Short Fuses (Four short stories) Read online

STRANGERS ON A TRAIN

  THE GANGBANGER. They had two minutes. Two minutes to terrorise and rob. Two minutes was how long it would take for the train to travel between the two Tube stations. And for two minutes they would have a captive audience of up to twenty people. That meant twenty watches, twenty mobile phones, twenty wallets, and a sprinkling of MP3 players, rings and gold chains. It was easy money. Steaming is what the papers called it but Asad called it taxing. They were rich and he wasn’t so all he was doing was the Robin Hood thing.

  His name was Asad, which in Somalian meant Lion. It was a good name but Asad hated it because at school they kept calling him Asda, after the supermarket chain. Asad’s parents had arrived from war-torn Somalia in the early nineties and he had been born in Ealing, West London. He’d never felt like a Londoner and never felt British, but he’d never felt Somalian either. The only time he’d ever felt that he belonged was when he’d joined a gang at the age of fourteen. The gang was called The Wonder Boys - after Stevie Wonder, because he’d sung Ebony and Ivory and unlike most of the London gangs The Wonder Boys was a multi-cultural organisation. They didn’t care about colour or religion or postcode. If you passed the gang’s initiation then you were in. But the initiation was tough: a mugging, a stabbing and a rape. And they had to be done in a single week.

  There were four of them on the platform, all wearing grey hoodies, baggy blue jeans and brand new Nike trainers, dressed the same to confuse the CCTV operators. There was Kev who Asad had known since primary school. His red hair was hidden by his hoodie. There was Robie, who had been born in Somalia but moved with his parents when he was five. He’d fallen off his father’s motorcycle on the potholed roads of Mogadishu when he was two and the left side of his face was pitted and scarred. And there was Davie who was mixed race, his white mother had run off when he was a toddler and he had been brought up by his Jamaican father. At twenty-two Davie was the oldest member of the crew but Asad was in charge because it was his idea. This would be the sixth taxing that week and they hadn’t even come close to being caught.

  It was all down to what the Americans called shock and awe. Asad had read about it somewhere. You went in hard and you went in loud and people were so scared they just did as they were told. The trick was to hurt someone straight away, and hurt them bad. Then you had control. Most people had never experienced real violence close up and when they did they went into shock.

  A Tube train was the perfect venue. It was a small, confined space with no way off while the train was moving. The passengers were sitting down, which put them at an immediate disadvantage. And during the two minutes between stations the crew could do pretty much as they wanted. Then when the train arrived at the next station, they could dash off and disappear into the crowds.

  Asad felt a breeze coming from the tunnel, heralding the arrival of the next train. He moved to the edge of the platform. The other three held back. Asad would choose the carriage and he had only seconds to do it. He wanted a full carriage, but not so full that people were standing. Old people were best because they always seemed to carry a lot of cash. Women were good because they had jewellery. Teenagers were good because they always had new phones.

  The train came to a halt and Asad scanned the carriage in front of him. There were four tourists standing at one of the doors, peering at the Tube map on the wall of the carriage, suitcases by their feet. Asad didn’t like tourists and the suitcases would hinder movement. He moved quickly to the left and checked the next carriage. Almost every seat was occupied but there were no standing passengers. There was a West Indian woman and two teenagers in headscarves, a businessman with a briefcase on his knees, an old couple holding hands, a woman in a fur coat with a Harrods carrier bag, a schoolboy playing with an iPhone. Asad grinned. Rich pickings. He turned to his three companions and flashed them a thumbs up. Kev jogged to the single door on the left and Davie went to the door on the far right. Asad and Robie stepped into the middle of the carriage just as the doors closed.

  Asad’s heart was pounding and he had the beginnings of an erection. There was nothing like the thrill of terrorising a group of strangers, of knowing you had the power of life and death over them. To see the fear, to see their wide eyes and trembling hands and the way their mouths fell open. And the blood. Blood was better than sex, way better. He looked over at Kev. Kev grinned and winked.

