Now regular readers will know that I have an unhealthy streak of paranoia in me. And all the talk of terrorists and dirty bombs and ricin isnÂ’t really helping that. ItÂ’s not that IÂ’m particularly cowardly, I actually think I have it in me to be one of those tragic have-a-go heroes who get stabbed in the face for their troubles. I suppose I am just ultra-sensitive to potential trouble and like most people in London at the moment spend a small amount of my time looking round the tube carriage wondering if the Indian man and his five year old daughter sitting opposite me are actually part of an Al Quaida death squad. This then immediately makes me feel like scum for the implicit racism of my imagination.
Today I got off the tube at Waterloo, so I could pick up my phone from StephÂ’s work-place. In front of me was a man moving extremely slowly and blocking my way. He seemed to be looking around a lot, taking in his surroundings, without any particular interest in working out where he was going. From behind my racist imagination ascertained that he was of Middle Eastern origin (though he could have been Italian, or indeed British).
Now if IÂ’m honest, most tourists behave like this. They loiter and look confused and come to a stop at the top of escalators or in doorways and generally get in the way of the grumpy local commuters (who nonetheless behave in exactly the same way when they find themselves on an unfamiliar underground system elsewhere in the world). But my paranoia had been pricked and there did seem to be something that slightly jarred with this fella. Firstly, he wasnÂ’t carrying anything. Tourists usually have a cumbersome bag slung over their shoulders in order that they can really effectively block your progress. Maybe not having a bag made him an unlikely terrorist. Where was he keeping his Sarin gas? But then again, the September 11th hijackers only carried those tiny little box cutters, and in any case, he might just be casing the joint, making a note of escape routes, that he could use, or block, depending on his fancy.
Secondly his clothes all seemed a bit too new, and my Nazi imagination decided that they were almost like a parody of Western garments. The kind of clothes that an Al Quaida instruction manual would advise its operatives to wear in order to “blend in”. He had unscuffed, no-brand trainers, jeans and a denim jacket. Just the sort of clothes which would avoid suspicion because they were exactly the kind of clothes that an innocent, ordinary bloke would wear. He wanted me to think he was an innocent, ordinary bloke, but I wasn’t going to fall for that trick.
At the top of the stairs he loitered (just like an ordinary tourist would. This bloke was good. Too good.), despite the fact that the Way Out was indicated in either direction. I passed him and looked round at him. He looked at me a bit shiftily. And then I noticed the clincher. He had a scar right across his right eye. He might even have lost his eye. This was too much of a coincidence. Not only was he almost certainly foreign, he had an injury that was consistent with having taken part in guerrilla action in the caves of Afghanistan. How fascist was my paranoia being now? His skin is a bit brown and heÂ’s got a disability. He must be up to no good. My mind's eye was already typing up its CV for the Daily Mail editorÂ’s job.
He saw me looking at him and seemed to come to a standstill. Doubtless he was trying to pretend that he was intimidated by the attention of a stranger, on a strange underground system. As I rounded the corner to the escalator I decided to check him out just one more time. But he didnÂ’t emerge from the tunnel. He had taken flight.
Now I am taking the piss out of myself here a bit, aren’t I? But in some paranoid right-wing cortex of my brain I was seriously considering alerting the police to this man. What was I going to say, “There’s a slightly suspicious man somewhere in Waterloo station.”
“What’s suspicious about him?”
“His skin is a bit tanned and he’s lost an eye and his trainers are really new.”
“In the old days that would have been enough to arrest him sir, but thanks to political correctness, one-eyed foreigners with clean trainers are allowed to walk the streets. It makes me sick too sir.”
So I didnÂ’t tell the police, but still went away feeling worried that if Waterloo station disappeared into a hole behind me, it would be my fault for not bringing the culprit to their attention.
Luckily nothing happened so I spent the rest of the day hating myself for my pathetic, reactionary paranoia. I kind of hoped Waterloo station would be blown to bits, just so I wouldnÂ’t feel so bad about myself. But alas it still stands.
Though there is always the possibility the man was just taking part in a practice run of whatever dastardly plot he had up his suspiciously denim sleeve. Just to be on the safe side I would keep away from Waterloo station for the next ten years if I were you.
