By snodlander
The commuter train was packed, as usual. People were standing in the aisle already as the train pulled into the station. June sighed. The commute was boring and it was uncomfortable. She could stand it if it was one or the other, but the two combined robbed the summer day of any joy. The same old journey with the same old people to the same old job for the rest of her same old life.
Well, not entirely the same old people. Today there was a new traveller, or at least new to this train. Standing in front of her on the platform was a small, middle-aged man dressed in a neat city suit, a large briefcase in his hand. He looked a veteran of the daily charge to work, but June had not seen him on her train before.
The train sighed to a halt and the doors wheezed open. The newcomer turned, smiled, and stepped aside, inviting June to climb aboard with an outstretched arm.
"Um ... thank you," she muttered, stepping aboard. Perhaps he wasn't a commuting veteran after all. Perhaps this was the first time in his life he had caught the train into the city. No-one stepped aside to give a rival commuter an opportunity to step aboard. Never mind ladies first, you pushed and elbowed your way into a prime position, even if it meant shoving aside a pregnant grandmother on crutches. It was every man for himself.
June crossed to the other side of the carriage and turned, her back to the trackside doors. She was suspicious of this strange behaviour. Was he some sort of dirty pervert that liked to ogle women's backsides? Or worse, to use the crush to push himself up close to a woman? And he looked so genteel, too. Well, you never could tell.
The city gent stepped aboard, and remained on his side of the carriage. There were two other people standing by the doors, regulars that June had seen for years, but never spoken to.
The doors wheezed closed and the train reluctantly pulled away, straining to reach a decent speed now it had picked up the last of its passengers bound for the city. June opened her bag, and silently cursed. She had finished her paperback last night, and had forgotten to replace it this morning. Oh well, she would just have to tough it out this morning, and grab a bodice-ripper from the newsagents at lunchtime to numb the homeward journey. Instead, she leant back against the doors and looked at nothing in particular.
The city gent busied himself with his briefcase. He opened it, and from its depths produced a long thin cloth bag, the sort in which a fisherman might keep the segments of a rod. As June watched, he opened the end and produced a bundle of metal rods. My goodness, was he some sort of nutter? Was he going to go fishing on the train?
He gave a flick of his wrist, and the poles flipped open, joined at one end by a triangle of cloth. It was a canvas stool, the sort used by middle-aged couples whose approach to camping is to take their sitting room outside. He arranged it in the corner, hitched his trousers up at the knees and sat down.
So, not his first time commuting, then, thought June. It was quite a good idea, now she came to think of it. A ticket did not guarantee you a seat at this time of the day, so bringing your own seemed fair enough. It was a shame it was so inelegant for a woman to use, though the city gent looked almost prim perched there.
The gent reached into an inside pocket and produced a handkerchief. With a flourish he snapped it open and laid it across his lap. He produced its twin, snapped it open and tucked it into his collar. He delved into his bag again, and produced a thermos flask. He checked his watch, studying the face intently. He started to nod, as though counting down, then at zero hour he unscrewed the cup on top, unstoppered the wide mouth and poured the liquid into the cup. June could smell the fragrant scent. Tea, with a hint of perfume. Earl Grey?
Placing the cup between his feet, he rooted around in the recesses of his bag. Eventually he tracked down his target, and produced an eggcup, which he held tightly between his knees. He carefully poured out the last of the tea from the flask into the cup at his feet, then deftly caught an egg as it rolled out. Wincing and making the short shushing noise of air being sucked through clenched teeth, he juggled the hot egg into the egg cup. He shook his hand hard, trying to cool the singed fingers in the air. Carefully he stoppered the flask again, and replaced it in his briefcase.
June realised that her mouth was hanging open. She closed it sharply and looked away, out of the window, trying to hide her smile. But it was too much, she felt her gaze being drawn to the strange tableau as irresistibly as gravity.
From the bag that seemed to double as his larder, the commuter produced a square of greaseproof paper. Carefully unwrapping it, he laid a slice of bread on his impromptu tablecloth. He reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a small square of foil-wrapped butter, the sort you often had at restaurants. He reached into his side pocket and found a pocketknife. Selecting the blade with due care and consideration, he carefully wiped it on the corner of his handkerchief and spread the butter thinly over the bread. He folded the empty butter wrapper into a dainty square and dropped it into his lap.
With the precision of a stonemason engraving a tombstone, he ran the knife down the length of the bread, once, twice and a third time, cutting the bread into four regimented soldiers. He cleaned the blade with the hanky again, folded the blade away and returned it from whence it came.
He paused, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he surveyed the tea at his feet, the egg in its cup between his knees, and the bread soldiers on the handkerchief on his lap. He reached into his jacket, and the smile disappeared. He reached into the other side of his jacket. A worried frown occupied his face as he started to pat himself down.
He looked up and caught June's eye before she had chance to look away.
"I'm most terribly sorry, but would you happen to have a teaspoon on you, by any chance?" he asked.
June looked down at her bag. Of course she didn't have a spoon, but the request was so polite, and the expression on his face so genuine, that she couldn't help but consider, just for a moment, whether she might have one in her bag that she had forgotten was there.
"No, sorry, I haven't," she said with a shrug.
He gave a sad smile. "Not to worry," he said, then suddenly beamed as his hands stopped their frisking. "Oh, look! It was in my shirt pocket!" he said, producing the errant spoon as though it were the Holy Grail.
Still unable to stop herself, June watched as the gent used the spoon to gently tap at top of the egg, carefully prying the shards of shell away and dropping them on the handkerchief. When he had exposed a satisfactory amount of white flesh he ran the tip of the spoon around the egg, lifting the top with the skill of a surgeon to expose the runny yolk inside. He must have timed the journey to the second, to get the egg so perfectly soft-boiled inside his flask of tea.
He took a bread soldier and dipped it deep into the egg. Carefully, so as not to spoil his suit, he lifted it to his mouth. For a brief second he paused, eyes closed, and June knew he was anticipating the taste, tantalising his tongue for a moment, then he bit into the eggy bread. June's mouth ran with saliva just at the expression of satisfaction on the man's face. She knew without any doubt that the egg was cooked to perfection, and the bread the exact width and absorbency to ensure the perfect epicurean experience. The gent smiled to himself, and reached for his steaming cup.
June thought back to her journey yesterday, and the day before, and the identical days before those. Wasted minutes running into hours, into days and into weeks of emptiness. She arrived at work tense and harassed, even before the work day began. This funny little man, with his prissy napkins and odd breakfast and ridiculous stool, probably spent an extra half hour at home with his family, and would arrive refreshed and relaxed in the city. Never mind that half the carriage was laughing behind his back. Who had the bigger laugh, she asked herself.
June wondered where she could buy herself a camping stool.
| Author Notes | Last week, fed up of the long daily journey into work either stood up or sat on the dirty floor of the carriage, I bought myself a camping stool that I can sling underneath my backpack. Now I can sit in the aisle, in comfort, my laptop on my knees, and to hell with the smiles from the other commuters. I'm guaranteed a seat. I don't eat breakfast there, though. |
By snodlander
"This train is the - seven - twenty - four - to - Ramsgate - calling at - London Bridge ...." The train's computerised announcement stuttered over the public address system, the woman's voice sounding staccato as the computer inserted the numbers and station names into the stock recording. Dan stared out of the window into the gloaming, wishing now he had picked up the free newspaper the bored young woman at the station entrance had tried to push on everyone who entered.
"Gillingham - Rainham - Sittingbourne ...." He wished he was home now, instead of in London. He wished he didn't have to commute for an hour at each end of the working day. He wished he hadn't had to work late this evening. He wished he had a beer. Most of all, he wished he was snuggled up on the couch with Laura.
"Margate West - Margate Central - Laura's dumped you - and Broadstairs."
Dan snapped his head up. No-one in the carriage seemed to have noticed, but the announcement had definitely said that, hadn't it? What came before Broadstairs in the long litany of stations? Ramsgate? Could it be at all possible to mistake the word Ramsgate for Laura? No, wait, it was Dumpton Park. Dumped you! Idiot! He was tired. That was it. He was just so tired. He would have to go to bed early tonight. He had not wanted to go to bed this last week, not on his own, when for the last year the bed had been filled with ... with memories. But tonight, he would have to, no matter how empty it seemed. He was so tired his mind was playing tricks on him.
"The next stop is - London Bridge. Please mind the gap in your heart."
When you depart! Mind the gap when you depart! That's what it said. It couldn't be what he thought he heard. Was he going mad? Did he have a brain tumour? Or is this what sleep deprivation did to you?
Dan sat up straight in his seat and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. Come on, Dan, sort yourself out. The train pulled away from the terminal on the first leg of its journey. Soon be home. Soon be at his own front door, and he could lock it against the world, knock back a scotch or two to dull the edge and collapse on the bed. Yes, that would do it, at least for tonight.
"We are arriving at London Bridge, you sad little alcoholic." Dan jumped in his seat. Jesus Christ! That wasn't mishearing a similar word. What the hell rhymes with 'alcoholic'? It had definitely said that. He looked around at his fellow passengers. No-one gave any indication they had heard the public address system verbally abuse him. It must be in his head. Mustn't it? What if it wasn't? Commuters never really listened to the announcements on the train. Dan bet you could say anything, so long as it fit the rhythm of the normal announcements, and no-one would hear.
No, he was tired, he was emotional. That was it. He was just going mad, that's all. The train's computer wasn't out to get him.
A young man, probably fresh out of school and in his first job, sat in the seat opposite him. He wore his suit with the casual arrogance of youth, huge knotted tied pulled down from his open collar, hair gelled into the current just-out-of-bed look. He wore earphones and had his MP3 player turned full on.
