Darius Ibrahim heard a scream, muffled but distinct.
Then another. Darius lowered his newspaper. Around him, heads were turning to the rear of the carriage. Beyond it, he could dimly make out movement in the carriage beyond. A swirl of grey, then blankness as something covered the window on the other side. It was dark outside, and as the train sped along, the adjoining carriage windows constantly moved in and out of alignment with each other. Like airlocks endlessly lining up but never quite meeting, he thought.
There was an awkwardness in the air, as Tube etiquette was tested by the unexpected sound. Normally, it didn’t matter how loudly you talked to a friend or pondered the Guardian crossword aloud, your neighbours would pretend to not notice. It was a kind of sanity survival strategy, but so was a heightened awareness of possible threats. These two opposing forces were now at work in the troubled minds of the carriage’s occupants.
On an impulse, Darius got up. He’d been half out of his mind from boredom. Might as well see what fate has dished up.
Clutching at the overhead straps, he made his way to the carriage’s end window. Beyond it he could see its counterpart in the next carriage, endlessly oscillating as the train moved on. It was blocked by something grey, maybe clothing. Then the obstacle suddenly swung away and he found himself staring at a face.
He jumped at the unexpected encounter. It was a plain, undistinguished face, closely shaved all round with a suggestion of fair hair from the stubble on top of the head. Green eyes peered into Darius’ carriage and looked slowly from one side to the other. There was something odd about the pupils - they seemed slightly elongated - but otherwise they were expressionless. Cold, hard, and not a smile or frown on the man’s face. He stepped back a little, and Darius could now see he held a knife.
Darius froze. What do you do when you’re enclosed within a small hurtling space, confronted by danger close at hand? Fight or flight? But the danger was in the next carriage. Nowhere to fly to, but no-one to fight.
He felt warmth returning to his limbs after the sudden shock. Darius swung around to see how others were reacting. Some looked startled, others were ignoring the next carriage with focused intent. He caught the eye of a middle-aged man in an anorak and brown corduroys.
“Did you see that?” he asked, after a moment’s pause. His voice sounded louder than expected.
The man looked away. Others around him looked embarrassed.
“He’s got a knife!” Darius yelled to the carriage in general. No-one moved, though some looked frightened. “Shit.” Darius pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, intending to call the police. He’d started on the first “9” when he realised something: the train was slowing down. In a moment, they’d be at the next station and the carriage doors would open. Suddenly the danger was a little nearer. Would it be better to jump out to attract someone’s attention, or stay where he was? He paused uncertainly, as the word “Alperton” came into view on a station sign.
The doors opened. Stay or leave? Darius let go of the strap and started hesitantly toward the opening door. Then the decision was taken away from him. There was a flash of grey along the platform. Then the overcoat-clad green-eyed man stood at the carriage threshold, looking slowly around.
He stepped in, and Darius stepped back, heart pounding. He found himself pressed against the end window as the man stopped just inside the closing doors. For a moment, he formed part of a tableau, motionless. Then the doors thudded shut and the train rolled away from the platform.
With that cue, the man started walking toward the far end of the carriage, away from Darius. He looked down at each face, peering intently at them, as if looking for someone. People were trying to ignore him. You could sense the common mental process: “Ignore him, don’t provoke him, just another nutter”. None of them had seen the knife, of course. The passengers at Darius’ end of the carriage were more alert, clutching bags and shrinking into their seats. A slim blond woman on Darius’ other side had followed through with his idea, speaking softly but urgently into a mobile cupped in her palm.
Then the stranger reached a couple of young men at the far end of the carriage. They were dressed in torn jeans, bomber jackets and chains, and had been drinking from bottles in brown paper. As a result, there was some space around them. When the grey man reached them, they looked up with surprise.
“What’s your problem, mate?” said one of them as the new arrival stared into his eyes. “Lost your boyfriend?” He laughed, and his friend joined in just a little too enthusiastically.
“Nah Gaz, it’s open day at the loony bin,” he added. “‘E’s done a runner!”. Then he slapped Gaz on the back and more laughter followed.
The stranger was unmoved by any of this. Having finished with Gaz, he moved to the second man and stared closely at him.
“Now he fancies you, mate,” said Gaz, angry now. He pulled off the thick bike chain that had been hanging over his shoulder, and slapped it into his palm for emphasis. He screwed up his face and spat at the grey overcoat. “Piss off, arsehole!”
