The Last Station

I’ve always been able to sleep on trains. The difficulty is making sure you wake up in time. I guess it must be the rhythm of the tracks – a percussive lullaby. That, and the wine I can taste on my lips. Only myself to blame. I’ve obviously missed my stop.

I feel a little groggy – as if I’d been hit by a bus. Not that I’d know what that feels like. Why do we deploy these cliched similes? Comparisons are only useful if you’ve experienced what it is you are comparing the experience to.

It’s dark outside; so dark I can’t see the outside. I lean forwards. I’m in the right-hand corner seat of a four-seater, going backwards. (I prefer being pulled. Don’t know why. Maybe I like looking back at things).

All I can see in the window is the reflection of a woman a couple of seats down from me. She’s striking.

Actually, it looks like she’s trying to strike a match, which she obviously shouldn’t. Not that I’m going to tell her off.

She catches my eye in the glass. I smile, briefly, turn away, in case she thinks I’m…I don’t know what.

Diagonally opposite is a couple. He’s the only one wearing a face mask on the carriage, as far as I can see. Her arm is through his. She is mostly on her phone. She has a black dress with purple flowers on. He’s in a blue suit (no tie). They are both wearing trainers. Neither wears a ring or a band around their fingers. This is not new love. Her nails are painted but bitten down. He also bites his. Perhaps he is Egyptian; she, Italian. Her jaw is pointy, and she clenches it, often. They have watches, not rings. I suppose it’s more practical. You keep wearing a Mont Blanc watch after a breakup.

I lean back, hoping to get another glimpse of the striking brunette when a voice calls out:

“I’ve been walking up and down this train. Everyone ignores me.”

I see his yellow toenails first. He has open sandals. (I hate people who wear socks with sandals. So weird). His lower legs are wrapped in white bandages. He is wearing torn off jeans, and a grey top. His dirty blond beard is…well, dirty. Maybe it’s just brown. Unkempt, either way. His features are gaunt – the cheekbone, sharp (which is all I can see past the thick beard), and eyes, sunken. He could be mid-twenties; he could be fifty.

“Everyone ignores me. It’s so humiliating!”

I don’t know where to look. I’m judging him, of course – wondering if he’s genuinely in need, or if he’s a pro.

“Please…Will anyone help?”

That’s gone and done it. I can’t stand people pleading. It’s pathetic. (I mean, in the proper sense). Thing is, I’m pretty sure all I have on me is a twenty and I don’t really want to give him that. I might need it for a taxi home – or to the nearest cash point.

I start to fumble in my pockets for something smaller which I won’t miss and hope, secretly, that he’ll just walk past me. My phone is in my left trouser pocket, as always. Keys in the right. I’m sure I put the twenty in my back pocket. Usually with change. I reach round and pat. No change. But I also don’t feel the bulge of my travelling wallet. Well, card holder.

Now I’m not making a show of patting myself down – I really don’t know what I’ve done with it.

I’m not looking at him, but I can sense him regard me and despair. I inhale his stench of body odour and stale cigarettes. I look up, prepared to mouth – or even mutter – and apology, but he has walked right past. The Mont Blancs don’t even go through the motions.

In the window, I can see the woman I’ve been staring at open her fawn coloured bag and fish out a coin, which she gives him. Looks like two quid. He doesn’t say anything. Ingrate. He just takes it and walks on.

I stand up to give myself a proper frisking and hear a soft thud as my wallet falls onto the seat. Must have been caught up in my clothes. I sit back down and am about to open it when I feel someone brushing against my leg, opposite.

“Hey. Way to go and leave the charity to someone else.”

I look up, and into her eyes. They’re bright blue – almost the colour of a police siren; almost unnatural. She has sat down opposite me and placed her bag on the table.

“I couldn’t find my wallet,” I say, sheepishly.

“Mind if I join you? Only, I’d rather he didn’t come back, and…well, I saw you – in the window.”

“I’m glad.”

My mind is still a bit foggy. I haven’t flirted for ages. I can’t quite remember how it goes.