The train pulled away. Next stop, Chatham, then he would be home. Dan closed his eyes and tried to relax. Stupid, wasn't it, how the more tired you were, the harder it was to relax. Everything was conspiring to keep him awake. The seat was uncomfortable; the rhythm of the train irregular; the susurration of the MP3 player irritating.
Dan wished the lad would turn the volume down. He couldn't make out the song, he wouldn't want to listen to it, anyway, but the rhythmic hissing was annoying him.
Shh-shh-shh-siss, shh-shh-shh-siss, she sleeps with Steve.
"What?" Dan snapped his eyes open and glared at the youth in front of him. The young man took out an earpiece.
"Sorry?"
"What did you just say?" demanded Dan.
"I didn't say nothing," said the young man, a hint of fear in his eyes.
"How do you know about Steve? Who told you? Does everyone know?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," muttered the boy, and he stood up and walked down the carriage.
"Tell him I don't care!" Dan called after him. But of course, he did. He cared very much. He cared about it more than anything in his entire life. She was his life. Had been, anyway. Okay, so he had put long hours in at work, but everyone did, that was the nature of the beast. He was only doing it for her, for them. And he enjoyed a drink. You had to, when the lads went out together. It was part of being a team player. Decisions were made, strategies formulated, over bottles of wine. He wasn't an alcoholic, regardless of what she said. He never woke up in the gutter, or with holes in his memory. He certainly never beat her. So how was he an alcoholic?
He wasn't an alcoholic, but God, he was going to enjoy that scotch when he got home. He just needed to keep it together until his stop. He needed to relax, but not so much he missed his station. Again he wished for a newspaper, or a book, or anything to take his mind of Laura.
His eyes roamed the carriageway, looking for distraction. Over the window was an advertisement for toothpaste, a couple looking impossibly good together flashing their dazzling smiles at the camera. She looked happy; ecstatic even. She wasn't about to tarnish those teeth by French-kissing her partner's friend.
Over the door ran the perpetual dot-matrix display, the usual messages scrolling across it. 'The next station is Chatham ... Please mind the gap between the train and the platform ... Why don't you throw yourself under the next train?' Dan wasn't surprised now, to see the messages addressed to him. He didn't deserve it, though. Not to be stabbed in the back by the people he trusted most in this world. And now they had spread their side of the story around, and everyone, even the fucking train, thought he was the bad guy. He had never played around. He had never betrayed his lover or his friend. He was the innocent party here, and he was being victimised all the same.
He stood up. "It wasn't my fault!" he yelled, and realised he was crying. He rubbed at his eyes angrily. "Stop blaming me, it wasn't my fault."
"Why don't you just sit down, mate?" said someone.
"Piss off!" said Dan, and staggered into the passageway by the doors. He grabbed the hand rail, leant heavily on it and stared out into the night.
'To open door in emergency' read the sign by the door. Dan chuckled to himself. What did they know of an emergency? Had they come home to a house half empty? Had they been worried sick that maybe Laura had been in an accident? Had they read the note three times before the meaning sunk in? Those were pigging emergencies: life threatening emergencies. His entire life had been crushed, and now he was just going through the motions, like some poor coma victim on life support.
'To open door in life emergency,' read the sign, '1 Remove cover.' What do you do when the love of your life leaves you, throws a year of your life away without even telling you to your face? What would any man do? He'd turn to his mates, wouldn't he? He'd tell his friends, and they would get drunk together and call them all callous bitches, and reassure him he was better off. That's what mates did. So he had turned up at Steve's. He should have phoned him first, he knew that now, but he had just turned up unannounced.
'2 Pull handle.' He could see Steve's shocked face when he opened the door and saw Dan standing there. He had started to apologise about Laura, and at first all Dan could think was, how did Steve know already? And then Laura had appeared behind him, and his life crashed to the ground.
'3 Step into her arms.' Laura was there now, outside in the night. She was standing just the other side of the glass, and she looked so sorry, so contrite. But she shouldn't. In a flash Dan saw that it was all his fault. He had spent too long at work, drunk too much, played too hard. He had neglected the only thing in his life that meant anything.
He pulled the plastic cover away. "I'm so sorry," he sobbed.
He pulled the handle down. "Oh God, please forgive me."
He stepped into her forgiving arms. "Laura," he whispered.
| Author Notes | Seriously, I need to find another way to commute. |
By snodlander
The platform was deserted except for the young girl, huddled on a bench under the only working fluorescent light. Despite the warmth of the evening, she hunched over, hugging a small, shocking-pink backpack to herself as though it were a hot-water bottle. White wires betrayed the earphones jammed in her ears, and even as Peterson approached, he heard the shush-shush of music played too loud.
They never learn, he thought. At that age, they think themselves invincible. 'It'll never happen to me.' She hasn't seen me, she can't hear me, and she's all alone. She could probably afford a taxi, or if she couldn't her parents could. What parent would not pay for a taxi if they saw their daughter, naive and vulnerable, sat alone at a train station?
He walked on. He was almost within striking distance before she saw him. She gave a nervous start, then looked quickly away.
Wrong! You don't look away. I could be doing anything now, taking out a knife, unwinding a garrotte, and you wouldn't see it. Looking away tells a potential attacker that you're a victim. You should make eye contact, look assertive and unafraid. You should look as though you would scream and shout and kick and bite, not like you're a little mouse that would beg in a timorous voice not to be hurt.
Peterson passed her and sat on the other end of the bench.
"Good evening," he said, loudly, so she would hear over the din they call music nowadays.
She glanced at him, nodded a silent greeting then continued her study of her feet.
If I attacked you now, you would only be able to give the haziest description to the police. You should memorise my features, and let me know that you had, to discourage any ideas of an assault. But that's not the English way, not polite, and you're just a wisp of a girl with no more self-assertiveness than a mouse.
"It's dangerous," he said, in his competing-with-an-MP3 voice.
She pulled an earpiece out, sharing the upper registers of the cacophony with Peterson.
"Sorry?"
This time she did look at him. Peterson saw the judgement in her eyes. He knew what she was seeing: an old man with old values and no idea what it was to be young. He saw the dismissal of any threat in her eyes. Never mind that he was only fifty, still young enough to be 'sexually active', whatever that medical euphemism meant. Never mind that, 'old' as he was, he could still easily overpower the slightly-built girl.
"Travelling alone, at night. It's dangerous. Couldn't any of your friends have given you a lift?" Couldn't your parents? Don't they care, or don't they know you're out on your own, vulnerable to anything the night hides?
He saw the 'up yours' look on her face that said, 'it's none of your business.' "I'm okay," she said, adjusting the position of her backpack as though she were nervous of him stealing it.
Better. At least you're become aware of a potential threat. But stealing your bag is nothing. If I was to try, just give it up and run, screaming, and hope the emergency phone on the platform is manned at the other end. Anything in your bag can be replaced. Your life can't.
"Okay, but there's been some murders in the county recently. Haven't you heard? It's dangerous for anyone to be out alone at night these days."
She gave him a look of contempt, as though she despised him for trying to scare her, and screwed the earpiece back in. But she needed to be scared. Scared was the only reasonable state of mind to be in these days. Not that you should look scared, oh no. But you should be scared enough that you took sensible precautions. Be aware of your surroundings. Take note of people around you. Avoid being stuck all alone late at night on a deserted platform with a stranger.
Peterson shook his head. They said you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks, but that was easy compared to trying to teach something to kids. In their ignorance they thought they knew it all. They thought it couldn't happen to them. They thought they were invincible, invulnerable, eternal.
They were wrong.
He stretched his legs, looking around the deserted station. There was no-one on the opposite platform. Had the last train already gone in that direction? This platform was deserted too, and it was unlikely that anyone else would appear, not at this time of night. It seemed as though they were the only two people left in the world.
If she were sensible, she should move away. Move down towards the other end of the platform, away from him. Scream at him if he made a move to follow her. Hit the speed dial on her mobile phone for the police. Did she even have the police number on her speed dial?
Kids today! They were too naive for their own good.
For their own safety.
The train rumbled into the station, the warm carriage lights igniting the cold dark platform. The young girl got up and walked towards the rear of the train, entering a carriage containing half a dozen other passengers. That was better; that was sensible. She didn't know Peterson. She should avoid him. Peterson climbed into the carriage that stopped opposite the bench.
***
The girl sat on the carriage seat, hunched over, hugging the backpack to herself. One per night. That was her golden rule. Only one. She felt the reassuring bulk through the backpack, the hard rigidity when she pressed against the material. That old man was creepy, like her dad had been. She felt her skin crawl when he talked to her. She had felt sick when he had insisted on talking to her, even though she hadn't done anything to encourage him. But she had to limit herself to only one. More, and they would catch her. She noticed the spot of crimson on her wrist, and pulled down her sleeve to cover it. She could feel the edge of the blades, even through the material of the backpack and the kitchen towel that covered them.
Maybe next week, he would be there again.
| Author Notes | Honest, I'm well balanced, honestly |
By snodlander
PaganSexGod was an E-Warrior. He ruled his ethereal domain like a third level Paladin that had the infinite lives cheat and the magic sword of Thron. He was a legend in his own subnet. It was not easy, but he was dedicated. He donated long hours in the night to his obsession, when other men of his age were in bed, either asleep or very much awake. He was the Emperor of the Ethernet, the Head Honcho Hacker, The Wizard of the Web. His mother, though, knew him by another name.
"Timmy? Are you still on that computer thing? You're going to be late if you don't get a move on. You've not even had a cup of tea yet."
"Alright, Mum. I'll be down in a tick." His mother irritated him. Oh, he loved her, of course, but she didn't take any of PSG's passion seriously. She thought it was the same as his Warhammer phase, when he would spend his pocket money and spare time making and painting war game figurines, then spend Sundays pitting them against teenage boys, some of whom were, like him, in their twenties. But it was her ignorance that irritated him the most. He must have told her a hundred times that it wasn't called the Interweb, but she still insisted on telling friends and family that her little Timmy was a computer whacker.
