The Tunnel

The train jolted over its points. My head knocked against the window, and I awoke. I kept my eyes closed, listening. Sounds were muted; buried under the metallic orchestra of pistons, straining links, and wheels whirring. Breathing deeply as I gathered my consciousness, I could smell beeswax, coal, and old paper. I had clearly been sleeping deeply; but this had happened before, and I knew that I would soon come fully awake. I would know exactly where I was, how I came to be here, and why. No cause for panic.

I opened my eyes, slowly, steeling myself against the light. This was unnecessary; the carriage was barely lit by lamps mounted on the walls. The traincar was old-fashioned: red velvet seats, some in groups facing one another; a central aisle; and glass-panelled doors at either end. A vestibule, and a corridor beyond. The window beside me was flanked by burgundy curtains.

My memory failed to emerge. What train was this? Where was I going? I really must have been tired, to fall into such a profound sleep and to wake so slowly. That’s middle age for you. I smiled, ruefully.

Thinking to check my ticket, I cast around for my bag and coat, but they were not under my seat, or tucked beside me. I looked at the luggage rack above my head, but it was empty. Looking around, I saw that all the racks were bare. There were no bags on the floor, no-one hugging a knapsack or clutching a satchel. The carriage was full; fifty or so seats were occupied, but not a single item of baggage.

I was able to pick out a few faces around the carriage. All were strangers to me. Across from me, an elderly woman was sitting neatly, her hands folded in her lap. She was awake, though gazing rather vacantly in front of her. Next to her, an old man frowned down at his knees, tapping out a rhythm with his fingers to match the rattle of the train.

I felt something against my ankle. I looked down; a small grey cat with amber eyes was winding its way between my legs. I bent forward to stroke its head, feeling pleased that the creature had chosen me to approach. I glanced up at my fellow travellers, hoping that they too would acknowledge the honour the cat had bestowed upon me, but they looked on without comment or apparent interest. Effortlessly, the cat jumped onto the seat next to me. It turned around twice, and settled with its head on its paws.

A tremulous cry broke the silence. I glanced across the aisle, and saw an infant, perhaps a year old, in a carry seat. Across from the baby was a balding man with glasses, dressed in a scruffy, crumpled suit. Next to him was a small, tired-looking woman. She rested her elbow on her armrest, her bowed forehead in her swollen hand. Both of them glanced at the baby, but neither tended to it. Next to the baby, a brown-and-white spaniel sat in the seat, looking attentively out of the window.

The sun was low outside, slanting across a late spring afternoon. Near fields gave way to far, heather-topped hills. Light sparkled across a small lake, around which stood old, cosy-looking cottages. From their gardens, bright blue larkspur, pale roses, and late tulips scattered colourful reflections in the water. I was cheered by the sight, though envious of the inhabitants of such picturesque and venerable homes. Who lives there? I thought. How did they come to inhabit this beautiful, peaceful place?

The door at the end of the carriage opened. A tall, imposing man entered, surveying us with a searching look. He made his way unhurriedly down the length of the carriage. I thought a flicker of surprise, or recognition, or satisfaction, crossed his brow from time to time, but he said nothing.

He stopped close to me. His eyes fell on the grey cat. Reaching out, he rubbed his fingers together in the familiar gesture of the cat-lover. The cat yawned elegantly, and rose to investigate this overture. It rubbed its cheek against the long fingers, manoeuvring its head beneath the stroking hand. Eyes closing, it turned a blissful countenance toward the conductor. Time seemed to hang, for a moment, as the cat revelled in the affection of this friendly stranger.

The conductor gently scooped up the cat. Murmuring softly, rubbing behind its ears, he carried it through the carriage, into the vestibule.

In one sudden, fluid motion, the conductor wrenched open the train door and hurled the cat out. A woman sitting close by gasped and raised her arm, too late, in feeble protest. We all craned towards the windows, trying to glimpse the wretched animal, hoping that it might have survived, that it had avoided injury, that there were more of its nine lives to spare. The train was racing now, as if sprinting from the scene of a crime. None of us saw what became of the grey cat with the trusting, orange eyes.

