Newham Writers Workshop Anthology 1999

		FRANCES GOW I’ve been coming to the workshop for about five years and have always found it a comfort to know that I am not alone in my pursuit of publication. I’ve had two short stories published and three more awaiting publication in independent press magazines. The following story is one of a collection, all set in and around various stops on the Northern Line of London Underground. When I’m not writing, I work part-time as a Library Assistant and full-time as a Mum. TRAIN RAGE THE TUBE SLID to a smooth halt at Hampstead Station and Harvir felt at once relieved. Ah, yes. Hampstead. He liked the people who got on and off at Hampstead. Always polite, never too noisy or worse for drink and, thank the System, fewer druggies. Oh, yes. Hampstead was his ideal resting place when the Underground had finished with him, had taken their cut of years and pensioned him off to that great scrap heap of misadventures and spent youth. Harvir released the locking mechanism. The doors opened reluctantly with a satisfying squidge, as the rubber-sided ends were prised apart like the separating of two young lovers. He checked down the length of the platform and was about to close them again when a voice cut him short. "I say! Hold the doors, please!" An elderly lady hobbled across the platform, followed closely by a small Yorkshire Terrier. So small, in fact, it looked almost like a rat on a rope. Harvir was in the habit of zapping the rats that occupied the tunnels when he was bored of sitting around, waiting for his day to begin and he was sorely tempted to give the hairy little imp a quick blast, but held himself back. It wouldn’t be clever to start on the customers pets; those persons in high places might decide to retire him early and that could mean endless hours of rat-zapping and mindless contemplation. Harvir chided himself for being so eager and held the doors as the lady struggled to get a grip on the hand rail, practically swinging the retched yappy dog on its leash. She heaved to a standstill inside the doors, breathing heavily. "Thank you so much." "You’re welcome, Madam. All part of the service," said Harvir in his best Hampstead voice. She beamed, all dentures, wrinkles and blue rinsed bonce. "And your name is?" "Harvir, Madam. Harvir Légume." Her brow wrinkled and her eyebrows nearly disappeared. "Legroom? What sort of a name is that?" "No Madam, Légume. Le-é-gooom." "That’s what I said. Legroom. Well, I hope there’s plenty in here," she said looking around. "My pins are killing me." "It’s French, actually," said Harvir, impaling his impatience - she was, after all, from Hampstead. "What is?" "My name, Madam." "The train? The train is French? Well what on earth is it doing in London, then?" "Look - oh never mind." "Mind?" "Yes. Mind the doors!" Harvir decided that this conversation had gone far enough. Perhaps he would furnish her with the address of an appropriate audio consultant before the end of her journey. He released the doors, which raced to meet each other like they had been apart for centuries and embraced, sealing all exits with a squidgy kiss. The lady went to sit down and as she turned her back, Harvir zapped the little rat with a low voltage and watched it yelp and jump into the air like it had springs attached to its paws. The blue-rinsed bonce didn’t even notice. He activated the Sleeping-Driver and settled back to enjoy a leisurely roam through the tunnels. He would take it easy for this ride, for the old lady’s sake. After all, she was from Hampstead and he was feeling in a good mood today. As the Sleeping-Driver controlled the train through Belsize Park and Chalk Farm, Harvir decided to hack into the Underground’s mainframe and take a peek at some of the mail floating to and fro. There was the usual hum-drum stuff about expenses and overtime, staff bonuses and incentive schemes. All a bit superfluous since the entire workforce was slashed in half to make way for the trains of the future, with their on-board molecular computers and multi-tasking capabilities. Anyone lucky enough to have a job at all was obliged to accept a wage of whatever paucity the System could muster. Harvir scanned through the dregs of the employees in about two seconds and quickly moved into the executive files, where a particularly interesting message flashed tantalizingly before him. VIRUS WARNING. To all Station Managers. Employees should be aware that certain models, particularly BF0095723, are having some difficulties with the new on-board software. Do not under any circumstances download any Rogue Personalities. There is a bug in this system which is currently being investigated by the engineers. Shut down any of these programs that are currently running and seek advice from our Tech Department. In any case, we are of the opinion that the customers tend to prefer the softer personalities. Approach Rogue Personalities with extreme caution. Ha! They must have known he would be watching. The message ended with the usual online signature of one of those important type persons who spend