“It was nice of you to give him something.”

“You think I shouldn’t have?”

“I did wonder if he was…well, genuine. You get a lot of these professional beggars on the Metro in Paris.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, maybe he was acting. Pretty good costume, though.”

“Well, he might just be an out of work actor.”

“An actor. Out of work…aren’t most?”

“Aren’t we all actors?”

“Speak for yourself, Mister I-can’t-find-my-wallet-oh-no-let-me-wait-for-a-woman-to-come-to-the-rescue!” She giggles and shows her teeth. They’re unusually even, although her right tombstone is a little longer than the other, which I find attractive.

“Well, I really had lost it. At least, I couldn’t find it.”

“But you have it now?”

“Yes,” I say, brandishing it. At that moment, the train jolts us slightly, lurching her forwards. It takes me by surprise and, before I can protest, she snatches my wallet and opens it. I open my mouth in protest and a thought suddenly occurs to me that she is in cahoots with the beggar and has set it all up to rob me. (I’ve been watching too many film noirs).

“I was hoping you’d have a driving licence with a terrible photo of you from when you were seventeen, or something,” she says, disappointed. “But all you have is a bank card and…a business card. Yours?” She turns it over. It isn’t – it’s my barber’s. A loyalty card.

“I just had a hair cut…do you like it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what it looked like before, do I?”

“Oh, well, it was terrible. Floppy. Bit like whatsisname in Notting Hill. Here.” I fish my phone out of my pocket but the battery must have died. I show her the blank screen and shrug.

“Shall I call you ‘Hugh’, then?”

“Hugh?” I say, stupidly, and then make the connection: “Oh, right, haha, Grant. Yes…no. I mean. I’m Adam.” I offer her my hand and she clasps it. I can feel her pulse keeping rhythm with the train.

“Natalie. So, Adam, where are you headed?”

“Home,” I say; though, as the words leave my mouth, I feel winded my an ineffable sense of uncertainty.

“And where is that? I can’t see a ticket.”

I’m about to answer her when it occurs to me that I don’t remember buying one.

“Oh? Oh dear. Guess I must have been in a rush and didn’t get one. Or, maybe it’s on my phone.”

“Which is dead.”

“Yes…”

“Better hope the ticket inspector doesn’t come round then, hadn’t you?!”

We both laugh and, realising we are still clasping hands, she looks down at them, and back up at me.

“So how far are you going?”

Her question breaks the spell and I release her hand and press my face to the glass. It is still pitch-black outside.

“That depends. Where are we?”

Natalie opens her mouth to answer but a look of bewilderment flashes across her face.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Well, what was the last stop? I must have fallen asleep.”

“So must I,” she says, in earnest.

“Probably the dark,” I offer.

“Yes…probably.”

We keep our own counsel for a few moments and then, leaning forward, she whispers:

“But I’ve been awake longer than you, and we haven’t stopped, yet. And, have you noticed – we…we seem to be getter faster?”

I furrow my eyebrows and we both listen for the train. London-to-York, clickety-clack, my mother used to chant. I start to mouth along.

It's true. We are accelerating.

“Maybe we’re in the middle of the countryside?” says Natalie.

“Maybe. Don’t you know? Haven’t you got a phone?”

“No signal.”

“Probably the countryside, then.”

“Probably.”

This only satisfies us for a moment. We press our noses to the glass but still cannot see anything outside. It really is pitch black.

“Shall we ask them?” I say, motioning towards the Mont Blancs. Natalie nods her head, and a strand of hair falls into her eyes. I instinctively reach forward to sweep it back and then mutter an apology.

“That’s ok. I liked it.”

Emboldened, I stand up and walk over to the couple, leaning over to address the man. (Always speak to the bloke in a couple – especially if the woman is remotely attractive):

“Excuse me, I’m afraid my friend and I seem to have overslept. Do you know where we are?”

I’d not noticed before, but his eyes had been glazed over and my voice seems to reanimate him. He stares up at me and blurts out something in a language I don’t recognise.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Another florid string of foreign words.

