Tick Tock

I’m slammed out of sleep, jarred by a furious roar rumbling from my right. I scrub at the sharp pain at the back of my neck from jolting awake and blink my bleary vision into focus. The roaring to my right is just an oncoming train, tamer now that my senses have settled, and shrouded by the condensation fogging up the windows. I swipe at it just as the train slips past and the blurred landscape beyond springs up in its place, tinged blue by the hue of dawn. Or dusk, I’ve kinda lost my bearings. It takes me a couple beats to realise I’m moving, and a couple more for the fact that I’m on a train myself to materialise around me.

Wait, what? How the hell did I end up on a train? I dab at the saliva that’s pooled in the corner of my mouth as a dull panic presses against the edge of my subconscious. I frantically pat myself down and relief rolls over me when I make out the shapes of my wallet, my keys, my phone, and then the rest of the carriage comes into focus. I’m on the Godspeed – the best train in the whole of Britain. The realisation is chased by a soothing hum of familiarity, like the kind most people get when they step through their front door after being away from home for a while. Still, as nice as it is, I still don’t know how the hell I got here.

I fish my phone out my jeans pocket and the screen lights up showing it’s 7:38. There’s a stack of notifications too: five missed calls from mum (shit); a missed call from Jamal, which flashes memories from last night through my mind like a pulse – a tray of shots with lemon wedges propped on top, people singing Happy Birthday, a helium ‘21’ balloon floating up into the night sky. Something tells me that’s about as much of last night I want to piece together. There are a couple of messages too, one from an unknown number and the other from… wait, what? A light bubble of excitement opens up inside me. Zainab texted me at 4:32? I tap the message and iMessage springs up on my screen.

Zainab: R u ok? U seem really drunk ☹

Zainab: Umar I don’t think us staying in contact is working for u. U need to find a way to move on and it would probably b easier if we did no contact. Tony asked me to block u and it’s probably for the best

Zainab: Hope ur ok. Happy birthday

That stings. I can feel a bruise darkening somewhere in me. I scroll up and – oh god no. My stomach drops out. There’s a video, sent by me at 3:52. I press play and my drunken drawl drips from the speakers. Look where I am, I’m saying, panning the camera around a deserted Nottingham station. I broke in, how dope is that! I groan to myself. You was always telling me to do more of what I enjoy, to stop playing it safe. Well here I am. The camera switches to the front lens and shit man, I look a proper mess. Drunk me leans against a train and even from this angle I can tell it’s the one I’m on now, I’d recognise those oranges and greens anywhere. Shall we have a look around? I’m saying, lining up my finger in front of the button, like a drunkard lining up his keys to the front door, before animatedly pressing it in. The doors wheeze open and my face cycles through several expressions: shock softening into excitement melting into glee, and it’s as much as I can stomach so I click off the video. I tap back to my inbox and open the message from the unknown number.

Unknown number: Oi u little train shagger. If u text my girl again I’ll fkn kill u!

Tony, I think to myself as a deep-set rage comes to a simmer. I start furiously pecking a killer reply, but my screen goes black. Battery dead. That’s just great. Happy birthday to me. I drop my head against the cool window and watch the world pass me by, leaning into the soothing ruh-tuh-tuh rhythm of the train chugging along the tracks.

That explains how I got on here, I guess. It’s a little weird that the driver didn’t notice me and wake me the hell up. Or even the ticket inspector, which I guess I should be grateful for considering I definitely do not have a ticket. Still, it’s rookie behaviour. I’d never miss a beat if it were me driving one of these beauties. I run my hand along the soft fabric of the seat next to me – they use real velvet, the first train in Britain to use it.

Welp, it looks like I’m going to London – or so the ticker running across the slim screen overhead says – and judging by the Simpsons-like powerplant cooling towers rising up in the distance we must be passing through the East Midlands. So I’m here for roughly an hour and a bit then. Not nearly enough time for me to sort my bloody life out, but enough time to grab some food and a coffee and admire the beauty of this mechanical stallion, which is a start.

