Inertia Train

It took a while for him to wake up. His eyelids were stiff and reluctant to open, sticky with the heaviness of deep sleep. His head felt like a boulder; slow and grey, unable to propel itself unless coaxed by another force, and so, he tried to reach his hand up to his head for reassurance that all was well. His hand resisted, as if he was asking it to move through treacle or thick mud; like a resistance band was around it.

When his hand reached his head, it felt the same as always. With his eyes still closed, he ran his fingers over his forehead and registered the cold clamminess. Cheeks, nose, lips, hair. All there. A quick movement but one that satisfied him. He curled his fingers to bend his knuckles, the better to get his eyes open with a good rub and listened as they clicked into life. He urged them to open but they were still slow to oblige.

His ears, however, had become alert to the clacking of wheel on rail and his body perceived the rocking of motorised movement. His eyes, still closed, could sense light, the veined pinkness showing on the inside of his lids.

The realisation struck him that he was in a strange place and he had no idea how he had got here.

Adrenalin began coursing through his veins and he felt panic. He rubbed his eyes more vigorously, unsure whether he wanted to know where he was. It might be better to remain ignorant, he thought. He admitted to himself that he was scared. Here he was, wherever here was, possibly a train although this was not certain, with no idea how he had got there. He felt like he had been drugged or something because he felt unnatural in his own skin, blurry and ill-defined, and he did not like it at all.

What the hell was going on?

Deep breaths, he thought. I need to get a hold of this, he told himself and slowly, with each inhalation and expiration of breath, his heart slowed to a regular pace and his mind began to clear. He was never one for losing control; it wasn't his way. Protect yourself at all costs. Slowly, he let himself ease into the calm and as he relaxed with each meditative breath, so his body slackened, the tension dissipating, his blood no longer rushing but resuming its normal speed on his body's highways.

In. Out. In. Out. Minutes passed. He opened his eyes.

He was in a cabin of some sort. The size of a sleeper car. A window with a blind to his right. A seat, like a banquette in front of him. Vinyl upholstered in hospital blue. He was on a bed, or a metal construct with a thin mattress on it. No blankets. Polyester pillow. Metal floor, like a trendy bar would have for that "industrial" feel or, like the ramp to a cattle truck. Beige walls. A door to the left. Looked like it would slide, like a pocket door but powered - a Star Trek door, he thought. He wondered if it would make the same noise when it opened. He found out a little later that it didn't.

He was swaying. He focused his senses on what he could hear. Nothing. No, wait. He could hear that clacking, rhythmic and hypnotic, consistent with the movement of a train. But nothing other than that. No sounds of habitation or conversation. No doors opening and closing or carts being pushed. No whistles or horns going off. No slowing down for stations. No announcements. It was definitely a train but this was not for passengers. Or not voluntary ones.

This was a cell.

He tried to stand. It took him a moment to steady himself and attune his body to the rocking of the carriage. He felt loaded, like he was burdened with weights attached to his limbs, wearing concrete shoes. It must be the effect of whatever they gave me, he thought. Because he was certain that he had been taken by surreptitious means. And "they", the people who had taken him? Who were "they"? He was just your average man. Who would do this?

Again, he repressed his growing panic with deeper breaths and now that he felt his footing was more sure, walked to the window. The blind was made of a thick blackout material with a handle, not unlike the shutters for the windows on a plane. He placed his hand on it, a little gingerly at first and with a small amount of force, tried to raise it.

He was surprised when it moved and he pushed it all the way up, only to find a window but no aperture and no glass. It was merely a façade. He had a flash of irritation at the stupidity of this and the fact that he had been duped. He had hoped there would be a window but his intuition had made him suspect it was unlikely. He guessed that he was being watched - it seemed a fair assumption - and he was angered by the thought that he was someone's plaything, viewed for their amusement.

Was it worth trying the door? he thought. Or am I just going to look even more foolish? He took a moment to assess it and concluded that even if he did look ridiculous, he would look infinitely more stupid if the door had been open all along and he hadn't tried it. He went over to it and on examination, there was no visible way of opening it. He applied his hands to its surface to try and pull it to either side but it did not budge and there was no button or handle to push or pull.

Defeated, he took the time to look up, to see if there was a hatch or a roof-light but there was merely a neutral ceiling, covered with material that was easy to wipe down and punctuated by a flickering strip-light, omitting a sickly muted glow into his new home. Having taken in his clinical surroundings, he returned to sit on the bed.

