Underlife by Robert Finn (different e readers txt) 📕

“Come home, honey,” her mother said, between sobs. “I was scared you would never call. I couldn’t bear it. Just come home and we’ll make it work out.”

“Really?” Rachel said, hope rising inside her. She felt stupid for making her mom repeat herself, and about five years old. But this was beyond her wildest expectations. “Are you OK? Is everything OK? I’m going to be home tomorrow sometime, if it’s alright.”

She could hear happiness in her mother’s voice now, even though she was sniffling and her words were thick with emotion: “Everything’s fine. Just come home. The horses miss you. Me too.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Rachel said. “We can… never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She hung up, feeling amazed and bewildered. And then a wave of relief washed over her so profound that she felt tears start to gather in her eyes, pooling along her lower lids and making the ground beneath her look blurred and indistinct. She blinked, and hot droplets ran down the cold skin of her cheeks. And then someone was talking to her, asking her if she was OK and she turned to tell him that she felt fantastic.

She smiled up at him. “I’m giving up a job I hate and I’m going back home. And my mom actually said she wanted to see me. So I’m fine thanks,” she gushed, taking in the young man in front of her: scruffy, mid-twenties, OK looking, and with the most amazing look of concern on his face.

“You hate your job?” he said, as though he’d never come across the idea before. “What do you do?” he asked, sounding troubled.

“Well, there’s the long version, but pretty much if you boil it down, I would say that I was a thief,” she said. “Yes. That’s it: a thief. Why, what do you do?” She didn’t know quite why she was having this conversation, but he’d seemed so worried for her and he’d chosen a moment when her defences were absolutely down.

“I’m… well, I’m a thief too,” he said. “Only I really am.”

She smiled and sniffed away the last tear. “OK. Well, I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Rachel,” she said.

“Matt,” he said and stuck out his hand and they shook. With the formalities, it sort of felt like they were playing at being grown-ups. But somehow it was a good game.

“I love the name Rachel,” he said.

“From Friends?” she asked him, narrowing her moist eyes.

“Nah,” he said, “Blade Runner.”

“You know that Rachel means ‘ewe’?” she said.

“Ewww?” he asked, unsure.

“Exactly,” she said, laughing. The conversation with her mother had released so much tension she felt almost high. She could talk to anyone about anything right now.

“You’re really a thief?” she asked.

“Yup,” Matt said. “Sorry.”

“You like it?” she asked.

That seemed to stop him in his tracks. “I used to,” he told her, and then he frowned. “It used to be exciting and I honestly didn’t feel like I was really hurting anyone. But something’s changed. I think I might have had enough.”

“That,” said Rachel triumphantly, “is precisely how I feel.”

He lowered his head a little and said quietly, “But I don’t know what else to do.”

He looked like a little boy when he said it. Rachel wanted to wrap her arms around him. Her emotions were all mixed up, the wonderful warmth of relief still spreading through her, making this strange conversation seem lighter than air.

“Come home with me,” she said enthusiastically. The words just popped out, like something in a dream. Surely she’d only thought them, not said them out loud? None of this felt quite real. She found herself asking, “You any good with horses?”

He looked surprised. “I don’t know,” he said. “I mean yes. I had a weekend job at a stables when I was living in California with my dad. And right now, when I think about it, that seems like the best thing I ever did. You’ve… have you got horses, then?”

She nodded. “My mom’s farm in Oregon. It’s beautiful there.” She smiled at the thought and then looked down at the two huge bags by her feet. “It’s where I’m going right now.”

But when she looked up, he wasn’t staring at her anymore. All through this dream-like conversation he hadn’t looked away from her for an instant — she wasn’t even sure he’d blinked. But now his gaze had flicked past her, over her shoulder.

“Listen, I…” he started. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

She wanted to say something, to stop him leaving — she had no idea what, but she didn’t want this extraordinary conversation to come to an end. She opened her mouth, but no words came to mind.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said and then he was gone, threading through the crowd, glancing back a couple of times, though not towards her.

Abruptly, she realised how cold it was outside. And she felt weird, but not good weird — sort of sick actually. Somehow the talk she’d had with Matt, wonderful though it had been, had left her with a sour feeling of loss that threatened to spoil the incredible elation she’d felt after things had gone so well with her mother. She tried to remember exactly how she’d felt when she’d hung up, the sense of enveloping calm, the way her anxiety had dissolved away leaving behind tears and a warmth that might have been love. It was still there, but somehow the moment was gone. Her encounter with Matt had spoiled it, which was ridiculous because she’d loved every second of their strange little talk. It was the sudden way it had ended. She felt cheated.

