The gideon trilogy adaptation as a narrative tool in creative practice: reflections on the nature of adaptation and a comparison

Chapter Three: Anjali

The Tar Man was unimpressed, not only by the youths’ pitiful attempt at blending into the background, but also by the girl’s lack of awareness. She had not looked behind her once since he had been following her, and for someone who seemed to court difficult situations this was careless and stupid. He felt a twinge of disappointment. The Tar Man considered what to do next. His hesitation was in part due to his recent experience of standing on an underground platform at Piccadilly Circus, a hand’s breath from a snake-like carriage of immense proportions, all wind, lights and beeping doors, that tore out of the gaping black tunnel like a rampaging dragon. He had fled back to the surface and doubted that he could ever get used to such a thing. There was a distinctive smell down in these tunnels, too, which he mistrusted. Besides, was the girl worth the effort? Yet he liked her spirit. While he had taught the tricks of the trade to a fair few rogues, even dim-witted ones, it seemed to him that you were either born with spirit or you were not. Spirit was not a quality you could acquire at a later date. Very well, he decided, he would give the girl this one chance. He stooped down and picked up a handful of decorative pebbles from a trough planted with evergreen shrubs and dropped them into his pocket. Then he strode towards the stairway, placed one foot on the first step and looked all about him, twice, before vanishing into the bowels of the earth below Southwark.

Mid-afternoon in this corner of London is not a busy time. On this cold, January weekday the underground was almost deserted. The girl walked smartly through the interminable tunnel to catch the tube home. She never cared for this part of her journey. Bare, yellow light bulbs illuminated curved walls that were painted a shiny, sickly green. Her footsteps echoed annoyingly, announcing her presence and making her feel vulnerable. Suddenly she became aware of other footfall behind her. The girl was relieved; there was safety in numbers. She hated to be the only person on the platform with only the blackened mice that foraged, precariously, on the live track for company. She noticed, however, that no conversation accompanied these other footsteps. And they were all speeding up. The gap between her and the strangers was closing.

She reached a sharp bend in the tunnel. High on the wall was a convex observation mirror which allowed her to see what lay behind and before her. The tunnel ahead was empty. To her rear, the blond youth she had tricked and his three sidekicks were approaching fast. She recognised them instantly and swore under her breath. Her heart started to pound. She wanted to run but she knew it was a race she could not win. Better to use her head.

The girl turned the corner. Her eyes searched the tunnel for a security camera, finally spotting one directly above her head. She jumped up and down, waving her arms in front of it, gesturing silently and desperately for help. With any luck a guard would soon be on his way. The girl felt a fraction calmer: now it was a case of playing for time and she was good at that. She was not to know that high above, in his dark little office, the security guard was having a good, long stretch, his back to the bank of monitors, oblivious to her plight.

She strode on ahead and was a third of the way down the tunnel when an ominous clatter of feet signalled the arrival of her pursuers. The girl permitted herself to look back at them. She pointed at the security camera and cried:

“Oi! Watch the birdie!”

A black-haired youth with a tattoo on his neck immediately spat out the gum he was chewing and reached up to smear it all over the lens at the same time as the leader of the gang hurled himself at the girl, arm already outstretched to catch hold of her. The girl had made an unforgivable mistake: she had caused him to lose face in front of his mates and he would make sure that she would live to regret it.

“I’ll teach you!” he shouted.

The girl started to run and fled from them as fast as she could. She broke out in a cold sweat – they weren’t playing around. They meant to hurt her. All her instincts told her to be defiant, not to cave in.

“You!” she replied, calling back over her shoulder. “What could a zero like you teach me?”

A second later the blond gang leader caught up with the girl and pinned her against the wall. She spat at him. He wiped away the spittle with the back of his hand, looked her straight in the eyes and delivered a stinging blow to the side of her head. She did not give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out in pain.

“Lowlife bully.” she said.

The girl took in his freshly bruised cheek and the sleeve of his denim jacket which was ripped at the shoulder.

“I can see you didn’t give that bloke no trouble,” she taunted, while trying to size up her chances if she made a run for it. “And ‘im twice your size and a belly like an expectin’ hippo.”

The other youths smirked but the blond youth glowered at them, his skin glistening in the harsh light. He grabbed whole of the girl’s arm and pulled it behind her back until she whimpered.

Meanwhile, the Tar Man had arrived at the bend in the tunnel. He stared curiously for a moment at the observation mirror and made a mental note of it. It could be a useful device for someone in his profession, he thought, but when he heard the girl’s cries and saw the reflected image of the gang leader twisting her arm up behind her, he delved into his pocket and plucked out a couple of pebbles. He stepped into view and, with impeccable aim, hit the leader of the gang on the temple and the black-haired youth on the back of the head. Both of them yelped with pain and clutched at their scalps, swivelling around to see their attacker. The Tar Man stood, poised, in the centre of the tunnel.