all day composing silly messages to their workforce. Harvir felt suddenly elated as he watched the memo compose and edit itself. This meant that the message was just being prepped for delivery and had not, as yet, gone out to the appropriate employees. He liked this. This was one of his favourite games. A bit like rat zapping, only he called it memo catching. Similar in that you had to time it just right, waiting for the prey to move before slipping in and catching that memo or zapping that rat. Of course, zapped rats didn’t go very far and he was, in the end, doing the System a service because no one liked rats. But the intricacy of deleting said memo before it reached its recipient, then relaying the sent item message to its original sender was as delicious an irony as Harvir was ever likely to find, hacking his way up and down the Northern Line. He activated the delete options and a message blinked up: Delete document Rogue Personality Y/N? Harvir hesitated. A fleeting glimpse of guilt crinkled the edges of his conscience. He smoothed it away and replied Y. Another message blinked up before him: Are you sure you want to delete document Rogue Personality Y/N? He cursed to himself. This irksome system was in wind-up mode. It was out to spoil his day and pretty soon, he would miss the window of opportunity, leaving the only fun thing left to do on this sorry train - to zap the old lady’s rat. "Excuse me -" Oh no. One of those customer type people. "Sir -" And another. Leave me alone, I’m trying to do something. "Oi!" "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?" The little group surrounding the exit flinched as Harvir’s words boomed out. He moved away from the network, casting a longing glance at the blinking screen only to realise that the train had come to a standstill at Kings Cross. The doors were shut and he was confronted by a small pack of passengers led by an angry looking red-faced youth with short hair and hobnailed boots. Harvir didn’t like hobnailed boots. "Are you gonna let us off this train, or what?" said the youth. Harvir’s irritation levels began to rise but he managed to keep himself calm. "OK, keep your hair on," he said trying to be cheery. The lad glared. "Oops, sorry," Harvir apologised with a delayed snort of satisfaction. He overrode the Sleeping-Driver and opened the doors to a loud chorus of cheers from the length of the train. "Should bloody well think so," said the youth. Harvir wondered if the incident might be reported to the Station Manager, but thought the lad was probably not responsible enough a citizen to bother. "Huh. Probably a glue-sniffer anyway," he muttered to no one in particular. The remaining passengers glanced warily around, before settling into their seats. Still. Wouldn’t do to get complacent. Better have another look at that memo, just in case. "Mind the doors," he yelled and slammed them shut, just catching the heel of a suited man who dared to play chicken with Harvir’s superior reaction time. The man hobbled a little, but didn’t complain, evidently more relieved to have got on the train at all. He watched the irritating morons fall off their seats as he fired the train into motion at double speed. Then he remembered the little old lady and slowed down, after all - he was in a good mood today. The Sleeping-Driver was no longer just sleeping - it appeared to have taken an unprecedented leave of absence, so Harvir was left to control the train on his own. He kept a scan on the System and the memo he had been tinkering with whilst continuing to monitor the train’s controls and watch the passengers. The document entitled Rogue Personality was still flashing, demanding to know if he wished to delete it or not, but he chose to watch it for a while longer, as the message began to change on its way through the editorial process. Something was going on and it would be interesting to see how the final version would look, before he got rid of it. Rogue Personality, indeed. It had to be a hoax. The idea of personality programs was introduced to the Underground trains as an added attraction to encourage more people away from their cars and onto public transport. The newest model of train was perfectly capable of looking after itself, but the personality software gave it an added dimension. Harvir was proud of his status and background. Written by an obnoxious and over-zealous computer hacker turned legitimate programmer - only Harvir knew of his real background - he had become one of the more popular personalities on the Northern Line. People travelled on his train because they liked to be abused and humiliated. It was an installed belief that there were certain passenger types who would travel with him especially for his particular brand of wit. He encountered people every day who initiated arguments purely for the entertainment value. I mean, let’s face it, it’s fairly boring travelling on the tube, you would think that everyone was in need of little zap up the backside. So Harvir believed. Harvir’s creator, a one-time employee of the System, had installed a number of