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Sample 5
Sample 1
Sample 2
Sample 3
Sample
4
EXCLUSION ZONE
This is a story about an
ordinary, middle-aged guy slowly losing his mind - or,
looked at another way, a story about a guy no longer able to
accept the insanity of the world around him. So he takes a
couple of suitcase bombs onto an underground train and holds
it hostage. He wants a lot of things sorted out in his
miserable life.
But mostly he feels that he's totally
lost control of the things that happen around him, and wants to be
on top; if only for one day. I wrote this before London's transport
system was hit by those terrorist bombs. It sounded a little
improbable at the time. But now it doesn't. It was also written
before the movie Falling Down was released, for what that's
worth. There's some good stuff in the story, but that doesn't
necessarily make it a good novel. It's flawed and probably needs a
complete rewrite. I wasn't sure about the procedures for operating a
tube train (or for hijacking one), so I made up a lot of stuff.
Anyway, the novel is complete and represents another small step
along whatever literary track I'm stumbling. But because it was
written a good few years ago, I've lost the nerve to look back at
the rest of it.
You can see how old this tale is by the
pistol my hero is carrying. It's a 9mm Browning. Had I written this novel
today, he would probably be carrying a more fashionable Glock. Or
maybe a Sig.
I sent this off to every literary agent
in the world (or so it seems). Interest was weak. One agent told me
that you shouldn't have a mentally disturbed hero. I couldn't see
why not and liked my character and stuck with him. Sometimes you
have to do that, even if it means that you'll never see your book in
print.
Chapter One
The suitcases were large and heavy. The man in the
white fishing hat had been carrying them around for most of that
afternoon, never entirely sure of where he was going or even why.
He was just travelling. On the move. En route.
Not that his mind was exactly muddled in that regard.
It was more that he was having to work his way through the layers of
his consciousness, raising the filters one by one in an effort to
find his way back to where he was before this thing started. And
that, he understood, meant going down.
Deep down.
But later that day, when asked by a sincere, if
slightly naive journalist named Dunstan Merriweather, what had been
uppermost on his mind on that fateful morning, he would reply simply
that he’d been thinking of getting a dog. A spaniel perhaps. Maybe a
setter.
‘A dog?’ Merriweather would repeat, speaking loudly
into his own microphone. ‘Is there some significance to that, Sir?
And the man in the white fishing hat would pause for
thought, scratch his nose with the barrel of his pistol and say,
‘Nope. None that I can think of, anyway.’
He might have been kidding. But that was exactly how
that comment went into print. Verbatim.
At that moment however, on that damp, freezing
February afternoon, he was on the station escalator carrying the
suitcases down to the platform, struggling beneath the weight and
trying hard to maintain his composure in the crowd. If he was
mindful of the curious gazes of the passing commuters, he gave no
indication.
What with those huge wrap-around mirror shades, the
combat trousers, the Dutch paratrooper boots, the multi-pocketed
fishing jacket — and Ricky’s old fishing hat that he’d got into the
habit of wearing lately — he knew that he must have cut a fairly
unusual figure even in Central London. Men his age didn’t generally
wear outfits like that — except American tourists who didn’t know
any better.
But he didn’t care. The clothes were functional.
Today, everything was functional, and fashion could go to
hell.
His head was hurting. It was the hat mostly. It was a
size too small and was cutting a painful groove across his forehead.
He was tempted to take it off and wipe away the rime of sweat that
had formed above its rim. But that was too risky and so, resignedly,
he accepted the discomfort. He’d been travelling the tube for over
twenty years, and such things were all part of the raw commuter
deal.
A guy hurried past, bumping his arm.
‘Hey! Hey! Hey!’ he snapped. ‘Don’t they have manners
on Mars?’
Some people looked round at the sound of his voice.
But the guy himself was gone. Long gone.
‘Guy bumped me,’ he told no one in particular.
‘Didn’t even apologise ...’
But nobody cared.
The headaches were part of his problem. The
migraines. But it was much more than that. It was as if something
had come unstuck in his head, had broken loose, like unsecured
baggage rolling around in the freight hold of his mind.
He’d slept particularly badly the night before. Had
awoken at 5.00am and had lain there staring at the walls and
thinking about death. And life.
But mostly death.
The bottom of the escalator. It was coming up. Fellow
travellers were rolling off ahead of him headed left and right and
straight on. Gripping the suitcases, he braced himself for
disembarkation and stepped off — and in doing so accidentally
slammed one of the suitcases into the wall on his left. He fell
instantly into a ridiculous, and pointless, crouch and closed his
eyes behind his shades awaiting the inevitable bang.
But after five seconds, he realised that nothing was
so much as fizzing inside the cases. Not that anything inside of
them could fizz really; not even the detonators. When it came
to weapons such as the one he’d cooked up, it was all or nothing.
He looked down at the suitcases, smiled a curious
mixture of relief and disappointment, and presently straightened
himself up. He gave a satisfied shrug.
How’s that for British workmanship, Marty? Not bad
for an amateur, huh?
He waited for a reply, and when nothing came, he
hitched his shoulders again and, ignoring the curious gazes of
various passers by, threaded his way onto the platform looking for
somewhere convenient to park.
