Underground. Various
Bob was enthusiastic. With Leyland presiding, he said, it would surely work; as with so much in business, the vital elements would be leadership and sheer force of will, and the president possessed both of these in abundance. On and on he went. Merrill began to loathe him a little for his sycophancy.
Leyland made a sound, as if in interjection, raising one of his bony hands suddenly from his lap. Uncle Bob came to an obedient halt. They all waited patiently to see what comment or insight he might offer.
Nothing came. The raised hand began to tremble, Leyland’s strange, blank eyes popping wide. Merrill glanced over at Uncle Bob. He was sitting forward, hands on his knees like Ingres’ Monsieur Bertin, his ruddy face hidden in the shadow of his hat brim – plainly concerned, yet reluctant to act in case this prompted his master’s ire. Leyland spoke very faintly; a squeal of steel from somewhere below drowned out his voice.
‘Pardon me, Mr Leyland?’ said Uncle Bob. ‘What was that, sir?’
‘I can’t breathe,’ Leyland whispered.
Uncle Bob was off his seat at once, propriety and reserve forgotten, reaching for the president’s neck – then exclaiming in frustration, tearing the gloves from his hands, unbuttoning Leyland’s overcoat down to the middle of his chest. Carlens leapt to his feet, and Merrill as well, their hats bumping against the compartment roof, although there was nothing at all that either could do. Beyond Uncle Bob’s shoulder, Merrill could see the president pulling feebly at the frills that lined his shirt front, attempting to undo his collar.
Leyland managed to inhale, gasping like a man surfacing after a deep dive. He took four more heaving breaths, and nodded to Uncle Bob to indicate respite. The rest of them relaxed a fraction, and were starting to return to their seats when as one they realized that the president was tipping slowly to the side, towards the window. Carlens lunged in to support him. Leyland’s head lolled horribly, the topper falling to the floor. Even in the compartment’s weak gaslight Merrill could see that he was mortally pale.
‘What is this?’ asked Carlens. The private secretary’s cool urbanity was gone; he sounded fearful. ‘Could it – could it be poison?’
Uncle Bob was looking hard across the carriage, to where the lights of the next station were just coming into view. ‘His heart,’ he said, as the train left the tunnel. ‘I’ve seen it before.’
Elbowing Merrill aside, he went to the door, wrenched down the window and shouted for assistance, his head passing mere inches from the startled crowd that lined the platform. The train shook to a halt. A noise came from the president, a tiny croak, along with the slightest twitching motion. Uncle Bob went back to him. Carlens stepped away and sat opposite. Merrill stood fixed in place, able only to stare.
‘Merrill,’ Uncle Bob snapped. He hesitated, then softened his tone. ‘James. Come here, lad. Help me lift him out.’
Leyland was heavy despite his leanness. Merrill stood behind, his arms around the millionaire’s frilled chest, the fellow’s shoulder-blades jutting into his thighs. It took a good deal of concentration to edge him through the doorway without knocking his head, which without its topper seemed dreadfully vulnerable and exposed. At the same time, however, Merrill knew that his efforts were merely for show, for there could be little doubt that this was no fainting fit or fleeting ailment. Frederick Leyland was at the point of death, if he had not passed it already. He had no more breath or movement in him.
A station guard was there to meet them, drawn over by Uncle Bob’s bellows. Behind him, a number of other passengers stood in a loose semicircle, all craning necks and questioning eyes. Sight of the president stopped the guard mid-query; he turned and attempted to contain the gathering crowd. This great giant of British business was laid there on the underground platform, parallel to the train, as respectfully as they could manage. Uncle Bob set down the legs, then came to help Merrill with the chest and head. Carlens was standing half out of the carriage, his posture slack, robbed of purpose; the black topper, rather dusty now, hung limply in his hands.
The crowd was growing steadily – a fellow lying dead, people were saying, right there by the train! Merrill moved back. Before long he heard Leyland’s name, a shiver of recognition passing through the station, further increasing the interest. They were at Blackfriars. The station was in an open trench, only one level below the street. Its platforms were under cover, but above the trains was the evening sky; the tops of buildings, touched with gaslight; and St Paul’s again, from the other side, glimpsed through the rising steam.
Someone was praying. Uncle Bob knelt by the body to put his ear to the president’s breastbone, but heard nothing. Merrill put his hands in his pockets, not knowing what else to do with them. He looked off to the platform’s end and found himself imagining a multitude – every enemy, living and dead, that Leyland had acquired during the course of his extraordinary, cold-hearted existence, filing down the double staircase. This ethereal company walked in procession between the wrought-iron pillars and drifting clouds of coal smoke, joining the circle pressing in around the dead man. Few showed any sign of grief. Indeed, most were well satisfied, and a few visibly glad; others positively frothed with fury, mouthing curses, ready to spit on the hated figure where it lay. There were the shipping partners from Liverpool, whom Leyland had knifed in the back; the ruined competitors, the discarded mistresses, the man in the blue sack coat from Cannon Street station; the unwanted wife standing quietly dignified, her face behind a veil; even the artist Whistler, who Merrill had once seen caricatured in Vanity Fair – a dapper little Yankee with a monocle and a bamboo cane, peering over with grim curiosity.
‘James,’ said Uncle Bob. ‘James, we need to fetch a doctor.’
Merrill blinked; the vision was dispelled. He stared down at the black legs, sticking out so rigidly. The disquieting whiteness of the face. ‘A doctor,’ he repeated.
‘An examination must be made,’ Uncle Bob explained, his voice hushed and urgent. ‘A declaration of death. Before we can have him removed from this place.’ He pointed towards the exit. ‘Quickly, boy. Go.’
The road outside the station ran between Ludgate Circus and the mouth of Blackfriars Bridge, and was as clogged with people and traffic as any in London. It was bitterly cold as well, a wintry breeze whipping in from the river. Merrill emerged from the concourse and began to work his way onto the packed pavement. He hadn’t the faintest idea where a doctor might be found in Blackfriars at that hour. Out there in the rawness of the open air, however, the last of the underground’s grimy heat leaving his clothes, he felt only relief. He looked around him a little dizzily, trying to get his bearings; then he straightened his hat and started off into the city.
Some people read on the underground. Others push buttons on telephones. I’ve always been more of a thinker. I’m not one for novels, and I only have a mobile telephone because someone in a shop once talked me into it. Cyril was with me and he went right along with the idea.
‘It’ll be good for emergencies, Margaret,’ he said. ‘Stop you from feeling alone.’
Except none of the emergencies I’ve encountered since has ever benefited from the presence of a telephone, and in all honesty I’m not sure I will ever feel alone again.
There are lots of us on tube trains – the thinkers. If you look hard enough, you can spot us amongst the paperbacks and the newspapers, and the quiet conversation of strangers. We stare at the floor, losing our thoughts in the clutter of other people’s feet. We hide our worries in the tired pattern of the seats. We wrap our feelings along the brightly coloured handrails. Nothing is demanded of you on the underground except to wait and stare, suspended in time and place, as life transfers you from one situation to the next. I have always thought a journey was the perfect opportunity to reflect. To think about what comes next. To wait for God to make a decision about why you’re there, I suppose.