ADAM HALL: The Sinkiang Executive

The winter rain had driven everyone off the streets and half London was down here in the Underground trying to get home in the dry. My train was packed and we stood crushed together swaying from the straps as the thing moaned through the curves. Flashes came now and then against the black windows as the contacts hit some dirt on the rail, making it look as if lightning had struck We stood with the patience of cattle, our clothes steaming from the deluge that had drenched us up there in the streets.

The man had got on at Knightsbridge. I was standing next to him now.

We stood reading the advertisement panels and watching the light bulbs dim and flicker intermittently. A couple of girls along at the end were getting some furtive attention, one of them still managing to look sexy under a colourless plastic mac and with hair like seaweed; but we were mostly men on this train: the typists had gone home punctually an hour ago, leaving the department and managerial staffs to goad their ulcers into overtime.

In the window I watched the reflection of the man standing next to me. I had forgotten his name but I knew who he was. It was two years since I’d seen him and at that time I hadn’t thought I would ever see him again.

“Is this Piccadilly?”

I looked down at the plump woman. “No. Hyde Park.”

“I’ve got to get off at Piccadilly,” she said, looking worried about it.

“I’ll let you know.”

“You can’t see what the names are, can you, with the windows so dirty?”

“Not really.”

The train rocked again and the man swayed against me; I eased away from him slightly, not wanting him to bump me too hard, in case he felt he should apologize. I didn’t want to look at him, for any reason whatever. He was jammed into the corner between the glass partition and the doors, so that I was the only person close to him. I could feel the draught slicing through the gap in the doors where the rubber had warped; they said it would freeze tonight.

“Is this it?” the plump woman asked me.

“No. This is Green Park.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The train was stationary now and I turned away from the man by a few degrees more, because that would suit his book. I didn’t want him to feel worried about me.

“When’s Piccadilly, then?”

I looked at the woman. “The next stop.” I didn’t want to tell her I was getting off there myself, because the man would hear, and behave differently from the way I wanted. “I won’t let you miss it,” I told her.

The train began moving again and I took a series of slow breaths, inhaling the smell of wet overcoats. When we were going at full speed I shifted my feet an inch for the sake of balance, and waited.

The woman was standing sideways-on to me with her shoulder against my chest; she had to turn her head quite a bit and look upwards when she talked to me, but that wasn’t good enough. I went on waiting.

Lightning came again on the black windows.

“Is it the next stop?” she asked me. “Piccadilly?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, turning back to stare at the windows. Then the train lurched and the waiting was over and I reached up with my left hand to brace myself against the partition; and now the woman couldn’t see my face any more because my arm was blocking her view.

The only sound was the moaning of the wheels, and someone saying, on the other side of the compartment, that it was going to snow. There was no other sound of any significance. But time was going by, and my right arm began tiring. I would have liked to rest it, but couldn’t.

Katia, I thought, Katia, remembering her name but not her face, or not very much. Just a girl standing there under the lamp with the two men on each side of her, standing there looking at me and smiling. It was all I needed, this thought.

And the memory of her name. Katia.

The train began slowing.

I kept my eyes on the opposite side of the compartment now. The Glow of Wundalite , a panel read, For a Festive Christmas ! It was already late January. Perhaps they meant for next Christmas too, for every Christmas. That would be the message, really: that you could have a Festive Christmas with those things lit up all over the tree. I let my mind, or part of it, consider these ideas, surprised that I needed so desperately to hang on to something ordinary and acceptable as a focus for thought while the soundless ness went on, and the fierce primeval satisfaction.

The train came to a halt and as people started moving I pushed against the plump woman, forcing her towards the doors on the opposite side as they opened and some of the passengers got out.

“Is this — ”

“Yes,” I told her, “but we’ll have to hurry.” I took her arm and stopped her falling as we reached the doors.

“Are you sure this — ”

“Piccadilly,” I said, and made certain she didn’t turn round. “I’ll look after you, don’t worry.”

But as soon as she’d got her feet on the platform I turned away and didn’t look back. I was one of the first through the gates and a minute later I was walking fast in the blinding rain with my head down and my hands dug into my pockets and a kind of laughter coming that I tried to stop, but couldn’t.

“What the hell for?” I asked him.

Holmes shut the file and went back to his desk and sat down and said:

“It’s all I know. You’re on standby. Signal ends.” He picked up the phone.

“Put that bloody thing down,” I told him, and he did, looking up at me with his totally expressionless face. “I want to know who sent for me.”

Gently he said: “I was going to phone Tilson, to see if he knew.”

Holmes is like that: he manoeuvres you around till you shit on your own doorstep and then says now look what you’ve done.

“Tilson won’t know,” I said with an edge. Tilson was in Briefing, and therefore one of the last people you go through on your way out to the field. “Only a director could have slapped me on standby when I’m due for leave and you ought to know that. How long have you been here?”

“Longer,” he said, “than you.”

I went out of his office and left the door open, going along to Debriefing. I passed Matthews near the stairway, leaning backwards behind a stack of files he was carrying. “Who’s got in?” I asked him.

“Where from?”

“Anywhere.”

He didn’t answer right away and I couldn’t tell whether he was considering the question or deciding not to say anything. He kicked open a door and called back: “Have to ask Tilson.”

He kicked the door shut behind him and I began worrying again. Matthews normally told you things, if he knew them, and if he didn’t know them he simply said so. This morning he was being evasive, like Holmes, giving me the same Tilson routine. Tilson was the traditional backstop for questions of any kind except those concerning your briefing: you might just as well ask a brick wall.

I found the big squareheaded character in Debriefing and he was surprised to see me and I could understand that, because he knew I wasn’t in from a mission, and that’s about the only time you ever go in there.

“Hallo, sir,” he said brightly. “How are things going?”

“Who’s just got in?”

He thought about this, without taking his eyes off me. He was an ex-Yard man with the knack of looking at you as if you’d got a lump of custard on the tip of your nose and he didn’t like to mention it.

“I expect you’re looking for Briefing, aren’t you? This is — ”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s a perfectly simple question.” I leaned over his desk. “Has someone just got in from a mission?”