It looks like my carriage is empty – a plus, because I don’t want people out here thinking I’m homeless or something, but I’m pissed because the onboard cafeteria is closed. More rookie behaviour, how you gonna shut the cafeteria during morning rush hour? I step through into the next carriage and it’s peppered with commuters with their noses buried in their screens or books, sleeping (or pretending to be), chatting. My chest swells with pride, which is weird because this isn’t my train. I guess it’s just nice seeing people enjoy it.

“Here he is,” a voice floats up. I follow it to a guy sat at one of the table seats, the two guys with him are grinning up at me too.

I dart my eyes about me to make sure they’re actually talking to me, then one of them calls out, “Come join us for quick drink.” Yorkshire boys for sure judging by their accents.

“Alright, boys?” I say, dropping into the empty fourth seat around the table. They’re all built like rugby players with crooked noses to match. I count six cans of Fosters on the table, plus more in a bag, and empty Haribo packets strewn everywhere. They must see me staring at it all because one of them sheepishly raises a hand and announces they’re celebrating his stag. Jordan’s his name, and he introduces his friends as Tommy and Daniel.

“Umar,” I say, shaking their hands.

“More like Sleeping Beauteh,” Jordan chuckles. “How was your slumber?”

Heat creeps up my neck.

“We was gonna sit down in your carriage but di’nt want to wake you,” chuckles Daniel, brandishing a can of Fosters.

“Well I wish you had,” I say, choking out a nervous giggle. “I only ended up breaking into Nottingham station last night and woke up on here ten minutes ago with no clue where I was or how I got here!”

Laughter ripples across the table and I sag with relief that they don’t seem to want to take the piss out of me. Spurred on by the glow of their approval, I end up telling them the full story – Zainab, the video, Tony, everything – and despite how bloody tragic it all is, the four of us are cracking up by the end of it.

Tommy pulls another Fosters from its noose, cracks it open and slides it across the table to me. “Here, happy birthday, pal. Let’s hope it gets better from here.”

“I bloody hope so,” I say, taking a swig. “It could hardly get any worse!” It’s warm and yeasty but I drink deep. If the cafeteria’s closed, then hair of the dog it is.

Another oncoming train races past sending soothing shockwaves through our carriage.

“Here, you’re dead lucky a ticket inspector hasn’t come by yet,” Jordan says, pulling me back into the conversation.

“Yeah I’d say,” I guffaw. “Being a ticket inspector myself it would’ve been doubly embarrassing.”

A sharp scraping sound rips through the carriage and we’re all thrown to the right a little. Daniel’s head bounces off the window and a woman sitting across the aisle from me yelps like a kicked dog.

“Don’t worry,” I say to her with a smile, trying to keep the smugness out of it. “The driver just took that corner a bit too quickly. It sounds a lot scarier than it is.”

She gives me a tight-lipped smile then turns away from me. No one appreciates little train facts like I do.

“Here, how d’you know that?” Tommy asks, draining the dregs of one can and cracking open another.

“I’m a trained train driver,” I say, because I can’t help myself. I can practically see the cogs ticking away in their skulls as their faces twist in confusion.

“Hang about,” Jordan says. “If you’re a train driver, what you doing inspecting tickets?”

I knock back a huge mouthful of beer. It bulges my cheeks and I have to wipe my lips with the back of my hand. “Well, legally I’m not allowed to drive.” After all this time, saying this out loud still feels like being winded by an invisible fist. Their faces twist even deeper so I go on. “I’ve always wanted to be a train driver, ever since I was a little lad. It’s funny, init – no childhood dream jobs remain intact once puberty and adulthood do their work but nope, not for me. I was determined. Really determined. As soon as I turned eighteen, the first thing I did was apply to get the ball rolling on getting my train driver’s license. And I got it. It was hard work but a year and a half later, I got it.” The echoes of my examiner’s ecstatic voice sounds in my ears.