It was time to try and remember. He looked down at himself and could see that he was in the same clothes that he was wearing the night before, if indeed it was now the next day. His watch had gone and his phone so there was no way of checking the time.

What could he remember? He was meeting friends in town at 8pm. It was Jules' birthday and they were having drinks before going to a restaurant. He remembered the bar but he couldn't remember the restaurant and was suddenly hit with hunger. It had been a while since he had eaten, he guessed, maybe longer than one meal. He tried to suppress his urge to think about food, to concentrate on the task at hand and it took all of his will to return to his memory of the bar.

He could see in his mind's eye his friends and they were laughing and drinking, Jules with a party hat and Darren with some strange cocktail he'd heard about, and he remembered leaving to go to the bathroom. He recalled that it was one of those where you had to head out of the main building to get there and it was dimly lit. Did he remember coming back? No. No! He must have been taken then! Surely?

This spark of knowledge filled him with hope, as he imbued it with certainty, that this was indeed what had happened. And again, he was struck with the suggestion of hope at this realisation as it implied that Jules and Darren would most certainly be looking for him, wondering where on Earth he had gone. Surely? Perhaps they had seen something and were trying to get to him as he sat here?

It was at this point that the door slid open and the first individual that our hero had seen in 48 hours stepped in.

He snapped his head up to look at the visitor who had entered quickly and deftly and was now sat opposite him on the vinyl banquette. He had not had a chance to stand up or act, to take advantage of this unexpected entry at all, so quickly and efficiently had it happened. The door had made no noise to indicate its intended movement.

A middle-aged man was sat opposite him, dressed in an outfit that looked like it had been thrown together: black trousers, loose and with a wider leg, like those found on Charlie Chaplin; a brown tweed jacket, again with loose tailoring, gaping a little on the body to show a dark coloured waistcoat of a matt material and a white grandad shirt; a chain was visible under the jacket which hinted at a pocket watch. He was shortish in height, no more than five feet nine inches and he had black shoes with a rounded end that were polished to a high sheen, almost at odds with the rest of his appearance, which was a little shabby.

But what was most noticeable about him was the way that he had decided to wear his hair and his moustache: a short back and sides with a right side parting in slick black hair and a small postage stamp square of hair on his top lip. He was also wearing circular gold-rimmed spectacles but this could not detract from the fact that his visitor had modelled his look on Hitler. He didn't look like him as his features were less defined, but the hair and facial adornment left no doubt as to the comparison that would be made by all who observed him.

He had not said anything as he came in but now, looking across at our hero, he spoke.

"Hello, James."

His visitor spoke with a very precise English accent, soft and warm with words enunciated clearly. There was no trace of a regional accent and it jarred completely with the way that he looked. He sounded respectable and authoritative. No sharp staccato or shouting here, and his movement was equable: no jerking or finger pointing.

James looked across at the man and wondered how to respond. He suddenly felt dry in the mouth and wasn't sure that he would be able to say anything at all. He gulped unconsciously, to move saliva round his mouth, caused also by trepidation at what this man's appearance meant.

"Ah, how inconsiderate of me!" The man reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a small bottle of water. "I expect you are thirsty. Would you like a drink?" He stretched his hand out towards James, who also stuck his hand out for the bottle and took it. James' immediate impulse was to open it and swig it but he hesitated.

The man, who had never taken his eyes from James, said, "It's okay. It's not drugged. It is pure water, nothing more, nothing less. You can trust me on that."

James didn't want to take his eyes away from pseudo-Hitler but he wanted to examine the bottle before drinking. He was wary and his skin was prickling in anticipation of attack or danger.

"Hitler", as if sensing this, sat back a little on the banquette, as much as its structure would allow, and said, "Please. Go ahead. You are thirsty. You should drink. It will not harm you and you look as if you need it."

James looked down at the bottle which was clear and plastic with ridges. There were no labels nor a sign, hardened glue perhaps, that a label had been removed. It looked like water and now that attention had been drawn to thirst, he realised that he was parched. He moved his eyes back up to his captor. Tentatively, he took a sip, holding his gaze all the time and against his better nature, he swallowed. Tasted like water. He waited. Nothing.

"See? Water. That's all. Enjoy."

