LONDON SHARK: CHAPTER TWO

prologue ^

C H A P T E R T W O

H A N N A H

1998

I SLAM UP AGAINST THE TICKET MACHINE, which checks my disorientation as the weight of my fraught body rattles into it, turning several sets of eyes upon me. None of which, I am both relieved and devastated to say, belong to Hannah or the man she is clasped to. They continue towards the exit, now softly glowing with the growing light of day, where the city waits, draping shawls of anonymity to those joining the masses on its pavements, inside its cars and buses and buildings. None of the eyes that do give my stumble a brief once-over do so long enough to pass the time of day, or impart concern; they simply revert to staring straight on in the heads of the people streaming in and out of the station.

I right myself, rock back on my heels and ball my hands into fists and squeeze my fingernails against the meat of my hand. This brings Leia to mind. I have to shut her out and bravely do so. My heart, which lodged in my throat on seeing Hannah and the man has returned to my ribcage, where it is under my control. My mind has eliminated hurt and pride, temporarily at least, and is plotting my next move. Should I follow Hannah and the man, see where they go to . . .

. . . which isn’t where she fucking should be who is this prick prick prick eyes are death . . .

. . . or join the swarm heading underground, saunter on like nothing is happening and there is no need for me to take the hunting knife out from my inner jacket pocket? I grasp at my heart through my overcoat and my suit jacket and feel the solidity of its bone handle and the hidden power of the Damascus steel blade folded inside. Like love, it reassures and terrifies me, and to be abandoned by it simply is unacceptable. The scratchy fabric of my suit trousers catches on the goose pimples on my legs as they shiver in shock, creating billions of tiny electric surges that course up to my torso and down my back and everywhere inside me as I calculate what to do. How to react.

Yes, it would be wise to carry on, to put this encounter with Hannah to the back or the side of my mind and find the logic in the reason why their hands were held together in the way that only those blessed with love can do and I think of Leia and her cold her hand was the last time I was with her, ever. I feel like I might start crying now, and though it’s not wise and I’ll miss work, and if Hannah sees me I would just die, I love her and need to know what’s going on with her. With us. Whoever this . . .

. . . colleague cousin gay friend someone she is caring for SHE IS CARING it makes sense NOW She is being a carer she is a carer now on side of her job this FUCKING STRANGER she is a carer the fucking . . . is simple she needs to walk and guide him if I stay here a few minutes maybe she will be back having taken him to his fucking fuck care place with his stupid simple fuck friends . . .

. . . is.

I am febrile and charged and I have to follow what my heart is telling me: to follow theirs.

I turn away from the turnstile and jog after them, spotting the distinctive yellow, leather Chanel handbag strapped over her left shoulder as the . . . two (NOT, NOT, NOT couple) leave the station. The bag had cost her parents a fair bit of money, Christmas before last. Hannah had had a tough year, so Jim and Valerie forked out the big bucks. (I was jealous, really. It was well beyond my means, but I did what I could. Knowing she hated being so reliant on the Tube and the buses, I saved up for months, bought her a pushbike. Yellow, of course. Secondhand, but in pretty good shape. I had bought a cleaning kit too; had spent hours cleansing and polishing the thing, checking its brakes were tight and its gears and chains were spotless and slick, then on Christmas morning had ridden it round to her house, ignoring the barbs from a few young kids about riding a haha you poof girls’ bike. She never said so, but I knew that she didn’t like the bike.)

They've headed left from the station. I keep myself twenty feet or so behind them. The footfall of the area has intensified even in the few minutes since I entered the station, which helps with losing myself among the pedestrians, but also gives Hannah and the man the same effect. I am not a tall man, perhaps with an inch or two on Hannah. The man with her has at least half a foot on my height, yet when I try to log his appearance in my mind, the information resets and drains away before I can inventory any details finer than his approximate height. One second, his hair seems voluminous and auburn, and then a fat man almost walks straight into me. The bloated idiot and I exchange snarls, and by the time I’ve re-spotted the straps of Hannah’s handbag weaving among the stream of people, the man she is clasped to appears to be topped with light, blonde, shorter hair than in the glimpse before. I have a dim recollection of his physicality when he walked hand-in-hand with Hannah through the station; really all I can recall is his shape and the fact that he was smiling. Genuinely. Happily.

And his hand, inside which hers is imprisoned by the bars of his fingers. Their hands. A flash—Hannah had placed her hand in his of her own, free will. I growl, feel goose pimples burst through my arms. I am cold and hot.