He lifted his hat off and inclined his head in a slight bow. All eyes were irresistibly drawn to the silvery-white scar that was etched so deeply into his cheek. He replaced his hat.

“Well, gentlemen, I take it you have business with this lady, though ‘tis an unseemly spot for a rendez-vous.”

The girl’s eyes lit up. She did not understand what was going on but she was going to press her advantage. She turned her face towards her tormentor.

“You didn’t know I had a minder, did you?”

A sharp click drew everyone’s attention to the black-haired youth. He had taken out a flick knife and had released the blade. He started to walk towards the Tar Man, breathing heavily. The leader of the gang lost concentration momentarily and with a massive effort the girl escaped his grasp and sprinted away from him. The gang leader shot after her. The other two youths held back, waiting to see what would happen. The black-haired youth was becoming increasingly agitated. Normally, all he had to do was unsheathe his knife and his victim would instantly back off. But this guy! He was showing no sign of being afraid. Either he was mad, or stupid, or he could handle himself better than anyone he had ever come across. To look at his expression you’d think he was the one with the knife.

The gang leader soon caught up with the girl again and dragged her back, holding her tightly, arms pinned to her sides. She stamped repeatedly on his heavy boots but he would not loosen his hold.

Trembling with a surfeit of adrenalin, the black-haired youth took a swipe at the Tar Man. The latter ducked, easily missing the blade, and stood tall once more.

“Upon my word a poorly executed move! When you wield a blade, lad, you need to be light on your feet. Come, try your luck again, for it is plain for all the world to see that you would not be the first to cut me!”

The youth gawped at him. What nerve he had was draining slowly away for there was a look in this man’s eyes that terrified him. This man was a hunter and he himself was the hunted. He might be holding the knife but he felt as if the stranger were playing with him, like a cat plays with a mouse.

“What are you waiting for?” cried the leader of the gang. “Look at ‘im! He’s well past his sell by date.”

The Tar Man raised this eyebrows. He would discover the meaning of that particular insult later. Instead, he yawned ostentatiously and tapped his foot. This was enough to provoke a reaction and his adversary lunged at him. With a deft flick of the wrist the Tar Man disarmed him, kicked the knife behind him out of reach and grabbed hold of the youth’s arm. He forced it behind his back and simultaneously pulled his neck backwards with his elbow. The youth let out a strangulated cry.

“Let her go,” ordered the Tar Man calmly.

“Go hang yourself!” replied the leader of the gang.

Dark eyes blazing, the Tar Man turned on him in fury.

“You are insolent. Release her now if you do not want me to break your friend’s neck.”

“Don’t make me laugh! Who do you think you are?”

“Someone who has more important things to do than trouble myself with maggots like you. I am waiting…”

When the Tar Man detected no response, he suddenly heaved the black-haired youth up, bearing his full weight on his chest so that his trainer-clad feet kicked pathetically above the floor. Straining and shuddering with the effort the Tar Man slowly squeezed, never releasing his formidable grip. Now the youth’s feet dangled limply and a second later a mighty CRACK! echoed around the tunnel. The Tar Man exhaled his pent-up breath in a loud burst and allowed the dead weight of the youth to collapse to the floor.

The girl let out a shrill scream and clapped both hands to her face. The three remaining youths stood immobile and slack-jawed. The Tar Man stepped over the body at his feet and took a long stride towards the others.

“Who’s next?” he asked in a low, gentle voice.

The leader of the gang, white-faced, turned to the girl and hissed, “This isn’t the end of it…”

The three youths vanished back up the tunnel at high speed without looking back. The girl stood rooted to the spot, too shocked to move. She watched, bewildered, as the Tar Man laid out the young man’s body, as if to make him more comfortable. Then she saw him manipulating his arm. Slowly she became aware that there was something horribly wrong with it and she watched as the Tar Man heaved and pushed as if he were trying to force the arm back into the shoulder socket. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow with the exertion and suddenly the youth started to come round, shaking his head from side to side, groaning and crying out.

“As Doctor Adams says,” panted the Tar Man, “dislocating an arm is easy, the skill lies in putting it back again.”

“I thought you’d killed him!” the girl practically shouted, relief written all over her face.

“No. A killing mostly gives rise to an adder’s nest of consequences. I take pains to avoid it except in cases of the utmost need.”

The girl gulped. Alert, the Tar Man looked over his shoulder at the observation mirror. There was no one yet in sight but he could hear footsteps in the distance. He leapt up and started to walk away. The girl followed him, struggling to keep up with his long legs.

“Thanks,” she said awkwardly. “Why did you…?”

The Tar Man bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I am a stranger here. I need a guide.”

“You want me to be your guide?”

“Yes. I will reward you handsomely – anything you wish.”

“I…”

“But I don’t know if I want to.”

The Tar Man ignored her hesitation. “But be warned: once you have accepted my trust, if you cross me, you will live to regret it. So, will you at least tell me your name now?

“Anjali. My name’s Anjali.”