The Offer - Part Six

We rattle across the coastal plain. It could be a scene from Dante. A  Hadean landscape littered with towering stacks belching jets of flame and smoke. Chemical factories glitter in the dark like vast futuristic cities which never sleep. Earth moving machines crawl over towering mountains of coal, feeding the ever hungry foundries which gush rivers of molten steel. The air is heavy and oppressive, the soil blackened by decades of pollution. Nothing grows here except dry scrub grass. The air is filled with the ever present reek of sulphur. It is the land of Mordor made real.

We chug past the Shell oil terminal where tankers from eastern Europe unload round the clock. The floor tilts and creaks as we cross the set of points which leads onto the final run in to the station. We pass untidy allotment gardens and a run down static caravan site.  Just a couple of minutes now. 

Sitting on a rocky outcropping at the mouth of a vast  muddy estuary Sleeburn-on-Sea has been a summer retreat for the working population of the Teasle river basin since Victorian times. A dilapidated, ugly town, it has never developed the charm of Scarborough or Whitby. The pier which attracted summer crowds from Harlesmere and Redbank has long since decayed into the sea. The shabby station is a relic from a heyday long since passed. It’s large platform clock stuck forever at two minutes to twelve.

The blast, when it comes, is muted. I see it frame by frame, in slow motion. I have time to take in every detail as it occurs. The door of the toilet cubicle swells slightly, recedes then drifts across the corridor, hits the wall and floats to the floor to lie quivering. The fireball swells, taking on the appearance of a cumulus cloud. A great rosy glow surrounded by ball of grey smoke. There is very little sound. Just a dull thump, followed by a shudder under my feet.

The firestorm rolls towards me, a deep muffled roar, preceded by sharp hissing sound as the air in the carriage is sucked into the conflagration. The flames fan out over every surface, like a wave lapping over the shore. I feel the draft wash  over me, causing me to sway gently as I am buffeted. I brace myself for the agony to come, my eyes squeezed shut.

There is a judder as the train’s diesel fuel ignites, but the expected pain does not arrive. I open my eyes. The initial ball of fire has swept over me. I am standing amongst the burning debris as though I am made of asbestos. The tongues of flame lick around me, over me, but I do not burn.

I look around and observe the passengers. Those closest to the explosion are already dead. Mangled so badly they are scarcely recognisable as human. Those nearer at hand wear expressions of mingled horror and anger. Eyes wide, each mouth frozen in a terrified rictus as death swoops down upon them.

A man near to me is engulfed in flame, showered by the burning diesel. He beats himself uselessly, succeeding only in spreading the flames from his body to his arms. He collapses slowly to the floor, a sooty human candle. A smell like barbecued pork rises from his ruined corpse.

Everywhere glass is flying, embedding itself into muscle tissue. Safety glass, it doesn’t form shards, but contrives small pellets which scatter like  buckshot. The effect upon impact is similar. The furnace formed by the confined space quickly turns it molten and it sizzles and burns its way down to the bone. 

The debris begins to settle. The rending shriek of over stressed metal subsides, leaving just the occasional crackle of burning electrics. The faint aroma of seared flesh. It is dark now, the fluorescent light having been consumed by flame. Just a few fragments of burning seat fabric light the carnage. The silence is eerie. 

Then the screaming starts. A lone female voice at first, quickly joined by others. Pathetic, futile cries for help.

I turn towards the door. He is standing there, surveying my handiwork. He wears a satisfied expression. He beckons to me and steps out of the wreckage onto the platform. I follow, feeling the crunch of broken glass beneath the soles of my safety boots. 

A blackened hand reaches out, clawing at my trouser leg. I can’t tell whether it is male or female, young or old. The hair and clothes partially burned away. Skin peeling in sheets, exposing pink weeping under layers. The outline of a set of plastic headphones is fused to the cheeks. Blood oozes from shattered eardrums. It stares up at me, lidless eyes pleading. A whimper comes from the maw where the lips have been melted away, leaving a meaty skeletal grin.

If the gruesome creature is expecting pity there will be none forthcoming. I shake my leg free and smash my boot into it’s disfigured face, directly between the eyes. My steel toe cap shatters the skull and the corpse falls back amongst the detritus without another sound. This is becoming almost easy.

I make my way out onto the platform and survey the wreckage. Thick, oily black smoke billows from the shattered train, reconciling itself into a vast  rising stack. Jimmy Clegg is hanging from the window of the drivers cab. He wriggles and squirms as he attempts to force his bloated torso through the narrow aperture. The inferno is still raging at that end of the train causing the metal superstructure to buckle and twist. He screams to me for help. The sound reminds me of pigs in a slaughter house. Quite appropriate really. I give him a mock salute.