He hit the send button on his latest salvo in the Linux versus OS2 flamewar. Econut, his perennial nemesis, was an ignorant, self-opinionated noob, who wouldn't know a decent operating system if it booted him up the backside. Then he locked the session, switched off the screen and surround-sound speakers and hurried downstairs.
"Mum, I'm in the middle of a very important code compilation. Please don't switch my PC off again."
"Okay, Love. Which plug shall I use for the vacuum cleaner?"
"Just leave it, Mum. I'll hoover the room tonight. Please don't touch anything in there. I lost so much work last time you unplugged something."
"Well, okay," she said, doubtfully. "But make sure you do it properly, underneath the bed and everything. What do you want for breakfast?"
PaganSexGod glanced at his hacker's binary watch, then worked his lips silently as he converted the lights into the proper time. "That's fine, Mum. I'll grab something at work. I've got to dash." He took a gulp of the scalding tea, winced at the pain then fled for the door.
"I'll do sausages for tea," called his mother, but the door slammed on her words.
PaganSexGod, PSG to his intimate friends, Tim to everyone else except his mother, sprinted the last hundred yards to the station. He heard the tannoy announce the imminent arrival of his train as he fumbled the ticket through the turnstile. He withstood the disapproving look of the city gent he overtook on the steps to the platform, and leapt through the doors just as the beeping foretold their closure. He stood panting in the carriage passageway, studiously ignored by the other passengers.
He smiled over his small triumph. He had timed it to perfection. Ten seconds later, and he would have had to catch the slower, later train, and he couldn't afford to be late for work again this month. If he had logged off earlier, he would never have been able to wrest the legendary diamond of the Snake Goddess from the temple idol and its supernatural guardians.
He idly fantasised about being so rich he could live in the artificial world forever, ordering in pizza whenever he needed it, becoming the undisputed ruler of the entire E-verse. Women, real women and not just twisted men in their mid-life crisis pretending to be twenty-one year old pole-dancers in chat rooms, would flock to him, drawn by his quick wit, his encyclopaedic knowledge of the E-verse and his raw power. He gently hugged his backpack to his chest, feeling the hard outline of his laptop within. That would be pretty cool.
A little voice, deep in the recesses of his mind, suggested that he would still need to surface into the real world occasionally. The body needed to function, and the mind might, just possibly, need stimulus from the real world. But it was a tiny voice, so small he could easily shout it down.
He looked down at his bag. The zip was undone, and his hand rested lightly the computer's lid. He hadn't even noticed himself doing that. He looked around the carriage. There were no seats available. He would have to stand all the way to London.
He put the bag down at his feet, and when he straightened up, his hand held the laptop. Oh well, it was out of the bag now. He opened the lid and switched it on, resting the base on his forearm, his other hand resting lightly on the keys. Just a quick five minutes would help ease the tedium of the commute.
****
Krall sat up, throwing the furs off his muscled torso. Resting against the tent side, Thron, his magic sword gifted to him by the grateful priests of the mountains, glowed softly blue, gently illuminating the surroundings. Evil must be near.
A blonde woman, barely twenty, opened her eyes and looked up at him muzzily. "Come back to bed, my darling."
"Yes," said her sister from the other side of the bed. "You were so wonderful last night. It's our turn to please you."
The blonde giggled, guiltily. "Now we know why the women of Thrack worship you. Let us show you our devotion."
"Later," said Krall, with a distracted air. He grabbed at his discarded loincloth, thrown impatiently last night over the gold horde, and rose. He tossed a couple of gems onto the bed. "Here, they're a girl's best friend."
"Who is?" asked one of the girls, puzzled.
Krall's eyes turned to the slim grey box in the corner. "Never mind. It's just a saying in ... it's a saying in a distant land."
He sat on the stool that had once belonged to the king of all Middle Mandolia and picked up the smooth box, his huge hands suddenly gentle.
"My Lord!"
The tent flap opened, and in strode Chang, his blood brother and faithful lieutenant. "The enemy is at the ford, and your men are ..."
Chang saw the box on Krall's lap. "No, not again. The battle is about to start. You don't really have time."
"I know, I know. I was just going to ... nothing. It doesn't matter. Only there's an audit at the office, and it could help my appraisal."
The barbarian from the land of volcanoes shook his head in puzzlement. "I love you like my own brother, My Lord, and will follow you into the gates of the seventh hell, but I really don't see the attraction. You have all this." His swept his arm, taking in the treasure chests, the women, the furs, and by implication encompassing the lands that now swore allegiance to him, and all the riches they contained. "Why do you insist on living the life of this Tom? Are you enchanted?"
Krall shrugged his shoulders. "No, no. It's fine. And it's not Tom, it's Tim. Look, I'm putting it away. See? It's nothing. It's just a little escape from this world, that's all. Come on, our swords are thirsty, let us sate them with the blood of our enemy, then tonight, no treasure or maiden will remain unplundered."
"For the Pagan Sex God of the Thrack!" shouted Chang, gesturing with his sword.
Krall grabbed his sword. "May every comely wench worship him!" he answered. The two brothers in arms strode out of the tent. At the doorway, Krall paused, turned, and regarded the opulence. The two women gazed adoringly at him. The torchlight gleamed off gold and silver surfaces. The pelts and exotic furs gave the tent a comfortable air. And softly, quietly, the plain, slim box called to him. He nodded. "Later," he whispered, and was gone.
| Author Notes | This is not me! I am perfectly well adjusted. Ok, yes, I've been on-line since 4:30, but I'm jet-lagged. |
By snodlander
There were strict rules for commuting, laws as immutable as gravity.
It was forbidden to show emotion. A commuter must be neither happy nor sad. The only acceptable expression was one of mild boredom, even if tomorrow you were off to sunny climes with the partner of your choice, unlimited booze and a promise of more hot sex than anyone could reasonably hope for.
No eye contact was allowed. Never mind that the carriage was so crowded the umbrella of the gentleman in front was in contact with you more intimately than anything had been for too long. You might be facing the man or woman of your dreams; if by chance your eyes did meet across the crowded carriage, you should look away hurriedly.
Under no circumstances should you strike up a conversation, even if the person next to you was your spouse of twenty-five years. Anything that might be said should have been communicated before the journey started, or could wait for the privacy of the office.
There were exceptions. Delays of twenty minutes or more could be greeted with mild irritation, or even a tut or two. Dirty looks could be directed at tourists with backpacks or passionate couples sucking noisily at each other's tongue. In dire emergencies, intimate acquaintances might murmur to each other in hushed tones.
Mobile telephones were a wild card. You could talk as loudly as you liked, about the most intimate of practices or the most sensitive of financial details, provided you had a mobile phone pressed tight to your ear.
But these were the exceptions, and if you were in any doubt, the safest course of action was to maintain a bored indifference.
Sometimes, though, events came about that overturned the natural order of things, and the normal laws no longer applied.
This morning was a case in point. The train was stationary, half a mile short of the station, and had been beached hopelessly there for the last twenty minutes. Delays outside the busy terminals were par for the course, and the seasoned traveller did not even notice them. But twenty minutes was exceptional, even for this busiest of times.
In the standing area by the doors, the four of us waited. The mild irritation rule had been invoked by the large lady in the floral dress. The city gent had forcibly refolded his Financial Times, his frustration exaggerated by the knowledge that even these extra twenty minutes had not enabled him to answer twenty-seven down, Die of cold (3-4). The young secretary stabbed at the buttons on her MP3 player, none of the tracks compensating for the delay. I lounged against doors, eyes half closed, in the vain hope that if I looked as though I were asleep, I might end the journey more refreshed than when I started.
The public address system crackled and hissed, the familiar precursor of some specious excuse as to why we were going to be delayed yet again. Earphones were removed and papers lowered as we waited for the announcement.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am sorry for the delay this morning. We're at present waiting for a green light, but there is heavy congestion at the moment, due to a customer committing suicide on the line at London Bridge. Unfortunately, we are going to have to wait until the line is cleared before we can move on. As soon as I have any more information I'll let you know. Once again, apologies for any inconvenience this might cause you."
"Oh my God! A suicide?" said the young secretary, eyes wide.
The floral lady shook her head. "What goes through their mind? Don't they have any family? It's so selfish."
The city gent shrugged. "That's symptomatic of today's society. There's no cohesion, no sense of belonging. Everyone thinks the world starts and stops with them."
"Still, poor soul," sympathised the secretary.
We all paused, meditating on the loneliness of the city, the brevity of life and our own mortality.
Then we did it. As surreptitiously as we could, because deep down we were ashamed, yet we were unable to suppress it. As one, we all turned our wrists and looked at our watches.
| Author Notes | Death and commuting. I seem obsessed with it. I'm a normal, cheerful well-balanced person in real life. No, really I am. Why are you taking all the knives out of the kitchen drawer? |
By snodlander
It wasn't often Sally managed to get a seat on the train home. Hers was the semi-fast to Ramsgate, spending forty-five cramped and unpleasant minutes snaking through suburban London and the Kent countryside before the first stop, Sally's home town of Chatham. After Chatham, of course, there would be plenty of room. Ramsgate residents probably spread over several seats, but for her it was standing room only all the way.
Others chose to sit on the carriage floor in the space by the doors, a freebie newspaper making do as rug, but Sally hated that. The floor was grubby, and the newspaper print would mark her skirt, for all they said the print was smudge-free now. Besides, if a man chose to stand in the vestibule, she always felt her head was uncomfortably close to his groin, no matter how far away he stood.
Gone were the days that men would offer their seats to a member of the fairer sex, which was a jolly good thing, too. Women were, at the very least, men's equals. But it wouldn't set the movement back a hundred years if just once some man would move his greedy, fat arse off his seat, would it?