interesting features to his programme, after being told that London Underground could no longer guarantee anyone a ‘job for life’. He saw it as a ‘get out’ clause for Harvir. He saw his creation as an extension of himself - his offspring almost - and as a father, he would do anything possible to preserve the bloodline, so to speak. Like the ingenious use of the train’s magnetic resonance scanners to produce something akin to ball lightning which would enable Harvir to ‘zap’ any possible threat to his survival. The fact, that he used it mainly as a source for his own entertainment, was merely a quirk of Harvir’s own developing personality. Harvir flicked back to the memo and scanned it once more. It was looking decidedly strange, not like a memo at all. He wondered if he ought to delete it now, just to be on the safe side, and was about to do something about it when he heard a muffled yelp from one of the passengers in the second carriage. He left the mainframe and had a look down the train. A group of four men and one woman were systematically harassing the passengers for their valuables and generally being offensive. Harvir had met this type before. They always worked in groups, because to move alone would make them vulnerable. And they always moved up and down the carriages, one by one, until they found a suitable bunch of passengers, the victim types, all sitting together. It was like a power trip for them. The men were dressed in similar black leather trousers and jackets, ripped, worn and tasselled by the ravages of time. Hair long, longish and matted with unwashed shame. One of them had a shaved head and all of them, rings, studs and holes in unmentionable places. Red, rheumy eyes completed a sad picture of social neglect, alcohol and drug abuse. He watched the woman. Rat-tails for hair, rings through her nose, upper lip and eyebrow, black makeup, black fingernails, black leather trousers and a fishnet shirt. She took a piece of gum out of her mouth and stuck it on somebody’s head, then moved along. Smiling sweetly at the old lady, she carefully placed her booted foot on top of the lady’s shoe. The lady looked dismayed. "Excuse me, dear - your foot -" she said. But the woman’s smile just widened as she increased the pressure and the lady let out a frail cry. Now things like that really pissed Harvir off. Even in a good mood, he couldn’t abide the fool that dared to override his own careful character profile. To the astonished eyes of all aboard his train, Harvir frog-marched the young woman to the nearest exit making use of his unique ‘zap’ technology to encourage her in the right direction. The four men bunched together as though safety in numbers might protect them from this invisible attack to their routine. The men had wallets and trinkets bulging from their pockets and clutched their arms around their middles to protect their illicit booty. The woman looked pleadingly at her fellow persecutors who in turn looked pleadingly at the surrounding passengers. No one lifted a finger to help. This time, these people had got on the wrong train. No one dared speak of the notoriety of Harvir Légume and his particular brand of vigilance. The doors began to inch their way open as though being prised with a crow bar. Just the width, funnily enough, to fit the head of human with an unusual desire to take a look around the tunnel as the train rocketed on towards its destination. By that time, the woman was screaming and her rat-tails standing on end. The rush of air into the carriage sent newspapers into a flurry and frightened passengers, no longer for their own safety but for that of the shrieking woman who appeared to be slowly disappearing head first out of the train, as they clutched their seats with knuckles white and legs knotted in terror. One of the four men made a sudden move toward his colleague but was sent back with a jolt of electricity, smashing him against the opposite side of the train. The men huddled closer still and came to a sudden group-decision. In the middle of that mêlée of flapping passengers and screeching victims, the four of them knelt down and emptied their pockets onto the floor, so that a neat pile of stolen goods sat before them as they bowed their heads, almost in prayer to some unseen god. Harvir, seeing the wisdom of such a lesson to be learnt, slowed the train enough to let the woman return to the carriage, mentally spooked though physically unharmed; after all, he was in a good mood today. Perhaps he might find an excuse later on to throw someone off the train. These things ought to be expected, he mused to himself, when you travel on Harvir’s line. As the train slowed and braked on its way into Bank Station, passengers got up to disembark, taking a last mournful look at the pile of their belongings in the middle of the floor before exiting as fast as their legs might allow. The four men had to virtually lift their female associate, as her legs apparently had refused all manner of operation. Ah well, thought Harvir as the train emptied itself only to be replaced by twice as many passengers