Short Fiction: The Tube

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled crookedly. Anybody watching Glenda would have noticed the immense sadness in her wide cornflower blue eyes or the droop of her thin shoulders, so at odds with the smile. Glenda knew, in fact, that she was quite invisible to the other commuters on the busy circle line tube, except for the two bearded men in dark clothing who were busy pretending not to look at her. They had been following her ever since she left her grim tower block flat at Elephant and Castle. It was clear to Glenda that they intended her to know that she was being monitored on this journey of vital importance to the sect.



Hugging her small wheelie case to her knees, Glenda stared down resolutely at the floral pattern on her blouse.  This display of individuality and colour might draw attention, which would displease the sect.

The tube flashed out of the tunnels into stations Glenda registered with fresh clarity.  St James Park, a small oasis of refinement in the busy centre of the West End.  Sloane Square, posh shops that had lost their 80’s cachet.  South Kensington, expensive homes for the 2.4 child family she had yearned to have but never achieved.   Earl’s Court, backpacker land heading towards gentrification.

She needed to change here.  Rising carefully, Glenda briefly caught the eye of one of her followers and calmly waited for the doors to open.  With measured steps unlike her normal brisk pace she wove through the crowds to change onto the Piccadilly line.  On board, she sank gratefully into the first seat next to the double doors.  Her minders were forced to sit further along the carriage but seemed relaxed now that she was on the Heathrow tube.  Several stations remained.

Once again Glenda bent her tawny head, becoming invisible.  Invisible, she thought, is the story of my life.  Never brave enough to stand out.  Standing timidly on the fringe, careful of rejection.  Conservative clothes, conservative job, conservative manners.  Was anyone to blame?  The posh bullying girls of her independent school?  Her overbearing father, who had cowed her mother into submission before she was born?

Too easy to blame others.  Where had all her careful choices got her?  Here she was in real danger.  Worse, posing real danger to hundreds of strangers.  All this, because a group of people had reached a little harder into her loneliness and made those extra steps to gain her trust.  For a year she had attended the meetings, glad of some company.  She had felt important.  Oh the joy of belonging.  Somehow Glenda had managed to block the more inflamed speeches as harmless blowing off steam.  Everything was bathed in a rosy glow until the tiny request.  Would she join them on a flight from Heathrow?   Well of course, she would love to join them.  Then, last weekend a tiny package was slipped into her mailbox.  The note said that it was most important to carry the package in her hand luggage.  One of her friends would collect it on the flight.

Hammersmith arrived with a jolt.  Glenda’s heart began to hammer so hard she glanced to see if others could hear it.  Misty tears of self-pity that had invaded her eyes moments before cleared, seemingly reappearing as tiny beads of perspiration on her forehead.  She felt queasy and began to panic that her legs would give way.  Three sleepless nights and three days of being constantly alert, were taking their toll.  Glenda began to feel faint.  Maybe I should just give in to that she thought.  But her minders might take charge of her before another passenger bothered.  Focus Glenda.  She almost murmured the words out loud.  Keep looking down.  The tube glided into Acton Park.  Could she do it?  Glenda knew that her eyes were wide with terror in the way that she had only read about in thrillers.  The doors opened.

Glenda waited, counted.  Just as they were about to close she leapt up and pushed through the closing doors and ran hard, handbag swinging, leaving her suitcase on the platform.  Behind, her minders darted to the doors, trying to force them apart, but they were too late and the tube sped off towards Hounslow.  Glenda saw none of it, she was running for her life.  Her brain registered  that she was clearly not as fit as she should be at 43, but she felt fully alive for once.

Glenda sprinted down the street to the police station, struggling up the steps.  She had imagined this moment several times and it always involved flying up the steps into the arms of a waiting officer.  There was no officer, but she burst through the doors anyway.

For two days, Glenda had phoned in sick and then gone to the office, entered the general lobby and quietly waited 10 minutes to be sure that she wasn’t followed. Afterwards she had scouted the Piccadilly line searching for the closest large police station to the Heathrow tube.

Now, in Acton Park, Glenda tottered to the desk and skwarked that she was being pursued by terrorists and needed urgent protection.  The desk sergeant indicated resignedly;  “Madam, if you will just wait by those seats ”.   Astonished, Glenda checked for a moment.  She looked over her shoulder expecting to see her minders.  She was unaccustomed to anger but right now the desk sergeant infuriated her.  She banged her puny fist on the desk, capturing his attention.  “I. Am. Being. Pursued. By. Terrorists. Who. Intend. To. Blow. Up. A Plane!  Now please call your senior officer and place me behind a secure door!  Glenda shouted.  Officers came running at the commotion and things happened pretty quickly after that.  Relieved to hand over the component package with a list of names and details for everybody in the sect, Glenda knew that the coming months would be very difficult but she also knew that she would finally be really living.

—Terri Martin

23 June