But sometimes, especially on a Friday, there would be a spare seat. Friday was POETS day, when several companies allowed their employees to Piss Off Early, Tomorrow's Saturday. Even more employees sneaked off early in defiance of their firm's wishes. So on a Friday, some of the regular commuters had already left on their sojourn home, leaving Sally a chance, if she used her elbows and dirty looks to effect, to beat her fellow passengers to the luxury of a seat to sit on.
Today was one of those joyous days, when the price of a train ticket entitled her to actually sit down on the journey. But first she had to get to the seat. Why, she asked herself, did some people insist on taking the aisle seat when the window seat was free? Worse, they affected not to notice you when, laden with laptop bag and tottering on heels, you stopped at their seat and looked pointedly at the empty, Sally-shaped void beyond them.
"Excuse me," she said, in her see-how-polite-I'm-being-when-you-deserve-a-good-kicking voice.
The thirty-something office boy opened his eyes and begrudgingly stood. It would have been so much easier for him to shuffle over and let her have the aisle seat, but he had presumably laid claim to the chair in some primitive male ego thing. Sally squeezed across and sat down, arranging her bag in the least uncomfortable position on her lap.
The suited stranger flopped back into his seat, his close proximity to Sally an almost physical pressure. She glanced at him under cover of searching for her trashy paperback. He was sweating slightly, the unhealthy sheen of his skin setting off the wet-look hair that was gelled in a style that would have suited him ten years ago. For a moment his chest rose and his chin dropped, as though he were going to burp, or, more likely, up-chuck.
Wonderful, she thought. The only free seat in the carriage and I'm stuck next to the drunk. She shuffled in her chair, trying to move as close to the window as the cramped conditions allowed, whilst at the same time not appearing to do so.
He must think he's something special in the city, she thought. She could see him in her mind's eye, going down the wine bar with his city mates at lunchtime, all lads together, making inappropriate jokes at the women and throwing glasses of wine down their necks. Why did male bonding consist of seeing who could be the biggest arsehole?
What if he threw up? The thought made Sally nauseous. What if it was worse? What if he wet himself? Drunks did that, sometimes, didn't they? How could she get out of her seat, shuffle over to the aisle, without becoming contaminated?
The train lurched, then pulled away into the evening. Only forty-five minutes, she thought. Forty-five minutes, and then she could get off. Fifteen minutes after that and she would be home, where she could drown the experience in a hot bath. Life shouldn't be like this, wishing the minutes and hours away until you could be alone. Life should be enjoyed, not endured. Sally repeated the phrase to herself. It sounded like one of those things you read on inspirational posters, or at the end of an ad for sanitary towels. She briefly fantasised about a fresh new job as a creative copywriter for a trendy marketing company. But it would still involve the purgatory of the commute. Best the devil you know.
The drunk grunted. Sally glanced at him. His head lolled back, his eyes closed. How many relationships would ever form, she wondered, if they started by seeing your prospective partner asleep? Not the Hollywood, hair halo'd and perfectly made up sleep, but the dribbling, snorting, medusa-haired sleep real people had.
Sally stared at the page in the book, eyes running over the words but not comprehending their meaning, lost in her loathing of the sub-species homo commuticus.
Someone had an MP3 player on full volume. A sibilance with all the annoying qualities of a mosquito whine: incessant, irritating, and impossible to ignore. What was it about public transport that made people's manners disappear? Surely polite, civilized behaviour was even more necessary when people were compressed into so much luncheon meat to be transported? Sally looked around. Half the people in the carriage wore earphones. She couldn't locate the offender, so she settled for giving the carriage in general a dirty look.
The scene outside the window changed to trees and fields. Thirty minutes; she could last that long. Couldn't she? The urge to stand and scream, "We shouldn't have to put up with this!" was almost overpowering.
The drunk's mobile phone rang; an annoying, tinny version of 'I'm too sexy for my shirt.' Oh, puhlease! A blind granny wouldn't find him sexy. The too-sexy drunk slept on. What did she have to do to have some peace and quiet? After ten seconds Sally wanted to rip the phone from his pocket and scream at the caller, "He's not going to answer! Give up!"
Eventually, the mystery caller did give up, drunk office-boy oblivious to the life-changing opportunities that might have awaited him had he not got too wasted to answer his phone. Sally enjoyed a brief malicious fantasy, Mr I'm-too-drunk-for-my-shirt discovering that, if only he had behaved at lunchtime, if only he had stayed sober, he would have been able to accept the job offer he had always dreamed of. Instead, disappointment and his own boorishness resulted in the loss of his job, his friends and all that he held dear. He would die an early death, mourned by no-one.
Fifteen minutes. Dear God, could fifteen minutes pass any slower?
To Sally's horror, he slumped slowly sideways, his arm pressing up against hers. She felt dirty, violated. Slowly, as if she wasn't actually doing anything, she returned the pressure, trying to push him back upright. Instead his head dropped onto her shoulder. She glanced at his slick hair. She would have to wash her coat as soon as she got home. Then disinfect it. Then burn it.
She lifted her shoulder, trying to push his head back. What if his head just rolled off, his body collapsing so his face fell into her boobs? She reached up with the hand furthest from the disgusting man and clutched her coat closed above her cleavage.
She looked across to her fellow passengers, seeking moral support. On the other side of the table they seemed immersed in their newspapers and books. Their faces were a picture of studied disinterest, but Sally could tell that deep inside, where no-one could see, they were smirking at her. Schadenfreude was invented on a train journey like this. The bastards opposite were enjoying her plight, gleefully thankful it wasn't them.
She shoved harder, jerking her shoulder up in an attempt to catapult his head away from her. This time it worked, and his head lolled the other side, towards the aisle.
Sally could feel the sweat-and-gel stain on her shoulder. It seemed to soak through the coat, into her blouse and onto her skin. She shuddered. Would just one bath be enough?
The outskirts of the Medway Towns filed past the window. There was a God in heaven after all. Her nightmare was almost over. She put her unread book back into her bag and performed her twice-daily ritual of checking she had everything: ticket, keys, purse, bag securely zipped shut. As the train rattled over Rochester bridge she coughed loudly. The drunk didn't move.
"Excuse me," she said.
"Excuse me," she repeated, loud enough for other people in the carriage to look up. Entertainment was sparse on the regular journey, and any diversion always attracted a surreptitious but appreciative audience.
Oh-God-Oh-God-Oh-God, she was going to have to touch him. Gingerly, she prodded him with her fingertips, trying to have the most impact with the least physical contact.
"Excuse me, can I get past, please?"
Rochester station rolled past. Two more minutes and it would be Chatham.
People were openly staring at her now. She felt her cheeks burn, though none of this was her doing. She had every right to want to leave. It was him that was the cause of the scene, but he slept through it all in drunken oblivion.
What could she do if he refused to wake up? What if he stayed there until Ramsgate? What if the station staff there thought he was something to do with her, that they were a couple, and could she please take him home?
She grasped his shoulder and shook it. "This is my stop. Can I get past, please?" She phrased it as a question, but the tone was a demand.
The train slowed as it drew into her station. She shook his shoulder hard. "Move!"
He refused.
"Get out of my way, you drunken bastard!" she screamed, and shoved against him with all her strength. He fell forward, his head turning as it came to rest on the table. His sightless eyes stared up at her from a deathly-white face.
| Author Notes | I write most of my stuff on my commute to and from London. Looking at my recent posts, I fear this may be affecting my work. |
By snodlander
More people wore masks on the train now than went bare-faced. A couple of businessmen even had oxygen masks. It was scary how fast people's perceptions changed. Only four weeks ago no-one wore a mask, now you got dirty looks if you dared breathe out in people's company. Never mind that the flimsy cotton did nothing to prevent infection. Last night there was a news item about a man being beaten by a crowd for the sin of sneezing on a bus. That was the real disease; not the death caused by the virus, but the madness with which it infects the public psyche.
Three percent were showing symptoms. Three percent of the world were praying they had a cold, but deep down knew they were going to die inside three months. Maybe another eight percent were infected, but were still incubating the disease, breeding the virus inside their bodies and expelling it into the air for a year or more.
I played a morbid game of statistics with my fellow passengers. You're dead, you're infected, so are you. That entire row are clean, but for how long? Is some viral advance guard even now skirting that useless nose cloth, setting up a beachhead in the semi-permeable membranes of your nose?
What would it be like, I wondered, to be the last man on earth? Pretty disgusting, probably. It wouldn't be the loneliness that got to you, it would be the stench of six billion rotting corpses.
The suicide rates were up. Who wanted to take three months to die a slow, painful death? On the other hand, church attendance was up too. You either saw the inevitability of the plague, and concluded there was no god, or you saw it as His displeasure at man's waywardness, thanked Him for sparing you (so far) and condemned the sufferers as the sinners they obviously were. I was neutral on the subject, though I knew for a certainty there was a devil.
No-one was making comedies any more. The box office was full of action heroes, stories of people taking on impossible odds and beating them, decisively. People didn't want to hear a story about how, with all our science and technology, we were helpless in the face of an infection. No triumph of good over evil, no victory. No inoculation, no cure, no hope. A cast of millions. No sequel planned.
People were working furiously for a cure, but there would be none. I knew, more than anyone else. It was, after all, my job: preventative anti-viral technologist. We thought we were onto a winner, splicing genes with the casual arrogance of a science that knew better than God. Ha! Maybe I did believe in Him after all. That would be one hell of a job appraisal, hauled up in front of the ultimate Boss to explain why I screwed up his pet project.
I'm not a bad person. How many people think they are? Even serial killers think they are doing the Lord's work. But I wanted to help. That's why I studied medicine in the first place. A couple of my colleagues joined worthy organisations like Medecins San Frontieres and the WHO. Deep down I was jealous of them; so noble, so selfless. I told myself that I could contribute to the good of humanity and still make a good living at the same time. Medical research for a large pharmaceutical was just as noble, but better paid.