We became alert, now, all of us, glancing at one another, wide eyed, outraged. Except one. A curly-haired man, casually but expensively dressed, chuckled in approval.

“I can’t stand cats.” he said. “Good riddance.”

The conductor looked at him, inclining his head slightly.

“There are others.”

The conductor’s voice was rich and aristocratic. He spoke quietly, but with a timbre that carried to each end of the carriage, top to bottom, into the corners. I felt that his voice had entered my own head, reverberating into every foramen of my skull.

“Please,” he continued, fixing the grinning passenger in his gaze. “Help yourself.”

The man rose from his seat, his smile widening. He passed into the corridor.

“Here, kitty kitty.” His voice faded as the carriage door slammed shut. The train surged forward.

The conductor gazed after his new helpmate. His expression was unreadable. Pity? Condescension maybe? Regret? I couldn’t be sure. I thought that he must have felt cheated, had wanted to commit his own foul deeds. A pleasure shared is a pleasure halved? Is that it? I wondered, nauseated.

The conductor gave a slight shrug. He looked at the spaniel, still sitting to attention by its window. It cocked its head prettily to one side; the liquid brown eyes regarded the conductor with unaffected hope. Might this impressive man, clearly the pack leader, the authority, be inclined to go for a walk? Or provide a biscuit? The dog raised one paw, obediently following an ungiven command. The conductor smiled, and cold spasm gripped my innards.

“Here, boy. Good dog! Who’s a good dog!”

The dog descended from its seat and pattered to the conductor. The man reached into his pocket and brought out something of obvious interest. The dog watched, mesmerised, as he held it aloft.

“Wait… wait… and jump!”

The dog snapped the treat out of mid-air. The conductor beamed round the carriage, as if expecting a round of applause. We began to venture small glances at one another. The conductor took the dogs face between his hands, and ruffled its silky coat.

“Good boy! What a good boy yes you are! Again? Yes? Wait… wait… and jump!”

Another treat arced through the air and the dog caught it. The conductor exclaimed with delight. The atmosphere in the carriage began to unwind. A few of us smiled, guardedly. I think we had started to believe that this was a magician of some kind; a showman. These were tricks, just a conjuring tricks, nothing more. Some of the passengers looked at the floor, expecting the grey cat to reappear. Our relief verged on hysteria as we watched the conductor backing down the carriage, the dog gamely jumping to collect treats as he launched them one after another into the air.

The conductor backed into the vestibule, still throwing morsels for the spaniel. The door closed, but we could make him out through the window, and hear him showering the dog with praise.

A clatter. The unmistakeable sound (“wait… wait…”) of the door of the train once again being yanked open.

“And… jump!”

As one, our heads snapped toward the window as if jerked by strings. A brown-and-white streak flashed by, legs churning helplessly. The train sped onward, and the dog disappeared out of sight.

The conductor re-entered the carriage. He passed back, still unhurried, between the seats. Many passengers were angry now, taking large, hissing breaths, their eyes dark and their bodies upright. Some were clearly confused, unsure whether this performance was some kind of ruse. The taste in my own mouth was of fear.

The conductor returned nonchalantly to my part of the carriage. Silently, I willed him to pass along. Instead, he stopped beside the infant in the carry-seat. I felt a pulse rising in my throat.

Slowly, he lifted the baby, bouncing it and crooning quietly. The baby fretted and wriggled, but the conductor held it to his shoulder and soothed it expertly. The child’s eyes became heavy and contented. The conductor stepped again towards the vestibule.

“What are you doing?” A voice rang out. The bald, crumpled man across from me rose from his seat, a bead of sweat glistening on his forehead.

The conductor ignored this outburst completely, and continued along the aisle.

“I asked you a question! What are you doing?” The bald man took an uncertain step toward the conductor.

The conductor stopped and turned.

“You cannot harm that child. It stays on the train.” The man in the crumpled suit tried to sound resolute, but his voice quaked.