“Do you speak English?” I try, slowly. He ignores me and prods his partner, who drops her phone. I manage to catch it and hand it back, noticing it, too, has no service. She ignores me and the two start an animated conversation I have no chance in understanding, so I smile and retreat to my seat.

“Can’t even recognise the language,” I say to Natalie. “You?”

She listens for a few moments and then shakes her head.

“Come on,” I say, “let’s try another carriage.”

She leads the way, and we walk up to front of the carriage and she opens the door to the next compartment. It is only now that it occurs to me that I don’t recognise the train stock. The colour scheme is entirely grey and black, not the red and blue of my usual commute. There is no visible branding at all.

At this point, I don’t think I’m frightened – I just sort of notice the detail with interested bemusement. It’s a little like how, in dreams, you don’t question the logic, or how you got there (dreams tend to start somewhere in the middle, it seems). Then, it sometimes gradually dawns on you that you don’t remember how you arrived, or that some of the details are just a little…off. It was beginning to feel like that.

Lost in my reverie, I let go of the door handle and it slams shut, just catching my left index finger. I curse, loudly. Definitely not dreaming.

Unlike the inhabitants of the next carriage:

“What is this?” whispers Natalie. The car is full – of old people, mostly seated by themselves – though there are some couples, holding hands. They must all be in their eighties or nineties. They are sound asleep – which is why, I suppose, Natalie, is whispering.

“Some sort of Help The Aged day trip?” I offer.

“Come on, let’s not wake them.”

We make our way, slowly, through the sanatorium of octogenarians, taking care not to hit them with Natalie’s handbag (the aisle is narrow and several of them seem to have spread their limbs right out), until we reach the end.

The next carriage is empty.

“That was a bit weird, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. But some of them were very sweet. I hope I end up falling asleep holding my wife’s hand when I’m old, like that.”

“You’re married?” Natalie turns to face me.

“No! God, no. Still, y’know, looking for the right girl…Are…you?”

She ignores my question. It occurs to me that I didn’t get a look at her left hand.

Suddenly, it seems that we pick up speed and there is a great rattling. In the windows, out of the left side, I see a faint light.

“Look!”

We pass it, too quickly to take notice. Then, something seems to hit the side of the train and we are both thrown forwards, slightly. Natalie instinctively clasps my hand and I give hers a squeeze.

“I don’t like this,” I say. “Something seems off.”

“Yeah. Maybe we should pull the cord?”

“Cord?”

“The emergency brake?”

“Right. Of course.” We both look for it. There doesn’t seem to be one the entire length of the car.

“Here,” I say, as we reach the end. A small, silver chain is dangling from the ceiling just by the door. Above, is stencilled in a typeface like Courier New: warning: penalty for improper use.

I am about to pull on it when Natalie draws my attention to the door ahead of us – which is locked.

“We must be at the front already.”

“Knock on the door.”

She does so.

No one answers.

“Maybe it’s like a plane and they’re trained not to open the door. Probably why it’s locked,” she says.

“Yeah. Or maybe this is only the midpoint between two sets of four carriages or something? Do you remember where you got on?”

Natalie inhales as if about to answer an easy pub quiz question when she lets go of my hand, clasps both of hers over her mouth, and sits down, abruptly, on the floor.

“What is it? What’s the matter? Natalie? You ok?”

“No,” she says, sounding a little frightened. “Now that you ask me, I don’t remember getting on here at all.”

“That’s all right – neither do I! Must have been a good night!” But as I say the words, I am hit by the reality that I really do have no memory of how I got onto the train and, as we seem to be accelerating, I feel my own heart begin to thud faster.

“I’m going to pull the chain.”

“Ok.”

“Might be a jolt as we do an emergency stop. Maybe it’s best to sit on a proper seat?”

Natalie smiles at me and I help her to her feet. Another sudden lurch of acceleration presses her against my chest. I like how her weight feels. I inhale the scent of her perfume. It reminds me of something.

