Stark Contrasts (An Adam Stark novel Book 1) by Peter Carroll Page A
Authors: Peter Carroll
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stations I kept an eye on Rude-boy as I decided to call him. It was too much to expect he was going to the same station as me and, sure enough, he wasn't. I stuck with him though. My wife would understand when I explained the reason for my tardiness; she's a very reasonable woman. My son, unaware of a specified rendezvous time, wouldn't notice.
I edged toward Rude-boy whenever there was a changeover of passengers at a station. After one such stop and the resulting minimal increase in space, he managed to bag a seat: this miracle achieved by barging a frail, elderly gentleman out of the way. His smug expression afterwards suggested pride in doing so. Insult, piled upon injury, piled upon insult. I was going to enjoy sorting Rude-boy out.
Eventually, I got close enough to subtly reach down and remove his luggage tag. If I lost sight of him in the mob of a crowded station, I would know where to find him later.
The station where he disembarked was less crowded than the one where we both first boarded. The number of passengers on the train had also thinned out - we were no longer melded together as if one homogeneous lump of humanity. I waited for him to step to the platform, then followed closely behind, confident there was little chance he'd become suspicious of me. Grudging tolerance of uncomfortable closeness to strangers was the way he'd just spent the last thirty five minutes. My hunch proved correct and, as we left the platform, he was oblivious to me shadowing him.
At the top of the escalator, sunshine bathed us. It was a different kind of heat up top compared to underground; somehow more bearable and with the welcome relief of fresh air being wafted on a gentle breeze. I could feel my shirt sticking to my back and longed for a refreshing shower.
This was one of those affluent areas of the city less familiar to me. Folks living here - and presumably that included this pushy bastard - were in an income bracket several notches above me. Just like the mobile phone guy, he was proving money alone could not buy you class. Rude-boy stopped to mop his brow and put on some shades. I also popped on my sunglasses: the brightness of the outside dazzling in comparison to the artificial light of the tunnels.
He set off again at a brisk pace. I accelerated and, once within range, tapped his heel, causing him to trip. He sprawled full length, exclaiming loudly as he did so; shades clattering ahead of him on the pavement. I deliberately tumbled on top of him, making sure my elbow dug heavily into his ribs.
“Hey, mate, are you ok?” I asked, in as concerned a voice as I could muster.
As we disentangled ourselves and I offered my hand to help him up, he shouted with vehemence and no small degree of indignation. “What the fuck?! You just tripped me up!”
“Whoa! No way, mate. I was walking behind you and you suddenly slowed down. I couldn't get out of the way and we fell together. If anything, you tripped me up! I suppose that's what you get for trying to help these days.”
Warming to my part as the real victim, I withdrew my hand and folded my arms.
Rude-boy got to his feet rubbing his knee, his trousers torn, blood spreading darkly across the light coloured fabric. He nursed his (hopefully heavily) bruised ribs. Unfortunately, the impact hadn't been sufficient to inflict any serious damage to the prick.
“I'm sorry...” he said in a rather suspicious, unconvinced tone.
A female passerby pretended to take no heed; probably unwilling to get involved in what looked like a heated disagreement between two big blokes.
I stepped back in the full knowledge of what I was about to do. The very expensive eye-wear crunched under the heel of my boot. Oh, that felt good!
“Hey, watch where...oh for fuck's sake! Those cost me a fortune!”
He scrambled to the floor, desperately trying to reassemble them - but I had done my job with a finality that would render repair impossible.
“Shit, sorry about that. I didn't see them
I edged toward Rude-boy whenever there was a changeover of passengers at a station. After one such stop and the resulting minimal increase in space, he managed to bag a seat: this miracle achieved by barging a frail, elderly gentleman out of the way. His smug expression afterwards suggested pride in doing so. Insult, piled upon injury, piled upon insult. I was going to enjoy sorting Rude-boy out.
Eventually, I got close enough to subtly reach down and remove his luggage tag. If I lost sight of him in the mob of a crowded station, I would know where to find him later.
The station where he disembarked was less crowded than the one where we both first boarded. The number of passengers on the train had also thinned out - we were no longer melded together as if one homogeneous lump of humanity. I waited for him to step to the platform, then followed closely behind, confident there was little chance he'd become suspicious of me. Grudging tolerance of uncomfortable closeness to strangers was the way he'd just spent the last thirty five minutes. My hunch proved correct and, as we left the platform, he was oblivious to me shadowing him.
At the top of the escalator, sunshine bathed us. It was a different kind of heat up top compared to underground; somehow more bearable and with the welcome relief of fresh air being wafted on a gentle breeze. I could feel my shirt sticking to my back and longed for a refreshing shower.
This was one of those affluent areas of the city less familiar to me. Folks living here - and presumably that included this pushy bastard - were in an income bracket several notches above me. Just like the mobile phone guy, he was proving money alone could not buy you class. Rude-boy stopped to mop his brow and put on some shades. I also popped on my sunglasses: the brightness of the outside dazzling in comparison to the artificial light of the tunnels.
He set off again at a brisk pace. I accelerated and, once within range, tapped his heel, causing him to trip. He sprawled full length, exclaiming loudly as he did so; shades clattering ahead of him on the pavement. I deliberately tumbled on top of him, making sure my elbow dug heavily into his ribs.
“Hey, mate, are you ok?” I asked, in as concerned a voice as I could muster.
As we disentangled ourselves and I offered my hand to help him up, he shouted with vehemence and no small degree of indignation. “What the fuck?! You just tripped me up!”
“Whoa! No way, mate. I was walking behind you and you suddenly slowed down. I couldn't get out of the way and we fell together. If anything, you tripped me up! I suppose that's what you get for trying to help these days.”
Warming to my part as the real victim, I withdrew my hand and folded my arms.
Rude-boy got to his feet rubbing his knee, his trousers torn, blood spreading darkly across the light coloured fabric. He nursed his (hopefully heavily) bruised ribs. Unfortunately, the impact hadn't been sufficient to inflict any serious damage to the prick.
“I'm sorry...” he said in a rather suspicious, unconvinced tone.
A female passerby pretended to take no heed; probably unwilling to get involved in what looked like a heated disagreement between two big blokes.
I stepped back in the full knowledge of what I was about to do. The very expensive eye-wear crunched under the heel of my boot. Oh, that felt good!
“Hey, watch where...oh for fuck's sake! Those cost me a fortune!”
He scrambled to the floor, desperately trying to reassemble them - but I had done my job with a finality that would render repair impossible.
“Shit, sorry about that. I didn't see them
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