‘So you’ll be in London too?’ he said. ‘I’ll certainly look out for you.’
Then he was gone, his entourage hiding him from her; she followed through the swing doors a moment later and saw the long black limousines driving off at speed, while police held up the rest of the traffic until the limousines had got away.
While she stared, Don Gowrie’s face briefly showed at the back window of the second car. He looked towards her and then he was gone.
She heard Steve Colbourne’s voice from a hundred feet away; he was standing with his back to her, and the hotel behind her, recording a piece to camera, his voice confidential, smooth, accustomed.
Sophie didn’t hover to listen to what he was saying. She pulled her jacket closer, and began to walk towards the subway station nearest the hotel. She had to get back to her flat and file her story with Vlad, try to talk him into letting her fly to London.
She bought a token, walked towards the turnstile, and began to push her token into the slot, conscious of a man behind her waiting for his turn. Sophie didn’t look at him. She had learnt never to make eye-contact with men in the subway. She slid through the turnstile and walked on to the platform, staying where she could see the token booth; although it was daylight she still felt uneasy on the subway. There were other passengers waiting, she was not alone, but you heard such horror stories. She was relieved when another couple of women came along.
A train rattled along the tunnel and came out into the lighted station; she glanced up at the indicator board, then checked the route number, a big blue numeral, on the front of the coming train.
She was still getting used to the routes and the names of stations; she had to think for a second before she worked out that she would have to change trains at Washington Square to get to the station nearest to her flat. New York’s subway system was as complicated as the underground system in London, to which she had only just become adjusted when she was transferred here.
She was so absorbed that she didn’t hear a sound behind her or see anything.
She had no warning. A hand suddenly hit her in the middle of her back, right between the shoulder blades, propelling her violently forward to the edge of the platform.
2
Steve Colbourne was driving away from the hotel in a cab a quarter of an hour later when an ambulance passed him, siren going, and pulled up outside the entrance to a subway station already surrounded by a small crowd. A couple of uniformed policemen were barring entry to everyone but the medical team which jumped out of the ambulance and ran with their equipment down the stairs.
Steve was in a hurry but his reporter’s instincts wouldn’t let him drive on past without checking it out. He leaned forward and said to the taxi driver, ‘Hey, pull over here, would you? I just want to find out what’s going on.’
The driver looked round at him, shrugged, and put on his brakes. Steve leaned out of the window, and yelled to one of the policemen, ‘What’s happened in there?’
He got an impatient stare. ‘Accident – drive on, you’re holding up traffic.’
Steve pulled out his press card and held it up. ‘Press. What sort of accident?’
The crowd all turned to stare at him. Before the policeman could answer, a young black guy in the crowd shouted, ‘There’s a girl on the line, fell under a train.’
‘Dead?’
The guy spread his hands, his big shoulders moving. ‘Well, they don’t generally get up and walk afterwards, now do they?’
A woman hovering near the kerb complained, ‘Why do they always have to do it during rush hour, huh? I got to get home. They take so long to clear the line after one of these jumpers.’
‘Take the bus,’ the black guy told her, and got a glare.
‘Easy for you to say, you ain’t got my feet.’
He looked down at her swollen ankles. ‘Don’t want ’em neither, lady.’
Others in the crowd began to
Then he was gone, his entourage hiding him from her; she followed through the swing doors a moment later and saw the long black limousines driving off at speed, while police held up the rest of the traffic until the limousines had got away.
While she stared, Don Gowrie’s face briefly showed at the back window of the second car. He looked towards her and then he was gone.
She heard Steve Colbourne’s voice from a hundred feet away; he was standing with his back to her, and the hotel behind her, recording a piece to camera, his voice confidential, smooth, accustomed.
Sophie didn’t hover to listen to what he was saying. She pulled her jacket closer, and began to walk towards the subway station nearest the hotel. She had to get back to her flat and file her story with Vlad, try to talk him into letting her fly to London.
She bought a token, walked towards the turnstile, and began to push her token into the slot, conscious of a man behind her waiting for his turn. Sophie didn’t look at him. She had learnt never to make eye-contact with men in the subway. She slid through the turnstile and walked on to the platform, staying where she could see the token booth; although it was daylight she still felt uneasy on the subway. There were other passengers waiting, she was not alone, but you heard such horror stories. She was relieved when another couple of women came along.
A train rattled along the tunnel and came out into the lighted station; she glanced up at the indicator board, then checked the route number, a big blue numeral, on the front of the coming train.
She was still getting used to the routes and the names of stations; she had to think for a second before she worked out that she would have to change trains at Washington Square to get to the station nearest to her flat. New York’s subway system was as complicated as the underground system in London, to which she had only just become adjusted when she was transferred here.
She was so absorbed that she didn’t hear a sound behind her or see anything.
She had no warning. A hand suddenly hit her in the middle of her back, right between the shoulder blades, propelling her violently forward to the edge of the platform.
2
Steve Colbourne was driving away from the hotel in a cab a quarter of an hour later when an ambulance passed him, siren going, and pulled up outside the entrance to a subway station already surrounded by a small crowd. A couple of uniformed policemen were barring entry to everyone but the medical team which jumped out of the ambulance and ran with their equipment down the stairs.
Steve was in a hurry but his reporter’s instincts wouldn’t let him drive on past without checking it out. He leaned forward and said to the taxi driver, ‘Hey, pull over here, would you? I just want to find out what’s going on.’
The driver looked round at him, shrugged, and put on his brakes. Steve leaned out of the window, and yelled to one of the policemen, ‘What’s happened in there?’
He got an impatient stare. ‘Accident – drive on, you’re holding up traffic.’
Steve pulled out his press card and held it up. ‘Press. What sort of accident?’
The crowd all turned to stare at him. Before the policeman could answer, a young black guy in the crowd shouted, ‘There’s a girl on the line, fell under a train.’
‘Dead?’
The guy spread his hands, his big shoulders moving. ‘Well, they don’t generally get up and walk afterwards, now do they?’
A woman hovering near the kerb complained, ‘Why do they always have to do it during rush hour, huh? I got to get home. They take so long to clear the line after one of these jumpers.’
‘Take the bus,’ the black guy told her, and got a glare.
‘Easy for you to say, you ain’t got my feet.’
He looked down at her swollen ankles. ‘Don’t want ’em neither, lady.’
Others in the crowd began to
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