A dark haired woman is trying to drag herself from the middle doors, closest to where the explosion took place. She seems untouched by the flames and shrapnel. She slides onto the platform and lies still. There are two bloody stumps where her legs have been severed by jagged metal. The tips of shattered femurs protrude grotesquely.

I shake my head in disgust and head toward the waiting black limousine.

--END--

The Offer - Part Five

The inadequate station public address system crackles into life and a voice  devoid of expression announces the 17:04 from Harlesmere to Sleeburn. I dread this journey. I open the guard’s local door and look out. The rush hour crowd surges forward, pushing and shoving in their haste to get aboard. A seething mass of humanity, desperate to get home to the bosom of their families, another pointless day spent.

Today I am not filled with the usual apprehension. Instead I am calm, cheerful even. You might say I have reason to feel optimistic. Today, when the service terminates, I will leave the train and begin my new life.

The masses flock around me, as they search for seats. They avoid making eye contact, try to avoid sitting next to anyone else. It’s a forlorn hope. 

Six or seven young girls squeeze past me, screeching and giggling. They wedge themselves into the seats at a single table and start taking photographs of each other with their camera phones. They might be university students heading for a night on the town. More likely still  in school. They wear what we used to call follow-me-home-and-fuck-me dresses. Little black numbers that could easily pass as slips. 

The combined scent of their perfume hangs like a cloud in the carriage. I try to discern through the overly applied makeup which ones are pretty. Which ones have covered up acne by applying foundation with a trowel. Which ones are worth screwing.

I decide that I would nail any one of them if the opportunity arose. Of course it won’t. Not on this leg of the journey. They are all still sober. None of them would condescend to fuck a lowly train conductor. As far as they are concerned I am little more than a servant, paid to ferry them to their night on the town. They still have hope. The future still stretches out in front of them, with the promise of glittering careers and happy marriages.

It might be different story later on though. Once the pubs have kicked them out. When they stagger in a drink fuelled haze onto the train, makeup ruined and speech slurred. It is a certainty that one or two will have lost their purses, or their tickets, maybe even their knickers. When they discover that haven’t got the money to pay the fare, or their credit card is declined. Then the conductor isn’t quite so invisible. Then he becomes an authority figure, someone to be feared and appeased. They are so stupid at that age.

If you can keep your face straight. Threaten to put them off at the next station in the middle of nowhere. They become altogether more civil. More willing to “work something out”. Many are the conductors who have received a nice sloppy blowjob from a drunken tart in exchange for a free journey home. As I’ve said, they are stupid.

I get the train underway and return to the back cab. My place of solitude. I will not be collecting any tickets today.

As I open the door I see him sitting there. Immaculate bespoke pinstripe suit from Saville Row. I know because I used to have  an identical one. Curious. A well cut trouser leg rides up from the highly polished black leather slip on, to reveal a gaudy red sock. I smile at his macabre sense of humour. My heart rate quickens as I take my place in the second man's seat. He is looking out of the window, his steel grey hair swept back with a touch of oil, goatee immaculately groomed. He is smoking his customary Cuban cigar. The smoke fails to smother the scent of his caustic cologne.

I sit there feeling the harsh rocking motion of the train. Thirty years ago these 142 units were designed as buses. When the bus company went bust in the early eighties they slapped the chassis on railway bogeys and called them trains. There is no suspension, no frills of any kind. Every kink and irregularity in the track is transmitted straight to the passengers spine.

My chest feels tight, and I have to suck in every breath to keep from fainting. I try not to look at him, though I don’t seem able to prevent my eyes stealing an occasional glance. I say nothing, knowing that it is not expected. 

Eventually he blows a thick plume of smoke and swivels in his seat to look at me.  I feel like a rabbit in the headlights of a truck as he stares at  me appraisingly. I can see the instrument panel reflected in his golden eyes. Then he grins, the corners of his mouth curling up malevolently under his moustache. I’m reminded of a pantomime villain.

“You have made the right decision you know,” he says. I nod silently. 

“At Sleeburn then?”  It is an instruction not a question.

His eyes leave me and I follow his gaze down to my pilot case sitting in the well beneath the dashboard. It contains all the usual tools of the conductors trade: weekly operating notices, high visibility vest, bardic lamp, biohazard gloves, spit kit. Today though there is something extra. Something which is definitely not standard issue.