She sits down and I walk over to the chain and, looking back at her over my shoulder, say, “Here goes nothing!” And give it a yank.

Nothing is exactly what happens.

I shoot Natalie a look of exasperation and she stands up and takes hold of the chain with her left hand and pulls.

We do not slow down but there is there is a clicking sound from somewhere nearby – from in front of us, in fact.

“The door!” exclaims Natalie – pointing at the locked, driver’s door.

It is swinging wide open. I instinctively shout at the driver to stop the train but before I can utter a second syllable, I am struck dumb.

There is no driver.

We speed on.

Sometimes even Anglo-Saxon won’t cover it. I just look at Natalie and she grips my hand. I feel her nails digging into my knuckles.

It occurs to me that her my earlier suggestion of having only reached the midpoint might be accurate, so I venture forward into the driver’s section. There is a large, front window and, though it is still dark outside, the headlights illuminate enough to show that there is nothing in front of us. We are in the front of the train all right.

“There must be an emergency stop,” says Natalie, recovering her reason. We look around the cabin. It is dimly lit but there is an obvious red button which we bash, several times, to no avail. We inspect the series of multi-coloured buttons and try everything. There’s an old phone which we both see at the same time and make a grab for, knocking it off the hook.

It is dead.

Everything is dead – except the track.

Wherever the track is taking us.

“We need to tell everyone what’s going on,” I say. “Someone must be onboard – they can’t just disappear.”

“What did you say?”

“We need to tell other pe –”

“No – about disappearing.”

“People don’t disappear, do they? If we haven’t stopped, whoever was in control must still be on board.”

“But they do, Adam.”

“They do, what?”

“Disappear! Think about it – have you forgotten the homeless guy? He walked this way up the train after I gave him the two quid but…we haven’t crossed him.”

“Are you sure? Maybe he was sitting in the carriage with the old people.”

“No, he wasn’t. And before you say it – there aren’t any toilets on here.”

I feel nauseous and have to deliberately burp to prevent myself from puking all over her skirt.

“Come on, let’s make our way to the back.”

“Ok,” I say. “Do you think we should wake up the geriatrics?”

“No – sleep of the innocent and all that. Besides, don’t think they’d be able to help much, do you? Let’s see who else is back there.”

I agree and we turn around.

Walking is difficult as we seem to be heading through a series of bends at increasingly higher speeds and it becomes necessary for balance – as much as for comfort – to hold hands and proceed in single file. I take the lead.

This carriage is still empty; nothing has changed with the Age Concern brigade. Except one of the old ladies has dropped her pink cardigan on the floor. Natalie notices it and, brushing it down, places it gently under her wizened chin.

The Mont Blanc couple are sitting in a huddle, talking in low tones. It is pointless to try to communicate what we’ve discovered.

We press on.

The next three carriages are empty and, perhaps, because of this, I almost die of a heart attack when I open the door to the fourth and see a little girl with her back to us.

Her blonde ringlets fall just below her shoulder blades. She is wearing a blue smock dress with yellow flowers embroidered on it. She is swinging her bare legs as she sits on the seats closest to the aisle.

Hearing the door (I assume), she turns around and smiles. She has a pretty face. Part of me is relieved not to be staring into the eyeless vacuum of some reanimated child corpse, like in a horror film. She can only be eight or nine.

“Hello,” she says. “Are you the ticket inspector?”

“No, no, I’m not, sweetie,” I say, instinctively. (I don’t really know how to talk to children. None of my friends has children. Or, rather, none of the people who has children is someone I want as a friend. Too much work. Still, I hope it’s all right to call her ‘sweetie.’ It’s what my sister calls her mates’ kids).

“Are you all right?” says Natalie, stepping forward. “Where are your mummy and daddy?”

“Oh, it’s ok, they’re coming later,” says the little girl. She kisses a soft toy she is cuddling, which might – once – have been a fox, or a rabbit. It’s difficult to tell.

“And you know where you are?”

“Oh, yes! Well, not exactly. But I know we’re nearly there. Exciting, isn’t it?”