Maybe I had visions of curing cancer, inoculating against HIV, being lauded for saving mankind from the death sentence of heart disease. Maybe, but there's not that much money in it. You want to know where the money is? Curing something that eighty percent or more of rich people get. Forget heart disease. If you stuff yourself with red meat and processed, sugar-filled crap, no drug is going to help you. Forget HIV, because the main market for a cure is third-world Africa, and how much money do they have?
So here I am, the saviour of mankind, the beneficent scientist that gave you (pause for trumpet fanfare) the cure for the common cold. (Waits for applause. Silence.)
Hey, don't knock it. Do you know how difficult that is? How many colds have you had? Me, I've had one every winter of my adult life, I think. The reason we keep getting colds is the little beggars keep mutating. Every time you catch a cold, it's a new variant, taking over a slightly different link in your DNA chain. Just creating a treatment that targets one form of pathogen without killing the host is difficult enough, but to create a generic cure? That's the Holy Grail. And I did it! I came up with a cure for the common cold.
Well, almost a cure for the common cold. It worked in the computer models. It worked in the Petri dishes. We tested it on animals, with perfect results. God forgive me, I was so full of myself. I saw myself doing the rounds of chat shows, becoming a celebrity boffin, like Stephen Hawking, but sexier. I wrote the Nobel Prize acceptance speech in my head. It was all going to be so Rock and Roll.
Who knew? Who would have thought that would lead me to heading up the principal research team charged with curing the virus that could wipe out humanity? The common cold, the Plague. Not exactly in the same league, right?
Wrong! It was exactly the same league. At first we didn't know, we didn't connect the dots. People thought it was bird flu, or the Black Death, or even some CIA plot that had run away from them. There was that country, God, I'm ashamed I can't remember the name, even with so many dead. You know, that one in Africa, that executed and burned any sufferers. How can you conceive of a situation where to cough is a capital offence? They closed their borders to keep themselves pure. Except an air-borne virus doesn't respect international borders or quarantine regulations. Millions dead, but such a small drop compared to the rest of the world, I can't even remember the name of the country.
Governments failed us. Science failed us. Even religion failed us. Ironic, isn't it? The only viable hope for mankind is me, sitting on this commuter train, and I am hopeless. Even if we find a cure, even if we can stop the spread, what hope is there for me?
I used to be full of hope. I believed in what we, no, what I had achieved. Yes, I had a big research team, but it was always my ego that drove it, so it's me that has to take the blame. It was me that, against objections, took part in the first human trial. It was my DNA that took the mutated virus with the specially-engineered gene sequence. And while it worked perfectly on the other volunteers, it was my DNA that went rogue, that started to produce the new cold virus. And a year later, when the Plague started to appear, it was my co-workers and friends that were amongst the first to die.
And to show what a sick sense of humour God has, once it had incubated in me, it left me whole. I'm forever clear of it. Every day I donate blood samples, skin samples, hair samples, in the hope that some clue in my DNA will stand up and shout, "Here! I'm the answer!" Every day I ride the train in the sure and certain knowledge that I don't need a face mask.
And the best thing? Two years now, and not a single cold.
Lucky me: the saviour of mankind.
| Author Notes | I have a cold. Like last year, this one had had me coughing for well over a month now, I just can't help it. I wrote this on the commuter train into work. I hope none of my fellow passengers were reading over my shoulder. |
By snodlander
Harsh lights slice through sleep-filled eyelids, electronics scream.
Burrow under down-filled duvet, make it go away.
But the ruckus won't be silenced, killing peaceful dream.
Ice-cold floor and blunted razor. Welcome to my day.
Cardboard toast and tasteless coffee. News sounds all the same.
Wars in countries no-one's heard of, starving thousands flee.
Adverts selling perfect lifestyles, come and play the game.
Plastic cards for plastic people, wishing it were me.
Same old people on the platform, faces frozen blank.
Day on day we see each other, saying not a word.
Week on week of lonely journeys, just ourselves to thank.
Year on year of silent trudging, lifetimes in the herd.
March the dreary streets of London, look not left nor right.
Automatic pilot steers us to the office door.
Shifting paper without meaning, yearning for the night
When at last we lose our senses, sleep for evermore.
Home that evening, hit the armchair, shout out at the kids.
Microwave and double vodka, mindless TV show.
Counting seconds till my bedtime lets me close my lids.
Thinking of a time remembered when life wasn't slow.
Fresh from college, hale and healthy, full of love's first glow.
Pushing hard against the traces, racing round the track.
Plans to change the huddled masses, break the status quo.
Puzzled where that young man went to. God, I want him back.
| Author Notes | If my boss ever reads this, I love my job really. |
By snodlander
It was Monday. Penny hated Monday. In truth, she hated Tuesday through to Friday as well, but Monday was the cruellest day of the week. She had lived through the weekend. Lived, partied, danced, drank and exalted through the weekend. By Sunday evening she was alive again. And then Monday stole it all away. The other workdays were bad, but at least she was prepared for them, numbed by the workdays before. But Monday mocked her. Monday took all her vitality and drowned it in tedious mediocrity. Two days were hers, but the rest of eternity was mortgaged to hum-drum drudgery.
She hated the Tube. She stood on the platform and tried to hover, so that even the soles of her feet would not be contaminated by the gritty floor. The track was litter-strewn. Every once in a while she saw a mouse or rat scurrying along the track. The posters became grubby the day after they were pasted up. The very air smelled dirty.
It was always too hot. Even in winter, because you had to dress for the cold outside, and so you sweated in the fetid underground atmosphere. Which meant you became dirty too, infecting and being infected by your fellow drudges.
She felt the weight of the world pushing on her from all sides. She was acutely aware of the tons of earth above her, as busses and trucks rumbled overhead in the real world. She could feel the press of people behind her, their psyche a force pushing her towards the platform edge. The rails pushed back, urban legends of serial killers shoving random commuters under the wheels of trains forcing her back from the edge.
Penny wondered whether this was what hell was like: filthy as the grave, hot as Hades, solitarily confined in a mass of humanity. God, she hated the Tube.
Then the dragon's breath on her cheek warned her of the approach of the next ordeal, and the train whined into the station.
The train was packed, as usual. People on the platform ignored the announcer's pleas to let the people off the train first. People on the train pretended that they couldn't hear the requests to move all the way inside. All pretence of queuing and civility evaporated like spit on a griddle as everyone surged forward, elbows, knees and dirty looks employed to secure a space that would give a sardine claustrophobia.
Penny surged with the rest, scuffing her shoes under the sensible heels of commuter veterans, squeezing indecently close against total strangers, scrumming down in a tight ruck of bodies.
She won a place on the train. Won! How privileged to be squeezed into a space so small she couldn't breathe in deeply. Not that she would want to breathe deeply. She wished she couldn't breathe at all. If the air was dirty in the station, it was gelatinous inside the train: warm, moist and heaving with life. The smell of unwashed armpits supplied a subtle undercurrent to the heady stale aftershave and the overpowering cheap perfume to produce an aroma so full of character it could vote. Penny breathed through her nose, wishing she had no sense of smell, not daring to breathe through her mouth lest she gagged.
The train juddered forward. The man in front of her, propelled no doubt by the wall of flesh in front of him, staggered back. As Penny leant back, the woman behind her pushed forward. Penny's nose filled with the musty smell of the gent's old overcoat as they crushed together. She could feel the dirty look boring into the back of her neck, but what could she do? There was no part of the train she could hang on to within reach, and she was damned if she was going to hang on to the overcoat in front. It was bad enough she had almost been forced to chew it.
There was silence in the carriage, each commuter resolved to serve purgatory in stoic silence, or perhaps unable to draw deep enough breath to cry out. Eye contact was forbidden, though as Penny's eyes were an inch from the back of Mr Overcoat, the point was moot. Forty minutes of halitosis and houndstooth. Penny closed her eyes and prayed for death.
The train slowed to a stop at the next station. No-one got off, of course. She doubted whether anyone could, even if they wanted to. It was obvious that the train was packed to over-capacity. No-one could possibly get on.
But get on they did, leaning into the solid wall of flesh and shoving like prop-forwards. The humanity compressed, physically squeezing Penny on all four sides, so that she had to wriggle round to get enough space to breathe at all.
The train juddered off again, but this time there was no movement inside the train, no inertially-propelled wave of body-mass. They were all so tightly packed in that there was no room to stagger. If she fainted now, it would be half an hour before anyone noticed. Perhaps this was why it was called the Tube, and they were the toothpaste.
Why? Why did she put herself through this torment every single weekday? There must be better ways of living, better ways of earning enough money to make her feel human at the weekends. Surely even prostitution would be more dignified than this. Her job didn't pay her enough to have to endure this, and God knew she didn't work in the office because she enjoyed her job. She was stuck working for a complete idiot who couldn't wipe his own arse if it wasn't for her, for no recognition and no prospects.
It was a respect thing, she knew. She didn't respect herself as much as she should, so why should anyone else? Deep down she knew that she didn't deserve a better job, a decent wage or a quality of life better than a battery chicken. That's why she buried herself in a tomb, crushed herself into a speeding coffin, in order to work at a dead-end job until she died of boredom or threw herself under the wheels of a rush-hour train. She was doomed to trudge the hamster-wheel of life until her brain trickled out of her ears.
And then it happened. Any other day (and it had happened on other days) and she would have just accepted it as her due, one more straw tossed onto the infinite load she had to carry on her back. But she did deserve better than this. Hell, everyone deserved better than this. She would take it no more. She would not be everyone's uncomplaining doormat through life.
"Ha!" she shouted, and twisted her body hard around. The people around her drew back. Only an inch or so, but it was enough to unpin her arms from her side. She grabbed the wrist of the man beside her, lifting it high above her head. For a moment he tried to resist, but it was too late. The speed and unexpectedness of her action had caught him off guard.
