I'm on the train! (21 page)

The wind embraced her; a brazen and unbridled wind; running fevered fingers through her hair; tugging at her coat, as if to pluck it off and grope her naked skin; a violent force, tormenting the cowed clouds and tearing them to tatters; ripping branches off the trees, breaking them to bits. She was one with it; unruly,
headstrong
, subject to no law, throwing off the shackles of her constraining, lifelong illness. She broke into a run, revelling in the gale – its insolence, its zest; the way it slapped her face; thrust cold and lustful fingers down between her legs.

Soon, she had left the streets behind and began climbing the steep hill on the outskirts of the town – not climbing – soaring, like a creature of the sky. All boundaries were lost in the moonless,
starless
night; light and darkness fused; she and the wind intermingled, merging, as, fuelled by its explosive power, she
flew
.

At the summit, she surrendered; let it pummel and possess her; heard its orgasmic moan. She, too, was crying out; had escaped her skin, her universe; returned to youth and joy.

Somewhere, faint and far away, she heard Ian’s shriek re-echoing. Perhaps he had dared another shout, at some eagle, birdie, hole-
in-one
. She would never know; never discover who had won the match.

Because she wasn’t going back to him; refused to settle for a
half-life
.

Danger was her drug now.

‘T
alk about shopping till you drop….’ Sophie grabbed the last two seats and, having collapsed into the first, guarded the second for Laura. ‘I’m so completely knackered, I couldn’t even crawl to Selfridges if they offered me all the freebies I could grab!’

She was talking to empty air. Laura, hampered by her purchases, was still trying to fight her way into the carriage. The largest of the carrier-bags had caught in the wheels of a pushchair – to the
annoyance
of the harassed mother struggling to get out.

‘Kids!’ Sophie muttered, once her friend had disentangled herself and slumped, breathless, into the adjoining seat.

‘
We
were kids once,’ Laura retorted, anxiously checking the contents of the bag. Each item had been swathed in layers of tissue, so no damage had been done, thank heavens. She unwrapped just one of the tops: the Marc Jacobs cardigan. ‘Do you think I went overboard – I mean, buying this and all the other stuff?’

‘’Course you did – you always do – but what the hell? Considering what you’re paid, you can afford to splash out a bit.’

Laura heard the note of envy in the comment. True, advertising creatives earned twice as much as beauticians, but Sophie might eventually catch up, were she to open her own salon. And the King’s Road would be the ideal spot, to attract the ideal clients. Having just spent most of the day there, in and out of the shops, they had both been struck, as always, by the number of well-heeled Sloanes, constantly whipping out their credit cards for yet another ‘
must-have
’.

As the train rattled into South Kensington, a crowd of people pushed into the carriage, including a pathetic-looking girl, with a thin, pinched face and long, greasy, unkempt hair. Despite it being unseasonably cold for April, the poor creature was bare-legged and clad only in a skimpy skirt and a distinctly threadbare blouse. Struck by her air of abject misery, Laura studied her, with sympathy. Her head drooped; her shoulders sagged; her whole posture was one of defeat. Perhaps someone really close to her had died, or she’d been uprooted from her home or—

Sophie snapped her fingers. ‘Wake up, Laura! You’re miles away! I asked if you’d like to join us in Giovanni’s. Jake said he’d love to see you, and he’s bringing all his friends along, so it should be a fun evening.’

‘I’d rather get back, if you don’t mind. I’ve loads of stuff to do.’

‘Like what? Trying on all that gear and admiring yourself in the mirror?’

Laura flushed. ‘No. Other stuff.’ In truth she wasn’t overly keen on Jake – or his friends, for that matter. Admittedly, she could do with a new man, having just broken up with Alex, but she didn’t yet feel ready to put herself about. Why risk another rejection?

Her gaze returned to the girl, now positioned directly in front of her and holding on to the handrail, as the train lurched and jolted along. As she watched, the poor thing raised her head and spoke to the older woman standing beside her. The latter’s well-coiffed curls and smart camel coat only emphasized the girl’s bedraggled state. As the two began to talk, Laura strained her ears to hear. The girl was obviously upset and seemed to be pouring out her life-story; kneading her hands together and looking close to tears, although the words themselves were impossible to catch.

‘Mind you, Jake’s in a bit of a sulk. He’s had another run-in with his boss and—’

‘Sssh!’ Laura interrupted.

‘What do you mean, “Sssh”?’

‘That girl’s in quite a state,’ she whispered, ‘and I’m trying to hear what’s going on.’

‘Which girl?’

As Laura pointed upwards, she saw the older woman open her handbag, rummage for her purse and extract a twenty-pound note.

