunnel, and finally looked up from Sylvester to see the platform moving past and slowly coming to a stop. Laurie stowed her book, re-extended the handle of her suitcase and stepped out through the open doors. She was back on the Victoria line southbound platform at Euston station.

  Now was the time for Laurie to focus. With her suitcase trundling behind her, she walked up the platform to the back of the train, moving against the flow of the few departing passengers. By the time the train pulled out, she was, as far as she could tell, in position, standing at the edge of the platform, right where she had been almost a week before.

  There was no hint of the accident. Laurie knew not to expect one – certainly nothing in the vein of those sad bundles of flowers, poems and photographs that she occasionally came across by lamp posts in Tufnell Park. Still, she found it odd to think that no one else around her had the faintest idea that here was the scene of a tragedy. If she had been religious, this might have been the moment for a prayer. As it was, she thought back to the man and his smile. She was glad she could do this for him.

  Laurie looked up at the platform indicator: three minutes until the next Brixton train. A quick scan of the track area would be a good place to start. To see right down into the pit Laurie had to lean slightly over the edge of the platform, while keeping as much height as possible. She was never going to put herself in any danger of overbalancing, but she was still surprised by how exposed she felt. It was just as well there were so few people around. If there had been any risk of being jostled she would not have been able to do it.

  There was nothing to be seen – just crisp wrappers, a discarded train ticket, a couple of rubber bands, nothing that might have been what Laurie hoped to find. She moved along the platform, looking along the pit from different angles, searching for anything that might catch her eye. Trying to be systematic, she kneeled down to examine the area between the platform edge and the nearest rail, ignoring the curious glances of waiting passengers. Then, alerted by the tunnel’s roar, she looked back along the platform to see her three minutes were up: Next train approaching, the indicator was now flashing, with simulated urgency.

  Laurie retreated to watch the engine emerge, all too conscious of the last time she had been on this platform. She thought back through her memory. There was no doubt. The man had something in his hand when she first saw him right beside her, and nothing when he was falling out across the track. He must have dropped it, whatever it was, during that last frantic pirouette. If so, he could have flung it just about anywhere, but far more likely away from the platform than towards it. How about that other rail – the one running along the back wall, furthest from the platform – the electric rail? Might something have got lodged behind that?

  Now Laurie could hardly contain her impatience as she waited for the train to leave. When it finally did so, picking up speed with what was surely deliberate slowness, at least the section of track she was interested in was the first to clear. There was the rail, but seeing behind it was almost impossible. The best Laurie could do, after some experimentation, was to lean out from the platform as far as she dared and look back along the track. The obliqueness of the angle meant she was at least able to get a partial view of the area that had previously been hidden from her. She had to shift positions several times, each time devoting her gaze to a different portion of the track. Then, suddenly, she saw it, nestling against the white ceramic of one of the rail’s brackets: a small patch of incongruous circular brass.

  That was it! Laurie was certain. The only question was, what to do now? She did not even know what she had spotted. Why might a smartly dressed man have been grasping a circular piece of metal on a Tuesday morning at Euston Station? Was it some kind of token? A roulette chip? One thing was for sure, Laurie was in no position to retrieve the object. Even if she were brave enough to leap down between the rails during a gap between trains – and she wasn’t – those ceramic mountings almost certainly meant the line was live; electrocution was a risk too far. Besides, she’d cause such a commotion that station staff would be bound to take an interest. She’d end up arrested and whatever it was that was lying there would be confiscated.

  Somehow it was that last thought that Laurie found most distressing.
This was her discovery. Eventually, of course, she would have to tell the police about it, but in the meantime it wouldn’t do any harm, surely, if she tried to work out how someone might go about retrieving it?

  Sunday, 26 July – 3 p.m.

  The flat felt like more of a haven than ever. Laurie was glad to find it empty. If Jess had been around, she would never have been able to get on with the serious googling she now planned. She settled down to work on the old computer in her bedroom, the one she’d brought up from home two years before. It might be slow by comparison with the super-fast desktops at Fitzalan Capital, but at least it got the job done.

  The most informative sites were those that opened with something like ‘I’m not a trainspotter, but …’ Within a few minutes Laurie had learnt that the fourth rail, nearest the wall, was indeed live, and so was the more central third rail that ran between the two running tracks. Beneath them, running the length of every platform, was a ‘suicide pit’: intended to allow trains to pass safely over anyone who jumped in front of them. How unlucky that man had been to fall at the exact time when the train was there to hit him. Mind you, electrocution alone could have killed him.

  On the other hand, there were lots of photos of people walking the tunnels when the trains weren’t running. There must be a time when the lines were turned off, but was it every night? Website led to website, each click drawing Laurie further in. Finally, a ‘customer case study document’ provided the answer. It was written by the company that had put in the Underground’s new control system. One of its benefits, apparently, had been an improved response time, which meant that ‘engineers working on the track during the night when the power is turned off (between 1.00 a.m. and 4.30.a.m.)’ could start work earlier. It was only an intellectual exercise, Laurie told herself, but if anyone were to go on the track, there was the time window in which to do it: three and a half hours would surely be long enough.