James decided that if it was poisoned, it would have acted on him by now and so, still with caution, he sipped some more. God, but that was so good. His captor watched him, a slight smile on his face as James drank, waiting patiently until he had finished before speaking again.

"So, James. How are you?"

James was struck by what a strange way this was to approach what was quite clearly a kidnapping. So cordial. So obliging. How to answer? He wanted to rage but he was aware of his confined state and the unknown quantity that was embodied in the person in front of him, dressed as bloody Hitler, for God's sake!

He cleared his throat. "I'm fine," he said slowly, eyes focused on the empty bottle in his hand.

"Are you?" "Hitler" questioned. Not waiting for an answer, he continued, "Well, that is good to hear. Good to hear indeed." He paused. "I expect you have things you would like to ask?"

James lifted his head and saw that an eyebrow had been raised behind the glasses and an expectant tilting of his kidnapper's head suggested invitingly, that now was the time to start speaking. James thought carefully.

"Who are you? And what do you want with me?" James asked and looked straight at his captor.

"Hitler" laughed. "Direct and to the point! I like it! No preamble!" He laughed again. "Some people request food, if they are not too scared. Most ask me if I'm Hitler, can you believe? As if he would still be alive now, looking like me. Nonsense, eh? Absolute nonsense. But then fear can do funny things to people, can't it?"

Not waiting for James to respond, he continued. "But to your questions. Firstly, I am most assuredly not Hitler, nor a descendant. My name is Stephen, very unassuming and non-intimidatory, despite the garb." Stephen directed his hands to his torso in a flippant motion and looked down at the way that he was dressed. "I was told to wear something threatening in this role and lots of the others went for black uniform or sinister masks but that's not me. So, I chose the most renowned dictator of the 20th century as my front, as it were." He laughed again. "Although, if I'm honest, it's the hair and moustache that do it, not the clothes. And I'm not sure that Adolf himself would recognise anything of himself in me, do you?"

He looked directly at James now and smiled. There was no menace here, just the self-deprecating smirk of a man chatting about a costume which maybe was not his best effort but something had had to be done and this was the best he could do. It was like James was sharing drinks with a new acquaintance at a fancy dress party and not in a metal box on a train with his jailer, speeding to who knows where or what, without pause. James was struck with the absurdity of the situation which only served to increase his unease.

"I'm not even sure it's intimidating, but there we are. It was a prerequisite of the job and rules must be followed. So needs must and all that. I drew the line at khakis and medals. Everyone needs to feel comfortable at work, I think. Don't you, James? Besides, I'm not sure that I could have carried the uniform off. Too short."

Stephen was still smiling benignly at James, expecting a response. James felt completely blindsided but something propelled him to reply.

Ignoring the question, he asked: "Why am I here?"

"Oh, yes! Of course! Sorry. Your second question needs to be answered, which was, if I remember correctly, slightly different and I will deal with what we want with you in a minute, as that requires discussion. But I can answer your most recent question straightaway." Stephen had never taken his eyes from James and did not flinch as he told him:

"I am afraid to have to tell you that you are going to die."

Still the benign smile. James gulped again. He could feel himself starting to sweat and his mind was racing with possibilities of what to do. Rush him? Try the door again? Bang the walls? Scream? Attack seemed the best option but to what end? And he still felt heavy. He wasn't sure that he would be able to surprise Stephen, even if he wanted to. But his mind was exclaiming, "You can't just sit here! This man has told you that you are going to die! Do something!"

Stephen spoke. "I know what you're thinking but it will do no good. They won't let you out even if you did manage to overpower and kill me, and then you'd still die but with a decaying corpse for company. I wouldn't recommend it but by all means, try."

Stephen's face had not altered expression at all. James knew that what he said was probably true but to hell with it! He had to try. He tried to get up quickly but Stephen was quicker and before James was able to strike out, he found himself in a choke hold with "Hitler" crushing his windpipe. James could feel himself becoming more and more lightheaded and in the second before he passed out, he wondered if anyone would believe him if he told them that he had been wrestled into a faint by Hitler.

***

Some time later, James regained consciousness to discover that he was laid out on his bed. Not restrained at all but just placed on his mattress, pillow under his head. His neck felt bruised but other than that, he felt okay. Stephen was still there, sitting across from him on the banquette, legs crossed and his hands knitted together, resting on his knees. He looked like he was a chat show host, waiting for his guest to open up and tell all. He even had an openness of expression on his face that invited conversation.

