Captives

FIFTY-NINE

They were watching him. He was certain of it now.

As the tube pulled into Westminster station Trevor Magee looked directly across the compartment and saw his own reflection in the glass. He tried not to look either left or right. As the doors slid open he glanced at the middle-aged couple who got out but then stared straight ahead again.

The doors remained open for a moment but no other passengers got on.

Magee realised that he was alone apart from the other two.

And he knew they were watching him.

The two youths, both in their early twenties, one black, one white, had boarded the train at Gloucester Road station. At first they had sat directly opposite him, but as the train travelled through the subterranean tunnel one of them had moved three seats to his left. The other had moved to the right. Both sat on the opposite row of seats and Magee moved uncomfortably under their gaze. He looked up briefly and saw that the black youth was watching him. He was tall, taller than Magee's six feet, dressed in faded jeans and baseball boots which made his feet look enormous. He had one hand in the pocket of a baggy jacket. The other he was tapping on his right thigh, slapping out a rhythm, perhaps the accompaniment to the tuneless refrain he was humming.

His white companion was also staring at Magee. He too wore baggy jeans and baseball boots, and across his T-shirt the words 'Ski-Club' could be clearly seen. His face was pitted and he needed a shave.

Magee was painfully aware that he was alone in the compartment with the youths. He glanced at the map of the Underground on the panel opposite and saw that they were approaching Embankment Station. He decided to get off.

Would they follow him?

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the white youth had draped one leg over a plastic seat arm and was reclining, his gaze never leaving Magee.

He began to consider the worst possible scenario. If they both came at him at once, from opposite sides, how would he deal with them?

He tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous. He was, after all, thirty-six years old, six feet tall and well-built. Should they try anything he should be more than capable of dealing with them. But the doubts persisted.

The black youth got to his feet, standing still for a moment, swaying with the motion of the train, gripping one of the rails overhead for support. Then he began walking towards Magee.

The train was slowing slightly; they must be close to the station.

The youth sat down opposite.

Magee clenched both fists in the pockets of his long leather overcoat. The knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsed.

He was ready.

The train eased into the station and he got to his feet, heading for the door, pressing the 'DOOR OPEN' button even before it was illuminated. The orange light flared and he jabbed at it. The door slid open and he stepped out onto the platform, walking quickly towards the exit. Once there he paused and glanced behind him.

There was no one following.

He smiled and hurried to the escalator, scuttling up the moving stairway towards street level, finally emerging into the ticket hall. As he passed through he cast one last glance behind him to assure himself he was free of pursuers. Satisfied that he was, he walked out into Villiers Street, into the arms of the night.

A chill wind had come with the onset of darkness and Magee pulled up the collar of his coat as protection against the breeze. Both hands dug firmly in his pockets, he walked along the narrow thoroughfare, the lights of the Strand up ahead of him. A young woman passed close and smiled. Magee returned the gesture, nodding a passing greeting, turning to look at her, appreciating the shapely legs visible below her short skirt.

She had not been the first woman to offer him a smile during the past few hour. Magee was a good-looking man, his shoulder-length black hair and chiselled features making him look at least five years younger than his actual age. He had helped one woman with a pushchair and screaming infant on to a bus earlier, and she had gripped his hand tightly in hers as she had said thank you. He had merely smiled and waved to her as the bus pulled away.

You either had it or you didn't, thought Trevor Magee, smiling broadly to himself.

He passed a pub on his right called The Griffin, the sound of loud music swelling from inside. For a moment he thought about going in and fumbled in one of his pockets for some change, but he decided against it. He walked on, climbing the flight of stone steps that brought him up into the Strand itself.

To his right there was a McDonalds; behind him the lights of the Charing Cross Hotel glowed in the darkness. To his left was Trafalgar Square.

Magee's smile broadened.

He looked around him, aware of the traffic speeding up and down, of the people who walked past him on the pavement, of people coming out of McDonalds laden with fast food. There was a dustbin outside and an elderly man dressed in a filthy jacket and torn trousers was shuffling towards it. There was a dark stain around the crotch of the trousers; Magee wrinkled his nose at the stench the old man was giving off.

He watched as the tramp sorted through the rubbish, finally pulling out a soft-drinks container. He took off the lid and sniffed the contents, satisfied the liquid was drinkable. He swallowed it down as if parched.

Magee's smile faded to a look of disgust.

The tramp tossed the empty cup away and shuffled off in the other direction.

Magee watched him go, pushing his way past pedestrians, finally disappearing down a side street.

The younger man swallowed hard, then turned and walked briskly in the direction of Trafalgar Square.

He had things to do.