I quicken my step as they approach Remnant Street, lest they decide to turn left toward Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I have no idea where they’re going but the Fields have all sorts of shortcuts through them, and a fair bit of green space. A good place to catch up with the couple, or, better still, a good place to catch up with the man should he and Hannah break off their hand-holding and set off in different directions. See what he has to say when he has no one and nothing to clutch with his hand while my knife is unfolded, its blade gleaming starkly in mine.

But they continue, crossing Remnant Street and strolling on. I am less than ten feet behind them. I wonder if they are heading over the river. A man in a long mackintosh has crossed the road and walks alongside me now as Hannah and the man walk on. They are talking, turning to each other and punctuating their words with smiles. Now I’m close enough to linger a look at it, the man’s hair seems bouffant and ridiculous now, and as he turns towards Hannah—whose long and curled locks are the tiniest bit damp; she washes it every morning and I’m worried and scared she’ll get a head cold— I see that his hair has streaks of peroxide blonde in. It looks so stupid that I bark a laugh that I barely manage to stifle with the back of my hand. Stupid, but . . . a rage grows, and I notice the man, my new temporary pavement companion is staring at me. He must be a foot taller than me but I stare at him, then smile, showing my teeth. Behaviour like this in a small market town in Cambridgeshire could lead to confrontation or derision but here the man simply shakes his head and quickens his step, rounding Hannah and him, he, it.

Their hands remain entwined. I long to scream and shout, but I know there is an answer that will paint Hannah’s innocence. The man with his stupid hair and the stubble sprinkled lazily along his jowl keeps looking at Hannah; she returns his looks at times with smiles in which I see her loveliness and yet also a fear. Of this, I’m sure. I’m crackling with enraged emotion, which I attempt to keep at a simmer. It is not the right time for a three-way confrontation. I slow a little, letting a woman with headphones pass me by, creating a buffer between me and the pair. NOT NOT NOT COUPLE. Please Hannah, don’t turn and see me now. See my eyes . . . I can feel my blue irises roiling like an enraged sea, from which vivid, red veins pour into the whites of my eyes before cascading through my sockets and oozing around my brain. I can taste blood on my tongue, and I think even among the smog I can smell theirs.

They draw to a halt on reaching Portugal Street, a few feet back from the kerb. The man looks behind him and sees me, sees that there are other people in my wake and leads Hannah to the frontage of the Peacock Theatre on the side of the pavement. I bow my head, keeping my eyes low, pulling my woollen hat down far enough to cover my eyebrows. I yearn to lock eyes with him, but I keep on and stand next to the woman in the headphones by the kerbside. There are a few cars emerging onto the main road from Portugal Street, and I strain to hear what Hannah and the man may be saying, or doing, but with the buzz of traffic and a jaunty, irritating treble leaking from the woman’s headphones this is an impossible duty. I fight an urge to pull the headphones from the woman and scream into her face that no one wants to hear Fatboy Slim or whothefuckeverelse she is listening to. But I stand there, objectively serene, while the love of my life lends her heart to another. I close my eyes for a moment and feel myself fall into the moment’s blackness. This instant of peace is interrupted by an exasperated exhalation of air from behind me. A voice, young male estuary in accent, mutters, “fuck’s sake.” My eyes flash open and I know if I were to turn now there would be someone like Ben Jarvis standing there, expressing their ire at my temerity in waiting for a second or two before crossing the road.

Instead, I walk to the other side, slowly enough to know that I’m unapologetic. The London School of Economics Language Centre is on the corner on this side of Portugal Street, and I slip past its front door before shrinking against a shallow alcove in its wall. The young impatient man walks past, but I pay him no mind. I peer back towards Hannah and . . . They are still outside the theatre, both hands now grasping each other’s; she is playing with his fingers. My knife seems heavy; very very heavy. And then, they kiss. It’s brief and slightly timid as if they’re feeling their way into new love. But it happens and it’s real and I am left alone on the other side of the road, lonely as a shark.

They break off and the man heads up towards the LSE proper. Hannah smiles, turns, and heads back along the way we all came. I slump until I’m sitting on the grey pavement inside, the insidious February coldness whistling at my exposed skin. I want to cry and I want to die and I want to be with Hannah and I want so, so much that I surprise myself when I raise myself to my feet and hurry along behind the man as he approaches the LSE.