The reaction was instantaneous. The stranger slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out the knife. The third man swore and jumped back, while Gaz made to swing his chain. Halfway through its arc, it was caught in the stranger’s left hand as he drove his right hand forward. There was an enormous yelp of pain, an animal cry. Then Gaz crashed to the floor, bleeding profusely from his stomach and apparently lifeless.
Ignoring the ensuing chaos as the passengers reacted to the sudden violence, the man turned, and started down to Darius’ end of the carriage. The silence was broken, and the train was filled with yells and screams. Passengers darted fearfully back from the man as he resumed his even tread, staring into faces as he held the dripping knife at waist height.
He reached Darius, pressed into the end window. Then he smiled. It was the most terrifying thing Darius had seen, the man’s muscles moving slowly as if being remotely operated. The eyes stayed ice cold, while the mouth set into a frozen sneer. Darius could see the man’s canines, long and pointed.
He dived to the floor unthinkingly, survival instincts taking over. He was slim enough to slip between the man’s knife arm and body, then dart for the centre of the carriage. What he was going to do there, he had no idea.
There was a snarl from the stranger. He was quick, but had been distracted at the moment of recognition. He twirled around noiselessly and raised the knife, advancing on Darius with his free arm outstretched. Darius saw a tattoo of some type around his wrist: some kind of animal crouching for the kill. He cringed, waiting for the man’s grasp or knife thrust.
Then there was a hiss behind him. The doors. They were at a station! He leapt out and ran for his life.
He had a second or two on his side, but not much more than that. His slimness might help though, he thought, and he weaved in and out of the relatively thick crowd. Behind him he heard a muffled shout, and raised voices. He dared not look back for fear of slowing down.
Stairs. Up or down? Then a roar came from his left as the knife-man thrust his way through terrified commuters, blocking the path upwards to the pedestrian bridge. Darius dived into the smaller, downward stairwell, clattering down the stairs. After just a few steps, he was confronted by a blank wall. To the left was a narrow grimy door, slightly ajar.
On impulse, he threw himself through the opening and pulled the door shut. He almost tripped as something hard knocked against his shin, and choked back a curse as he pulled his mobile from his pocket, ready to call for help. For the moment, however, he dared not make a sound that would give his position away.
A few seconds went by, Darius’ heartbeat pounding in his head. Then, with mounting terror, he heard a steady tread descending the stairs. He dared a peek through a slat in the door - and looked straight into a murderous face.
“Christ!” Darius jumped back in surprise, tripping over the mop and bucket he’d bumped into before, and dropping his phone. It clattered away in the darkness, lost. The door was rattling now as the grey man thumped the lock in frustration.
Shocked, Darius felt his breath speed up as he crouched at the back of the cupboard. Without conscious decision, he closed his eyes and hunched over in a ball as the thumping continued. His pulse grew louder, bright colours swam before his eyes and he felt a rising wave of nausea. Something tugged at him - or at his mind? - and he felt as if he were keeling over sideways.
Outside, the stranger gave one last thump and the flimsy lock gave way. He shoved the door open. The cupboard was empty.
***
The short dark man bent over the flower and inhaled. Its perfume was hardly noticeable against the thick spicy aroma of the nursery, but he enjoyed the ritual in any case. Turning, his gaze swept around the chamber. It was still impressive, even though he was intimately familiar with its contents from years of visits.
The nursery was housed in a structure that resembled a vast egg-shaped bubble, perfectly smooth and of an opaque greyish white. The curved surface seemed to glow slightly, emitting light. It was surprisingly soothing, this gentle glow. The man absent-mindedly fingered the metal badge on his robes as he looked over the greenery around him.
He turned back to the flower, and picked up a slender handled instrument from next to the pot. He lifted it toward the plant…
… and doubled over in agony as a wave of pain crashed through his mind. All sensation was blocked as he fell, not noticing the impact with the ground. His right arm toppled the table and the plant fell to the ground, its earthenware container smashed. The metal tool clattered along the wooden flooring.
Waves of colours were moving through the man’s mind, and beyond them he could sense a shape, or concept. It eluded him, but he felt drawn toward it. Just as it was starting to take form, the screaming stopped. Reality flooded back in.
Despite the residual pain, the man dragged himself to his feet and set the table back on its feet. Leaning against it, he touched his badge and closed his eyes. In a moment, he felt the Controller’s mind. It, too, was tinged with shock and surprise.