  The train began to move. Asad waited until they entered the tunnel before pulling out his knife, a foot-long combat weapon with a serrated edge on the back of the blade. ‘Right give us your fucking wallets and your mobiles and no one gets hurt!’ he screamed at the top of his voice.

  The passengers turned to look at him, confused frowns turning to shocked stares as they saw the knife.

  Kev reached inside his trousers and pulled out a machete that he kept in a scabbard strapped to the outside of his leg. ‘You heard what he said, now get your money out!’ he shouted, banging the blade against a metal handrail.

  The woman in the fur coat wailed and clutched her carrier bag to her chest. Next to her was the schoolboy. He was engrossed in the game he was playing and the earphones he had on meant he was oblivious to what was going on around him.

  Davie and Robie pulled out their knives and started screaming obscenities.

  ‘Everyone, do as you’re fucking told!’ screamed Asad. ‘Give us your fucking money or you’ll all get cut!’

  THE COP. Brian Bedford was terrified. His hands were trembling so he folded his arms but that didn’t help. The four men in hoodies were screaming and waving their knives around, their faces filled with hatred. He fought to stay calm. He had to remember everything - their faces, what he could see of them, their clothing, what they did and what they said. There were four of them and they had knives so there was nothing he could do to stop them but at least he could be a decent witness.

  The white guy, the one with the machete, grabbed at a gold necklace around the neck of a young Muslim woman and yanked it from her. She screamed and tried to get it back but he slapped her with his left hand. ‘Your fucking phone, bitch!’ he shouted. ‘Gimme your fucking phone or I’ll cut you.’

  ‘I say!’ shouted an elderly man who was sitting next to his wife. He pushed himself to his feet, though his wife kept a hold of his hand and pulled him back.

  ‘Darling, no,’ she said.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ shouted the old man. He appeared to be in his early seventies, wearing a tweed jacket a couple of sizes too big for him. He had a bird-like face with sharp features and greying hair.

  The guy with the machete turned to glare at the old man but before he could say anything another of the muggers, black with a large combat knife, rushed over. ‘Sit the fuck down!’ he screamed and lashed out with the knife. The blade sliced through the man’s cheek and blood spurted. The man gasped and fell back into his seat as his wife began to scream.

  ‘Anyone who does anything is gonna get cut!’ screamed the mugger, brandishing his blood-stained knife. ‘Just do as you’re fucking told! Now give us ya fucking phones and wallets - now!’

  The old woman was using her Burberry scarf to stem the blood pouring from her husband’s cheek. The mugger with the machete took phones and purses from the two Muslim girls, then grabbed the iPhone from the schoolboy. The boy began to protest and the mugger slammed the handle of the machete against the side of his face. There was a crunch of broken teeth and blood gushed over the boy’s white shirt.

  At the other end of the carriage, one of the muggers slapped a West Indian woman across the face but she glared at him defiantly. The mugger pulled her handbag from her. When she resisted he punched her in the face. ‘You asked for it, bitch!’ he screamed. He pulled a phone and a red plastic purse from her handbag and shoved it into his pocket. He tossed the handbag back onto her lap. Blood was pouring down her face and she pulled a handkerchief from her bag and held it against her nose.

  Bedford felt as if his bowels were about to evacuate themse
lves. He was next. The black guy was going to stick the knife in his face and demand his wallet and his phone and Bedford knew he was going to do exactly what he was told. He had been a constable with the British Transport Police for almost ten years but nothing had prepared him for what had happened once the train had pulled away from the station. Now he felt weak and powerless and ashamed. He had his warrant card in his pocket but that was all he had. If this had been in the States, he’d have had a loaded gun under his jacket; but it was England so he had nothing. Part of him wanted to stand up and confront the men, to tell them to stop, and to arrest them. That’s how it would work in the movies but this wasn’t the movies this was real life and if he did try and stop them they’d cut him. He saw feral kids like this all the time on the job but when he was working he had on a stab vest and had his colleagues around him. Now he was alone and he was vulnerable and scared.