‘Oh, Lord!’ Laura hissed. ‘She’s touting for cash.’ She watched, amazed, as the woman pressed the note into the outstretched small, grubby hand.
£
20 was a hell of a lot to give a total stranger.

‘I hate these beggars,’ Sophie muttered, ‘especially on the tube, where we’re all just sitting targets.’

Laura barely heard; too absorbed in watching the girl, who appeared completely overwhelmed by her unknown benefactor’s kindness and was thanking her repeatedly; each heartfelt thank-you accompanied by a subservient little bow.

‘There was this weird guy only yesterday, going from carriage to carriage, telling everyone his hard-luck story – not that I believed a word. All they want are hand-outs to splurge on drink and drugs.’

Sophie’s voice was drowned by the rattling of the train as it pulled into Gloucester Road. The minute the doors shuddered open, the girl darted out of the carriage and dashed full-pelt along the platform.

‘See!’ Sophie jeered. ‘She can’t wait for her next fix.’

‘She did look truly skint, though. She wasn’t even wearing tights, let alone a jacket.’

‘Oh, that’s just a ploy. They deliberately dress in rags, or even borrow dogs or babies, in order to tug at your heartstrings. I saw a woman the other week, sitting on the pavement, with
three
babies, would you believe – and so close in age, they couldn’t all be hers. Yet a few suckers were tossing her coins and even five-pound notes. But, you know, it’s actually wrong to encourage them. Any cash you hand over simply feeds their habit.’

‘We don’t
know
they’ve got a habit, Soph. I mean, it’s equally wrong just assuming they’re all addicts.’

‘Why don’t they find themselves a job, then – slave all hours, like
we
do?’

‘You can hardly go out to work with three babies to look after.’

‘Come off it, Laura! Those babies were just part of the act.’

‘OK, take that girl just now – she might be too ill to work. She looked like death, you must admit, with her ghastly, greyish skin.
She might even have TB. Apparently, it’s on the increase in London. Or maybe she’s homeless, or a refugee.’

‘Laura, the trouble with you is you’re way too soft.’

And you’re too tough, Laura refrained from pointing out. She and Sophie might have known each other since primary school, but that didn’t make them soul-mates. OK, they shared the same taste in clothes and music, and liked to go shopping together, but that was as far as it went.

‘It’s kinder to be cruel,’ Sophie persisted. ‘Giving her money could
kill
her, if the cash ends up in a drug-dealer’s pocket and she dies of an overdose. We’re talking serious drugs here – heroin and crack – and those can cost your typical addict not far short of a grand a week. So don’t imagine for a moment that any hand-out, however well intentioned, will be spent on food or clothes.’

Laura opened her mouth to reply, but Sophie cut her off.

‘In any case, the longer people like her manage to keep going by scrounging off the rest of us, the less chance there is of them ever making something of their lives. In fact, they’re more
likely
to catch TB sitting around in the cold for hours, rather than being indoors at work.’

‘Yeah, I suppose that’s true,’ Laura admitted, grudgingly. Her attention had now strayed to the young couple opposite, who were gazing at each other with enviable devotion; hands entwined, noses almost touching. Once, Alex used to look at her like that.

‘You mustn’t think I’m callous,’ Sophie added, nudging her in the ribs. ‘I’m just as sorry as you are for those genuinely on the
bread-line
. But, for some, it’s just a scam – like people already on benefits, simply pretending they’re destitute.’

Laura gave a shrug. Frankly, she’d had enough of the subject, although Sophie seemed determined to flog it to death.

‘I mean, I read not long ago that a beggar in central London can expect to make three hundred pounds a day – which is far more than you or me earn. And the ones from Eastern Europe are organized in gangs by these unregulated gangmasters, who deliberately pack them off to all the best pitches in London, like outside Harrods or Harvey Nicks, then claw the money back and keep it for themselves.’

Laura sat silent; uncertain
what
she thought. Was Sophie right, or just rehashing some prejudiced rant from the tabloid press? Being unsure of her own opinion was depressingly familiar. She could never seem to make up her mind – not just on the issue of beggars, but in personal matters, too. Did she want marriage and kids, or a glittering career? Was the split with Alex entirely her own fault, or was he a hopeless visionary who expected her, unreasonably, to live up to his ideals, as Sophie always said? Also, the relationship with her father left her endlessly dithering: should she make a concerted effort to see him, or leave him to stew in his present silent sulk? Even as a teenager, she’d continually been switching between opposing points of view; far too easily swayed by anyone with real conviction.

Someone like Sophie, in fact, who was invariably convinced that she was right; whether about holidays (Biarritz was divine; Paris overrated); organic cosmetics (a con), and her pet-hate, James Blunt (the most insipid, whiney singer on the planet), and now, of course, beggars.