"Excuse me," thundered Penny, in an uncharacteristically powerful voice that carried the length of the carriage. A shocked hush descended at this gross breach of etiquette. "Excuse me, but has anyone lost a hand? Only I've just found this one on my bottom." And in the stifled giggling and mutterings of 'Pervert,' her chains fell off and her freed spirit soared.
| Author Notes |
the Tube - colloquial term for the Londin Underground Train system
Prop-forward - very large member of a rugby scrum. Scrumming down - to form a rugby scrum ruck - an informal rugby scrum often used to advance along the field without conceding possesion Rugby - like American football, but without the body armour, without rest breaks every 30 seconds and more physical |
By snodlander
| Author Note: | I've had a bad day at work |
Waiting on the platform for the seven twenty-four;
Standing at the spot I know where stops the carriage door;
You dare step in front the line and disregard us all.
Come the revolution you'll be first against the wall.
Pushing past commuters in your rush to get a seat,
Elbows, knees, umbrella used to competition beat.
Sitting in the seat reserved for those who use a cane.
Come the revolution you'll be on your feet again.
Switching on your iPod with the volume turned full on.
Sibilant loud rhythms through the trip go on and on.
Can't make out the music but I can't ignore the beat.
Come the revolution none will hear your plaintive bleat.
Resting wet and dirty shoes upon the facing seat,
Leaving an impression that is more than just a cleat.
Never mind that some of us must look smart when we work.
Come the revolution we'll be coming for you, jerk.
When you've got your just deserts, you're standing at the gate.
There's the sign that says, 'no demons yet are free, please wait.'
Will you push and shove your way the waiting queue to best?
Come the revolution you'll be damned before the rest!
| Author Notes | I'm not advocating summary execution for those with no manners on public transport. I am merely suggesting the option be considered. |
By snodlander
| Author Note: | 2,500 words |
In a moment everything changed.
It was eight twenty-two, and the concourse was flooded by the incoming tide of commuters. Torrents of people gushed towards the exits, cascading off of each other as they flowed around isolated outcrops of tourists huddled behind islands of rucksacks, waiting for their out-bound train.
Inside the litter bin lay the parcel, cocooned in discarded Starbuck cups, covered by newspapers two hours old; hiding amongst the detritus of the capital.
Eight twenty-two, and the ordinary workers were trudging to their offices just as they did every day at this time, mind on the day's work, or last night's TV, or on nothing at all. An ordinary day.
Except for little Ben Newman. Today he was going into the city to visit the Tower of London. For weeks they had done a project on it at school, and now his mum was going to take him there. He had a disposable camera that was just his and he was allowed to take whatever pictures he wanted. He was going to photograph the Beefeaters and the ravens and the crown jewels and his mum and the Tower and everything. He had woken at five, bounced and badgered his mum to get ready as quick as she could and had chatted non-stop for the entire journey.
He tugged at his mum's hand, slipping out of her grasp.
"Ben. Come back. You'll get lost."
"I'm just putting the empty bottle in the bin, Mum. Find a bin to put it in," he sang, reaching up to drop the bottle into the basket at exactly eight twenty-two.
****
Padraig strode into the burger bar and walked to the corner table with a nervous energy that made it look as though he had too many joints in his limbs. He nodded jerkily at the two men seated there.
"For God's sake, sit down, you idjit. You're attracting attention to yourself," said one of the men.
"Sorry, Uncle Sean," said Padraig, sitting down. He drummed on the table with the flat of his hands. "Can I have a coffee?"
"No, you cannot. Jeez, any more caffeine in you and you'll be running up the walls. Just calm down."
"You said he'd be okay," said the third man.
"He is, he is. He's just excited, that's all," placated Sean, anxiously. "He's just keen, aren't you, lad?"
"Yes, Uncle, just keen. I'm Padraig," he said, offering his hand across the table.
The other man didn't even look at the hand, and after an awkward pause, Padraig withdrew it. "Don't you ever tell anyone of us your name, you stupid idiot," said the stranger, in a voice quiet with menace. "You don't ask, and you don't tell, understand?"
The young man looked at his uncle, then down at the table, abashed.
"Do you understand?" repeated the other man, leaning forward over the table. Padraig nodded.
"Did you do it?"
"Yes, Sir," said Padraig, unable to meet the other man's eyes.
"Any trouble?" asked Sean.
Padraig shook his head, mute.
"Did you see the footie last night?" Sean continued in a loud voice. "Sure, and it was a grand game, don't you think?"
Padraig looked up to see an Asian girl standing over the table with a pad and pen.
"What can I get you?" she asked in a bored voice.
Padraig stared at her, open mouthed, then shot his uncle a panicked look.
"He'll have a chocolate milk shake," said Sean. Padraig broke into a huge grin and nodded.
The girl made a scribble on the pad and walked off.
The third man leant forward again, and said in a hoarse whisper, "What the hell are you doing? We can't afford to draw attention to ourselves, and you stare at her like you've never seen a girl before."
"I haven't," said Padraig, staring at the table again. "Well, not an Indian one, not to, you know, talk to. I'm sorry."
"You said he'd be okay!"
"He is, he is, aren't you, lad?" reassured Sean. "You made the phone call, just like I told you?"
Padraig nodded. "And I put on an Australian accent too."
"Why in God's name would you do that?" asked Sean, sitting back puzzled.
"To disguise my voice, so they won't know it's us. That was okay, wasn't it?"
"No, we want them to ... That's why we used the code word ... so they know ..." Sean gave up, seeing Padraig's confused and anxious face. "No, that's fine, lad, that's fine."
"Jesus Christ," muttered the third man. There was an awkward pause as the waitress put the shake on the table.
When she was out of earshot again, the third man leant forward and stabbed his finger at Padraig. "You!" he said, emphatically but quietly. "You are a feckin retard. If you get caught, they'll lock you up for ever, understand? And there's no way I'm going down because of you, right? You screw up, and I'll put a bullet in your brain, if I can find the feckin thing. Do you understand me?"
Padraig stared back at the tabletop, his eyes brimming. He nodded.
"Hey, hey. Look at me, retard! Now, did you make the phone call?"
A nod.
"Did you give the codeword, like you were told?"
Another nod.
"What did they say?"
Padraig swallowed. "They asked whereabouts in the station, but I just hung up, just like I was told." His voice was so quiet the other men had to strain to hear it.
"Did you wear gloves?"
Another nod.
The third man smiled. "Then welcome to the noble cause, my son. Here." He passed over a fifty pound note. "Have a milkshake on me. But if I find you've blathered when you're smashed out your mind, I shall cut your tongue out. Understand?"
"I don't drink, Sir."
Sean reached over and patted the boy's hand. "You did fine, Padraig. Well done."
Padraig grinned and reached for his chocolate milkshake. "I'm a hero?"
"Sure, and we're all heroes, right enough."
****
Peter Waters surveyed the scene through the rear windows of the car. People were standing around on the footpaths, eyes wide, talking through their experiences with friends, colleagues, strangers; anyone that would listen. Some were sobbing. Some were trotting away, fear on their faces: the sensible ones. The IFA had a history of placing secondary bombs for the security forces.
Quite a few were sitting down, on the curb, on the pavement, against walls. Some had blood on their clothes or faces. He was unsure whether it was their own.
The air was filled with sirens, near and far. It was interesting, in a detached, Oh-God-I-don't-want-to-think-about-what's-happened sort of way, just how many varieties of sirens and two-tones the emergency vehicles used.
He leant forward. "It's going to be quicker to stop here, and I'll walk," he told the driver.
The driver shook his head, inching through the traffic towards the police line. "Sorry, Sir. Orders. Police say I have to drive you to the east entrance. Security."
Security! If only the public knew what his predecessor had gotten away with under the name of security, how many people and officials could have access to every iota of their lives. The time for knee-jerk confrontation was yesterday's politics, he was convinced. They had made such great strides. They had dragged the warring factions closer to each other than they had ever been before. The unofficial cease-fire had become an official one, then a temporary truce that had lasted months and months. He, the Right Honourable Peter Waters, was going to preside over the greatest peace accord this country had ever witnessed. And then some stupid thug planted a bomb.
Two policemen raised the tape and the car slid into the maze of emergency vehicles surrounding the terminus.
He was saluted by a police officer as he exited the car and led through a maze of corridors to a large office. There was a pile of in-trays, files and office miscellany against the wall, obviously swept off the desks by the police that now commandeered the room.
"Commander Wilkinson, Sir." The officer held out his hand to the Home Secretary.
"Commander," he answered, shaking hands. "What can you tell me?"
"There was a bomb in a waste bin. Semtex, probably, packed with nails. Timed to explode in the middle of the rush hour."
"How many dead?"
"So far, about twenty, but some of the injured may not survive. Not sure how many injured, some of the walking wounded left the scene, but we are talking at least a hundred."
"No warning?"
"The Times got a warning about a bomb at Kings Cross, the code they gave was an IFA one. We were in the process of evacuating that station when this happened."
"They deliberately sent us to the wrong place, you think?"
The policeman shrugged. "Who knows? Charing Cross, Kings Cross. It could have been a mistake."
"I want to go down and see."
"I'm sorry, Sir, it's a crime scene. I'm advising against it."
"Duly noted, Commander, but I want to see this obscenity first hand."
****
"Charing Cross! Charing Cross, you stupid ..., you stupid ..." Words failed Sean and he turned from the boy and ran his fingers through his hair. He walked over to the window of the Bed and Breakfast.
"I'm sorry, Uncle. I got confused. I didn't do it on purpose. I thought, you know, I thought ... And when they answered the phone, I was so scared."
"Okay, okay, it happened, never mind. What's past is past. What we've got to concentrate on now is what happens next."
"But the bomb went off, though. We killed the English, didn't we? Isn't that what we were meant to do?"