The conductor narrowed his eyes, returning the bald man’s gaze coolly. The bald man did not move. They both stood in the aisle, the conductor unruffled, the bald man trembling and swaying unsteadily as the train rocked. After a long pause, the conductor shrugged almost imperceptibly, and turned his back on the bald man to continue along the train.

“Stop him! For pity’s sake stop him!” pleaded the bald man, staring wildly around the carriage.

As if sleepwalking, a pale, gaunt woman with close-cropped hair stood to block the conductor’s path. It seemed to take her every ounce of her strength.

“Please.” She cast about her, as if what she wished to say might be written on the walls. “Please, leave the child. I’ll take him. I’ll take him with me, if you like.” The woman's words found strength in numbers. She straightened, her voice becoming louder. “He’s only a baby. His family must have forgotten him here. They’re probably sick with worry. They’ll be looking for him. Please. Let me take him and get him back to his family.”

The conductor continued to move towards the woman. He reached her, his exceeding height dwarfing her slight frame. The pale woman flinched, but held her ground, not stepping back. The conductor stooped until his face was inches from the woman’s.

“How brave.” He was not mocking nor antagonistic, but neutral and measured. “How very brave of you. As you wish.”

The woman’s body crumpled with relief as she took the baby from the conductor. She smiled down at the child, extending her finger for the tiny fist to grip. She made to return to her seat, when the conductor seized her by the waist. Bodily lifting woman and baby together, he strode rapidly down towards the train door, where once again the sickening clack-thump of its opening heralded the woman’s scream as she was pitched out, the train neither slowing nor quietening to mark another soul’s unceremonious expulsion.

Swiftly, with decisive movements, the conductor strode back down the aisle to the bald man. The elderly woman sitting opposite rose to her feet, and tried, nervously, to reason with him. I stared in horror as he took the man by the arm, and grabbed the woman around the wrist. Both shouted and struggled, but the conductor carried them like stuffed animals, as he marched once again to the door. Their screams turned into a gasps as they were ejected.

The entire carriage stared, frozen. Shock, disbelief, and terror were etched into every expression. The conductor paced deliberately to the very centre of the carriage, and stood staring as if to challenge any person there. An elderly woman several seats from me stood. She spoke in broken English. I could not identify her accent accurately; she might have been Eastern European.

“This was a terrible action!” the reedy voice cried. “This must not continue!”

She turned to implore the rest of us.

“We could together succeed against him, I think. He must be given to the authorities! My friends, we are here witnessing terrible crimes. Let us act, before it becomes too late!”

She was still exhorting us as the conductor advanced upon her, picked her up and threw her out of the ceaseless train. He dragged with him two young men in military uniform who had grasped his arms, attempting to hold him back. They, too, were pitched out like spent matches.

Despair seemed to seize us then, as we stole furtive, frightened glances at one another. We dared not attract this terrible man’s attention; we moved, we even breathed, as little as possible, and tried to arrange our faces into meek countenances, unworthy of special note.

Silence fell, as the train sped on.

Dusk was falling outside; the countryside softened in the gloaming. I longed to go to it, to use the fields as my bed, the hills as pillows, to knock at the door of one of the inviting dwellings and be welcomed by the souls inside. The train thundered along, its cacophony joining the ringing in my ears. The conductor kept watch, his presence an unspoken warning to us all.

Presently, the train slowed. Buildings appeared either side: large, warehouse-like structures; then affluent suburbs; then the unmistakeable signs of a large and historic city. I saw churches, mosques, shops, a cinema, and grand apartment buildings. We all sat up alert, looking left and right out of the windows for a station, a town sign; but saw no likely stopping place. We chugged past a large, ornate building with a huge glass edifice. I thought for a moment that I recognised the grand atrium of a famous opera house. It was lit with chandeliers, under which elegant patrons in evening gowns and suits were gathered in clusters. Their smiles were warm, their conversations lively. As the train passed, a group at the edge of the crowd broke apart. A stout, moustachioed man with lively, twinkling eyes turned to the window. His companion, tall and serious-looking with a grey beard and a striking blue turban, turned with him.