“I’ll never forget the day I passed,” I go on. “21st June it was, a beautiful summer’s day. I’ve never been prouder; my parents had never been prouder.” And even now there’s a glowing ball of pride in my chest thinking about that achievement, before it flickers and fades. “We went out to celebrate afterwards – me; my girlfriend, the one from the texts; her best mate, Reshma; and my best mate, Jamal. Some twat was trying it on with Reshma and he wasn’t taking no for an answer, you know? So I stepped in – nothing too heavy, just said we were trying to enjoy our night and if he could kindly piss off – and the prick smacked me one. Got me straight in my temple.” I tap the right side of my skull three times. “Anyway, turns out the bastard hit me in such a way that it’s affected my right eye. Technically, I’m legally blind in it.” I shrug and drain my can. “With train drivers, if your vision’s not 2020, you’re out.” I make a choked noise as I slice my thumb along my throat. “I kinda went off the rails after that. Pun intended.”

“No way…” Daniel breathes, still rubbing his head. “I’m so sorry, pal, what shit luck. Did you press charges?”

“Nah, it didn’t even hurt,” I chuckle, despite myself. “Only found out when I went for a medical and couldn’t see as much as I could before that happened.”

“That’s proper shit that,” Jordan grumbles. He looks genuinely annoyed, which I appreciate.

“Ah don’t worry, it was a long time ago.” I force a smile. “And lesson learned, eh: don’t be a hero!”

People start to rise up like zombies around us, looping arms through rucksacks and coat arms and pulling luggage down from the overhead compartments.

“Leicester,” I announce, with a bounce of my eyebrows. “One of the unsung heroes in the rail world in terms of connections.”

“How do you know where we are?” Jordan asks. “You only woke up five minutes ago.”

“I know this route like the back of my hand. I knew where I was pretty much as soon as I opened my eyes. Sad, I know, but my grand plan was to drive this train.” I sweep my hand around us. “I researched it head to tail as I was getting my license and then of course the incident happened. It obviously wasn’t meant to be – they wouldn’t even take me on for the ticket inspector role. Customer service skills weren’t up to scratch apparently, so I’m stuck on the Great Western Railway, which is not bad but…” I trail off, prickling with embarrassment at oversharing.

And then a sense of unease inches up my spine; something’s off. At first I think I’m just overthinking my oversharing but then it strikes me that the familiar lurch of momentum as the train decelerates is missing. I’ve ridden this train dozens of times and there’s a sense of pride in some pocket of my mind that I’ve become attune to all its little subtle movements. I won’t tell these boys that though – instead I peer out of the window to check I haven’t misjudged where we are and the station leaps up into view, almost startling me. The window is smeared with blurred heads and shoulders as we zip past until the station melts away and the countryside springs back up in its place.

A collective groan floats through the carriage. “Oh for Christ’s sake,” someone says. “That was our frickin’ stop,” says another. The lads seem oblivious to what’s happened. Excusing myself, I push myself to my feet and trudge over to the largest cluster of annoyed customers stood by the platform doors.

“Hello, hello, hi,” I say, plastering on my customer service smile. “Were you all expecting to get off at that stop?”

“Nah mate, we all just fancied standing up for no apparent reason.”

Ignoring him, I ask to see their tickets. “I am a ticket inspector – for a different operator but I’ve ridden this line enough times. You might’ve accidentally been missold fast train tickets.

“Well,” a woman huffs as she hands over her ticket, “Godspeed Rail or not, you’re the first person to ask to see my ticket since I boarded.”

A wiry angst curls through me stomach, which only gets worse when I see, yes, we should’ve stopped. The feeling deepens as I scan a further seven tickets confirming the fact.

“I’m not being funny, mate,” the arsehole chimes in, “but we don’t need a ticket inspector to tell us the driver just zipped past our stop.”

Annoyingly, he’s right. I watch the landscape hurtle by outside, firming my thighs to steady myself as I sway in unison with the disgruntled passengers.

