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.
*******
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