  He looked up at the small black dome that concealed the CCTV camera that was recording everything that happened. His colleagues would see the video. They’d see him sitting and shaking and damn near pissing himself and they’d smile sympathetically and say there was nothing else that he could do but he knew behind the smiles they’d be thinking what a coward he was.

  ‘Phone, quick,’ said the black youth, holding his knife just inches from Bedford’s neck.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Bedford. He fumbled in his pocket and took out his BlackBerry and gave it to the youth.

  ‘And your fucking wallet! Come on!’

  Bedford had to lean to the side to get his wallet out of his trouser pocket. Tears were stinging his eyes. He pulled his wallet out and gave it to the youth.

  The youth jabbed his knife at Bedford’s left hand. ‘Gimme your fucking ring and your watch. Come on, get a fucking move on!’

  ‘That’s my wedding ring,’ protested Bedford.

  The youth pressed the knife against Bedford’s throat. ‘Yeah, and this is a fucking knife, innit?’ The tip of the knife pierced Bedford’s skin and he felt blood trickle down his neck. His hands trembled as he pulled his ring off and handed it over.

  ‘And the watch! Come on, we don’t have all fucking day!’

  Bedford looked at his watch. His wife had given it to him on his birthday five years earlier. He swallowed and tasted vomit at the back of his mouth. He took it off and gave it to the youth. The youth grinned. ‘Fuck you very much,’ he said, and moved on to the next passenger – a man in his thirties wearing a black leather jacket over a faded denim shirt.

  THE PASSENGER. Asad stood in front of the man. He had dark brown hair and looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a day or two. He was sitting with his hands on his knees a look of cold contempt on his face. ‘Gimme your wallet,’ said Asad. ‘And your phone. And that watch. It’s a Rolex, innit?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a Rolex.’ The man’s voice was flat and emotionless.

  ‘Gimme the fucking watch. Now. And get your fucking phone out. I’m not going to tell you again.’

  ‘You can’t have my phone. I need it.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘I said you can’t have my phone. I need it.’ He spoke slowly this time, enunciating each word clearly as if he thought that Asad might be having trouble understanding him.

  Asad gestured with the knife. ‘Gimme the fucking phone or I’ll cut you. I swear, I’ll fucking cut you.’

  ‘Why don’t you and your pals just go and stand by the door and get off at the next stop. It’d be better all round.’

  ‘Are you fucking mad? Can’t you see this fucking knife?’ Asad thrust the knife towards the man’s face and held the blade under his nose. ‘The man didn’t flinch and continued to stare at Asad. ‘I’ll cut ya, I’ll fucking well cut you.’

  The man tilted his head to one side as he stared at Asad. ‘This isn’t going to end well, you know that?’

  ‘Asad, mate, thirty seconds,’ shouted Wayne. ‘Cut him, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘You asked for it,’ snarled Asad, drawing back the knife. The man continued to stare at Asad’s face, his face a blank mask. Then his left hand moved, so quickly that Asad didn’t see it happen. One second the hand was resting on the man’s leg. The next it had grabbed Asad’s knife hand, just below the wrist. Asad tried to pull his hand away but the man’s grip was like a vice.

  The man’s right hand moved this time, a short economical movement that seemed again to be instantaneous. One second it was on his right leg, then in the blink of an eye it was fastened around Asad’s knife hand, his fingers digging into the joint by Asad’s thumb.

  Asad’s hand immediately went numb and the knife clattered to the floor. The man seemed to flow as he stood up, using both his hands to swing Asad’s arm in a wide arc. Asad screamed helplessly but the more he tried to fight the movement, the more it hurt. The man continued the arc and there was a loud cracking sound as the arm popped out of the shoulder joint. Asad’s legs buckled and the man let him fall.

  Asad tried to get up, cursing. The man raised his right leg and stamped on Asad’s knife hand hard enough to shatter most of the fingers. Asad passed out.