“What was that?” came the Controller’s mental reply, the niceties of formal address lost in the aftermath of the event. “I blacked out… we all did…”
The robed man gathered his swirling uncertainties together and hid them behind a mental shield of confidence.
“Notify all agents,” he replied. “We have found him. This must be the one.”
***
Hamila Laurent stood on the bank of the Nile, watching the fiery sunset. It was spectacular, great whorls of orange tinged with pink, a few bright stars showing through. Atmospheric conditions had been upset this year by an unexpected volcanic eruption in the Andes. It had killed many people through the flash flood caused by a rapidly melting glacier. It was ironic that the legacy of such a deadly event could be so beautiful.
Hamila stood on a small hilltop, her right arm holding an intricately carved staff which almost matched her height. She was dark-skinned, athletic, with black hair tied back behind her head. Her boyish, loose-fitting garments allowed for maximum movement. If the people working in the fields nearby had been able to see her, they would have picked her for a fighter.
She sighed, as the air around her subtly shimmered. In the distance she could make out the imposing bulk of the Ahram, the ancient pyramids, glowing around their edges. Thinking of their alignment, she glanced up to find Sirius… then flinched in an explosion of pain.
Dropping to her knees, she grasped the staff for support as she squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated. In a moment, the pain receded to a background irritation. But it was still there, and she suddenly knew what it meant. Straightening up, she gasped involuntarily.
“It’s him. At last, just like they said. But…”
The pain shut off, as if it had never been there.
Hamila turned on her heel and ran toward the city.
***
Darius vomited.
“Disgusting,” said a voice somewhere in front of him.
Darius slowly looked up, needles of pain shooting through him as he completed the action. His vision was blurry, but he could make out dark shapes moving across his vision a few metres away. None of them came very close.
“What the…?” He tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness convinced him to stay on his knees for the time being.
What had happened? He remembered fear, a rapid, rising anxiety, then a strange squeezing sensation deep within him. It was followed by a rushing sensation in his chest, a blur of colours behind the eyes, and then he had found himself here.
Here. He had only just realised that he was no longer in the cupboard, no longer hunched over, leg against a cold metal bucket, listening to violent thuds against the door, waiting for death.
The blur suddenly cleared and Darius shot to his feet, powered by adrenalin.
“Shit!” The stranger, the knife, the pursuit. He had been trapped, but… what had happened next?
Newly alert, he backed against a wall for support. Cool tiles against his hands suggested he was still in the station. But no-one looked panicked, he realised, as he glanced at the dark shapes which were now revealed as people. At most, they cast nervous or disapproving glances in his direction then strode onward slightly more quickly.
Darius pushed down residual nausea as he tried to get his thoughts in order. How had he escaped?
“I must have… I must have…” he mumbled.
Nothing came to mind.
Then, “I must have got past him somehow, ran for it, blacked out… I guess”.
It didn’t seem entirely satisfactory, but the problem remained: was he still in danger?
Breathing more easily now, he tried to remember where he had begun. They’d arrived at Alperton station… No, wait, that was the one before. The next one was, um… Park Royal.
But now he thought about it, this place didn’t feel right. Park Royal station was far enough from central London that it was largely an above-ground station, the platforms open to the air. The corridor he was in was claustrophobic, rounded, tiled in an old-fashioned style like the underground stations in the centre of the city.
Puzzled, he followed the tunnel onward, passing a few other people on the way. Then he stepped out onto what was clearly an underground station, with its distinctive circular tunnel. Opposite him was a large poster for a Salvador Dali exhibition. Even in his weakened state, he could see the humour in that.
Next to the poster was a large sign reading “Regents Park”.
Darius felt dazed. For a moment he forgot the threat of violence, and sank onto a bench against the platform wall. There were few people on the platform at present, as a train had just left. A little further down, two young teenagers were thumping a chocolate bar vending machine. With a burst of expletives, they kicked it, then gave up and walked through the exit.
Darius sat staring at the sign opposite, suspended above the tracks.
Regents Park. Not Park Royal.
He closed his eyes, and tested his head against the cool tiles behind him. Beneath the immobility caused by confusion, Darius could sense a welling panic, an anxiety born of the fear that he was losing his grip on reality. He had been on the Piccadilly Line, he had been at Park Royal station, he must have been. But this was Regents Park, on the Bakerloo line, right across London. Had he blacked out, somehow got onto a train that ended up here? But he would have had to change lines to do that.
And there was the locked cupboard at Park Royal. How had he got out of that?