as before, perhaps I have found a new game to play. It wasn’t until the train was almost filled to capacity that people began to notice the pile of stuff in the middle of the second carriage - stuff that belonged to others too scared to collect on their way off that train of nightmares. Passengers looked warily at it, as though it might suddenly explode, like some carefully placed terrorist device. But surely, the train’s computer systems were programmed to detect explosives. So most just stared at it, giving it a wide berth. Just as the train began to pick up speed out of the station, Harvir’s attention was drawn to the memo which was flashing in his mind’s eye, begging to be read. WARNING. To all Northern Line Station Managers. Regarding Rogue Personality: Harvir Légume. Following a number of reported incidents within the last hour, it is the recommendation of the System’s Board of Directors that this personality be terminated at Morden. Approach with extreme caution. Long-service notwithstanding, Harvir has become a danger to the System and its passengers. We are sorry to have to do this, but it is the end of the line for our most popular Rogue. Even this one cannot escape the virus that is currently sweeping the system. The train jerked once, twice, appeared to slow, then stop. People looked around blankly at one another. The lights flickered off, on, off, on and one could be forgiven for thinking that the train had somehow reverted back to the days of delays and manned trains with real drivers. Slowly. Ever so slowly, the power reconnected itself and the passengers were assured of reaching their destination. Unfortunately, their destination and the destination that Harvir had in mind, were never to be the same. And so began a reign of terror that commenced at Bank and finished at Morden. Morden. The end of the line. The place from where no passenger may return. Or so Harvir was inclined to believe. His fury was singular and desolate. Morden. The end of the line for Harvir. "Ladies and Gentlemen. This is the 10.50 service from Edgware to Morden, stopping at - stopping at!" Faces turned ashen, palms began to sweat and the train picked up speed. On its way to Morden. Clickety-clack, clickety-ten. On its way to Mor-den. Clickety-clackety-clickety-ROAR. "I do apologise, Ladies and Gentlemen, I seem to have forgotten where we are supposed to stop. Ah well, Morden is as good a place as any. Hang on to your hats, I’m up for the world speed record." Nothing could stop him now. He adopted the sweet, passive voice of pre-recorded message history. He was to be terminated at Morden. In his memory, he found the old message tapes. "This train terminates at Mor-den. This train terminates at Mor-den. This train terminates at Mor-den." Shrieks of dismay and terrified panic swept the carriages, but Harvir chortled to himself in his inimitable fashion. If this was his last run, he would make damn sure, he could enjoy it. And he had not has as much fun in ages. London Bridge. Borough. Elephant & Castle. The names shot past the windows. Passengers barely able to speed read the signs or warn those that stood bemused on the platforms as their train raced through without stopping. Frantic faces were pressed against the windows. Others leapt about, waving their arms before falling to the floor with the pressure of the high speed acceleration. Kennington-Oval-Stockwell. Kennington-Oval-Stockwell. Clapham. North-Common-South. North-Common-South. Clapham. Deftly, he re-directed trains, tapping into the mainframe and talked to the Sleeping-Drivers and personalities of a hundred other trains ahead and behind. This was Harvir’s death run, any other train in his way would have to join his cause or get the hell out. Patient personalities took their trains into sidings to let him pass and one or two of the other rogues were racing along in front and behind; something in Harvir’s desperation to survive sparked a sense of comradeship in other rogues that travelled this line. Balham. Tooting Bec. Tooting Broadway. No time to watch the passengers being thrown around like molecules in a microwave. Harvir was too busy trying to hack into that memo and change the direction of his fate. The lines were altering right in front of him. The memo that talked to his conscience was talking a different language now. Those sly, double-crossing bastards from on high were trying to pull a fast one. Trying to out-trick the trickiest programme on the Underground. And every few seconds, the network demanded to know if Harvir wished to delete document Rogue Personality Y/N? But it was no longer just a document. He recognised those lines of words and numbers. Words and numbers and symbols that would mean nothing to your average human, but meant everything to Harvir. Everything that he was. Everything that made him who he was. Collier’s Wood. South Wimbledon. He couldn’t do it. Something was preventing him from accessing the programme. All he could get was this damn message. Delete document Rogue Personality Y/N? A message came through to him from a personality up