The station was busy. Not as busy as it sometimes
was, but certainly above average for the time of day. He strode
purposefully through the crowd to the farthest end of the platform,
put down the cases and checked his watch against the overhead clock.
Perfect.
From one of the many pockets of his combat trousers
he took out his checklist and a biro and began his preparations.
Item the first, one freshly oiled 9mm Browning
semi-automatic complete with full clip, a customised hand carved
walnut stock, a jam-proof staggered magazine, and an ambidextrous
safety catch. He patted his waistline cautiously (feeling comforted
somehow by the reassuring paunch) and satisfied himself that the
pistol was safely secured there.
One pistol, loaded. Safety catch on.
Check.
He ticked that off the list.
Next, came the back-up pistol stuffed down his left
sock. Just a little .22 calibre weapon — a pop-gun really by
comparison — and as uncomfortable as hell. No needed to check on
that. He could feel it crushed up against his ankle and wearing in a
big fat blister that seemed just about ready to burst.
He scratched a second tick on the checklist and tried
to forget about that until it was needed.
Next, ammunition; six boxes spread more or less
evenly around his person. He began slapping his pockets.
Rattle. Check.
Rattle. Check.
Rattle. Check.
Rattle. Check.
Rattle. Check.
And rattle ... checkeroony.
Six boxes all present and correct. He marked them off
and gave a little nod of satisfaction.
Next, one multifunction screwdriver (non-magnetic
tip). Check. One pair of long nose pliers (also
non-magnetic). Check. One pair of mini-snippers (took him a
while to find those, but there they were in his back pocket together
with his wallet and a couple of loose sticking plasters).
Check.
Five spare fuses, one roll of electrical tape, one
packet of snap connectors (one opened), two rolls of 22 gauge flex
(red and black), one wiring diagram (mustn’t go without that), plus
various other bits and bobs that he felt might come in useful.
Methodically, he searched through his fishing jacket
pockets for each of these items and ticked them off too one by one.
Then came item seventeen. One Academy PG10B
multimeter c/w prods. He took that out, turned the dial through 360
degrees, saw the familiar rise and fall of obedient digits on the
LCD display and nodded.
Check.
Finally, he came to the triggers and connectors. No
need to check on those either. They were in the cases. He’d packed
them himself that very morning and had carefully taped them to the
inside of the lids. He wasn’t going to open those again until he was
on the train. That was the plan; a routine that he’d taken weeks to
develop, including two full-scale dress rehearsals.
That settled, he scanned the list again, saw that
everything was in order, smiled, folded it and stuffed it into the
nearest available pocket.
Finally he reached for his handkerchief.
He pulled it out, took a quick look left and right,
and gave the strip of forehead between his hat and his sunglasses a
long, overdue swipe. His skin felt suddenly cool, then began quickly
warming. He closed his eyes for a few perfect seconds, took a second
swipe and stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket again.
He looked down. Saw that his shirt was hanging out
and tucked it in, then gave a tight, self-satisfied smile and took a
quick look around at what else was going on about him.
Usual crowd by the look of things. Same old faces.
Well, not exactly the same faces. He couldn’t remember that
he’d ever seen any of these people before — although he might have.
But they were the same type. That was the point. Same species. Same
genus. Same class and variety. Not so much homo-erectus as . . .
homo-expectus. Hah, hah. That is to say, they were, like himself,
just people awaiting the train which, according to his wristwatch,
was late as usual.
Yeah, homo-expectus. Remember where you first
heard that one, Marty.
No reply.
He shrugged, glanced up at the station clock, and saw
that his watch and the clock were in one minute’s disagreement. One
minute didn’t matter, of course, so he left it alone, feeling
strangely at peace now that the silt in his mind had settled, that
things were beginning to clear. He lowered his head until he was
looking down the line at the black, gaping mouth of the tunnel.
At that moment something fluttered against his ear.
He sniffed the air, and thought he could actually smell the train
approaching, the odour of scorched electrons, of hot roasted ions
coming down the line. He had an urge to jump down off the platform
and grab one of the rails to see if it was shaking. But that would
be silly. And so he resisted the impulse and stood there waiting.
He gave his paunch a second little pat and felt for
the reassuring bulk of gun. Still there. He then glanced down at the
suitcases and gave them a little tap with the toe of his boots.
For good luck.
Something in the distance began a low, almost bestial
grumble. That same wind brushed his cheek again. It fluttered the
brim of his fishing hat. He dry-gulped and set his face, his heart
triphammering against his chest.
Moments later the train thundered into the station,
brakes squealing, the air around him shuddering and drumming against
his cheeks. He picked up his suitcases, his mouth dry, his tongue
like parchment. But whatever emotion he was feeling at that moment
wasn’t fear or panic. Instead, it was more like elation; a kind of
groovy, drugged high that was making the hair beneath his hat feel
as if it was standing on end.
See you in hell too, Ricky,
he mumbled as he stepped aboard.
Not if I see you first, Marty.
The doors closed. The train began picking up speed.
Seconds later they were all headed together into the open wound of
the tunnel.
If you're interested, you can
find some more samples of my novels at:
www.michael-oneill-fiction.co.uk.
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