I turn my attention to the view outside the grimy side window.

******

The Offer - Part Four

Is this the train to Harlesmere mate? Does this train go Hylton Grange mate? What time’s the next train to Mandlebrough mate? They stand in line like automatons each waiting for their opportunity to phrase the same cretinous questions. Never a please or a thank you. Just mate, as if that were somehow a substitute. Can you fucking read? What does it say on the screen? I’m not your mate. I would sooner rip your head off and spit down your neck as call you mate.

They stand there like sheep, jabbing at the door buttons before you have the chance  to energise the damned things. Then as soon as the lights come on they wander off to try another door. I stand there shaking my head. “That door’s not working mate,” they tell you. “Your fucking brain’s not working.” The words hover on the tip of my tongue. They wonder why the trains are always running late.

We’ve been meeting regularly. Sometimes for a couple of drinks, sometime just for a coffee. Each time is the same, I do most of the talking, he sits and listens. Nodding occasionally. It’s a bit like talking to a psychiatrist. Except that he never offers an opinion. Never gives me any advice.

It is probably on our fourth or fifth meeting that he makes his offer. I am just the man he has been looking for. It is way for me to redress the balance. To regain control. 

By now I know who he is. I’ve guessed what business would take him to Whorlton station and it’s not drugs or pederasty. Nevertheless I am still shocked by the boldness of his suggestion. The idea is intriguing. The promised rewards tantalising. Yet I hesitate. What have I got to lose? Nothing. I have been craving an escape from this hellish torment, lacking the courage to take the obvious one. Still, it is a major decision. Not something I should rush into. I am afraid of taking a leap into the unknown. I tell him that I’ll think about it.

“Take as long as you like. I have all the time in the world.” He gives me a beguiling smile.

I don’t see him for several days. Plenty of time to mull things over. Now he turns up on the train. I return to the back cab to find him sitting there smoking a cigar. Smoking is of course strictly forbidden on the train, but I say nothing. He politely enquires if I've given any thought to his proposal. I can’t stall indefinitely. I need to give him my answer soon.

At Mandlebrough we disgorge our last handful of passengers. There is only person waiting to board. A tall kid in a white Adidas tracksuit who shoulders past me. I can’t see his face for the peaked cap pulled down low over his eyes, but instinctively I don’t like him. He wanders right down the length of the train, passing dozens of empty seats, before throwing himself into a seat at an empty table. This immediately raises my hackles. It’s always the idiots who are only travelling one stop who do this. They try their luck, hoping you wont get to them  before they reach their destination. Fat chance today when the train is empty. I march straight down the carriage to check his ticket. He’s slouched in a rear facing seat, feet up on the seat opposite. He has an open can of Fosters lager in one hand. There is a crumpled packet of Old Holborn and a cheap disposable lighter on the table, alongside a new mobile telephone. I notice a tattoo of a web on his wrist, partially obscured by the cuff of his chav uniform. This tells me everything I need to know about the sort of person I’m dealing with.

“May I see your ticket please?” I ask, forcing a politeness I do not feel.

He looks up at me with a smirk. “Haven’t got one”, he says.

“That’s okay, you can buy one from me. Where are you going?”

“Haven’t got any money. I’ve just got out the nick.” He gives me a grin, revealing several missing teeth.

“If you don’t have a ticket or the money to pay for one, why did you board the train?” These kind of people make me sick. He shrugs and looks out the window.

I persist. “You must buy a ticket to travel on this train?”

“Well I haven’t got one, so why don’t you just fuck off!” He stands and pats his pockets. Then realisation dawns. He picks up the mobile and begins to dial. Something stirs deep inside me but I push it down, internally soothing the beast.

“If you can’t pay for a ticket you will have to provide your name and address and I’ll write out an unpaid fares notice. Do you have any ID on you?”

“You’re not listening mate, I said fuck off.” There is no sneer now, just raw aggression. 

He leans forward, bloodshot eyes wide, and I step back instinctively, expecting him to headbutt me. I take in every detail of his face. The fair eyebrows, dirty green eyes, framed by a ring of mottled yellow that speaks of a fading bruise. A line of dry blood where his lip has recently been split open. There is an ugly scar stretching from his cheekbone to his jaw. The recent fight is obviously not an isolated incident.