I shoot Natalie a look and she shrugs her shoulders.

“We’re going to play and play and play! And sing, and dance, and swim! I like swimming. Do you like swimming?”

“Yes,” I say, “Though I’m not very good at it.”

“That doesn’t matter, silly,” she says, and giggles. Then she looks at me, jumps off her seat and walks right up to me, reaching out with her little hand and placing it on my chest.

“You aren’t scared, are you? Lots of the others have been scared. But you don’t have to be, you know. Everything’s all right now. There’s just the last station left.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Where does this train terminate?”

“Terminate? Ter-min-ate?” She rolls the word around in her mouth like a piece of gum and then, throwing out a generous laugh, skips down the aisle towards the car door.

“Hey!” I call out, “Have you seen anyone else? Any other adults? I want to speak to the conductor. Is there a conductor?”

She stops her skipping and turns around again and walks back towards us, gravely, dragging her toy by its paw.

“Of course. Didn’t he let you on?”

“I…I don’t remember,” I say. I look at Natalie, who shakes her head.

“Oh dear,” says the little girl, sitting back down and frowning, thoughtfully. “Maybe I’m not allowed to tell, then.”

“Tell? Tell what? Now, look here, I –” I break off, remembering that I am talking to a small child, and appeal to Natalie.

“I’m sure we were told,” she says, gently. “It’s just that we’ve been asleep, and so we must have forgotten.”

“I see,” says the girl, smiling again. “Well, what’s the last thing that you do remember?”

At that moment, there is a crunching sound as we seem to hit something and I lose my footing and fall into a seat, whacking my right shin bone on the metal. Natalie helps me to sit. All this I feel, but don’t see – because something is beginning to replay in my mind:

Searing pain. The sound of glass. Screaming. A car horn. Blue lights. Cold.

I don’t know how long this fit lasts but I gradually become aware of Natalie, again. She looks as white as a sheet.

“Adam?”

“Ssh,” I say. “Don’t say it. It can’t be. We…can’t be.”

She just nods, slowly, and takes my hand.

“Last thing I remember was driving,” she says.

“Me too. I think…there was an accident.”

“Have you worked it out yet?” says the girl, cheerily. I want to punch her. Is that awful of me?

“What’s your name, sweetie?” asks Natalie.

“Grace.”

“Grace. That’s a lovely name. Grace, are we…still…y’know…”

Grace isn’t giving anything away. She’s going to make one of us say it. Say that we’re dead.

“This is the tunnel, isn’t it?” I say, aloud – more to myself than to the others. “Y’know – everyone talks about a tunnel, don’t they? I just didn’t think it would be a train. That must be why it’s so dark.”

Natalie turns to me and we start to talk, earnestly, about our situation, ignoring the child:

“Yes, it’s starting to make sense, now. But where are we going? I don’t see any pearly gates ahead.”

“Nor flames,” I add, cheerfully.

My mind races. The old people – presumably died in their sleep. They seemed pretty nice. Hard to tell, of course. And the Mont Blanc couple – didn’t give me serial killer vibes. Grace is clearly innocent, and Natalie…well, she’s been kindness itself to everyone. So, maybe – just maybe…if I’m on board a train to my final destination with a bunch of decent people, it means they think I’m decent-ish, or decent-enough not to get sent somewhere else??

Only I know I’m not decent. I lie, I cheat, I hate. I’m selfish… I close my eyes and see, in my memory, a wedding ring on Natalie’s finger as she is pulling the chain just now. I still desire her. I was annoyed to find the girl in this carriage. I wanted to kiss her.

But not, perhaps, with these lips.

I put my tongue out and lick my lower lip. The remnants of the Merlot taste of their blood, as it starts to come back to me.

There cannot be light for me at the end of the tunnel. Not if any of our mythologies is true. I know I don’t deserve it.

And, yet…I wonder – is that recognition itself, enough? My mind starts to race as I make a concerted effort to bring to remembrance anything I learned about religions and philosophy. There was a Frenchman, I think. Something about a bet or a wager.