Adrenalin surged again. Whatever had happened, it would be better to be outside. He got up, and headed shakily for the exit.***
Central London was a hectic location, but it held calm places, and Regents Park was one of these oases. A swathe of green cut through the centre, punctuated here and there by lakes and paths. It was a place to feed the ducks or to take a brief lunch-hour stroll.
Madeleine Taylor had been walking the park as usual, a golden Labrador tugging against the lead in her hands. It was her employer’s dog, but she was fond of it. Being a live-in housekeeper was tiring work, and Dalrymple gave her an excuse to get outside for a while. Sometimes she wondered if she’d done the right thing in moving from Swindon to London, but a walk in the park helped to elude these doubts.
Madeleine eyed the ducks as she walked along a path leading to a bridge across the water, feeling Dalrymple’s ever-enthusiastic pull. Then suddenly he stopped, and she almost fell over the dog as he stood stock still, staring into the trees beyond the shallow lake.
She walked past him and tugged the lead gently to get him moving again. Dalrymple didn’t budge.
“Come on,” she said, lightly. “We haven’t got all day.”
Then the dog began to growl.
She started to speak again as she followed his line of sight, then stopped, speechless. There was a glint of metal in the trees, then an explosion of activity as three figures burst from the trees and began running toward her. Each of them carried a long black cylinder strapped to one arm.
Dalrymple jumped forward with a jerk, and Madeleine felt the lead snatched from her hand. She watched in silent horror as he leapt at the closest figure and grabbed it by the leg. Casually, only momentarily stopping his forward motion, the figure swung the cylinder down in contact with the dog’s head. There was a flash of light and the animal crumpled to the ground.
Madeleine started screaming. And she was still screaming when a beam of light from the second stranger’s weapon struck her. As she collapsed, falling into unconsciousness, she dreamily noted the profile of Anubis on the gleaming black surface of the leading figure’s mask.
***
“I’ve a good mind to rub your nose in it, mate!”
Authority had caught up with Darius. While he had been recovering on the platform, puzzling over what had happened while the steel cylinders of Tube trains rattled past, a concerned passer-by had reported his presence to the station officials. Usually you could rely on Londoners staying reserved and uninvolved, but today one had felt pushed just a little too far. Which was unlucky for Darius. For everyone, as it turned out.
He was standing in the station concourse, collar in the grip of a man in a uniform. Red-faced and middle-aged, he was taking out the frustrations of the day on this likely looking target. His attention had been drawn to the vomit down below, and he wasn’t happy about it.
“Give him a break, buddy.” A voice broke in, American, self-assured, from over the official’s shoulder. Darius could see a tall dark-haired young man standing there, backpack slung over one shoulder.
Darius found his voice. “Yeah, what he said… I’m not having a good day, y’know?”
The flustered officer looked one way then the other, uncertain on who to focus his rage.
Then they all heard shouting from above, and turned to face the exit.
“What the…?” Darius felt the station officer’s hand slip from his collar as he gaped in astonishment at the stairs leading up to the street. Or more precisely, at where the stairs had been. For the entrance to the stairwell was now blocked by a wall of light, a dimly glowing pearly screen.
The backpacker strode across to it and held his hand out, close to its surface.
“Don’t!” yelled Darius, and the American jerked his hand away, staring back.
“I don’t know why I said that,” said Darius in a lower tone. “There’s just something wrong about it… it feels…”
“It’s cold,” said the backpacker. “But it doesn’t look solid, exactly. Like a freaking science fiction movie eh, a force field or something?”
“Just leave it alone, eh mate?” Darius glanced around. The station official had retreated to the ticket office, and another two people were standing over to one side, looking worried. One was trying to use a mobile phone, but seemed to be having problems with it.
“You know what we oughta do?” said the backpacker, turning to face Darius. “We oughta…”
His sentence remained unfinished. With a loud crack, three black-clad figures burst through the pearly shield, as it re-formed around them. One of them knocked down the backpacker with a sidelong blow from the weapon he carried, and he fell to the floor. Then they saw Darius and turned toward him as one.
Darius ducked and ran, plunging back down the stairs to the lower concourse. He felt a burst of heat above his head as he scuttled downward. Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of a beam of light hitting the roof of the stairwell. The brown tiles glowed brightly where it struck. He could hear the muffled voice of the station official above him, then silence.
