FROM FARRINGDON
By Richard Kerr
Copyright 2011 Richard Kerr
Smashwords Edition
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FROM FARRINGDON
Andy and I get on at Barbican station. It’s five minutes to our stop so we stay standing because we’re a bit too wired to sit.
“Have you notice that we get a class like that every third week?” asks Andy. “I’m going to check my calendar and make sure I skip the next one.” He rubs his left shoulder and neck. I reach over and give it a squeeze. The carriage is nearly empty. Two women are reading through sheafs of paper. One looks at a text book. I, who has to read everyone else’s stuff, try to make out what’s on the cover. They’ve come from a nightclass and I want to know what they’ve been studying. At the end of the carriage are three guys and three girls. They are all that’s good about London’s young multi-culturalism. There’s a white guy and a white girl. There’s a black guy and girl, a middle-eastern guy and an Indian girl. And any of the guys could be going out with any of the girls.
The train rattles its way towards Farringdon and the black guy says,
“How do you fit four faggots onto a bar stool? Turn it upside down.”
There’s no way this joke is new to them and the laughter is too forced to be innocent. I never get this when I’m alone. Andy never gets it either. When I’m with Andy our body language is, well, together.
They don’t know any other jokes so the guys come out with other, too loud, fruit, fag, queer comments. The girls squeal with laughter. The guys are the actors and the girls are what, the Greek chorus? Or the line prompts from the orchestra box? At times they break the fourth wall and throw glances at their audience, us.
At this time of night Farringdon is a no-man’s-land station and the doors open and close without anyone getting on or off. One of the studying women flicks her eyes between us and the theatre-of-assholes further along. She’s seriously uncomfortable and I figure she was hoping the either we or they would have gotten off at this station.
The train begins its three-minute rumble towards Kings Cross.
We’re still all here the show is losing its audience: I look at Andy, sigh, and say what I’ve been thinking: “Assholes.”
Andy replies, deliberately, “Total assholes.”
I glance at the group and the Indian girl has easily lip-read our exchange and reports it back to the actors. This is new material and they improvise a series of camp, shocked “Ooooooooohs”. But our insult clearly needs more retaliation than that.
The white guy, who is the biggest, gets up and walks towards me, the smallest. He’s about three inches taller than I am (which isn’t a great achievement).
“I don’t like faggots,” he says.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, bored.
“Because... Give me one fucking good reason why I shouldn’t fucking kill you?”
“Is this how you plan to do it; whine me to death?” I hope my voice was calm. My hands are forward at chest height: the gesture is: hey bud, take it easy.
He throws a right hook at my face.
It’s piss easy to block with my left forearm, though it will leave a bruise. If that hadn’t been drilled into me week after week, year after year none of the rest would matter. I flick my right hand forward and two of my out-stretched fingers go into his eyes - more than deep enough to start them watering. I know someone better would have done something more decisive and, well, manly. I didn’t do it to prove anything. But this gives me enough of a split second to pop him a punch with my left hand onto his nose. I’m not left-handed but that will draw some blood and it will sting enough to keep those eyes watering. So I have even more time. Time is, as always, a relevant quantity and right now two seconds feels like a minute. And all I can think of in those two seconds is go push forward off my left foot and bring my right knee up hard into the guy’s nuts. He buckles over and now his head is only at my shoulder height. I see the whole side of his face wide open. This is too good an opportunity to miss. In class I always get told off for exaggerating the wind-up and, again, I’ve forgotten all technique but luckily my opponent isn’t in a position to judge. My right arm is bent, my palm is pushed forward and my fingers are pulled back and, bringing my hip and whole right side into play, I crack the guy hard across the face getting the jaw line right up to the ear. It’s as hard as a punch and, better still, in a claim of self-defence a slap is more legal. The guy’s head spins round and his brain will be rolling around inside it for some time. He staggers to stay upright. I turn side-on and raise my knee (I’m ashamed to say I held onto a hand-pole for support - but the train was moving). I don’t go for a kick (again a legality), instead I place my foot on his pelvis then, from my contracted posture, I expand out: my leg straightens, my hips open, my body turns and the guy goes flying back down the carriage to his friends.
He hits the deck. The Greek chorus is no longer laughing. I stride toward them. I have nothing to say. I can feel Andy’s body heat beside me. The two seated guys know that they’ll never get three inches off their asses before getting a boot in the head. I’m glad I have nothing to say as I know my voice will be wobbly and reedy at this point. I hear Andy:
“Your friend probably needs to get to hospital.”
This is a bit of a lie as the guy will probably sit up in two minutes and insist he’s alright. Though he’ll probably have go tomorrow morning because something in his jaw definitely gave.
“Luckily the stop after Kings Cross is Euston Square,” Andy tells them. "That’s beside the UCH and they have and emergency ward. Get off there.”
The tunnel brightens as we enter the station. Andy takes my arm and leads me off the train.
“Yeah,” is all I can say.
As I turn around to leave the night-class woman looks up and she’s part alarmed and part smiling. I see she’s reading ‘Man and Superman’. Apart from ‘Pygmalion’ I don’t know any other Shaw.
Andy and I step into the 24 rush-hour of Kings Cross. I don’t know what vibes I’m giving out but he looks at me and rolls his eyes: “Oh, please.”
I really am not congratulating myself. In fact, when we get home, I’ll need a serious cuddle.
THE END
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