Out of the Central Zone

Out of the Central Zone

It is a light, bare, warehouse, room. Empty of obstacles, lit through
the dust by the bright spring sun. Still, in a mystic suspension of
time.
A man sits opposite her at an out-of-place desk. He fits the
contraption together, joins wires, sets the timer. He does it casually,
as if it's something he does everyday. The others stand round with
guns. Guns that are like extensions of their bodies. Guns they sleep
with.
They give the package to her. She knows where she has to go. She knows
how to get there.
Two of the gunmen show here out. They walk down the stairs in the
dark. One of the gunmen carries a torch. She thinks on her way down,
plots, calculates; may be she could use the darkness to escape, use it
to her advantage. May be she could trip one of them on the stairs. But
there are two of them and one of her.
She is joining their dark world. To save herself and the boy she will
help them kill, even do the killing for them. It's like walking into
concrete, slapping her in the face and tearing off her skin, punching
her stomach with its concrete weight.
Down, down, down the spiralling staircase and she fills up to her
throat with that concrete solidity. The pale beam from the torch only
partially illuminates the stairs and she stumbles.
A car waits for them at the bottom of the stairs. She hears the engine
start up. They blindfold her, then push her into it. She will be
dropped at a tube station. She is to take the Central Line in the
direction of the City.
"You've got two hours." They tell her. "Hope the tube isn't delayed!"
He yells, laughing with his mate and slamming the car-door shut as it
speeds off.
She could do a runner now. She could. Just dump the damn thing! But
where?
Reluctantly she buys her ticket and goes down into the underground.
The escalator is dusty and antique. The limp light glows yellowed and
musty encircling the escalator which carries her, descending, passive
and unwilling.
The old train rattles in. She's relived not to have to wait on the
platform. Her relief, her tension, are not conspicuous in the
underground world she travels through. The other passengers too are
relieved to get on the train, fall on a seat. They exhale loudly, stare
at their feet or above their heads. None of them notice her. None of
them care about her.
But to her they are all watching eyes, spying over the tops of their
books and newspapers, anticipating her every move. Her palms are
sweaty. They're right you know, those people on the tube. She is a bad
woman. How can they tell what she is about to do? How can she really do
it? She is going to kill people today. But she is saving a life.
Wouldn't anyone do the same?
Some teenage boys get on at Notting Hill. They swing like monkeys from
the hand-rails on the ceiling, then start trying to open the
inter-carriage door.
So what's the difference? A child she knows, and God knows how many
people, perhaps children too, who she doesn't. If she goes to the City,
how many people will die to save one? How can she trust them to keep
their word anyway?
There must be something she can do. Drop it somewhere safe, water or
something, in a park, in a pond.
She leans forward and peers at the tube map above the seat opposite.
Regent's Park, just one up from Oxford Circus on the Bakerloo
Line.
When she gets off the tube, the platform is crowded with people. It's
years since she last came up to the West End. She can't remember where
the Bakerloo Line is. She sees a sign and follows it. She had forgotten
how crowded Oxford Circus gets. She feels claustrophobic on the
escalator, an overwhelming need to escape above ground.
A man in a suit pushes past her. The end of his umbrella juts into her
leg. He apologises, smiling and raising his hat. She finds this gesture
odd, quaintly old-fashioned. He shuffles around a bit and then carries
on climbing the escalator.
Now she finds herself in the wrong place. She is at the exit of Oxford
Circus, not the Bakerloo Line. She is confused. How did she get up
here? She finds the escalator down to the Bakerloo Line. A busker at
the bottom winks at her. His arms are muscled like tree trunks. His big
hands gently strum his guitar.
She finds the Bakerloo Line, northbound, she checks. She breathes
hushed but deeply as she waits on the platform. She clutches her
shoulder bag to her, the bag the holds the deadly device. It seems
lighter just as she feels lighter all over. She hopes she has enough
time. Two hours the man had said, but how long ago was that? She has to
get to the park. What if it went off early?
The tube, like a great silvery worm, opens up the many mouths on its
side, spitting out passengers, sucking new ones in. She steps aboard.
Only one stop now and she'll be at the park.
She emerges onto the great wide pavement, crosses the road at the
pedestrian crossing, nervous of the roaring onslaught of traffic, its
echo lingering in her head. The she becomes deaf to it, and as she
enters the park begins to hear the shy little ditties of birds.
The sun is strong, almost summery, but the air still holds a light
chill to remind anyone who may have forgotten that Spring can go again,
just as easily as it came.
She comes to the little beck and reaches in her bag for the device.
Shame about the swans. She was always fond of wildlife, but killing
swans must be better than killing human beings. Her had searches around
in her bag. She ought to find it easily. Where is it? Where's her
purse? She pulls the shoulder bag's loose lips apart and gapes at it's
cavernous interior. She rummages around some more, as if there were a
chance that she's mistaken or not seeing properly. But there is no
device and no wallet.
She is shaken from her confusion by the sky tearing open above her
head. The man with the hat, who had picked her wallet and the
interesting package out of her bag on the escalator at Oxford Circus,
had caught sight of a burger bar as he was ejected onto Oxford Street.
He had felt a sudden pang of hunger, and stopped to get something to
eat.