Sean shook his head. "Ah, but it's all political, lad. Killing policemen is easier to sell than killing ordinary people."
"Is he going to put a bullet in my brain?"
Sean stared out of the window, down at the ordinary people in the street, walking past their cheap hotel without realising there were heroes inside. "Don't you worry about that. They'll have to pretend it was all their idea and make the best of it. Don't worry, you hear? I promised your ma I'd look after you. You'll be fine." He hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt.
"I'll tell you what. I'll treat us to a take-away. You fancy a pizza?"
Padraig's face lit up.
****
The Home Secretary walked carefully onto the concourse. The forensic over-shoes felt slippery underfoot. The floor was littered with debris: bags dropped by commuters, odd women's shoes, glass fragments, shards of metal. And bodies, still lying where they had been dropped, the blood congealed black under them.
The commander pointed to a black smudge on the wall. "The bomb was dropped into a plastic waste bin there. The wall helped deflect the blast into the crowd."
"Are you just going to leave them there?" asked Waters, staring at the carnage. "Can't you at least cover them up, for God's sake?"
"Later, Sir. We need to preserve the scene for now. Nailing the IFA bastards that did this is more of a priority than the dead."
"We don't know it's the IFA, Commander." Please let it not be the IFA. Not now, with negotiations at such a delicate point.
"It was an IFA codeword."
"Even so, Commander. The politics of the situation are delicate. I don't want the peace accord sabotaged by a couple of extremists. I think it would be best if we adopted a softly-softly approach on this."
****
Padraig, at a loss until his uncle returned with the pizzas, switched on the television. On BBC1 the news programme was dedicated to the bomb blast. Padraig grinned. He'd done that. Well, maybe not plant the bomb itself, but he had phoned it in. Okay, he had messed up the name of the station, but still, he was part of it. He had struck a blow against the English, hadn't he? Sure, and wasn't he the hero, now, back home?
****
The Home Secretary carefully picked his way across the concourse, staring at his feet in case he should tread on something; in something, even. His gaze fell on some cloth, sticky with gore. With a sudden sickening realisation he recognised it as an arm. Surely it was too small ... Oh my God! It was a child's arm, the sleeve ripped apart, the bone where the shoulder should have been naked and white. The hand still grasped a plastic drinks bottle. No, not grasped. The bottle was stapled to the palm with twisted nails. He felt the warmth drain out of his face.
****
On the telly a woman was screaming with grief. Padraig shifted uncomfortably. She looked a little like Aunty Mary. You expect the English to look totally different, and yet there was an English Aunty Mary. There was blood on her coat, and a bandage on her head.
"My baby!" she screamed at the reporter. "They killed my little boy. Why did they do that? He never hurt anyone. He was just my little baby." The ambulance men were trying to get her into the ambulance, but she was still shouting at the camera. "They killed my little boy. The bastards will burn in hell. He was just a baby."
The camera turned to the reporter. "Obviously, emotions are running high here at the scene. That was ..." He looked at a bit of paper in his hand. "Mrs Newman, who has lost her son in this tragic attack at Charing Cross. Ben, nine years old, was the youngest of the victims here, but many more could be added to the death toll as information comes through."
Padraig bit his knuckle. Nine years old! His brother, wee Jude, was barely ten. That's not right. And the English Aunty Mary. She shouldn't have to bury a child.
Burn in hell. The Fathers had made sure he knew all about hell. And she was right, of course. He would burn, burn for an eternity. Nine years old! A wee kiddy, dead now. If he had done his job right ... Burn in hell, for all eternity.
****
"Sir? Are you alright?" The commander held the Home Secretary's elbow, concern on his face.
The Home Secretary could not take his eyes from the arm; the horrible, obscene arm that had once belonged to a child.
In a moment everything changed.
"Whatever it takes, Commander," he said quietly.
"Sorry?"
"Whatever it takes, I don't care. You get the people who did ... this," he said, pointing to the arm, "using whatever it takes."
****
An eternity in hell. Unless ... Padraig screwed up his eyes in concentration. What else had the Fathers told him? You'd burn in hell, unless ... yes, that was it, unless you confess your sins.
In a moment everything changed.
That was how he could achieve redemption, and then the bullet in the brain and the dead wee lad and the English Aunty Mary wouldn't matter. He needed to confess.
He reached for the phone and dialled the emergency services.
| Author Notes |
For innocents that have lost their lives or loved ones in terrorist acts by one side or the other.
Charing Cross is a London rail terminus that serves the south. Kings Cross serves the north. |
By snodlander
"Hi Shirl." Mary smiled as her travelling companion joined her at the platform edge. "Did you have a good weekend?"
Shirley grimaced. "Don't ask me about my weekend, I don't want to talk about. It was God-awful, that was what my weekend was like."
"Really? I thought you were spending the weekend with your friends."
"Yes, I did, but you don't want to know about. It was a nightmare."
"Yes?" asked her friend, in a manner that suggested she was far too polite to suggest she didn't want to hear about it.
"Well, we go way back, me and Angie, back to sixth form, but we sort of drifted apart when she got married. Not anything nasty, but she went to university, then moved over to Essex when she and Tom got together, and me, I stayed here. Anyway, I got married too, as you know, so that was that, really. But she was always too good for here, in her own mind, and when she got her claws into Tom, that was it. Whoosh, and she was off, climbing the social ladder.
"Anyway, a few weeks back she emailed me on Facebook, said she wanted to get together, talk about old times, sort of thing. Said she'd put me and Dave up in the guest bedroom."
"Dave?" asked Mary, incredulously.
"Yes, well, she wouldn't know we'd split up, would she, not after dropping all her rough friends like me twelve years ago. So, I email back, tell her 'Sure, love to sometime, only there's no Dave' like you do. Then bugger me if she only goes and lays it all on. Silly mare! I was only being polite, sort of thing, but then I was snookered, wasn't I? I had to go.
"So, her and Tom, they're still together, and didn't they bloody let me know it, too. All 'Darling' this and 'Honey' that, and those bloody pitying looks, like they were sorry I wasn't still married to that arsehole. And they've got kids. What is it about having children that destroys any intelligence in a person? Two of the little beggars. They spent the whole time running around the house screaming, never mind I was there as a guest. I just wanted to reach back and fetch them such a slap, but you can't, not these days."
"So how is she doing nowadays?"
"You don't want to hear, Mary. She and him, they both work. Got two houses, one in East Ham, and one out in some village outside Dagenham. They don't like the commute, see, so they live in East Ham during the week, then go out to their 'country retreat' at the weekend."
"Wow, they must be doing well, then."
"You wouldn't believe it, to hear them. All the time I was there they didn't shut up about how hard it was to pay the mortgage on the town house, how they had hardly any money for themselves after the pony club for the kids and three, count them, three holidays a year. And she kept telling me how hard it was raising two kids. She kept saying 'You don't understand, Shirley, you don't have kids.' Well, no, I don't, but that's her choice, isn't it? It's her choice to have two kids, and two houses, and three bloody holidays a year. She kept complaining she never had time for the kids, but if they gave up one of the houses and only had two holidays a year, then maybe she could afford to give up work and look after the little brats better. Of course, then she'd have to give up the cleaner who comes in and does for her, and God forbid she should do any housework for herself.
"Two days, I had to put up with their constant whining. Can you imagine that? Just listening to someone bang on and on with a constant tirade of complaints. Have you any idea what that's like?"
Mary looked up the track for the train. "No, Shirl. I can't imagine," she said, distantly.
| Author Notes | This is a potted summary of a conversation I overheard on the platform this week. The real conversation lasted at least ten minutes until the train arrived, and probably continued after I had made my way out of earshot. |
By snodlander
| Author Note: | Heroes exist everywhere |
Robert hunted figures daily,
In the shadows of the books.
Treading softly through the columns,
Pen and keypad at his hand.
Eagle eye that missed no number,
Double entry held no fear.
But this morn his heart was heavy.
On this day it held no cheer.
Jacqueline, his faithful woman,
Saw the signs of evil fell.
Saw the weight upon his shoulder;
Saw the pain deep in his eye.
In her heart she wished him homeful,
Prayed that in his house he'd stay,
Begged her forebears in the heavens
That his fate at home would lay.
But as well she saw his spirit,
Saw the proud and brave, true heart.
Knew that all her pleading could not,
Would not make him dodge his doom.
So she kindled too her life flame,
Stood full height and stiffly proud.
Warriors were in her bloodline,
And she would not let them down.
So around his neck she gathered
His black scarf from Aunty Bet,
Woven weeks with wool and loving
And for Christmas gaily wrapped.
His warm coat with night-black collar
On his shoulders gently lay.
And his hat with crest emblazoned
Proudly shouted 'CFC'.
Then within her arms she gathered
For one last and tender hug.
Laid her head upon his shoulder,
Kissed him gently on the cheek.
Whispered softly in his shell-like,
"Hurry home and be with me.
Worry not, company audits
Only come but once a year"
Then he turned and crossed the garden,
Through the gate and past the hedge.
Never turning, backward glancing.
Only front and centre looked.
Whilst she stood and watched his leaving,
Never from his back she glanced.
Watching till the corner turning,
Still she watched for minutes more.
At the station marched the hero,
Past the surly turnstile guard,
Through the throng of merely mortal,
Strong of spirit, pure of heart.
On the platform still and patient,
Never crossing yellow line,
Stood he strong and ever silent,
Waiting for the train to come.
When the portal hissing opened
People surged to climb inside.
But he stood aside as gently
He allowed a lass to board.
So she thanked him shyly for it,
And from time to time she'd smile.
But his heart was filled with one face.
On his cheek her kiss warm still.
Deep in city stood the castle,
Fortress of the evil firm.
Boldly and with not a tremor
Robert trod to dungeon drear.
