Tube Riders, The by Chris Ward Page A

and he could have handled a piece of that no problem. She would have done nicely.
    Yeah, Simon was cool, and Marta was hot. And Paul, well, he was okay.
    That mutilated bastard Switch, though, him with the swagger and the look-how-fucking-good-I-am attitude, Dan would happily see him go under a train. Would do the pushing himself if chance allowed it.
    He knew that by coming here he might get the others hurt. He didn’t really want that but they came together, and if they had to fall together, then so be it. Dan wanted the final word; no one would mock him again. No one would laugh at him; no one would ever imply he wasn’t good enough, just because he slipped.
    ‘Fuck you, you fucked-eye bastard,’ he muttered, swigging on the rum, seeing the entrance to the old London Underground station coming up ahead of him.
    Bartholomew Road had been closed for fourteen years, but now he saw the metal gate stood open, a space there wide enough for a man to pass through. With the last of the rum clutched close to his chest, Dan squeezed through and headed down the stairs.
    The smell was the same as St. Cannerwells, the scent of decomposing takeout mingling with eau de unwashed tramp. There was less litter here, a sign of more frequent passing.
    Bartholomew Road was the third station he had tried today. Wapping Road and Coldharbour Avenue had both been quiet and empty with no sign of habitation. There were dozens of abandoned Underground stations across London GUA; he had known his search might only lead him as far as the rum lasted. But here, as he passed through the dusty, broken ticket gates, he heard the sound of voices up ahead.
    Had he been more sober he might have taken more care, but with the rum sloshing around inside of him, Dan stumbled down the stairs and out on to the platform as though he were rushing to catch the last train.
    A group of people inhabited the shadows at the far end of the platform. He staggered closer to them as a familiar roar built up in the tunnel. He glanced back, and saw those terrifying, demonic eyes rushing towards him. Drunk, his hands flexed, feeling for the clawboard he’d tossed away, while further down the platform, a row of people crouched down like sprinters at the start of a race.
    Dan slipped behind a support pillar and leaned out to watch the Cross Jumpers in action. As the train rushed out of the tunnel they set off, sprinting towards the platform’s edge, moving in a staggered line, the nearest to him starting first, with each following jumper starting a fraction later in an unfolding human fan.
    At the far end, one or two other people had started off far earlier than the others, their run-ups longer. Dan recognised them for what they were, because he’d been one amongst the Tube Riders: practicing novices, trying to become good enough to gain acceptance from the rest of the group.
    The train roared along the platform. Dan winced as the Cross Jumpers disappeared in front of it like flies in the face of a battering ram. He listened for the sound of their impact, expecting a blunt thud as their bodies broke apart against the train’s flat nose, but he heard nothing at all until the end. It was barely perceptible, a hard knock, like someone’s hand on a wooden door.
    As the train vanished into the far tunnel, Dan saw the Cross Jumpers now stood on the opposite platform. One or two lay on the ground, others stood around, brushing themselves off. Near the far end, a group had clustered around the platform edge, looking down. There were curses, gasps of shock, and the sound of a girl crying.
    ‘Garth broke twenty-five feet!’ Someone nearby shouted. ‘That’s a medal there!’
    And further away, the voice higher, verging on panic: ‘Petey missed! Petey didn’t make it!’
    Other people not active in the jump jogged towards the far end of the platform.
    ‘Oh God,’ someone shouted. ‘What do we do with him? Dreggo? Dreggo! ’
    Dan arched his neck, trying to see their leader. Then