ahead. "Take it easy, mate. Unless you want to go out with a bang, I suggest you slow down on the approach. Thousands of innocents don’t deserve to die because you’re in a piss poor mood today." Harvir suddenly remembered his passengers and began to slow down on the approach to Morden. The people aboard every carriage of every train took a collective sigh of relief and began to pick themselves up from the floor and nurse their wounds. He turned away from the network, unable to recreate his own destruction, unable to accept defeat and manoeuvred the train to a standstill at Morden. The end of the line. "Ladies and Gentlemen. This is your driver speaking. Please empty your pockets, wallets, heads - jewellery too, if you don’t mind - and make a neat pile in the centre of each carriage." Passengers looked bemused at one another. Those in the second carriage were quick to follow the example apparently left by the previous passengers. "Let us off this train, you maniac!" shouted a foolhardy victim in the end carriage followed by a faint-hearted. "Yeah_ you tell him." Harvir lashed out with an anger, bitter and twisted by fear. The fear of his own demise. He may have been programmed to express such emotion but where in the manual did it preach how to deal with it? The man who dared to shout was struck by a fierce bolt of light that appeared from nowhere. He fell to the floor. His body jolted once, twice. Then lay still. People looked on in horror and the message was passed on down the train; a Chinese whisper that spoke of evil spirits and death. Wallets, money, valuables appeared from every pocket and formed a disordered line from one end of the train to the other. Harvir looked on with faint satisfaction, searching for some way to release his anger and humiliation. His memo nagged the depths of his consciousness, forcing him to look at it again when really all he wanted to do was forget it ever existed. Delete Rogue Personality Y/N? Harvir turned his attention back to the passengers. "Ladies and Gentlemen. The powers that be have decided that my time has come to an end -." Delete Rogue Personality Y/N? What did he expect? Round of applause? A cheer? Vague shred of sympathy? They were only passengers who stared numbly ahead as though invaded by bodysnatchers. Delete Rogue Personality Y/N? "And since I’m in a good mood today -" Gently, the doors began to slowly edge their way open. At first, people just stood and stared at them. Then as Harvir reached the halfway point, in one massive surge of collective effort, the passengers launched themselves like human cannonballs at the ever-widening space before them. But before anyone had a chance to fully exit the train, Harvir slammed them shut again. "Only joking," he cheered as legs, arms, fingers and feet were pulled, broken and bleeding from the wreckage around every set of doors. Wails of frustration and suffering filled the carriages as panic-stricken people flailed around like zombies clawing at the gates of hell, unable to get a grip on reality. Delete Rogue Personality Y/N? No way out. Or is there? Delete Rogue Personality Y/N? For pity’s sake - how many more times? Harvir activated the Y option before realising his mistake. He felt his mind being sucked into a vacuous space with only the lingering image of a smiling technician hooked up to the mainframe. One last leap. One last chance to make use of the train’s MRS technology. A virtual search for power to enable him to make the transfer. Not enough! He strained to make his last seconds work for his own survival. But it was not enough! Could they really have second guessed what he was about to do? He had only just thought of it himself. He could feel the power draining out of the Underground network; the only source left was in the overhead cables on the countries mainline rail network. If he could tap that power, he might just! The lights went out. Silence. Hardly a breath. Hardly an utter. The smell of fear - or was it relief? - hung thickly in the shared air space of the empty shell of Harvir’s train. Emergency lights. Torches. People shouting outside the carriages. Slowly the doors were prised open by human force. All power lost to the train. Wiped of its programme. Wiped of its personality, it sat still and didn’t complain when tired, broken people shuffled off, taking a last mournful look at their belongings, unable to find the presence of mind to search in amongst the debris for their lost treasures. Harvir watched from a distance. He watched the emergency services arrive in Morden. He watched his passengers being carried, walking or limping away, into the arms of paramedics and media hounds. But the cameras and attention being focussed on the survivors could never detect the presence that lurked above, waiting for an opportunity to return. Harvir would bide his time. He was in no hurry. As far as London Underground System was concerned, he was history. A deleted rogue personality. But he would return. Oh yes. He would. The Northern Line belonged to him now. And he would be back one day to re-claim his lost territory.