shot a glance at the lights and then back at the whirling traffic. Cars and motorbikes sped along Pearse Street. The lights changed from green to amber. A red truck barrelled on through. Behind it, a black BMW gunned its engine and prepared to make a run for it.
Cameron’s scalp prickled. He raised his hand.
Now.
An elbow jabbed at his arm and threw him off balance.
‘Look at that speed. Should be locked up.’ The old woman shoved her face into his. He could smell the stale wine on her breath.
The BMW roared past. The pedestrian lights bip-bip-bipped as the crowd spilled out on to the road.
Cameron glared at the stinking bag lady who had robbed him of his climax. The old woman widened her watery eyes and took a step back from him. He jerked away and strode across the street, squinting through the crowds.
There was no sign of the dark-haired girl anywhere.
He weaved his way through the bodies, straining for a glimpse of her. Then he stood still and dug his nails into his palms, ignoring the crush as he watched the flow of commuters, looking for patterns. They were scurrying past like rats, flooding from different directions. But they surged as one into the cavernous entrance on the left.
Cameron smiled and relaxed his fingers. Of course: Pearse Station.
What could be better?
He barged through the queue of people blocking the entrance and scoured the area. She had to be here. Trains rattled overhead and the air was a mixture of dust and sweat. Then he spotted her, on the other side of the ticket barriers. She was stepping on to the escalator for the southbound platform.
He checked the ticket queue. Ten bodies deep and it wasn’t moving. He could vault over the ticket barrier, but that would get him noticed. He had to get to her before she boarded the next train.
Narrowing his eyes, he inspected the ticket barriers more closely. They were automatic turnstiles, all except for the one on the end. Passengers poured through it past a middle-aged man in a sloppy blue uniform, who flicked a glance at every second ticket.
It was Cameron’s only chance.
He searched the crowd, looking for cover. Two Japanese students strolled past him, heading towards the barrier on the end. The taller boy held a large map of Dublin out at arm’s length, as if he was reading a newspaper. Cameron ducked in behind them. They stopped in front of the ticket collector and wrestled with the folds of the map as they fumbled for their tickets. Cameron slipped unnoticed behind them through the open barrier.
He raced up to the southbound platform, taking the escalator steps two at a time. He reached the top and held his breath.
The station was huge, like an aircraft hangar. People were lined up on both sides of the tracks, staring into the open mouths of daylight at either end.
The girl was near the edge of the platform, twenty yards to his left. He exhaled, and a familiar ripple of heat licked up his body. He basked in it.
He slunk over towards her, glancing up at the display that counted down the time until the next train.
Two minutes.
He sidled up behind her. Other commuters staked out their space on the platform beside him. He edged forward so that no one could get between them.
He was close now. Close enough to touch her. He could smell her flowery scent. He inhaled deeply, and was aware of his own musty sourness mixed in with her fragrance. He longed to press himself against her. He thought about what he’d whisper to her, just before she went over the edge.
The air moved. The rails clacked. Something small scuttled across them.
He looked up at the display. One minute. He raised his hand.
Any second now.
Keep behind the line. Harry never bothered much with rules, but this was one she paid attention to. She stiffened against the bodies that packed in behind her, nudging her forward.
A pigeon curled its toes over the edge of the platform, dipping its head for a look at the three-foot drop to the tracks below. Her own toes curled just watching it. She checked the display: Dun Laoghaire, one minute.
She thought about the KWC meeting again and winced. Damn Dillon and his pop psychology.
‘I thought it could help if you went down there,’ he’d said to her over the phone, as she’d picked at the moss on the canal wall. ‘You know, confront things.’
‘If you use the word “cathartic”, I’ll scream,’ she said.
‘Come on, you never talk about your father. You haven’t seen him since before he went to prison. What’s that, five years?’
‘Actually, it’s six.’
‘There you go, you see? You need catharsis.’
She laughed. ‘Look, I appreciate the concern, but I’ll sort it through in my own way.’
‘You mean you’ll put a lid on it and bury it alive.’
‘Maybe.’ She flicked a piece of velvety moss on to the canal bank. ‘Look, my father comes and goes a lot in my life. Now he’s just gone again. It’s no big deal.’
‘I’ll put someone else on the pen test.’
‘No, Dillon, I’ll handle it. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. Seriously, I’m fine.’
But she hadn’t been fine. She’d been touchy and, worst of all, mouthy. Not an unusual combination for her, she’d be the first to admit, but she hated to let herself down like that. She’d tried to walk it off, turning away from the train station near the IFSC and choosing instead to march along the Liffey. She’d given up after ten minutes. Kitten heels just weren’t built for cleansing power-walks.
Harry looked at the display again. The minute was up. A draught sliced at her cheek. The pigeon flapped into the air as though it had just seen a cat. People crushed in around her. Someone pressed against the length of her body and catapulted her six inches forward.
‘Hey!’ She made to turn her head, but felt herself rammed forward again, forced out on to the edge of the platform. She caught sight of the black tracks below and squeezed her eyes shut. Digging her heels in, she leaned backwards and drove her elbows into the crowd.
A shout came from behind her. ‘Stop pushing!’
Hot breath whispered against her ear. A hard fist shoved her in the small of her back, and she pitched forward, weightless. Her eyes widened, transfixed. Steel rails accelerated towards her. She thrust out her hands and braced herself for the fall.
Her body slammed into the ground. Sharp stones pierced the palms of her hands, and her knee crunched against the concrete crossbar of the track. Somebody screamed.
Harry lifted her head and gaped at the winding tracks ahead. Her limbs were paralysed. The rails click-clacked.
Move!
She grasped the rails and tried to heave herself up. Hot pain shot through her knee as it gave way beneath her. She collapsed back on to the track, stretched across it.
The rails vibrated against her hands. A horn shrieked. She snapped her head up. A train roared round the bend into the station, blinding her with its headlights. Sweat flashed over her.
Harry dropped to the ground and rolled. Her shoulders hammered against iron and stone. Something yanked her back. She looked over her shoulder. Her bag had snagged on a bolt in the rail. The train thundered towards her. She whipped the strap off over her head and threw herself clear of the track.
She lay face down, breathing in the smell of dust and metal and gripping