“I’ll go and see if I can find out what’s going on,” I say, before I even know what I’m saying. “Everyone just stay here, and stay calm.”

“Christ, who called dial-a-hero?”

In the next carriage – coach C – I shuffle through another cluster of annoyed passengers, tutting and muttering amongst themselves about compensation and scuppered plans. As I move, I crane my neck to gaze out of the windows. A large mass of dense grey cloud sweeps in overhead, glacial in its speed and imposition, deepening the gloom of dawn. I approach the end of the carriage and am stopped in my tracks by a young boy who steps into my path, a poised slingshot in his hands with a shiny conker nestled in the sling.

“Romain!” a voice shrills. A woman leaps out of her seat and gathers the boy into a restraining embrace. She looks up at me, embarrassment etched between her eyebrows, and apologises.

“No worries, no harm done. Hey, have you seen a ticket inspector or member of staff come this way?”

I derisive snort floats up from the seat in front of where the woman and her boy were sitting. “On this shithole of a train? No chance.”

A small dart of indignance hits me in the base of my throat. “What do you mean, why’d you say that? They run a good service on here.”

“Good service? Do me a favour. I was kicked out of my £100 first class ticket just so that they could spray for bugs. It’s a fucking joke, sitting out here with this riff raff,” he says, gesturing at slingshot-wielding Romain.

That sets the woman off and the two descend into bickering, but I slowly start to zone them out as that angst in my stomach starts to harden into dread. Spraying for bugs? They’d never spray for pests with passengers on board, least of all in first class.

Something is definitely off.

The doors to first class are ahead. I squeeze through the argument I inadvertently started and press on.

Coach B is empty and silent besides the steady hum of the train. None of the overhead tube lights are on, dipping the space in an uncharacteristically eerie darkness. I creep through, swivelling my head as I go to check for signs of life in the seats. Outside, flecks of snow begin to drift down, specking the window with drops of water. At the other end, I peer into the frontmost carriage that sits behind the driver’s compartment, another first class carriage plunged in darkness save for a flickering overhead light at the far end. That hard kernel of dread starts to unfurl. I rest my fingers on the button for the door, feel the tremble, close my eyes and swear to myself. Then I tap it and step through.

The first thing I notice beyond the flickering light is that the door to the driver’s compartment is ajar, which eases some of my anxiety – I’ll just ask the driver what’s going on. Outside, the snowfall thickens into a flurry, catching in the corners of the windows in mini drifts. Approaching the flickering light, I notice something protruding from the carriage luggage area. Probably lost property, I think to myself, but as I get closer I realise it’s not an item at all – they’re legs.

Panic surges up through me. I rush over, kneel at the feet and an icy chill trickles down my spine as the staccato light illuminates the image before me: sitting upright with his work badge still pinned to his chest, the train driver stares absently ahead, a leering gash in his throat having long leaked its crimson contents onto the crisp white collar of his shirt. White noise starts to condense in my ears, drowning out the thundering rhythm of the train hurtling ahead

A voice comes into focus, drifting from the open door of the driver’s cabin. I freeze solid, my ears practically turning towards it like a spooked animal’s. A man’s voice, speaking in what sounds like Russian with a thick accent to match. On autopilot, I push myself up off my knees to my feet and inch backward, pronounced steps of toe to heel with my eyes trained on the open door. When I’m halfway through the carriage, I turn and bolt.

Back in Coach B, panic presses down on my chest as I heave desperate breaths into my lungs. What am I gonna do? Think, Umar, THINK! The word ‘hijacked’ floats into my mind, pulsing fresh dread into my system.

I have to get off. It’s the only thought amongst a tsunami of others I can grab hold of, the only thought that doesn’t sweep me away in the current. I channel the part of my brain that hasn’t haywired into meltdown and scan through everything I know about this train before homing in on the thing that will save me: the central locking on the doors. I clamber over to the control box at the end of the carriage and use my keys to pry it open with trembling hands. I shudder with relief that the controls are the same as Great Western Railway's and key in the code to release the central locking on the doors. The hydraulics hiss in response and a white light illuminates around the exit button. I press it.