James was happy he was still alive but knew that the chances of getting out of here were minimal. Still fearful but beginning to become resigned to his fate, especially after his quick defeat, he decided to let curiosity guide him. He may gain some knowledge that might help him, perhaps? Doubtful but he did feel like he was not in any immediate danger from Stephen, despite his looks and his actions. After all, Stephen had just been defending himself. And he was surprisingly strong and agile for someone who looked rather average in stature and presence.

Seeing that he was awake, Stephen said:

"Good. You're awake. Sorry about that, James. I'm not usually so heavy handed. I was worried that I had seriously hurt you. Are you okay?"

James felt sudden impatience at this mock bedside manner and asked abruptly:

"Can we cut the act please? Can you tell me what the hell is going on?" His voice was rising. "Stop being so nice!" He gasped for breath. "Sitting there like we're just having a chat, like some sort of, fucking crazy Nazi shrink! You're not even German!" He was shouting now and on the verge of hysteria. "You've just told me that I am going to die so stop trying to pretend that you care that you've hurt me! What kind of warped place is this? Just cut the crap, will you?!"

Stephen's eyes widened with each outburst, although his posture remained the same. In the same courteous tone, he said,

"Yes. You are right. You deserve an explanation and I am here to provide one. And knowing that you are going to die must have come as an awful shock so I will excuse your bad language." Stephen uncrossed his legs and placed a hand on each knee which made him look like a primary school teacher about to start a story, a no-nonsense stance before getting to business. "I'm not a bad man, you know. Far from it. But you are right. It does seem a little perverse to show concern, considering the circumstances, hypocritical even. Yes, explanations are needed." He leaned forward, his posture facing James, straight as an arrow, his gaze direct and piercing.

James grew nervous. He wanted to know what was going on but there was safety in the mystery too. Did he really want to know what was going to happen to him? There was no doubt that he wanted to know the "why" but knowing his fate...that was something else entirely and he didn't know if he was equipped to handle it. He didn't want to go to pieces. He hoped it wasn't torture.

"Right. Well, here we go. I think I'll start with telling you how you are going to die." Stephen took his right hand off his knee and pushed his glasses further up his nose. "You may or may not have noticed that you are on a train. I know that you have not seen a lot of it other than this sleeper but I assure you that it is the case. It is travelling at a very high speed. And it will not stop for anyone or anything. It is heading towards a precipice where the rails end abruptly and it will gently cascade downwards into the yawning abyss below and explode, incinerating everyone inside." Stephen paused. He examined the look of horror on James' face, his pallor showing his prisoner's fear all too clearly. Had he been too harsh? If paleness of face was any indicator then yes was the answer.

James was shocked. He was on a runaway train! It would be funny if it wasn't leading to his ultimate demise. Despite his despair, he did have to suppress a giggle at the absurdity of his situation. He had always had an unorthodox sense of humour, the incongruity of things setting him off and with his emotions heightened at his imminent departure, he felt like hysteria was just around the corner. Here he was, being told by a scruffy English professor-type called Stephen, who looked like Hitler (!) that he was on a train destined to crash, with no idea why or how he had been chosen for this particular fate. If he wasn't hearing it with his own ears, he would never have believed it possible. Even the wildest storyteller could not make this up.

He did manage to keep a lid on his laughter but only just. Stephen was looking at him with curiosity as the struggle to maintain control played out on James' features.

"I'm sorry to be so blunt but I feel that it is better to be honest and not beat around the bush, especially when time is pressing."

James took a deep breath and sat up to face Stephen. "And I appreciate your honesty, Stephen. Thank you." It was James' turn to pause. "But before I burn in this fiery carriage of destruction, would you be able to explain why? And why me?"

Stephen nodded in appreciation at James' courteous approach and use of imagery and replied, "Of course, James. It is the least that I can do." He shuffled on the banquette as if getting himself comfortable. "It is about apathy in its simplest form, James. We feel that it is a plague destroying our society." He paused. "I know that you know what apathy is although you may not know what it has to do with you."

James listened, unmoving, waiting for Stephen to continue.

"The main incident for which you are here occurred on a night last year. You may or may not remember it. A girl was being harassed in the street by a group of boys, and you were walking by. You noticed the event, but decided not to intervene. Do you remember this?"

