Chapter One - The Man

Chapter one of my book :) enjoy

I sit on the tube train, fiddling with the golden zipper of my jacket, nervously. It’s the jubilee line, a claustrophobic toilet roll of a tube, with not much working in its favour. The lights flick on and off, as we proceed through the tunnel, revealing the dank interior of the tube at intervals. This is the busiest tube line, and today is no exception. There are people everywhere, cramped in the open spaces, around the poles, in the aisle down the seats. Faces pressed into armpits, jumpers against cardigans. The rich and the poor squished together in this stinking, airless carriage. You need to look harder, though. All most people would see is a woman. She is well dressed, in a skirt suit, and an ID tag hangs around her neck from a large corporation, identifying her as Denise Atkins. Her Jaeger suit is grey, with pinstripes, and a starched, stiffly buttoned white shirt peeks from beneath. Her 4inch stiletto grey heels perfectly match the suit, and show off her long legs covered in shimmer look tights. I don’t think that was the point of them though. Her shoulder length brown hair has been put in rollers the night before and gently curls towards her chin upon reaching her shoulders. Her lips are the newest Chanel red, and the flawless powdering and foundation give the impression that she is younger than her 45 years. Her watery blue eyes are flecked with silver, but lined carefully with gentle grey eyeliner. Her artfully applied mascara looks invisible, and the blusher on her arched cheekbones conveys a professional look. Her long, manicured nails, her handbag and the expensive ruby pendant hanging around her neck are all the same colour as her lips, and are expected to match.

She is shorter than your average woman, around 5”2 and thus is clasping onto the centre rail of the train as she cannot reach the ceiling rails. I watch her quietly, for lack of anything better to do. She clutches a work phone in one hand, the newest Blackberry Z10, and I wonder how her company can provide all its workers with these phones. She is expecting a message, or a call from someone �" she keeps glancing at the screen, and lighting up the display. The train rumbles to a halt at the station �" Bond Street I do believe. She fights her way through the human wall to the exit doors, as she must leave the train. I follow suit, not intentionally of course, my great overcoat sweeping the floor clean behind me. I just escape getting its hem caught in the sliding doors. She is weaving in and out of people towards the signs for the Central Line. Great. Just where I’m headed as well. Another airless compartment, but with a new set of people, and instead of being seated, we will have to stand. Probably on the outside, nearer the doors, and thus with a greater risk of accidentally being pushed off the train at each station. I cram my battered fedora harder onto my head to make sure the gusting wind from the oncoming train does not swallow it whole. I still see her in front of me, and follow her path, since she knows where she is going. I do not think twice, or look behind me. We move silently through the twisting tunnels of the station, each leading to a corridor filled with people. Finally we reach the central line platform. I see Denise in front of me, and I pull my coat tighter around myself. My close cut black hair provides no obstruction to my hat, which falls over my eyes. I right it, and Denise is gone. I follow the track I saw her taking, my scuffed black loafers clicking along the yellow line, past the crowds of people. I eventually find the red handbag, and its owner, right at the very edge of the platform. Here the crowd has thinned out considerably, and it is only by chance that I am stood quite next to her. I have no business with her, however I feel like she knows the transport system well, and as someone who has no idea what they are doing on the tube, either than heading to an important meeting, I require someone to follow. Thus I have selected her, and as I know that her corporation that she works for is at the same place as my meeting, she is sure to lead me to my goal.

The central line carriages rumble into the station, and we enter a surprisingly empty carriage. Both her and me fling ourselves in a civilised manner towards the empty seats, and end up sitting next to one another. I extract a dog eared copy of Agatha Christie’s ‘Murder At The Links’ from the inside pocket of my overcoat, and proceed to open it at the bookmarked page. However, as I do so, I notice a cheeky pair of eyes glancing at me over the top of my book, and I meet their gaze. I lower the book slightly, and take in the owner of the eyes. It’s a girl �" no more than 16 years old, with hazel-ish eyes and auburn layered hair. She winks at me before hiding behind her own book, an Anthony Horowitz �" ‘Trigger Mortis’. I look at the rest of her outfit, besides her face. Her long hair reaches a black and red checked shirt, left untucked from a pair of dark grey jeans with a skull patch sewn near the left pocket. Her shoes are quite ordinary black trainers. She wears no jewellery and only thick black eyeliner. You can see she did it herself, but even so it suits her. I study the cover of her book, taking in the flat grey and the neon orange. However, the train reaches our stop, Liverpool Street. Denise and I rise, and make our way to the exit doors. I look back at the girl, who seems totally engrossed in her book. I notice she has no bag with her. As the doors slide open, she raises her eyes up above the book, and looks, musing. I step out the train just behind Denise. The door warning sounds, and I ignore it, it is too large a distraction when one is trying to find the way out. But Denise has it covered, and I follow suit, discreetly, of course. As I turn into the ‘Way Out’ tunnel, a red and black streak flashes past me. I look after it, and see that it is the girl from the train; her book clutched under one arm. I feel like I should follow her, but I focus more clearly on Denise, who is now just reaching the escalator. I follow suit, the neon posters advertising West End plays glaring at me, boring into my head. I am relieved when we reach the exit, and enter the crisp air. It’s cold for a Monday morning in January. There is no snow, yet. A man stands next to the entrance with a flower stand and his tulips and marigolds are in full bloom, providing a stark contrast against the blacks and greys of the people around him.

Denise pauses for a moment to answer a phone call, and leans against a lamp post. I try to remain as inconspicuous as possible and go over to the flower stand. I select a cheap but not too small bouquet of flowers, mainly purple, and purchase it. I turn to see Denise heading off, and I speed up to catch her. We approach the first of the many glass fronted and marble floored office blocks, and she runs up the steps. ‘Nice meeting you Denise. Nice meeting you.’ I think, and continue along the pavement and vanish into the crowds.

Author's Note

all reviews welcome :)

Reviews

[NightWatch]

This is really good o.o
Whenever I read something better than what I can write, I always feel like I'm not allowed to say anything about it because I don't have the experience that everyone else does.
On that note! This really captured my interest. Your attention to detail was great. You were able to describe people and places effectively without making the chapter drag on, which is awesome XD
What I found rather neat was the fact that it's in present-tense. I honestly prefer writing that's in present-tense; it makes it seem like it's more of a journal entry than someone telling me a story.
Anyway, I'm looking forward to reading more XD

[TwoDaysTooLate]

Uh, wow! I didn't expect such a positive review! Thank you :)