She was angry — and angry at her anger. She picked up her bags and moved towards the station entrance. This silly irritation would fade, wouldn’t it? She would forget about the ridiculous conversation with the man who’d told her he was a thief. Then she’d have the whole long slow flight to Seattle to picture her mother’s face and how it would look when Rachel walked into her kitchen. At last, after nearly three years, she could actually imagine her mother’s face smiling back at her.

*

Now Rachel was crouching next to Clipper and talking to Warren. She was trying to avoid presenting a target to the gunman and she’d taken off her jacket. “I’m afraid that’s arterial blood. It’ll need surgery. But we can help a little if we sit him up and do like… um… Matt said.” Clipper cringed slightly to hear Rachel telling Warren his real name.

She caught his eye and he wasn’t sure if there was some message she was trying to send or whether she just wanted to acknowledge his presence.

She went on: “Yeah, like Matt said: pressure, and sit him up. Can you radio to the next station and get an ambulance on its way?” Her voice was calm, though Clipper could see a little sheen of moisture on her upper lip. She’d folded her jacket and was slipping it behind Sebastian’s head. She’d had to lean across Clipper to do it and absentmindedly he realised that she did in fact smell fantastic, just as he’d imagined.

Warren didn’t reply. He’d moved aside slightly to give her room, but he seemed totally distracted, circulating in his own thoughts. And then a moment later he was back. The hard look dropping into place like a visor. The momentary indecisiveness was gone.

He leaned over his fallen companion. “Sebastian,” he said evenly, “I think this might not work out.”

Clipper could see that something was missing that had been there earlier. The concern was gone. He looked down at his partner with eyes that were hooded and blank. He seemed to have reached some sort of verdict on the situation. The set of his features suggested that it wasn’t a particularly charitable one.

Now his gaze left Sebastian and flicked for a moment towards Kieran. Then he turned to Rachel and Clipper. “Look after him,” he said, flatly, like he was speaking to a servant. “I have work to do.” That last remark was addressed to himself as much as to them.

Then he stood, leaving the wounded man to their care — but he ignored Kieran; instead he turned the other way, facing the few remaining passengers in the compartment.

Kieran still reacted to his movement with a start, rapidly pushing off the seat he’d been leaning against and jerking himself to his feet, gun extended. But he needn’t have bothered; at that moment no one was paying him any attention.

Now Warren stood squarely, balancing easily against the motion of the carriage, and called out over the racket of the train to the three other people in the compartment. They were all crouching at the front end of the carriage, as far from both the injured cop and the gunman as possible. They’d pressed themselves into the corner, right by the door that led to the next compartment.

“I want you three to move towards the front of the train. Tell everyone you meet that there is a serious police situation back here and get them to move away. Everything is under control, more men are on the way, but when I look through those windows…” he pointed towards the next compartment, “I don’t want to see any members of the public. Do you understand? Just leave everything to us, don’t complicate the situation, and get everyone else to safety.”

“Not you,” he added firmly but quietly, addressing Clipper and Rachel.

The retreating passengers scrambled to get the connecting door open without exposing themselves to a direct shot. They didn’t seem to notice that Kieran was oblivious to anyone but Warren. As they slammed the door behind them, Clipper thought he detected a change in the motion of the train. It was slowing. But from experience he knew they weren’t at the next station yet. Either the driver knew that something was wrong… or maybe more likely, it was one of the thousand little delays the underground system experienced every day. Then the train’s speed levelled out. They’d slowed down somewhat but it didn’t seem like they were stopping. Probably just congestion, thought Clipper, and not help on its way. Then he turned his attention back to Warren.

Warren waited until the retreating passengers were a good distance into the next carriage before he finally turned back to face Kieran. Their eyes locked, and Kieran stepped back, involuntarily, before quickly correcting the aim of his gun. Then Warren began moving purposefully towards him with a heavy, steady walk that put Clipper in mind of a tank rolling into position. Warren looked like it would take more than a few bullets to stop him.

“If you put that gun down now I won’t kill you,” he said reasonably, as he advanced on the other man. His voice was low, just enough to carry over the noise of the train, but Clipper and Rachel could hear him.

Back behind the seats, Clipper saw Rachel’s uncertain frown. It was easy for him to forget that she’d still got some catching up to do. Warren’s words were obviously bothering her. They weren’t exactly standard cop-speak. Warren’s tone had been… well, the best word was probably ‘sinister’. If you added in the fact he seemed to think he was bullet-proof, Clipper could see there was plenty to frown about.

He didn’t exactly have all the answers, but Clipper felt he should share the little he did know. He looked down at Sebastian, whose eyes were flickering, half closed, his pupils twitching and unfocused. He gave no sign that he was paying attention to them, so Clipper leant across and whispered to Rachel, “Yeah, they’re not really cops.” He hadn’t meant it to sound