"Damn it.”
This was not where he wanted to be. The sun had gone down a long while ago and the road was dimly lit with street lights at large intervals. There were no beams of headlights lighting the road, well perhaps, except his own. You couldn’t even spot a simple pedestrian walking along the footpath on his left. This was a very odd thing, even if it was way past midnight, in London. With not a soul in sight, and a broken down car, the young man seated at the steering wheel could do little else other than curse his fate. He hit the steering wheel, after yet another failed attempt to get the car to roar to life.
Finally, after checking the engine, fuel, even after checking if he had the right key, the man got out of the car and banged the door shut. He had taken his bag, coat and other things and left the car standing there. To hell with the bloody car, he thought, it can be towed away for all I care. He started walking, in the so far deserted boardwalk, to the nearest tube station. Leaving behind the company owned Audi, he knew he would land himself in trouble, but right then, he couldn’t care less.
The walk to the underground lasted a good fifteen to twenty minutes, in which he passed several such alleyways which he was wary of crossing. He had never realised how spooky London could be at night. Even Hyde Park looked intimidating. After the long walk, slowly becoming painful, in his work shoes, the man finally reached the station. He entered the brightly lit place, its cream-coloured tiles beckoning him into the deserted station. There wasn’t even the regular beggar sitting in the corner with a Starbucks cup. It really couldn’t be that late could it? He glanced down at his watch which read 00:45. Shit. It is that late. Realising he didn’t have his oyster card with him, the man walked up to the ticket counter, and bought a ticket for the Bakerloo Line which was due in a couple of minutes.
He took the long elevator down; along the walls were posters of the plays being staged in the many theatres of London, the Phantom of the Opera was being staged at Her Majesty’s Theatre. He then proceeded to walk down the passageway before taking the tunnel he was to go to. He came out onto the platform to be greeted to the cold breeze. In front of him on the curved wall were painted many messages to stop smoking, cancer awareness, etc. He hated public transport for this very reason. It seemed as if they had taken up the responsibility to advertise all the side effects of smoking and other addictions. But thankfully, he didn’t have to stare at those messages for long. Within a matter of minutes the train arrived and automatically opened its doors to him invitingly.
The young man stepped inside to the pre-recorded greeting of a woman saying, ‘Welcome aboard The Bakerloo Line...” The man tuned the rest out as his jaw dropped at the sight before him. A young woman was seated alone in the empty carriage, her fingers deftly typed on the Laptop on her lap. He sat down opposite her, and silently studied her. Her black curly hair was pulled back into a pony tail and its length rested on her right shoulder. Her skin was pale, paler than his own. She wore a beige overcoat which came down to her knees, hiding any other apparel she was wearing. Could it be her? It is unlikely, very unlikely. But her hair, it’s the same. And her face is the same, maybe a bit thinner. It must be her. The eyes behind those spectacles, they were black. Pure, midnight black. He could recognise them anywhere. It was her.
“Vanya Caiman?” he spoke finally. The Black eyes snapped up. Bloody hell, it was her.
Her fingers stilled as she looked over the man in front of her. He seemed oddly familiar. But she couldn’t place him. It felt as if he was a part of some forgotten memory, which still lay forgotten. Brown wavy hair, white skin, long face, going over his appearance, she still couldn’t recognise him. Who is this? Just then, probably realising she couldn’t recognise him; he pulled his left sleeve up a notch or two. She felt herself go agape. Right there, on his wrist, was a thin tattoo of a coiled serpent, its tongue slithering out forming the letter ‘D’. D for Daniel.
“Daniel Van der Kwast?” She spoke in disbelief.
His face broke into a grin, “So Ms. Caiman, Long time no see?”