  There were two muggers to the man’s left, one to his right. The one on his right was Wayne. He was already moving towards the man, his lips drawn back in a savage snarl. The man stepped over Asad, his arms loose at his sides. There was no fear in Wayne’s face, just anger and hatred. Wayne had the knife, the man had nothing so in Wayne’s mind the man was already cut and bleeding.

  The man stood his ground and waited. ‘You cunt!’ screamed Wayne. ‘I’m gonna cut you, you fucking cunt!’

  The man said nothing. In Wayne’s world, shouting and posturing was the prelude to violence. But the man knew words were superfluous. The only thing that mattered was what you did. It was a mistake to start a fight with insults. Then Wayne made his second mistake, pulling back the knife to get ready to stab. Once Wayne had pulled his arm back, his options were limited. The man exhaled slowly and waited, his arms still loose and relaxed.

  Wayne grunted as he thrust the knife forward - his third mistake because the grunt preceded the move and it gave the man all the time he needed. He jabbed with his left hand, catching Wayne just below the wrist and pushing his arm to the side. At the same time, the man swivelled on his right leg and drew back his left as Wayne’s momentum kept him moving forward.

  Wayne didn’t have time to register surprise, his face was still contorted in rage as he found himself moving past the man. The man had a dozen options, most of which would kill or permanently incapacitate Wayne but all he wanted to do was get off the train in one piece so he settled for an elbow strike. He brought his right elbow around in a tight arc that clipped Wayne on the chin, jerking his head to the side and breaking his jaw with a loud pop. Wayne’s knife fell to the floor and he staggered against the two housewives. They screamed and pushed him away and he rolled onto the floor.

  He was dazed but still conscious and he scrambled to get to his feet. The man kicked the knife away then kicked Wayne in the side of the head, taking care to avoid the temple. He wanted Wayne unconscious, not dead. He judged the kick perfectly and Wayne went still.

  The man had been counting off the seconds in his head from the moment Wayne had shouted at Asad. Eight seconds had passed. Twenty-two were left.

  He turned to face the remaining two muggers. They were standing together at the far end of the carriage. The man waited to see what they would do. It was their call. They could wait and get off the train or they could attack him. Truth be told, he didn’t care either way. The situation couldn’t get any better and it couldn’t get any worse. It just needed to be resolved and he was happy enough to let them make the decision.

  They were both young. The black one was in his late teens, the mixed race was a few years older. There wasn’t enough room for them to stand shoulder to shoulder which cut down the advantage of numbers. The mixed race guy was in front, wielding a short samurai sword. He was left-handed, but the man didn’t see that as a pr
oblem.

  ‘Go on, Kev, stick him. Stick him, man!’ shouted the black mugger.

  The man stared at Kev, focussing on his eyes. The eyes would tell him what Kev planned to do. Kev began to move the knife from side to side in a slashing motion. That was harder to deal with than a stab, the man knew. And the knife looked sharp; sharp enough to cut his stomach wide open even through the jacket he was wearing.

  The man pointed at Kev’s face, then moved his hand quickly to the right. As Kev’s eyes instinctively followed, the man’s left hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. As Kev looked back at the man he snarled, realising that he’s been tricked, and then the man tossed the coins at his face. Kev’s hands went up to protect his eyes, another instinctive reaction, one that got the knife out of the way and exposed Kev’s vulnerable body parts.

  The man was close enough to punch but he went for a kick instead, slamming his foot into Kev’s groin. Kev’s breath exploded from his lungs and he doubled forward. The man reached for the knife and pulled it from Kev’s hand, then grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pushed him down on the floor. Kev went down onto his knees. The man transferred the knife from his right hand to his left and then punched Kev hard on the chin. His eyes glazed over and he pitched forward without a sound.

  The man straightened up and stared at the last mugger. He was standing with his back to the door that led to the adjacent carriage holding his knife low, close to his groin. He looked left and then right as if hoping there was some way off the moving train. The man was holding Kev’s knife down at his side.