The landscape screams past in a vicious blur. The wind’s insistent and icy fingers tug at my clothes, my hair. I hold the handlebar, my knees bent and trembling, as a highlight reel of my favourite people spools through my mind: Zainab, Jamal, my parents. What’s the last thing I even said to them? I’m not done yet, man, I don’t want it to end. So I gotta do this, I gotta jump.

The inter-carriage door opens behind me, startling the resolve out of me and buckling me to my knees.

“Please tell me there’s a bloody toilet through… What the… Umar?” It’s Tommy.

“Stay back,” I spit, “it’s not safe!” I’m still clinging to the handlebar.

“What the hell are you doing, pal? You’re not thinking of jumping are you?” I squeeze my eyes shut, muttering ‘go away’ to myself over and over like it’s a spell that’ll make him disappear. Instead, I feel him kneel down behind me.

“Listen,” he goes on, “that thing with your ex, it’s not as daft or embarrassing as you think. Look, I had a mate and… I wish I could’ve told him that none of his problems were worth his life. Suicide, it’s –“

“I’m not trying to top myself!” I snap.

“Then what the bloody hell are you playing at?”

I turn, still dangling from the handlebar. I try to meet his stare so I can reassure him, send him back the other way, but the gravitational pull from the chaos in coach A tugs at my gaze. He must see my eyes dart towards it because his follow.

“What’s happening through there then?” he asks.

“Don’t.”

“I’ll go have a look, shall I?”

“The train’s been hijacked.” I vomit the words out.

Flecks of snow swirl in through the open door. My knuckles are white from gripping the handlebar and numb from the cold. I start to shiver.

“You’re having me on,” Jordan says, his cheery baritone tainted with the higher pitched hint of fear.

“I’m not. I wish I was, but I’m not. I’ve seen the driver, they cut his throat.”

“No no no no, you’re lying.”

“And if you go stomping up there with your big size nines you’ll spook him, and god knows what’ll happen then.”

“So you’re just gonna leave us? Hm? Umar, there’s kids on here you can’t just leave us.”

“I don’t know what will happen to this train when it gets to London, or if it’s even going there, but I ain’t sticking around to find out.”

“You fuckin’ coward! You jump then, leave us all to our fate.”

“I’m not leaving you, I –“ I huff, incredulous. “What the hell can I do?”

“Help us! You’re the only one who can. You know this train and this route like the back of your hand, you said so yourself. None of us have a clue! Or you can go, take the coward’s way out.”

Something resonates there. I do know this train, probably better than anyone on here. But how can I lead these people to safety? What if I mess up? Images of that bastard who knocked the vision out of my right eye float into my mind, him loping towards me with his fists up by his chin. “Nothing good ever comes of me asserting myself.”

“Good, well jump then. At the speed we’re going I reckon you’ll break a leg, if not both, and you’ll die a slow coward’s death in the cold.”

I clamber back up to my feet, my blood potent with new resolve at being called a coward one too many times. I will myself to jump but it’s like my feet are encased in concrete. I close my eyes, repeatedly counting down from three to zero but never following through with the leap. And then Zainab’s voice sounds in my ears with the melodic quality of a dream: You’ve got some untapped potential, Umar, you just don’t know it yet.

Damn that girl.

I press the button. The landscape seems to shriek in protest until we’re sealed back in the carriage. I am these passengers' best chance of survival, what kind of man would I be if I didn’t at least try to save them? Besides, I love this train. I turn, expecting some sort of thanks from Tommy, only to find him squeezing out a galloping stream of steaming piss against the opposite door.

“When you’re done with that,” I say, “go and gather all of the passengers into coach E. It’s empty and far back enough in the event we crash. Keep them as calm as possible, I’m going to try and make contact with the control room.”

“Aye, captain.”