There was a gasp from a nearby seat. A plump, worried-looking woman stood up and pressed her face to the glass, cupping her hands round her forehead against the reflections from within. She appeared puzzled. As I watched, her surprised frown turned to astonishment, and then something approaching excitement. She straightened herself, and stepped into the middle of the carriage. She walked straight toward the conductor and addressed him in a firm voice.

“I want to get off. I need to get off this train.”

She pushed past the conductor and went through the carriage door. We heard the train door open, and then close again. The plump woman returned.

“There’s a six-foot drop alongside. I think if we were to help one another, use our clothes as ropes, we could lower people down and take a chance at jumping.”

She looked defiantly at the conductor, who looked back, amused.

“No-one’s stopping you.” he said, languidly, and rather elaborately picked a piece of fluff from his sleeve.

An older, Indian lady stood up. Her bearing was dignified; her clothing immaculate. She too, radiated defiance.

“I will help you.” she said.

She pushed past the conductor, whose lip curled in amusement as she barged him to one side. The Indian woman unwound her loose head scarf as she went out of the carriage.

“Hang on, let me give you a hand. Wait, I said!” A lad, no more than twenty, in a donkey jacket, work boots, and stained trousers set off after the ladies.

They conferred for a moment by the open door, getting a sense of the task. The young man took off his jacket, the Indian lady her scarf. The plump woman took a firm hold of both, with her allies holding each garment at the other end. She lowered herself through the door of the train, and out of sight. The coat and scarf strained taut, then suddenly their owners almost tumbled backwards, as their improvised ropes went slack. The man leaned forward and looked out through the door.

“I can see her! She’s on the ground. She’s moving! She might be alright, I can’t tell.”

The train lurched as the track curved steeply round.

“Dammit, I can’t see her. What do you want to do?”

The Indian woman looked afraid, but resolute.

“Let me follow.” She grabbed the scarf and the coat, too, twisting them round her wrists for grip. She lowered herself to the floor by the doorway. “When I say, let go of my scarf. I’ll release your coat.”

The man nodded, and the woman disappeared from view. She let out a sudden shout, her words indistinct – and the scarf followed, leaving the young man staggering backwards clutching his jacket.

The conductor entered the vestibule.

“Oh, well done!” he said, clapping the young man on the back, then taking him by the shoulders and pushing him smartly through the door, and off the train.

“Enough!” shouted another passenger, a grizzled man with a salt-and-pepper beard, whose hair stood straight out from his skull as if electrified. “This is a monster! He is sick and psychotic! He clearly has murderous intentions towards us! We need to act, and act now!” Despite his advanced age, the man radiated energy and righteous anger.

The group in the seats around him began to fidget, and to nod, and to exclaim agreement as this new evangelist continued his exhortations. They finally stood and advanced on the conductor, who watched their march toward him with detached interest. Finally they surrounded him. He stood a head taller than the greatest of them. The small crowd jostled him, their fury and apprehension equally evident as they tried to overpower their enemy.

The conductor moved like smoke, through and around the gaggle of passengers. One by one, he pitched them forward, sideways, overhead; he tripped them, hoist them aloft, and propelled each one in turn off the train and into the gathering dusk.

The gloomy man opposite me caught my eye.

“I think” he said, slowly, “we need to choose now. Whether we want to be on our feet, or our knees. I refuse to sit here waiting for the whim of a madman.”

He shuffled past me, and to the end of the carriage. As the conductor reached out towards him, he held up his hand – not in supplication, but with authority. The conductor stopped, smiling quizzically. The man’s frown deepened as he walked past the conductor, to the door, and stepped over the threshold. He looked like a man alighting after a long commute, simply stepping forward, disappearing without trace. The conductor gave a satisfied nod. He turned to the carriage.

“The tunnel is approaching!”

The voice was impossibly loud; each word thudded in my chest, and a searing pain lanced through my head as the conductor made his announcement. I could not grasp the significance of it; I had still no idea where the train was going. A few passengers shifted uneasily in their seats; they appeared as bewildered as I.

