The Inspector's Questions

Polished oak. A scent that insisted upon the Passenger’s nose with such force that he was left vulnerable to the assault of all following sensations. He winced while peeling open his eyes to reveal an unmanned bar at the centre of an opulent wooden carriage, its floorboards moaning under the weight of the swaying room.

The Passenger’s immediate course of action was to hurry over to the bar and wash away a sharp and industrial taste from his mouth. But, not seconds after the Passenger had helped himself to a spirt, a ticket inspector walked through the door at the front of the carriage.

“Tickets, please,” hummed the Inspector. His middle-aged slouch and sunken eyes were contrasted by his gentle voice, a sound almost too soft of a man of his stature.

The Passenger patted down his blazer, checked each pocket on his person, and turned a deep shade of red when he discovered himself ticketless. He did, however, find a brand-new wristwatch, a wallet overburdened with notes from a currency he didn’t recognise, and a lock of hair in a colour dissimilar to his own that he quickly returned to his blazer pocket.

“I’m terribly sorry,” began the Passenger, “I’m not the kind of man to board a train without a ticket. I must have misplaced it during my nap.”

He quickly pulled a note from the wallet and placed it on the bar before hurrying over to his seat to look for his ticket. No luck. Despite familiarising himself with the deepest regions of the seat, the Passenger was forced to turn to the smiling Inspector with shrugged shoulders.

“It’s quite alright. You can just purchase a new one.” The Inspector pulled out a notepad from his back pocket. “I just need to make a quick record before I hand you a ticket. Firstly, what’s your name?”

The Passenger shaped his lips ready for his habitual response but was surprised to find no sounds leave his mouth. He laughed — an action mirrored by the inspector — and tried again. He once again failed to produce a sound. He soon realised that, even when carefully thinking through his answer, the Passenger had now idea how to respond. He frowned at himself before pulling out the wallet in search of some kind of identification.

After a few fumbling moments passed, the Passenger pulled a national registration identity card from the recesses of the wallet. He glanced at the document and saw a face looking back at him. Another unfamiliarity. Then, a name appeared.

“William Garner!” he exclaimed.

“Are you sure about that?” joked the Inspector. The Passenger was far from sure. Yet, he handed over the identification to the Inspector who jotted the name down in his notepad.

As the Inspector scribbled away, the Passenger’s nervous eyes wondered around the carriage. The doors on both ends revealed several carriages on either side that all appeared to be as empty as his own.

“Sorry, could I ask what our next stop might be?”

“Wesanham, if all goes to plan.”

“And do you have any idea when that might be?” as he asked, the Passenger checked his wristwatch to see it had only moved on a few seconds.

“We’ll get there before you know it.”

Unsatisfied with his answer, the Passenger walked past the Inspector to the front of the carriage. He looked through the door's window to see nothing but empty seats ahead. The emptiness only gave him concern when he tried to turn the door's handle to find it immovable. He tried multiple times with varying techniques and levels of force but the handle didn't so much as wiggle.

"I'm afraid I can't allow you to wonder the rest of the train without your ticket." Warned the Inspector. "Only a few more questions though."

"Okay. Can we hurry this along then, please?"

"Great. So I've got your name and ID now, fantastic start. Next question. What's your reason for travelling with us today?"

"I'm...just to get away."

"Marvellous. And, do you consider yourself a good man?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Is that your answer?"

"No...I meant, what kind of question is that?"

"It's standard procedure. Do you consider yourself a good man?"

Reluctant to explore any possible answers, the Passenger walked to the back of the train to test the door. Before reaching for the handle, the inspector interrupted him.

"Moving up the train is preferable."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do you consider yourself a good man?"

"Yes, of course I do! Do we really need to do these questions?"

"Thank you for your answer. I'm afraid they're a necessity, but just two more to go."

The Passenger paced over to the Inspector's side and pulled his wallet out once more. He removed half the notes and placed them on the bar's side.

"Surely you can just circumvent protocol just this once."

"Your third question: why are you here?" the Inspector dabbed the nib of his pencil on his tongue and prepared to write a lengthy response to his question.

"The same reason everyone else uses a train. To get from point A to point B." The Passenger waited for a confirmation that his response was enough, but the Inspector didn't say another word. He too appeared to be waiting for something. "That must be enough. Sir, this is entirely unreasonable. I told you, I'm just getting away."

"Elaborate. Why are you here?"

"Because I deserve to be here."

The answer fell out of his mouth. The Passenger recoiled in his body as he answered, as if it knew something he didn't. A panic beset him. An anger, even. He rushed over to the front of the train, this time trying to force his way through the door. He went as far as to throw a lamp into the glass which showed no sign of weakness.

"Just one more question," declared the Inspector.

"To hell with these questions! You can't treat your passengers like this. I won't have it." The Passenger marched towards the rear door, spitting his words at the Inspector as he passed.

"What did you do to get here today?"

With one hand on the rear door handle, the Passenger turned to the Inspector. "What did I do?"

"Is that your answer?"

"What? No...I..." the Passenger paused. His entirety frozen. He placed his hand in his blazer, running his fingers along the lock of hair. "I know what I did."

The Passenger opened the rear door of the carriage without effort. Behind it, a darkness deeper than any he'd known before.

"Moving up the train is preferable," repeated the Inspector.

His words were ignored. The Passenger stepped into the darkness, only for the door to close itself behind him.

Sighing, the Inspector closed his notepad. He walked to the edge of the carriage where a new door presented itself. Without hesitation, he launched through it to reveal a man in a blazer helping himself to a drink at a bar in the middle of an identical carriage.