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.
******
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