  The man was still counting off the seconds. Sixteen seconds had passed. Fourteen to go. Adrenaline was coursing through his system putting everything into overdrive. His mind was racing, considering all his options, and his hands and feet were ready to do whatever was necessary. He wasn’t scared – he’d been in situations like this before. Again he was waiting for the mugger to make up his mind. Once the mugger had chosen his course of action the man would react accordingly. He wasn’t scared, he wasn’t even apprehensive, he was simply waiting. And this time he was waiting with a knife.

  ‘You come near me and I’ll fucking stab ya!’ shouted the mugger. The man could hear the uncertainty in his voice. The decision had been made. He wasn’t going to attack. The man waited. Then the train began to brake and almost immediately burst into the station. Posters advertising holidays in the sun and cheap phone calls flashed by but the man ignored them. He was totally focussed on the mugger; reading his body language, watching his eyes. He’d decided not to attack but decisions could be changed.

  The train came to a halt with a lurch but the man maintained his balance effortlessly, on the balls of his feet. The door opened. ‘Fuck you, man!’ screamed the mugger, then he turned and ran. He hurtled down the platform, pushing waiting passengers out of the way. The man let the knife fall to the floor.

  There were audible sighs of relief from around the carriage. The businessman with the briefcase knelt down by Wayne and pulled his mobile phone and wallet out of the unconscious man’s pocket. Then he took out a purse and another phone and handed it to the West Indian lady who thanked him. She was holding a blood-stained handkerchief to her nose. ‘It’s not me you should thank, it’s him,’ said the businessman.

  She took her bloody handkerchief away from her nose, smiled up the man and mouthed ‘bless you’.

  The man nodded and headed for the door.

  ‘Hey, you can’t go,’ said Bedford, standing up. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  The man turned around. ‘You don’t want to do that,’ he said.

  Two teenagers started to get on the train, saw the bodies and backed away.

  ‘You’re going to have to stay here,’ said Bedford, letting go of the man’s shoulder. He took out his BTP warrant card and showed it to him.

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ said the man.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. Everything you did was in self-defence. But the investigating officers will want to talk to you.’ He reached over and tripped the handle that would stop the train moving out of the station.

  The man shook his head. ‘No. I’m in the middle of something. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘I could arrest you.’

  The man smiled tightly. ‘You could. But bearing in mind what just happened, do you really think you can keep me here?’

  ‘If you do run off, we can track you down.’ Bedford pointed at the CCTV camera in the roof of the carriage. ‘It’s all been filmed.’

  ‘Trust me, by this evening it won’t have been.’

  Bedford frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that by this evening the people I work for will make sure there’s no record of what happened.’

  ‘I’ll know.’

  ‘Sure you will. But my boss will call your boss and he’ll tell you to forget what you saw. And you will.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Me? I’m no one, mate. Look, best you just take credit for this, no one’s going to dispute anything you say. It’ll look good on your record and you might even get a commendation.’

  ‘You’re not a cop?’

  The man smiled. ‘No. I’m not a cop.’

  ‘MI5? MI6?’

  The man looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got a phone call to make within the next five minutes and if I don’t make it, some very bad things are going to happen.’

  ‘You can’t…’ said Bedford but fell silent when the man flashed him an icy stare. Bedford raised his hands and stepped to the side to allow the man off the train.

  The man turned and looked at Bedford. ‘Mate, play your cards right and you’ll be the hero here. We need heroes at the moment, more than anything.’ With that he headed down the platform towards the exit.

  The train driver walked down the platform, his face like thunder. He stepped into the carriage and his jaw dropped as he saw the three men on the floor. Bedford flashed his BTP warrant card. ‘Bloody hell, what happened?’ asked the driver.

  Bedford didn’t reply. He bent down to retrieve his wedding band, wallet and watch.

  ‘Who did this?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Nobody,’ said Bedford. ‘Nobody did it.’