Alone in coach B now, I scurry to the far end to the emergency phone. Through the doors I catch a glimpse of the sinister flickering lights in coach A. I key in the code to the control room and… nothing. I key it in again, my fingers digging into the buttons. The line must be dead, I think to myself, but all the brightness is leeched from that thought when it dawns on me they’ve probably been cut. I glance back into coach A, at the driver’s cabin door ajar and my fear boils into determination.

There’s nothing but silence and abandoned belongings as I traipse back through the carriages. Until I reach coach D that is – that’s when the muffled sounds of commotion start floating in. I pick up the pace. I reach the doors to coach E and see pandemonium unfolding through its window. It’s a riot. The passengers are screaming and jostling, moving as one like a bait ball. I open the doors and step through into the fray. I yell, trying to calm everyone but my voice is swallowed amongst the cacophony. The crowd moves like one single entity, pulsing and swelling and yelling and crying. Next to me, Romain clings to his mum while in front of me Tommy does his best to hold off the sea of people, his eyes crazed and darting around. The train lurches at another turning taken with too much speed and we all lurch with it. Bodies slam back into seats, against windows. A dark bubble of horror opens up in my chest when I hear the familiar wheeze of the doors opening followed by the shriek of outside with its icy cold breath. Someone has leant on the button!

“Muuum!” a voice wails. Shit, young Romain is hanging out of the door!

“MOVE BACK!” I yell at the bottle neck in the aisle, surprising myself with the boom in my voice. Romain’s squealing mixed with the tempest lashing inside seems to have whipped everyone into submission. Tommy starts ushering people backwards with his bassy baritone. Our section starts to clear and I pick through the stragglers to get to Romain and pull him inside. I shut the doors and the carriage is cooler and calmer than when I first waded in. Romain’s mum comes pushing through the crowd and gather’s her son up in her arms.

“Right, everyone!” I bellow, riding off the adrenaline. A sea of eyes are trained on me. In this moment I’m these people’s best hope. My blood fizzes. “I need to borrow a phone. Mine’s dead and the onboard phone line has been disabled. If I can get in touch with the control room, perhaps they can alter the tracks up ahead and divert this train to a remote spot like a, um, depot or something, where the police can –"

“There was a man,” a woman’s voice sails over everyone’s heads from the back of the carriage. A low buzz of chatter rises, someone tells her to speak up. “There was a man,” she repeats, louder, “when we were all asked to gather in here, he ran towards the back of the train and he hasn’t come back.”

Fresh worry pulses through me.

“Maybe he just went to the toilet?” a voice calls out.

“That toilet’s been locked since Leeds,” Tommy says. “I should know, I almost bloody pissed myself earlier.”

Another pulse, stronger. “What did this man look like?” I ask.

“Young, say late twenties. I heard him on the phone before all this kicked off but I couldn’t understand the language he was speaking, it sounded Eastern European.”

My insides turn to liquid.

The buzz swells to a raucous. People start jostling. We’re on the brink of tipping back into a riot and I’m watching as chaos slowly consumes the carriage. We’re finished if we lose control of ourselves.

“I’LL GO!” I practically projectile vomit the words. I pant into the silence my words cast over the carriage. “I’ll go check it out. I know how to disable the inter-carriage doors if I need to so it’s better if I go.”

A deferential path parts before me as I pick through crowd. Hands, soft and firm, drop onto my shoulder and give me a reassuring shake, some people mouth Thank you as I pass them. Jordan tosses me a wink. I don’t look back – if I do, my resolve will crumble. I stop when I reach the doors to coach F, staring at myself through the reflection in the window.

“You should call your loved ones,” I intone. “And the police, we’re in too deep now.”

Each coach seems to grow in eerie silences as I pass through them; coach F, coach G, coach H. Outside the snow swirls like an angry swarm of white wasps. I step into coach I, the last carriage and my heart starts booming in my chest. I can hear my ragged breath as I move through it, fully expecting something to jump out at me from one of the seats. I clench my fists till they tremble.