The train gathered pace, its machine noises rising to a howling din. Abruptly, we were plunged into darkness. The lamps flickered on the walls. A choking, sulphurous odour came to me, smoke coating my tongue and stinging my eyes. Fetid heat gripped my clothing, but despite this I shivered uncontrollably. My head pounded still.

The conductor stood above us all. In the darkness, with the lights casting strange shadows, he appeared mountainous. Composite silhouettes from the seats and windows merged with his, as if he had sprouted wings. The lamps jutted above his head like horns, and their flickering illuminaton seemed to be caught and magnified by his eyes, which appeared to emit not just this reflection, but their own burning glow. I think I shouted out in fear, but my voice was swallowed by the tumult of the train. Outside the windows, all was black.

We pitched out of the underpass as suddenly as we had entered. The din settled once again to a rhythmic hum, and a weak but welcome twilight slipped in between the curtains. Looking around the carriage, I saw that I had not been the only one terrified. We were hollow and cheerless. Some of our number were weeping.

On this side of the tunnel, houses here were crowded together, many with broken windows, and peeling paint as if subject to a disfiguring skin disease. A fine drizzle started up, spotting the windows. I was grateful for the cool glass as I rested my head against it once again. I closed my eyes; even a brief escape into sleep might offer some respite from the nightmare unfolding around me.

The conductor was peering over our heads, out through the window of the train. He gazed around at the half-empty carriage. His expression was peevish and dissatisfied. Eventually, he seemed to come to a decision. He heaved a sigh.

“Come on, then.” he said wearily, to no-one in particular.

Seizing the passengers to his immediate left and right (both florid, paunchy men in late middle-age), he marched them to the vestibule. Their red faces were the picture of belligerent fury, but the conductor seemed not to notice their struggling and swearing. The door. The push. The angry shouts. Two fewer aboard.

The conductor became workmanlike. He dragged my fellow passengers, two, sometimes three at a time down to the end of the carriage before pitching them off into the gloom. His face throughout was impassive, his bearing stoic, no matter the blows rained down on him or the curses spat into his face. I shrank down into my seat, hoping to recede into a friendly shadow, to avoid his attention. He was coming ever closer.

There was a large, blonde, pink-faced gentleman a few seats away. He and I were the last in the carriage. He stood as the conductor approached him.

“Now, look here” he said. His voice was plummy and brisk, and he carried himself with an air of authority. “I think we can come to some arrangement, don’t you?”

He rummaged in his pockets, obviously searching for a wallet or chequebook. The conductor stared at him, coldly.

“YOU!” he thundered. “Your position. Your status. Your money…” (he spat the word as if it tasted foul) “will not help you here.”

Snarling, he picked up the blonde man and threw him directly against the train window. It shattered, and the pinstriped arms and legs flailed, then fell.

The conductor half-sat, half-fell into the seat across from me. He looked disgusted, and tired. For the first time he seemed to be breathing heavily. He rested his elbows on his knees and sank his head into his hands. I dared not hope, at that moment. I sat perfectly still, shrinking down into my seat, and did my best to bring my trembling under control.

It seemed an age before the conductor straightened himself. He lifted his head, and made to get up, when he noticed me huddled in the corner seat. His eyebrows raised in surprise. He studied me for several seconds, while I smiled weakly. When the conductor spoke, his tone was conversational.

“Hello there, what’s this?” He peered at me, curiously. “It’s you! How strange.”

I did my best to smile, but felt only the slightest twitch of my lips.

“I suppose there’s a sense in it.” He continued. “You always seemed to be just on the cusp, you know. On the verge of doing… better.

“I suppose we can never know when it will be too late. That said… your murder, you know, really was contemptible.”

“Murder?” I could scarcely believe my ears. “There must be some mistake. I’ve never harmed a fly.”

I understood then. This train was for criminals, for thieves and murderers and blackmailers, for those being punished for their misdeeds. There had been a terrible miscarriage of justice.