I’m am still backing away when he spits into my face. I feel the warm, wet impact like a punch. I’m momentarily stunned as the thick trail of slime begins to slide down my nose and cheek. Time slows to a crawl. My attacker is laughing, but the sound is oddly stretched and distorted like a tape playing at half speed. The light in the carriage around me seems to take on a sepia tone. Raising my hand to wipe the away the stinking spittle seems to take an eternity. As I wipe the offending matter onto my sleeve, I make my decision. I will accept the offer. Time clicks back into it’s normal mode. The kid is still ready to strike, but now he is looking at me strangely, his eyes are wide, swollen lips slightly parted as if he’s about to speak.

My Advantix ticket machine smashes down into his face with a degree of force I wouldn’t have thought possible. The impact is jarring, yet satisfying. The crack explosive, a mixture of splintering plastic combined with shattering bone and cartilage. Droplets of blood splash across the window, the table and down the front of his white nylon tracksuit. He sits down, mute, his nose partially torn away. One decayed tooth slides from his mouth in a trail of blood and saliva. A sliver of plastic casing from the ticket machine protrudes obscenely from a mangled eye socket. For a moment his remaining good eye flickers in terror. He slumps forward onto the table and a pool of dark blood quickly begins to form around his head. The can of lager tips over and adds a rush of foam to the feast of gore.

I spit into the mess and turn away. “You must have a ticket to travel on this train, mate”, I mutter to myself. Adrenaline courses through me as I make my way back to the cab and lock myself in. I suck in an enormous breath of the stale air.

“Good job”, he says from behind me. “Wait until we reach Watchester Tunnel. You can dump the body overboard.” I vomit into the corner.

*******

The Offer - Part Three

A few days later he finds me again. It is in an upmarket bar close to the station. A place I  go to occasionally to unwind. To waste a couple of hours, when I can’t face going back to the empty flat. When I want to remember. The lounge is all subdued lighting and designer furniture. Comfortable and reassuringly expensive. No chance of running into any of my colleagues from work here. A good place for contemplation. For feeding the pain. 

The place is deserted and I am sitting in a huge comfortable sofa in a dark corner.  There is an old soft rock track playing on the superior sound system. Oddly out of character for this place. My eyes are closed as I hum along. I don’t want anyone to notice the film of moisture threatening to overflow into tears. This song always makes me cry.

He has approached without me hearing. Surprising, considering the polished wood floor amplifies every sound.

“May I buy you a drink? You look like you need a friend.”

I blink furiously, startled from my reverie. He is looking down at me with that same gentle half smile. I wonder for a moment if I have fallen asleep and I am dreaming. I look around. My surroundings are unchanged. The barman is wiping down tables at the other side of the room. He seems oblivious to us.

“Actually I was just leaving”, I lie. I really do not want company tonight. I certainly don’t want to be fending off the advances of an ageing homophile.

A sceptical frown flashes across his face as he holds out a whisky bottle and two cut glass tumblers.  He eases himself into the wing back chair opposite me.

“Surely you can stay for just the one?

I eye the bottle of scotch with interest. Glendronach. Twenty five years old and close to perfection. Not a drink to be taken squandered frivolously. The old boy has taste at least. 

I nod my agreement. He looks positively beatific as he pours out two generous measures. Oblivion beckons.

At first the conversation is stilted. He asks questions and I reply. How long have I been a train conductor? What did I do before that? Am I married? I keep my answers short and to the point. Almost monosyllabic. Rude. I have never been one for polite chit-chat. I take a long time to warm to strangers. I throw back a mouthful of whisky with each answer, savouring the warm sting.

He doesn’t seem offended by my surliness. His expression doesn’t change as he refills my glass again and again. A thought occurs to me.

“You're not drinking?” It’s a statement rather than a question.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to poison you.” He raises his glass. The ambient light refracted through the whisky gives his face a warm reddish glow. He downs the entire measure in one gulp and places the glass back down on the smoked glass table. I notice that he doesn’t refill his own glass. I begin to wonder if he expects me to drink the entire bottle. It is still two thirds full.

As the alcohol starts to take effect I find myself becoming more willing to talk. This stranger is surprisingly easy company. He hasn’t tried to hit on me. If his tastes run to intercourse per anum, he clearly doesn’t want it from me. He listens to me earnestly, nodding his understanding, occasionally offering an encouraging smile. He reminds me of an old fashioned vicar.

A few more drinks and my reticence evaporates. I really want to talk to this guy. I need to talk. I feel that I can tell him anything without being judged or criticised. He really wants to listen to me.

It all comes out. All my anger and despair that will no longer be contained. Mina’s affair, the divorce, losing the kids.  Why did she do it? The sheer bloody injustice of it all. I devoted ten years of my life to that woman. Poured every ounce of myself into our relationship. Built my world around her. But it wasn’t enough. She had to go fucking my best friend. My business partner.

