Frozen - E. D. James

It floated through the tunnels like the first wisp of fog that slides under the Golden Gate signaling the end of a heat wave. And like that finger of fog sliding along the top of the water, the song seemed undaunted by any obstacles it encountered, bending and twisting through the tunnels. Delicate, but insistent, as if testing to see if the time was right for it to return, or perhaps sounding a warning, a harbinger of changes ahead.

Alan stood with his head out the window of the train watching the passengers load at Embarcadero station. It was always at this station in that moment that the train was loaded and the platform empty but the doors were still open that he heard the song. Usually in the middle of the evening when the trains were spaced pretty widely in response to the lull in the crowds between the commute hours and the end of the night rush. It sounded like the aria from Delibes’ Lakme, the haunted twisting voices of two woman who were at once both the saddest and most hopeful creatures Alan had ever heard. He looked quickly up the tunnel as he always did when he heard it and saw nothing. Then he punched the button and the doors of the trains squeaked shut and the electric motors whirred back to life and he closed the window and headed for the next station.

“You ever hear singing at the Embarcadero station?”

Johnny raised his eyebrows and slid the ice around in his glass of gin for a second, “Those panhandlers up in the hallways?”

“No, I mean down on the platform when you’re stopped at the station.”

“Like kids waiting for a train?”

“More like floating up the tube from under the bay.”

“Man, you better lay off the boilermakers for a while.”

The yard was lit up by the impossibly tall lights that beamed down like something from an alien spaceship in an abduction movie. Alan took the train off the computer and eased it into the cleaning line. He was the last one in tonight. The run from SFO had been slowed by the big Eastbay crowd loading out of downtown from all the gay pride events going on. It was always a bit tense on these evenings when the clubbers mingled with the revelers and tonight had been no exception. Security had their hands full and held Alan up at 24th Street for about twenty minutes dealing with some pushing and shoving in one of the cars.

Alan slowed and stopped before the packed platform. He’d have to use the ladder. He tidied up the cab, folding up the Guardian he grabbed to pass time during the hold at 24th Street cruising the sex ads, shook the dregs of his cup of coffee out the window and screwed it back on the top of the silver Thermos, and then tucked it all into the Google bag he’d found empty and without I.D. at the end of a run a couple of weeks ago, slung it over his shoulders, and pushed through the door to make his final inspection.

He punched through the doors between the cars one by one till he came to nine. Then he peered through the windows thinking that he’d be able to skip actually going in until he saw a pair legs sticking out from the rear-facing seat just in front of him on the right.

He turned away from the door, “Shit!” A drunk. The bane of the mid-night run. He’d have to call security and get them and the paramedics up to haul the guy out and fill out all the paper work. Fuck. The U.S. game against Algeria was on at 3 a.m. and he’d have to hustle to make it now.

Alan took a deep breath and pushed through the doors ready to breath through his mouth if it was one of the stinkers.

A woman. White. Twenties. Covered by a coat. A bit of dried blood lay just beneath her right nostril. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing so he reached down and gently shook her on the shoulder.

She stirred and tried to sit up, pushing his hand away, “No, no more.”

The coat fell away and Alan could see that her dress was torn at the hem, her right knee bloody. He reached for his radio and began to pull it from his belt but her hand shot up and stopped him.

“Please.”

“Listen, you look like you’re hurt. I need to get you some help.”

“They’ll send me back, I can’t go.”

Her accent was eastern European to Alan’s ear, “Listen lady, you’re hurt, you need to see a doctor.”

“They raped me.”

“I’m sorry, that’s why you need to see a doctor.”

“They have to report a rape. The police.”

“Well, I need to get you off this train. We’re at the yard,” Alan gestured out the window at the bright lights.

“Help me.”

The song from the tube floated through Alan’s ears, that sad haunting melody. If he could put a face to that melody it would have been the one on the bench in front of him. He put his radio back into it’s holster. Took a deep breath. Walked over to the window at the next isle and looked out.

“Can you walk?”

He opened the door of the car and put down the ladder. Standing at the bottom he watched as she turned unsteadily, holding the handrail, turned and stuck her right leg out to catch the first step. As she stuck her left leg out he could see she didn’t have any underwear on and his gaze was drawn for a moment in spite of himself, then he tried to look away as he reached his hands up and felt the smooth skin of her calves. He steadied her as she descended, grabbing under her arms when she reached the last step before the long drop to the ground. His thumb gripped the solid muscle over her shoulder blades while the tips of his fingers sunk into the soft flesh at the sides of her breasts. She turned and leaned into him for a moment and he wrapped his arms around her and felt her heart beating hard and felt the warmth of her against his chest and heard that song again.