The Dream Journey by Train

1.

Samuel Peterson, a frantic, stubborn man, leapt forward in huge strides, as he targeted the 1615 from St. Pancras station. The tannoyed voice ricocheted violently across the air, entering Peterson’s ears presumptuously. A female, high pitched tone droned on about the train he was about to catch, so he hoped. His legs moved swiftly now, like a greyhound chasing that ever-moving plastic rabbit. Lurching and pitching from left to right, with his hand luggage in tow, Peterson dodged several worried looking commuters on the train station platform.

Sweating profusely, panting heavily, his thirteen stone out of shape body, lumbered towards the train, sitting noisily on platform 3. Taking a breath, Peterson rested for a moment, his hands on his thighs, hunched over. He used his pausing as an opportunity to continue surveying the movement of personnel around him. Who might be looking his way, or watching him.

One his brief resting had been completed, he arched his back and straightened up, holding onto his luggage with his large right hand. Entering the cabin, he exhaled for hopefully to final occasion moment to gather his breathing, getting now under his control, as he expected. Looking up and out across the cabin he had entered, Peterson scanned the seats from his bespectled view. Cabin H, first class, yes that’s the one, seat number 13a. Fourteen pair of eyes drilled his. His stature. His demeanour. Decisions about Samuel permeated their minds. A tall, scruffy looking, male with no discernible instant appearance to determine his ancestry, perplexed the other passengers. It also worried them. Someone that couldn’t be instantly categorised or catalogued only caused concern and building curiosity.

A large, untidy beard, covered his facial skin, as did his baseball cap for his head. An expensive pinstriped suit, finished off with white tatty sports trainers, sounded alarm bells in already prejudiced views. Without completely recoiling, as Peterson shifted towards his reserved seat, eyes from other travellers averted his as Peterson drew near, as though Peterson was a storm or a hurricane heading in their direction, that they needed to evade. He ignored the conspiratorial glances. Brushed them all off as part of his everyday life. Nothing, these, ‘no-bodies’ who thought they were ‘somebody’ could do to him, would affect him in anyway. He had the power and the best part had always been, that they didn’t know. Not until it was too late. It made him smile inside. Yet he had other more relevant work to do, so these ‘people’, would be addressed another time.

Then the moment of truth, seat 13a. His pre-booked reserved seat. There with her head down in 13b, sat a lady, about forty years old, auburn hair, glued to her electronic device. She didn’t look up once, as Peterson, fumbled with his bag in the overhead space, above their seats. He spied her, eying her over, from her head to her feet. Smart pale blue skirt and jacket, shiny black nylon tights, that ended with size five feet that slotted into court ladies’ shoe. Deliberately taking his time to address his bag, compensating for being intently watched by two men in seat 16a and b. This pragmatic opportunity delivered itself like a gift.

Finally slumping unceremoniously into his seat, Sarah White turned to look across at Peterson.

‘Hello Sarah. We were wandering when we’d have this meeting. You know what I mean don’t you?’

‘Don’t start Sammie. Drop the bullshit and give it to me straight for once’, Sarah fired back turning to face the window she sat against. Peterson could see her face in the window; reflected.

‘I’d love to give it to you straight, you know that right’, Peterson desperately wanted to smile, yet his professionalism didn’t allow that sort of emotion or frivolity. His voice even, no discernible accent.

Sighing, shaking her head, Sarah White’s beautiful, cosmetically manicured face, bright emotionless eyes, began losing some of colour, vibrancy and sparkle, as she turned back to face Peterson’s orotund dull, bearded face.

‘You lot better understand something’, she started, her voice low, yet determined. ‘If anything happens to me…’ Peterson and Sarah were interrupted by the attendant serving drinks. Peterson ordered two white tea’s with one sugar.

They waited until they were served by the young teenage blonde haired looking young man, who had probably just completed some catering, or hospitality training from the trainline company, Peterson assumed. Once the trainee server had moved on, Peterson responded.

‘You were threatening something', Peterson continued Sarah’s last repost, as she anxiously stirred her one sugared tea.

'It doesn’t’ matter anyway’, Sarah reacted sharply, sipping her tepid beverage, ‘your organisation will find out soon enough'.

‘Umm I see’, Peterson, muttered to himself, something he rarely did. Then he turned to face Sarah, rather seductively, knowing she despised him and his intentions. ‘My secret love, oh how my heart is saddened, as thou’s last journey on a train, leads to your final resting place’. His words faded as the sun does at around 840pm in the summertime. Sarah’s body relaxed, her eyes closing gently, settling into her seat, she drifted into a never-ending cycle of sleep. Peterson collected her Styrofoam cup and placed it on the pop-up tray on the back of the seat in front of Sarah’s limp body.

Peterson sat upright, nonchalant, calm, normal. Chirping could be heard from his right-hand jacket pocket, the Mission Impossible theme tune by Lalo Schifrin. Peterson looked around to see if the men from sixteen might be nosing around at him. There weren’t. He extracted his mobile phone an answered.

‘Is it done?’, was the question, from a commanding impatient voice on the other end of the line.

‘What do you think?’ Peterson bounced his rhetorical question at his caller. ‘Of course, she’s sleeping’.

‘Apologies. We have always expected and received nothing but the very best from you. If I or any of us doubted you, take our apologies again. And thanks’, the call ended. Peterson sat back in his seat as the train trundled along the railway line, folding his arms and wanting to remove the ridiculous disguise he had to wear.

2.

The following morning, the birds chirped and sang at the top of their voices outside the house of Samuel Peterson. A handsome man according to his dutiful wife and father of two sons awoke, stretched and yawned then returned to lay snuggled up in bed with his wife Sarah, who didn’t know about his murderous intentions to divorce her..