To rub salt in the wound the court took her side. Her solicitor said I had driven her to it. That I was unstable, domineering, dangerous. My reputation trampled in the mud. She got the lot, the house, money. Sole  custody of the kids. Forced to sell my share of the business. Years of  graft to build up. A real labour of love. I couldn’t very well go on working with him could I? Pretending nothing had happened.

I hope they are happy together. Cozying up in the house that I built. Playing happy families with my kids. They are already calling him Daddy. 

I can contain the pain no longer and the tears come. My new friend says nothing. He moves to the seat beside me and puts a comforting arm around my shoulder. I sob uncontrollably onto his shoulder. My chest feels as if it will burst. The smell of his jacket is soothing. It reminds me of damp earth.

I don’t know how long this outburst of emotion goes on. The next thing I know I’m waking up in my own bed with the hangover from hell. I have a vague recollection of plush leather car seats. The rest of the evening is a blank.

******

The Offer - Part Two

It is about six weeks ago since he first came into my life. He was a passenger on my train from Corham. One of those annoying characters that insist on talking to you whilst you are trying to do your job. They ask you questions whilst you are operating the doors, or they try to pass the time of day with you when you are collecting fares during the rush hour. I don’t do small talk, so I just glare until they pay me and get back to their newspapers. The worst ones are the ones who think the know something about the railway. Trainspotters mostly. They ask the most banal questions, or try to impress you with their knowledge of technical terms. Usually their knowledge is hopelessly out of date, or just plain wrong.

Who the hell cares? What kind of sad bastard would find trains remotely interesting anyway?

I can tell at once that there is something different about this man. He is elderly, with a goatee. Average height and build. He wears a Harris tweed suit, that smells faintly of damp dog. Carries a walking cane, although he doesn’t seem to have any problems walking. A smart country gent of the sort that you don’t see very often these days. There is something familiar about him, but I can’t pin it down.

His mouth smiles, but his eyes seem to be looking straight into my soul.

“Have you had a hard day? You look stressed.”

“No worse than any other day” I mutter. “It’s always hectic at this time of day.”

“It must be difficult for you, doing a job like this.”

It’s not rocket science” I reply. Annoyed.

“That was my point. An educated man like yourself, doing such a menial task. Most train conductors are rather common chaps.”

I turn to look at him, prepared to tell him not to be so bloody patronising. What does he know about me? He is looking at me quizzically. There  is a slight twinkle in his eyes. The retort dies in my throat. I am not sure if he is taking the piss. 

“No it’s not ideal” I say. Before I can continue, the brakes begin to squeal as we pull into Whorlton station. I turn my attention back to operating the doors. He steps past me onto the platform, his polished brogues barely making a sound.

“Nil desperandum,” he says, touching his temple in a mock salute.

I am taken aback. No one ever gets on or off the train at Whorlton. It is possibly the most dismal place on the entire network. A stark inner city ghetto for the dispossessed. A station with zero facilities, the walls daubed with so-called street art. Hypodermic syringes and blackened spoons litter the brick shelter where gangs of youths congregate late at night. 

Only two trains a day stop here, and only because the company is obliged to provide a service by law. No one travels to Whorlton if they can avoid it.

Before I can stop myself I am asking, “Are you sure this is your stop?”

“Oh yes,” he says with a wave. I do a lot of business around here.”

I can’t imagine what business he could have in this hellish place. He doesn’t fit the profile of a drug dealer. He approaches the shelter, where two kids in black hooded sweatshirts stand smoking. They gaze toward the train with vacant narcotic stares. The old guy engages them in conversation and as we prepare to move away from the station I see all three moving away towards the station exit. A black limousine is waiting outside. Now it makes sense. Rent boys. He will probably turn up dead in a day or two.

I glance up to check that the semaphore signal is at proceed. The driver has his head out of the window looking at me. I wave nonchalantly and he ducks back inside. He is nervous. You do not hang around here longer than necessary. Besides he is itching to get his feet up in the mess room with his Daily Mirror and mug of coffee. I close the doors and glance at the signal again before stepping back onto the train. It wouldn’t do to buzz the train away against a red signal. A signal passed at danger is probably the worst offence a driver can commit. Two SPADs and a drivers’ career is over. Of course the driver is supposed to check the signal himself. Every conductor has made the mistake at some point. Most of the drivers are understanding and will just have a quiet word with you. 

