The repetition of my commuter journey lulled me and took my mind to distant shores, but muscle memory kept my feet on the right path. As every morning I wondered how I got here, remembering nothing of my way. A cold fog swirled, swiping at my ankles as I entered the wide station concourse.
I headed for the usual platform, the first train of the day, busy and teaming with stress, leaching out of the seats and into the air like the haze on a marsh. People streamed through the ticket barrier, carrying cups of coffee, hauling luggage and trailing their anxiety behind them. The herd moved to the next platform, the clomping heels and squeaking wheels diminished, only I walked to platform seven.
The train was in darkness, but the doors were open, the carriage was empty. The dirty window had a line of water, half-frozen, trapped in the black plastic ledge which glistened in the neon light punching in from the station beyond. I was alone in a line of plush seats and wipe-clean tables, my stomach flipped. I hadn’t check the departures screen, was this my train?
An old man in uniform entered, eyes darting from seat to seat.
“Is this the London train?” I asked.
“All trains at one time go to London,” he said, “if that is where you are going, this train will take you.” His face was creased with lines of experience, his eyes red rimmed and his bony hands trembled.
“Is this the 06.10 to London?” I asked again, my heart thumping, feet ready to take flight across the station to another platform, gripping my bag, creasing the inner skin of my fingers.
He nodded and continued his shuffling walk along the carriage. He was shrunk deep into his uniform, the sleeves too long, the trousers too short. He was angled to one side as if he carried a burden on one shoulder.
The digital display at the end of the carriage flashed destinations. 06.10 to London Euston. Right train. The tension in my shoulders released, I could relax for a few hours. Frantic days of second guessing your boss makes you tired, I rubbed my temples, tried the breathing exercises I’d been given. My fingers felt cold, I hoped the heating kicked on soon.
It had been a tense morning at home, I was sure he knew, felt my affair pushing to be known. Messages on my phone made me quiver with delight, he must have noticed. He’d given me a goodbye kiss; I’d smirked when I’d closed the door.
The engine fired up, no other passengers boarded. I winced, and wondered if somewhere there was a platform full of stranded travellers, their connection lost, unbidden their anguish seeped into my bones.
The train lurched; the rhythm began raggedly at first then gained momentum. We moved from fog laden city landscape to deep countryside, distant mountains blue, fields emerald green. Sunshine blinded me as the train turned. The water in the window quivered flowing back and forth as the train tilted
The pages in my new paperback book were blank, some kind of error at the printers. I’ll have to take it back to the shop, more complaining and clenching of teeth.
I opened my phone to check my work emails, but the battery was dead. The charger was missing from my handbag. My chest tightened; work would be emailing me. I felt sweat drip down my forehead, I dabbed it away with a tissue. My nails dug into my palms, I breathed slowly and uncurled my fingers.
A walk to the buffet car would stop me brooding. The next carriage was empty of passengers, as was the buffet car. The old man in uniform made my coffee. His bones angled out of his face, the skin stretched and pale. I avoided his gaze. As I returned to my seat the heel of my left shoe wobbled, I hoped it would last the working day.
The croissant flakes, their sweetness heavenly, melted on my tongue. The coffee had a delicious mouth-watering aroma and deep intense flavour, I sighed and sat back.
I caught glimpses of the man making his way down the carriage, checking from side to side, pausing and looking at empty seats, nodding, smiling. I was tempted to stand to get a better view, but there was a pain in my ribs, sharp and deep inside me.
He muttered to himself. I heard an occasional moan of pain. I listened, but I couldn’t make out his words. He made me shiver, the croissant and coffee were heavy in my stomach, indigestion searing into my throat.
He reached me. I tried to avoid his stare but I was drawn to his blank eye sockets. My trembling hand gripped my phone. I didn’t want him to talk to me, I wanted him to move on.
‘You got the right train I see,’ his jaw bone full of sharp teeth smiled at me, “lots of passengers today.”
“But there are no passengers apart from me,” I whimpered, he nodded and ran his fingers up the chair arm.
“It’s data protection. We aim for a peaceful, calm journey,” he reached out and patted my hand, his dry bones tinkled as they moved, “you wouldn’t want to see the others. And they you.”
I looked at my bloodied hands, nails broken, one finger was at an odd angle. My phone lay smashed next to me. A thick drop of blood dripped from my mouth and landed in my lap. My tissue was wet with blood, my jaw felt loose. A slick, plastic object was embedded in my temple. My blood was congealing, pooling. My heart no longer beat.
Flinching I opened my mouth to plead, but I knew the truth.
“There is no need to work today. I’m sure they will understand. Relax and enjoy your last journey,” he murmured, “you are in good company.”
Joyce Bingham is a Scottish writer, she lives in Manchester in the UK. She writes flash fiction and short stories tending towards the dark side in various publications like Flash Frog, Molotov Cocktail, Raw Lit, and Sci-fi Shorts. When she’s not writing, she puts her green fingers to use as a plant whisperer and Venus fly trap wrangler.
Twitter: @JoyceBingham10
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Website: binghamjoyce30.wixsite.com