I am interrupted by the last sound I expect to hear: the click of a microphone coming on through the tannoy, and then this announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, as we approach the station, please take care to ensure you have everything with you. I will shortly be making a final pass through the train to check tickets before disembarkation. Remain seated and thank you for your patience.”

“Oh, goodie!” exclaims Grace. “I can ask him to clip you ticket, Robin.”

“You…have a ticket?” I manage to stammer.

“Of course! The conductor gave it to me. Don’t you have one? How did you get on board? Oooh, how will you get off? Oh dear!”

I turn back to Natalie, who must be able to read the panic on my face.

“Is it like the ferryman? We have to pay him to cross over?”

Before she can answer, an austere man dressed in a black uniform, complete with cap, black-rimmed glasses, and pocket watch, steps out from behind the door at the end of the carriage. I must not have noticed it before. We are, evidently, in the back car.

“Tickets, please.”

I look up into his severe eyes. He has a thick, brown moustache.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t quite manage to get one before I…boarded.”

“Adam,” he says, in a voice almost as loud as thunder, which rumbles with the same frequency as the train. “Adam, you have had your whole life.”

“How…err…how much is it? I’ve got twenty quid in my pocket, here – but –” I start to say, but the words begin to sound more and more ridiculous.

“Tickets must be paid for in advance. I do not have the power to issue them, I’m afraid. My job is merely to inspect.”

“I see…” I falter. “And what happens if I can’t show you a ticket? Do I get a…fine, or something?”

The inspector peers over his glasses at me and sighs:

“I’m afraid those without a ticket will have to be thrown off and cast out…into there.” He motions with his hand to the window.

“What is there?”

“Nothing. The darkness.”

I gulp the air.

“At least we’ll be together,” says Natalie. Her voice is sweet but there is a tremor in it.

“Have you checked your bag thoroughly, miss?” says the ticket inspector in a kindly tone.

“My…bag?”

“Yes. I’m sure you’ll find your ticket in there. I’ve got your reservation on my list all right.”

Bewildered, automatically, Natalie digs around in her handbag and retrieves a silver ticket which she passes to the inspector. He clips it and returns it to her.

I can’t help but feel a little betrayed and open my mouth to say something to her but, from the look on her face I know she is as surprised as I am. Besides, I’m glad she won’t be thrown off.

“I don’t suppose you could check your reserved list again – for Adam, could you? Please?” says Natalie.

The inspector smiles at her and draws out a small, black, leather notebook from an inside pocket, which he starts flicking through. He reaches the end, quickly, and shakes his head forlornly.

“I’m afraid not, son.”

“Worth a shot, eh?” I say, trying to smile, and taking a long look at Natalie.

“It’s all right, he’s with me!” a voice calls from behind.

I turn around and see the homeless man running towards us, with a great smile on his face.

“He’s with you, sir, is he?” says the ticket inspector.

“Yes, that’s right. I’ve paid for him.”

“Well, that’s all right then,” says the inspector, cheerily. He tips his hat to the homeless man, and then to Natalie, and pushes past us to make his way up the train.

As we hear the door close behind him, Grace jumps up and down with glee:

“You came back! You came back!”

“Yes, little one. I said I’d conduct you myself, didn’t I?”

He scoops Grace in his arms. She does not notice the stink.

“Have you been all right?”

“Yes, thank you. It doesn’t hurt anymore! Does it…hurt you?”

I look again at his yellow toenails and bandaged legs, and then up to his hands. They, too, are bandaged.

“I…I don’t know what to say,” I begin. “I’ve been so…I…”

“You don’t have to say anything, Adam. I know…and there’ll be time for all that, later.”

“But I’m not –”

“Yes, Adam. You are. You’re all worth the price.”

He smiles, broadly, and I notice his lips are stained with red wine. I lick my own lips and taste honey, as I feel the train begin to slow down at last. Something else is changing, too: somewhere, in the distance, through the window, a faint, golden light is beginning to shine.