The man sitting opposite me is sweating. Large droplets trickle down his forehead as if he’s just climbed out of the shower. What does he expect? It’s the middle of summer and he’s wearing a huge black coat.
The tube is boiling and the people are packed together like battery hens. Everyone stands in their own little world, cocooned by their iPods, books and newspapers. Nobody makes eye contact. It would be too uncomfortable in such close proximity.
I turn back to my book and read a few lines before I glance at the man again. His dark eyes are darting around, eyeing every person in the carriage. It’s then I realise how on edge he is. His hands are gripping the hand rests, with such force, that his knuckles have turned white.
What’s wrong with him? Perhaps he’s claustrophobic. Perhaps he’s mentally unstable. He wipes the sweat away from his forehead with a coat sleeve and then stares right at me.
I quickly divert my eyes to my book. It takes me a few second to find my place and I start reading. But the man is far more interesting than my paperback, so I chance another peek at him.
He unbuttons his coat and sticks his hand inside. As the coat flaps open, something catches my eyes. A flash of metal. It sets off alarm bells. Could there be a bomb strapped to his chest?
He fiddles with something and then buttons his coat back up. This is bad. Why would he button his coat back up unless he has something to hide?
I glance around to see if anyone else has noticed the terrorist in our carriage, but I’m the only one. Which means it’s down to me to do something, but what do I do?
My heart hammers within my ribcage and my palms become moist. Come on, focus. Panicking won’t help anyone. But my brain has filled up with useless ideas. If I started shouting, he would detonate the bomb before anyone came to my aid, and if I pulled the passenger alarm, it would stop the train, trapping us in the tunnel with our killer.
So what should I do? Do I dare risk waiting until the next station to take action? I could get myself off the train and then alert the other passengers. A little selfish perhaps, but at least I’d be safe.
He glances at me again and I hide my face behind my book. His bloodshot eyes look deranged. I sit there listening to the rhythmic sound of the wheels on the track, trying to stop myself from having a panic attack.
‘The next station is King’s Cross St. Pancras,’ says the emotionless voice over the intercom. A glimmer of hope. We’re almost there. I look over the top of my book and realise the man looks even more disturbed than he did a few seconds before. A vein on his forehead has risen to the surface and I can see the blood pumping through it.
And then the train starts to slow. I hope and pray that I’ll make it out of this alive, but when we come to a standstill, the windows remain dark. We’ve stopped in the tunnel.
‘I’m sorry for the delay ladies and gentlemen. We’re just waiting for a green light before we proceed,’ says the driver.
Hurry up!
The man closes his eyes for a second and then shoves his hand into his pocket and I know this is it. We’re all going to die.
I should do something, anything, but I’m frozen with fear. I imagine his hand closing around a detonator and pressing a button that causes a fireball to engulf me… but nothing happens.
He pulls his hand out of his pocket and there is a piece of A4 paper clutched within it. He unfolds it and starts reading. It looks like an email. On the side facing me is a map and a disclaimer. Could they be instructions to operate the bomb, followed by an escape route?
The train starts moving again and after a few seconds, light from the platform fills the carriage. I’ve almost made it. I stand up and try and shove my way through the wall of commuters, but there is no room to move.
The killer flips the page over and I read the subject of the email: Job interview 9:00am.
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