‘Another thing about those bums is that they can louse up a
residential
area – you know, with their piles of disgusting old blankets and syringes and stuff. There’s such a stink of puke and piss in the underpass near my flat, you’re forced to hold your nose if you cross the road that way.’

Laura had to admit there was a similar stench in the alley near her own flat, which street-people used as a toilet. But, before she could decide where her sympathies lay, Sophie was sounding off again.

‘But the most shocking thing, in my opinion, is that, far from being homeless, some so-called beggars actually have mortgages – and well-paid jobs to fund them. Apparently, they come back from their day-jobs, take off their suits or whatever, and dress in rubbish clothes, just to look the part. Then they spend their evenings raking in a second income – all tax-free, of course – by making out they’re living from hand to mouth.’

‘Oh, Sophie, I can’t believe that!’ Laura stole another glance at the couple opposite; locked in an intimate embrace. Clearly, they
were oblivious of their highly public surroundings and of the matron sitting next to them, frowning in disapproval.

‘It’s true, I swear. There was this policeman on TV, determined to expose the sham. He said cheats like that often use the extra cash to pay for a new kitchen or bathroom, or even to go on holidays abroad.’

‘But how on earth could he prove it? I mean, no one’s going to admit …’ Laura jumped up in mid-sentence. More passengers were piling in at High Street Kensington and she felt duty-bound to offer her seat to a doddery old gentleman, struggling to keep his balance. She was getting off at the next stop, anyway, so this unsettling exchange about beggars would have to come to a stop – and about time, too, she thought.

‘’Bye, Soph!’ she called, as the train rumbled to a halt. ‘Have fun at Giovanni’s!’

‘’Bye – and thanks for lunch.’

But there was no escaping beggars, because, as she came through the ticket-barrier, the first thing she noticed was a young guy sitting cross-legged on the ground; begging-bowl beside him, bottle of cider and, yes, a mangy dog. In the ordinary way, she would have probably ignored him, but, in light of Sophie’s remarks, she paused to scrutinize his general appearance. Unlike the girl on the tube, he seemed in the pink of health, and was warmly dressed in a thick sweater and hooded fleece. Perhaps Sophie had a point and there
were
a lot of people who preferred to scrounge, rather than work for their living – or even do both in succession, which seemed still more reprehensible.

‘Spare some change, miss?’ he whined, eyeing her cache of upmarket carrier-bags and presumably classing her as easy prey.

Shaking her head, she strode resolutely past and up the steps to the street, relieved to see it free of any down-and-outs. Indeed, it was looking at its best; the trees glazed with glistening green, as new spring leaves burst forth, and the sky a hopeful blue, despite the cold. She loved living in this part of London, with its range of trendy shops, its bustling bars and cafés, and the sense of it being almost a ‘village’, with its own distinctive atmosphere.

She stopped to peer through the huge glass frontage of the new Japanese restaurant, which had opened here a month ago. There was barely an empty seat at the rotating sushi conveyor-belts; crowds of diners enjoying the funky décor, as well as the delicate food. The whole place was bathed in a purple-tinted glow and the glittering giant disco-ball, suspended from the ceiling, cast dancing shimmers of light across faces, tables, surfaces. On the back wall was a psychedelic mural of rainbow-coloured butterflies, which seemed to flap their wings as she watched. Butterflies were the signature theme and, no doubt, the Butterfly Bar upstairs would be every bit as packed. Alex had taken her there for cocktails, the very last time they’d met; kissed her passionately in a dark corner of the bar. The memory alone seemed to rekindle the zizz of
champagne-bubbles
tingling in her mouth; the kick of crème de cassis on her tongue, all overlaid with the taste of those wild kisses. That evening, she’d felt like a butterfly herself: ethereal and brilliant, and flying high, high, high.

So how could things have gone so disastrously wrong? And in such a short space of time?

She shivered, suddenly – and not just from the cold, although the bad-tempered April wind had not let up. But, however keen she was to reach her cosy flat, first she had to stop off at the cash-machine, to withdraw money for the coming week. She was annoyed to see a longish queue outside it and, yes, two more beggars, squatting on the pavement, one on either side. This was clearly a good pitch. People moving off from a cash-point, with their stashes of tens and twenties, could hardly plead poverty as a reason for ignoring outstretched hands – which meant Sophie’s words about deliberate calculation clearly had some truth. One of the pair was ancient: a foxy little guy, sprawled on a piss-stained mattress – again with a dog, and again with a supply of booze. She was shocked to see him actually puffing on a cigarette. It did seem truly crass that he expected other people to fund his smoking habit. The other one was young: a foreign-looking woman, dressed in a ragged skirt and jacket and clutching a small infant, with a notice pinned to its shawl: ‘Feed my baby, please!’