James scanned his memories. He did have a vague recall of a dark night in a city centre where a girl was being pushed between three boys and he had kept his head down and pretended not to see. They were drunk and belligerent and big and he had been on his own. He had remembered feeling bad about it at the time but hadn't paid it any more mind until now.

James looked up at Stephen who was regarding him intently. "Do you remember, James?" Stephen asked again.

"Yes, but I was on my own. I'm not sure that there was anything that I could do to help." Even to his own ears, it all sounded a bit pathetic.

Stephen merely raised his eyebrows at this but made no comment.

"There have been other times. Do you remember the weedy kid at school who was being singled out for punishment by that group of girls. Sadie? Melissa? And the blonde one? Natasha, was it?"

James was agog. He did remember the weedy kid, Martin Something, his name was, who always had pants too short and hair that stuck out in all directions and one of those coats where the mittens were on strings through the arms with the stained cuffs. He was a geek of the highest order and he was always being targeted. But it was true that that group of girls was particularly mean to him. He had a flashback to walking home at the end of school, he'd have been about 11? He had to walk past the outbuilding where they kept the equipment to cut the grass and he'd heard something, rounded the corner and Martin was on the floor, being kicked in the ribs by the tall one...Sadie. He knew it wasn't Natasha because he had a crush on her and spent most of Art lessons looking at her, hoping she'd look at him.

Sadie had looked up from her savagery, saw it was James, saw that he was no threat and carried on with what she was doing. Martin's face was contorted with pain but he managed to bleat out a "Help!" James had turned and ran without hesitation. Natasha never did notice him.

"Martin received severe injuries that day and never really recovered and the girl? Well, it might be better for you if you don't know how that turns out." Stephen sighed. "There are other minor episodes: not helping the old lady being harangued at the crossing by youths; turning a blind eye to the kid pickpocketing on the Tube; joining in with chants of a derogatory nature at football games so you don't stand out. They could be considered acts of selfishness and cowardice equally but the lack of concern or care or, indeed, motivation to stop them is what matters here."

James was reeling. He felt ashamed but like most people when faced with their flaws, he became defensive.

"But I didn't do those really bad things! I didn't do anything wrong! You can't kill me! I didn't do anything!"

Stephen remained calm in the face of this outburst. "Ah, James, that is precisely the reason that you are here."

James' anger was rising. To his reckoning, he had been passive, yes but not instrumental in any of these events. He had not inflicted the wounds or committed the crimes! This wasn't fair. So, he hadn't stepped in but who would? He'd have been hurt for sure. The victims should never have left themselves exposed like that. He wasn't responsible! This was madness!

Stephen continued. "Have you ever heard of Einstein, James?"

"Of course I've heard of fucking Einstein!" James' rage spilled over. "What? Am I part of some sort of experiment here? Are you going to send me back in time to put things right or something?" It was a bizarre proposition but as he said it, James almost hoped it was true. After all, the situation already defied belief.

"No, James. I am afraid that is not possible. If only it were." Stephen sighed. "No. I work for a group called Einstein's Advocates. You won't have heard of them as we are a clandestine outfit, working on the fringes of society. A mix of people, some of whom you might recognise.

"Einstein is a scientist, yes, and will always be renowned for his formulas and theories. I have to confess that I don't know a lot about that sort of thing. That part of his life has not formed the basis for what I do. No, he influences our world with his quoted words. The internet will show you that. Quite a pithy man. The Advocates use one of these quotes as the bedrock of what we do. Would you like to know what it is?"

James did not respond so Stephen cited the quote:

"'The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it.' And that, James, is why you find yourself here. Because on the occasions when faced with evil, when you could have acted and made a difference, you didn't.

"However, something needs to be done, someone needs to combat the apathy and so, here we are. Your inertia, your failure to act has caused enough damage. Thus, action is required. "

Stephen shrugged almost apologetically.

James was incredulous and went to stand, protesting but in a trice, Stephen was up and had him in a chokehold again. James struggled this time but Stephen's strength was formidable and it was instants later that James lost consciousness for the second time that day. It was the last thing that he would ever remember.

Stephen lifted and laid James on the bed as he had done before, and smoothing his hair and adjusting his spectacles, he prepared to leave the cabin. He gave one last glance to the inert form on the bed. Less messy than usual.

Job done.

Silently, the door opened and he stepped outside.