The conductor carried on as if I had not spoken.

“Yes, your murder was cowardly and pointless. To creep up behind someone, bludgeon them in the temple? Disgraceful. And for what? Fifty pounds in cash? A small diamond solitaire, a pearl necklace, and a moderately good watch?”

I had been falsely incriminated. My mind clung to the last thing I could remember: slipping the ring onto my finger, fastening my mother’s pearls around my neck, and checking the time. I had walked to the bank and withdrawn fifty pounds, which I stashed safely in my bag. I had taken a shortcut, a quiet path beside the railway line. Tears sprang to my eyes as I realised that I was being implicated in a terrible, terrible crime.

“Those were my things! I didn’t murder anyone for them! They were mine!”

“That’s what I’m saying. It was an atrocity committed by a blackguard. I can certainly assure you that when the day comes, that man will be on this train to the very end of the line, to join our cat-hating friend and all the rest of them.”

I was confounded. The conductor sighed.

“You’re being rather slow. I should have expected it. You weren’t prepared, at the end. Not at all. A bolt from the blue, as they say. Though rather, in this case, a swing from an iron bar.”

I finally grasped his meaning. The carriage swam before my eyes and my throat stung with acid. The conductor grimaced, and this time he spoke more gently.

“I really am sorry, my dear. I must admit, I was a little surprised to see you still here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well. As you correctly surmise, this train leads to…”

“It's Heaven, isn't it? Before the tunnel. Hell afterwards. And you’re the devil, dragging our souls there.”

He chuckled.

“That’s a rather… binary view. I flatter myself that the truth is more nuanced. But you are right. The train never stops, it ploughs on now and hereafter. To the hereafter.”

“But who decides where we all alight?”

He grinned.

“That’s the beauty of it. You decide.”

“The passengers.”

“Yes. It's the Final Test. And I am no devil. My role is – what shall we call it – the Ferryman. A poor analogy considering our mode of transportation, but you understand my drift.

“There are, of course, a few determinations to be made. The innocents, for example…”

“The animals.” I croaked. “The baby.”

“Indeed. They go first, along with their protectors. Those who would risk their own safety, possibly their lives, to shield them from harm. They land together, and are enfolded in love for ever more.

“Next, we have helpers. Those who help others. And those who ask for help, which is just as important. They land together. Their eternity is generally harmonious, co-operative, and prosperous.

“Next, we have those who can help themselves, or galvanise others to action on their own behalves. They can have their fallings out, to be sure, but they strive for the general betterment of the group. They have pride and dignity, and they set their own compass.

“Then, of course, comes the tunnel. Darkness and shadow creep in. Afterwards, I have to get to work. The folk who remain are generally craven, indifferent, apathetic. They opt chiefly for self-preservation, self-interest. They will be embittered and dissatisfied until the end of time."

I cast my mind back over my life. A small life. Comfortable enough. I had considered myself a good person. But with good reason?

The conductor seemed to read my thoughts.

“I do understand. You lived in fear. Everything was too scarce. Time. Food. Money. Security. Praise. Laughter. There was never enough. You had to hoard it all, when you got it. You weren't indifferent. You wanted so badly to be generous; to be expansive; to be courageous; but you could never take the risk. You were coming closer. Just… too late.”

My tears fell freely, then. “You’re right. I should have been braver. I didn’t stand for anything, really. But the world… it was so frightening. Its problems seemed so vast. What could I do, one person, in the face of so much suffering?”

The conductor smiled wanly. “Tell me, my dear. Have you ever heard the old saying?” He leaned towards me, and I caught once again the deep, red glow from his eyes. “What is necessary for the triumph of evil?”

My chest felt hollow as I remembered the adage. My voice emerged small, and ashamed.

“ "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing." ”

The conductor stood, and I followed. He drew me to him. His embrace held many lifetimes’ regret.

“You can do better, you know. Even in the hereafter. Though I warn you: most people, despite having eternity to manage it, never change.”

Slowly, sadly, we walked together to the door of the train.