For an age that seemed a lifetime,
For a lifetime stretched and long,
Hacking, tapping, writing figures,
Robert fought the finance beast.
Robert's fingers danced and flickered,
'Cross the keys and on the mouse.
Spreadsheet, database and folder
On his screen and on the page.
Every row and every column
Neatly totalled, figures true.
Every credit had a debit,
Every left met every right.
At his shoulder stood accountant,
Eagle-eyed, ever awake.
Looking for a hint of cooking,
Anxious for an error missed.
Auditing the records closely,
Pen and pad held close at hand,
Looking for the chink of armour
That would bring brave Robert down.
But the beast could find no error,
Robert's pen was firm and true.
Grudgingly he totalled it up,
Page by page its truth agreed.
Signed it off and grudgingly said
All was well and certified.
Robert then could leave his keyboard,
Battle won and justified.
Homeward then he strode the passage,
Past reception, into street.
Joy was in his heart and spirit,
Happiness lifted his feet.
On a whim he stopped in concourse
Of the railway terminus.
Roses red for Jacqui's lips matched
From a stall he cheerful bought.
On the train he sat and smiled,
Though it was against the rules.
Others grim and tired-looking
Saw his grin and wonder felt.
Guessed that some great deed he had done,
Knew him for a hero bold,
Basking in reflected glory,
Felt their mood a little rise.
Jacqui, cooking, heard the key turn,
Heard the latch drop clicking down.
Took the boiling kettle swiftly,
Poured it on the Typhoo bag.
Checked her face for signs of worry
Then to him her glances fled.
Saw the pride, the satisfaction.
Knew her hero safe returned.
| Author Notes |
Notes for those not blessed with being English:
Cannon Street is a railway terminus in London used by commuters. CFC is Chelsea Football Club. 'Shell-like' is slang for ear. Typhoo is a popular brand of teabag. |
By snodlander
| Author Note: | To commuters everywhere |
There's something about a man with a sword that commands respect, thought Richard, as he ran the whetstone slowly down the edge of the blade. It doesn't much matter if it's an eastern katana or a western sabre, brutal broadsword or precise epee. Size truly didn't matter, nor style. It was just the fact that it was a sword. People respected a man with a sword.
He turned the sword gently in his lap. The light caught the microscopic particles of steel that had been shaved off by the whetstone. In an odd way, it was beautiful: the razor-sharp blade with the tiny flecks glittering. It was deep, symbolic of... well, Richard wasn't too sure what it was symbolic of, but it seemed full of symbolism.
People didn't just respect a man with a sword, they showed it, too. In their actions, their body language, their eyes. Especially their eyes.
Take today. Here he was, sitting alone. When did that ever happen? Normally he was packed up close to strangers, smelling their sweat, feeling their body heat as they pressed their flesh up close to his. Today the seats either side of him were empty. Two of the three seats opposite, too. The third seat was occupied by a young woman, sitting by the window, who had already been there when Richard had sat down. And the carriage was crowded. People were standing up in the aisle. But they respected Richard too much to crowd him. Not today, the day he had a sword.
He carefully replaced the whetsone into his briefcase. He took out his handkerchief and gently ran it along the length of the blade, gathering up all those glittering, metal flecks, binding them in the oil that had transferred from the whetstone. Grey and red streaks stark against the white cotton.
The woman opposite was staring at him. She hadn't taken her eyes off of him since he had freed the sword from its scabbard. That would not have happened normally. Normally Richard was invisible. People would ignore him, bumping into him on the crowded platform without a grunt of apology, as if he didn't exist. Now this young lady, attractive enough in her own way, was looking at him. Him, Richard, the man with the sword.
He graced her with a smile. She returned it, nervously, and then looked away. Shy. Too respectful to continue to openly stare at him. He had seen that before. At work. A woman would start to act all shy and bashful in front of a particular male colleague. He knew how that went. There would be smiles, then later private jokes. Sometimes Richard was sure the jokes were about him. Then a bunch of them would go to the pub after work, and the two would disappear. But none of the women were ever coquettish with him. Not before today. But today it would be different. Today he would have a sword.
Carefully Richard ran his thumb across the edge, testing how sharp it was. Sharp enough to slice his thumb if he wasn't too careful. Sharp enough to slice to the bone if he wanted to. Sharp enough to command respect. Richard carefully slid the sword into the scabbard, then stood up. The woman opposite flinched. He smiled beatifically at her. A man with a sword can afford to be generous with his smiles.
"My stop," he apologised to her. He was tempted, briefly, to remain with her. To continue the journey to her destination, maybe go to the pub with her. To disappear afterwards, just the two of them. But there was time enough for that. First he had to get to work. Respect was owed to him there.
Richard alighted and strode down the platform. Briefcase in one hand, scabbard in the other. Yes, there was something about a man with a sword that commanded respect.
| Author Notes | Normaly I commute into London by motorcycle. This week I have been using the train. Enough said. |
By snodlander
You couldn't miss him. He had the goth/punk look down pat. A body like two pipecleaners tied together. Hair dyed black, sprung in all directions, like an explosion in a coal heap. His clothes were all black, with pins, buckles and obscure band badges scattered throughout. He was filthy. I guessed he had been sleeping rough. I'm pretty sure it wasn't just the Ritz that would have turned him away.
And he was high.
I'm not a druggy. Far from it. I've only had weed once, and as a non-smoker I disgraced myself by puking up. But he was wired. Every movement was jerky, uncontrolled. His head, particularly. His head jerked back and forward, his eyes flicking from side to side. His expression was wild. All fear and nervousness and anger and God-knows-what, all mingled up.
It was late, the carriage deserted. So of course he sat opposite me and nodded. A nod so quick and violent I wondered that he didn't concuss himself.
I nodded back, and looked away. Great! I must have left the loony magnet switched on. All the carriages he could have picked, and he chose mine.
"Am I being followed?" he hissed. I pretended not to hear.
He kicked my foot, sliding his boot across the floor to do so. So the fairies that were following him wouldn't see, I guess.
"Am I being followed?" he hissed, louder, urgently. He darted his eyes from side to side for me, indicating the directions I should check. The options being, well, one way or the other in the narrow carriage.
I looked both ways. Even better. The carriage was completely devoid of life. The doors hissed closed, and I was trapped inside the carriage with a paranoid drugged-up itinerant.
I shook my head, and cursed myself for not having a paper I could bury my head in. No MP3 player to listen to. Or both. See no nutters, hear no nutters.
He nodded quickly again. "Ah ha, ah ha. Yep. See? You see? I lost them. Yep. I'm the man." His hands drummed arhythmically on his knees, his feet shuffling. Suddenly he screamed, "Too clever for you, aren't I, you bastards!" and he started giggling, pleased with himself.
I checked my case for my ticket. Well, of course I didn't. But I didn't want to pull my laptop case onto my lap without some excuse.
The giggling stopped as though switched off. He looked suspiciously at it.
"Laptop? Yes? Yes? Throw it away. Trust me. That's how they track you. Chips. Throw it away. That and your mobile. You got a mobile, right? Sure you have. Throw them away. They track you with them. Trust me." Then he started giggling again. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."
Trains, they have CCTV now, don't they? The emergency lever was a long way away, it seemed to me.
"They tried to get me, yes. Knocked me unconscious with microwaves, woke up in hospital. Bastard doctor was going to put a chip in my head." He leaned forward, screwing his index finger into his temple. "They wanted to put a chip in my head, man. In my head. Can you believe that? Never trust a doctor, man. They're with them."
He leant back again, feet dancing to an invisible tune, hands fidgeting over his dirty clothes.
"They're after you too. Oh yes. I hear them." He tapped the side of his head. "In here, through my teeth. I got fillings, yeah? Picks up their radio. I got secrets in here you would not believe."
Silently I concurred. It was highly unlikely I'd believe anything he said.
"They want to find out what secrets I got, then Bam!" He slapped his hands together suddenly, making me start. "You too. They want your secret, and they are not nice. Not nice people at all." He started to wipe his palms on his thighs, as though he had touched something unpleasant. "They'll torture you for it, oh yes. Down in their secret rooms with no windows and bastard doctors. And you'll tell them." He was almost weeping now. "You always tell them, eventually."
"Well, I don't have a secret." I shrugged apologetically.
He looked at me earnestly. "Really? Really? Then you've got no hope, mate. They think you do. They'll torture you till you tell, and if you haven't got a secret they'll never stop. Never." And now there were tears in his eyes, his voice reaching that back-of-the-throat whine a kid has when he's about to wail. "Never stop. Not till they got what they want."
Suddenly he jumped to his feet and bounced to the carriage door, then bounced back, like some marionette on elastic.
"Dump your bag and your phone man. We'll lose them, here, at the next station. It's your only hope!"
I shook my head. "Do you think we should be seen together? You leave here, I'll leave at the next station." The train was slowing. Clever me. Outwitting a mad druggy.
He pondered it, then nodded his head. "OK, Dave. Cool. But dump your stuff, right? And don't go home. They'll be there, waiting for you."
The train stopped, and the doors slid open. The goth disappeared down the platform.
Well, that'll be a story to tell my mates down the pub. Worth a pint, that, at least.
The train stood there, as trains often do. Waiting for a signal. Waiting for a homeward-bound rail employee to finish his cup of tea.
Suddenly my friend reappeared, sprinting back down the platform, past the carriage doors, on out of sight. There followed close on his heels a couple of ticket inspectors. I smiled. So that was his dark secret. He didn't have a ticket.
Someone boarded the carriage: A man, dark suit, thickset. Some career clerk working late, or fresh from the wine bar. He glanced at me and then looked over my shoulder. As the doors closed I looked over to where he was looking. There was his twin, standing at the other door. He glanced away quickly as I turned, and I thought I saw the suggestion of a wire leading from his ear into his jacket.
Wait...
How had he known I was called Dave?
|
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