But there’s nothing, and I can’t decide if that’s good or bad. Then I see the toilets at the far end of the carriage – engaged. I press my face against the door and for a moment all I can hear is my blood rushing through my ears. I press against it deeper and my liquid insides freeze solid. There’s a faint scratch of a whisper.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m knocking three hard raps on the door. “Ticket inspector. Everything okay in there?” I take a steadying breath.

“Yes, give me a minute,” a voice returns. My skin erupts in goosebumps at the Russian lilt.

My fist is raised to knock again when the door cracks upon. I stumble backwards as a face peers out, eyes sweeping over me and darting down the rest of the carriage. He slithers out and shuts the door firmly behind him. He’s a whole foot taller than me with broad shoulders and large veiny hands. Now that he’s out – now that I’m facing him – whatever plan I did have for confronting him has vanished, like someone threw a flash grenade into my brain.

He makes to step past me. I hold out my hand and my palm presses into a chest that feels like it’s made of solid oak.

“T-ticket please,” I say, the words as feeble on my lips as a baby blowing bubbles.

He looks down at my hand, then at me. His face is smooth with indifference before it switches in a split second, twisting into a mask of fury. Something strikes me in the throat and I’m thrown back and slammed against a wall. It’s not until the fingers close around my throat that I realise it was his hand.

“You should have stayed away,” he spits into my ear, then yanks me away and throws me across the cabin into the opposite wall.

I meet the wall and the floor with two sickening crunches. I try to claw back the breath knocked out of me but he steals another lungful with a toe punt to my ribs.

“This country,” he says, closing a fist around the scruff of my neck and hoisting me up to dangle in his grip. “Will pay for what it did to my country.” He launches his head at me. Stars burst in my eyes as my mouth fills with a burst of metallic liquid. He throws me away from him and my elbow snags something. Dread rises up through me when I hear the hiss of the doors opening, the screaming rage of outside with its frosty breath. Amongst all this I find myself wondering why I never centrally locked them again.

“Sanctions,” he spits as he saunters towards me, “hypocrisy, lies. You people will pay for your government’s crimes.” He drags me up again but not before I can close my fist around the handlebar. “That will not save you, British man.” And it’s in that moment I realise I’ll soon be flailing around amongst the snow before the icy ground comes up to meet me.

Gargling on my own blood, the furious wind tugging at my clothes behind me, my mind transports me back to that night – that stupid night with that stranger who changed the course of my life completely. The memory has a dreamscape quality to it, like it never really happened. I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. If I do survive being thrown off of a moving train, I’ll probably be even less fit to drive one when they put me back together again. I should never try to play the hero. I close my eyes and find myself wondering who will find me as a twisted sort of peace washes over me…

And then I’m dropped. I crumple to the floor in a heap as yelling sounds around me. I squint up and see three bodies tussling with the Russian. It’s the lads – Jordan, Tommy, Daniel – I can’t believe they’re here!

I smash the door button and the doors slide shut, silencing the fury of outside once more. The boys are still wrestling with him as I struggle to my feet. I run my hand over my chin and it comes back red. Red, it’s what I see in the corner of my eye – the fire extinguisher. I break the glass and tear it from its holder, then bring it crashing down on the back of the man’s head. He pitches forward and the boys tumble down with him.

“Thought you could use some muscle, pal,” Jordan pants.

Relief battles to tame my frayed nerves. I want to hug them, kiss them, but there’s no time for that now. The fire extinguisher casing has emergency rope in it – same as Great Western Railway. I unravel it and begin working it around the man’s wrists.

“You guys…” I pant as I weave the rope into a knot, “ you literally… saved my life. If we make it out of here in one piece, I’ll owe you more than just a can of Fosters.”

“I think you’ve done more than enough, pal,” Jordan says. I feel his heavy hand drop onto my shoulder.

I feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth just as a long creaking sound fills the carriage. We all look up at once and my heart knots when I see a blond woman standing in the toilet doorway. Her face is red and blotchy and slick with tears, and her frame is bulked up by a crude looking jacket adorned with several cylinders sitting side by side along the front of it. A bright knife of terror rips through me when I see her tremoring hand gripping a black handle, her thumb hovering over a red button at its top.