He looked around desperately. The stairs to the right led straight onto the northbound platform. No train there yet, no escape. He ducked to the left down the stairs to the southbound platform, where he’d found himself after his blackout earlier. He’d have to hope a southbound train would come through, or that he could hide somewhere until it did.
Behind him, heavy footsteps clattered down the stairs.
Darius reached the platform. No train. Damn! He darted a look at the display: five minutes till the next one. Running down the length of the platform, he noticed an elderly woman sitting on a bench at the end. She half rose, alarmed, as he ran toward her.
“Get away from me!” she said, eyes wide with fright. “I haven’t got anything worth stealing!”
“Get down!” he yelled, pushing her back onto the bench. As he did so, a beam of pearly light struck her body, beneath her left arm. She collapsed beneath him. As time seemed to slow around him, Darius noticed she was still breathing.
He laid the woman down upon the bench and turned slowly, his back now against the platform’s end wall. The tiles cooled his back through his sweat-laden shirt as his fear rose again. At the end of the platform, the three figures stood facing him. He realised now that their uniforms weren’t just black, they were smooth and reflective. They seemed more like polished stone than cloth, and it was impossible to spot the seams. Over their heads were helmets of the same material, shiny and alien.
The lead soldier stepped forward, his weapon still raised. He reached up and touched his helmet. Incredibly, it dissolved into thin air, revealing a close-cropped dark-haired man with a grim countenance.
Darius pushed closer against the wall. The numbed sensation of unreality he’d been experiencing since Alperton was washing over him now that he’d stopped moving. He couldn’t see what else he could do now. What did it matter anyway? Was any of this actually real?
Then, as the soldier came alongside the nearest exit that led back to the stairs, a figure shot out of the passage with tremendous force. There was a loud crack as it connected with the soldier’s head. His weapon flew from his hand and clattered along the platform as the force of the blow carried him off the edge, onto the tracks. Darius watched in horror as the two figures crashed onto the far side of the tracks, then began struggling. Then there was a cry, a thrashing of limbs, and a thump as the soldier’s lifeless body was thrown back onto the platform by his opponent.
The two other soldiers had recovered from their initial shock and were running along the platform, taking aim at the new arrival, ignoring Darius.
Darius felt his limbs come back to life as he realised the brief chance he had been given. Without thinking twice, he jumped off the platform and ran into the southbound tunnel.
Behind him he heard dulled blows and raised voices, receding as he ran. He glanced to his left at the tracks. He had to be careful to avoid the farthest of the four rails, the one that carried the electric current. If he happened to step on that at the same time as the return rail in the centre, he'd be dead meat. For the first time, he was grateful for the uninvited lectures his Uncle Bob, a Tube driver, had given him on the intricacies of the system.
He stumbled as realisation hit him. The soldier must have bridged the two rails in the struggle and been killed by the current. Was that luck, or deadly skill on his assailant's part?
No time to think about that now. Just run for your life.
As he started off again, he tried to picture where he was heading. South of Regents Park… next station… Oxford Circus? How far could it be? Some of the Tube stations were closer together than you’d imagine. You could easily walk from Leicester Square to Covent Garden underground, he remembered.
No noise from behind now. Then Darius noticed a hum building in the tunnel. He stopped, horrified, as he realised the sound was coming from the rails beside him.
The train! In his flight from the killers behind him, he’d forgotten about the more obvious danger of running down an Underground tunnel in the near-dark. It must be almost five minutes now since he’d glanced at the platform display.
Darius looked around wildly for a way to escape the oncoming juggernaut. There was nothing. He stood rooted to the spot in fear.
Then, as he saw the lights approaching in the distant reaches of the tunnel, something struck him with tremendous force and lifted him off his feet. The breath was knocked out of him, and as he began to struggle he realised he was being carried over the tracks to the other side. He saw the dull gleam of the electrified rail just centimetres below him.
As they landed on the far side of the tracks, he felt the arm around him loosen slightly. Darius took this as the cue to struggle in earnest. While this was happening, the rumbling was getting louder and the Tube train’s lights looming closer.
They swung round, his captor still gripping his waist from behind. As the lights of the oncoming train blinded him, he felt his strength surge up in desperation.
Suddenly he heard a voice, partly drowned by the noise in the tunnel.
“I’m trying to help, you idiot. Stop moving or we’ll both be killed!”
Instantly, he felt a sudden pressure on the side of his neck. Firm, forceful, but strangely soothing at the same time.
Darius stopped struggling. As the train rushed toward them, he passed out.