Not this one. Jimmy Clegg. Surly, ignorant, obese porcine features. Generally regarded as a complete twat. He would report you to the management without ever telling you why. Jimmy’s worked on the railway for 27 years and has never known anything else. He joined fresh from school aged sixteen, because his father worked for British Rail. He worked his way up from fitters mate, to shunter and finally to train driver. He’s typical of the railway industry. Whinges about the job to anyone who will listen. He hates the company, hates the management even more. “Never trust a gaffer” was Jimmy’s sage advice to me when I join the company three months ago. I should have told him then that I was a “gaffer” until fortune dictated that I be forced to take this steaming dog turd of a job.

Jimmy’s sort are what are commonly known as “the salt of the earth”. Or as my late grandmother would have said, “common as muck”. People like Jimmy define their existence by their jobs. A job is for life, and they wage a constant “us against them” war with anyone who dares to progress. Ambition is not something that ever enters their minds. They put all their faith in the unions because they can’t fight their own battles. If you disagree you are a scab or a class traitor. 

I’m not a member of the union. I would sooner cut off my own left testicle than become part of Jimmy’s world, with it’s working men's clubs, page three girls and holidays to Turkey.

The train clears the platform and I switch off the door key switch, severing power to the door leaves. Wouldn’t do to have some idiot opening a door and falling out at 70 mph. God knows there are plenty who would try.

I begin another ticket checking patrol of the train. It is not taxing work. I have plenty of time to scrutinise my passengers. I know at a glance what to expect from each of them.

The people in the suits look down on you as a working class lout. I want to scream “I was just like you once, you fucking snobs! I’ve been to university, managed my own businesses. I’m better than any of you.”

Kids think you are a joke, someone to fuck about with. Old ladies pity you. The single mothers and assorted ill-bred trash think you exist purely for their convenience. To lift their pushchairs onto the train. To answer their crudely phrased questions. To Listen to their endless complaints. None of them knows the meaning of please or thank you.

The common slappers who hold up their tickets without even bothering to lift their snouts out of the latest issue of Heat magazine. The spotty teenagers who sit listening to their IPods, pretending they haven’t seen you.

The ones who walk to the farthest end of the carriage, in the hope that you won’t reach them before they reach their destination.

Women who decide to answer their mobiles phones whilst you wait for them to produce their tickets. The ones who look sheepish as they search every pocket, every crevice of their bags for their tickets, and then remember that they don’t have one after all.

The late night pissheads, the stinking tramps, the filthy labourers, the snotty kids. I hate them all with an equal and vehement passion.

******

The Offer - Part One

Another first draft of a story, which I later submitted for the Aeon Award 2009. And unsurprisingly didn't win! I was in a very dark place writing this. Looking back now, I think I was in real danger of slipping off the edge of the world. This story was pure torture to coax out, as depression and writer's block bore down on me like a lead weight. Every word was like pulling teeth. Reading it now, I think it's a horrible story but I'm putting it out there anyway, because I'm kind like that.  :-p


They say write what you know, and the central character here is certainly me. His feelings about his life and his job are mine. Against my will I also know about the railway. However, you'll be pleased to hear that I've never done the things that he does. 


It's quite long, so I've broken it up into six sections, as it was on paper. 

The Offer

by David Thorne

“Show the man your ticket” says the harassed looking young woman. The flushed infant in her charge looks up vacantly, the ticket in question clenched in a chubby fist. Melted chocolate oozes from beneath the fingers. I hold out my hand, but the brat makes no move to hand over the ticket. 

“Come on Sean, show the man your ticket.” The woman looks at me with a touch of embarrassment and gives a small strained smile. Her pasty face was probably pretty once. Before life and motherhood scrubbed her looks away and the spark disappeared from her eyes. I just stand there waiting. Impassive. Bored. I know I should be making cheerful conversation, assuring her that there is no hurry. But I don’t. Instead I start to wonder how I became “the man”.

The child looks at me nervously, perhaps sensing my simmering fury. I glare back, hating the wide eyes, the long eyelashes, the unruly blonde curls. I want to punch its vacuous, snot daubed face. I can barely contain the urge to scream “Give me the fucking ticket!”

Eventually the devil child relents and offers up the prize. I accept it, as if it were a delicate flower. In reality I am  trying to minimise any physical contact with the crumpled article. “Thank you”, I say cheerfully, though my teeth are gritted. I clip the ticket. I wonder if my distaste shows.

Back in the guards cab, I sit in idle contemplation. How did I become reduced to this? I’ve lost my identity. Become a cog in the machine. Joined the ranks of the grey, faceless masses. A lost soul like all the other drones on this train, sleepwalking through the years until all the days of our lives are spent. Hopes and dreams forgotten, crushed beneath the pressures of work, family, financial commitment, life. 

We roll into another grimy industrial backwater and I reach for the handset of the public address system for the umpteenth time today. I rehearse my well used routine in my head before I being speaking.  “Ladies and Gentleman, our next stop will be the arse hole of the world. Please ensure that you have all of your worthless crap with you before  leaving the train, and please do your best not to fall down the gap between the train and the station platform. We hope you have had a thoroughly unpleasant journey and don’t look forward to seeing your ugly mug again tomorrow.”  I really could say just about anything, because nobody ever bothers to listen.

Is this all my life has amounted to? Condemned to spend my days shuttling to and fro in this desolate netherworld of heavy industry. A wage slave, trapped inside the machine. Banging my fists against the glass ceiling. Railing against the injustice, but going unheard. 

It wasn’t always like this. I had so much more once. I had a future. Now I have nothing. Except nihility.

I could just walk out. I could get off at the next station and just walk away. Stick two fingers up to the whole bloody system. Job, child maintenance, rent, the lot. 

But that’s not the English way is it? We don’t complain. We just keep plodding on in quiet desperation. We accept. We conform.  Well, I refuse, I refuse, I refuse!

******

Black Spot

The following story is something I wrote a couple of years ago, as I was coming out of a long period of depressive illness. At the time I was struggling to overcome the dreaded block, and thought I might never be able to write again. So I decided to retell and expand a story I remembered my primary school drama teacher, Mr Herschel, telling the class when I was about eleven. Yes it's a bit corny but hey, I was desperate get something, anything down on paper!! This is the first draft, including a couple of dreadful adverbs (sorry Stephen King). It's not worth developing further, so I thought I'd put it up here. Please don't judge too harshly, I'm fully aware of the story's shortcomings!

Black Spot

by David Thorne

“God what a day.” Darren Chambers rubbed his red rimmed eyes, squinting to make out the road ahead. The windscreen wipers beat uselessly at the rain thudding on the windscreen like a barrage of machine gun fire. He tugged his silk tie off and struggled to unbutton his collar with one hand whilst steering with the other. He glanced distractedly at the empty coffee flask on the passenger seat and  flicked the  control which lowered the electric windows, allowing a blast of icy wind to enter the car. Perhaps a bit of cool air would reinvigorate him.

As the luxury saloon car purred along, eating up the miles, Darren began totalling today's sales up in his head. A couple of orders in Bristol this morning, three more in Gloucester and a dozen more in Manchester. Pity about missing the appointment in Carlisle, but it didn’t matter. He would make it up on the next visit. Of course all the driving was an absolute killer, but it was worth it. He reckoned he had taken over £300,000 worth of orders today alone. That would put him top of the quarterly league table for his division and meant he would be in line for a serious bonus. Sometimes he even surprised himself by how good he was. 

He gave an enormous yawn, not bothering to cover his mouth. He briefly considered pulling over at a roadside cafe but dismissed the thought. Why bother when it was barely fifteen miles until home. Thoughts of snuggling into his warm king-size bed began to drift through his mind.

He eased the large auto down a gear and swung onto the roundabout where the A695 intersects with the A68, searching for the exit which would take him on down the river valley towards the Tyneside conurbation. 

Away from the dual carriageway the amber street lights petered out and the road became as black as the colliery shafts which once littered this valley. The sharp beams of the car headlamps picked out eerie shapes in the hedgerows and threw grotesque shadows on the slick tarmac. Darren flicked the CD changer over to radio and found a late night phone-in show. The sound of human voices came as a welcome relief from the gloom. A reedy young caller was imparting his knowledge that seventeen percent of people claimed to have had a paranormal experience. “He’s had one shandy too many,” thought Darren. The bored sounding DJ chattered for a few moments before terminating the inane call. The midnight news bulletin broke in, followed immediately by Bobby Picket and the Crypt Kickers singing The Monster Mash. 

Darren chuckled quietly to himself, squirming to make himself more comfortable in the plush leather seat. He settled back, nodding his head in time to the beat of the song. He stretched his stinging eyelids wide and yawned again. Just a few miles now.

Darren didn’t know how long he had nodded off for. Probably not more than a few seconds. The low rumbling of the car’s  low profile tires crunching over loose gravel jolted him back to full wakefulness. Jesus! The car was jolting along on the hard shoulder. A few centimetres more and he would be over the edge and heading straight down the steep embankment. He glimpsed the turbulent waters of the river below as he wrenched the steering wheel back towards the carriageway. He let out a long breath. That was a near thing. 

He turned his attention back to the road ahead and almost screamed. There was a young woman standing right in the path of the car. Through the wind driven sheet of water Darren just had time to register that she had her arm outstretched, thumb up in the classic hitchers pose. Swearing, he spun the steering wheel to full lock, slamming on the brakes. It was impossible to avoid the collision. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting to feel the thud as the woman’s body crashed onto car bonnet.

The car slewed from side to side as the brakes fought to find traction on the wet surface. It skidded onto the embankment churning ragged furrows of mud in the grass, ploughed through a patch of bushes and came to a halt back on the hard shoulder.

Darren’s stomach lurched. He sat shaking, beads of perspiration forming on his brow. Visions of the girl’s broken body sprawled in the mud swam before his eyes. He fought to quell the growing panic, as the realisation set in that he had just killed someone.

The passenger door popped open with a loud click. Darren couldn’t prevent a strangled exclamation leaving his mouth. The dripping face of the young hitcher peered in. “Oh, thank you so much.” she said through chattering teeth. “I didn’t think anyone was ever going to stop. Could you drop me off in Prudhoe please?”

Darren stared at her blankly. The wave of relief washing over him was so intense that he could feel tears welling in the corners of his eyes. His heart pounded like a piston engine and his throat felt as if he had swallowed a golf ball.

She was looking at him expectantly. “Sure,” he said, struggling to keep his voice from quivering. “Get in.”

Prudhoe was only about a mile out of his way, and it was the very least he owed her. She didn’t have to know the circumstances that had led to him stopping. Or how he had believed he had killed her.

The girl folded herself into the leather seat and Darren put the car back into gear and moved off.

“You must be frozen. How long were you waiting there?” he asked, casting a sideways glance at his bedraggled passenger. Rivulets of rainwater trickled down her brow and cheeks, her soaking hair clinging in thick strands to her attractive oval face.

He turned up the heating control on the centre console. “We’ll soon have you warmed up.”

Oh, I’m always cold,” she replied with a coy smile, pushing back her sodden hair. Her voice was soft with barely a trace of accent. She had large doe eyes which, Darren flattered himself, had a flirtatious glint. She was probably about nineteen years old. Blonde with nice fresh skin and long eye lashes. Even in the dim light cast by the dashboard instruments Darren could see she was more than a little attractive, in spite of her rain drenched state.

They drove without speaking for a few minutes. The topic of conversation on the radio moved onto road safety. Ironic thought Darren. The DJ began an earnest debate with his studio guest about the dangers of using mobile phones whilst driving. 

Darren was fully recovered from his earlier shock now. The alluring company of the girl beside him banished tiredness and thoughts of sleep from his head. He couldn’t resist sneaking appreciative glances at his new companion, frustrated at not being able to get a proper look at her. Her clothes were fashionably retro. A fawn turtle neck sweater and denim miniskirt topped off with a fur edged afghan coat. Calf length suede boots, ruined by mud and rain showed off slim, sun bronzed legs. 

Her perfume filled his nostrils. It was an old-fashioned scent, like his mother used to wear when he was a child. It went with the outfit he supposed.

He glanced up at his own reflection in the rear view mirror. Despite the five o’clock stubble and the dark shadows under his eyes he wasn’t bad looking. He considered asking her if she fancied stopping off for a drink at a pub they passed. They would be just in time for last orders. He grinned and shook his head. “Behave yourself,” he told himself. 

What kind of music do you like?” He motioned toward the car stereo. An elderly woman caller was waffling on about her daughter who had been run down and killed by a drunk driver over thirty years ago. 

The girl didn’t seem to hear him. She gazed out of the window as they sped through a rural village. Darren looked over at her again. She looked pale and wistful. The passing street lights cast nebulous patterns on her temple and cheek which had the appearance of thick gouts of blood.

"Let’s have something a bit more cheerful on the radio,” Darren said, more to himself than to the girl. He reached forward to switch the station, but something the caller was saying made him stay his hand. A feeling of uneasiness gripped through him. He stared hard at the stereo, unwilling to look away.

“The accident that woman is talking about happened on this stretch of road,” he said, unable to to keep his voice from trembling. “You must have been waiting on the very spot where her daughter died.”

“This stretch has always been a black spot for accidents. You should keep your eyes on the road,” said the girl.

An icy chill crawled through Darren’s body. With a supreme effort of will he twisted his head to look at the girl. He never saw the truck coming the other way.

---- END ----