She’s wearing a bomb.

Crouched, I drop the rope and slowly raise my palms up to her.

“H-hello,” I squeak. I dig deep, I’ve had de-escalation training before. Not once did I think I’d ever have to use it.

“I j-just want to talk,” I say. It’s like all the air has been sucked from the room. “I can tell you’re scared. I’m scared too. Can we just talk?”

She’s hyperventilating. Every breath sounds like she’s desperately sucking it through a straw.

“Can I send these boys away? Just me and you, would that be better?”

Her eyes dart over them, her breathing calms to a shudder. She nods frantically.

“Go.” I force the words through my teeth. I hear the guys shuffle away slowly before breaking out into a run. That knife twists.

“My name’s Umar. Umar Saleem. What’s your name?”

“Anya,” she sobs.

“Listen, Anya, you don’t have to do this. We can all walk away from this. Can you tell me what’s causing you distress?”

She sways with the train, she grimaces.

“Who am I sitting on?”

“My brother,” she says, she sniffles.

“Ok. Is he making you do this?”

Beneath me, the man begins to stir. My heart jumps into my throat. I didn’t finish tying him.

“Anya, please.”

“I have to. It’s my penance.” She wipes snot from her lips with the heel of her hand. “I brought shame on my family."

“How did you do that?”

The man lets out a groan, begins to move his shoulders.

“My sins. I like girls.”

My stomach thrums. She doesn’t want to do this. “That’s not a sin. That’s nothing, I like girls too. Girls are irresistible.” I choke out a hysterical giggle. Zainab’s face sharpens into focus in my mind. I wonder if I’ll ever see it again.

The man tries to part his wrists but they’re still tangled in the rope.

“Listen, loving who you love is no reason to do this. There are women just like you living fulfilling and happy lives. You could too, if you just…”

“Ignore him, Anya,” a voice grunts from beneath me. “Stay focused, Remember what these people did to papa, to mama. They have to pay.”

“What happened to your parents, Anya?” I ask, my whole-body convulsing. I’m running out of time.

“MURDERED!” she roars before a bout of sobbing overtakes her. “Murdered by American and British soldiers."

“Gunned down like dogs,” the man chimes in. “Whilst you lay in that whore’s bed.”

She whimpers.

“I’m sorry, Anya. I’m sorry that happened to you. I get it. My parents came to this country from Afghanistan when my mum was pregnant with me. They lost their parents in air raids. They dug their way out of the ruins of their lives and fought tooth and nail to get here to start a new one.” Shit, I’m rambling. “I g-guess my point is, I understand where your pain comes from – more than most, I do – but we can’t hold civilians responsible for the actions of the people who run their country. Otherwise we’re just as bad as them. My parents taught me that.”

“Ignore him, Anya,” the man roars. “Do you want to be remembered for the shameful acts you committed whilst your parents were killed or as a hero who fought for your country?”

“Anya, he’s wrong. Blowing up a bunch of random commuters won’t make you a hero – a heroine. To be a heroine you need to be brave, selfless and brave. There’s nothing selfless or brave about killing yourself and dozens of innocents. It’s selfish and… and… cowardly.”

The man wriggles through and drives an elbow into my sore ribs. He rips the rope from his wrists and tosses it aside, then straddles me and clamps down on my throat with both hands. The world starts to dim, the strength drains from my flailing arms.

Then suddenly the constricting lifts and I gasp in a deep breath. The man writhes on the floor next to me, one hand clutching the back of his head. I look up at Anya, she’s holding the fire extinguisher.

“Run!” she says.

I want to tell her to come with me, that there’s still hope for her, but there’s no time. I scramble to my feet and lurch towards the front of the train. I burst through the doors into the next carriage and break into a full pelt, racing through the empty carriages.

Momentum shunts me into a wall of people in coach E. I’m yelling at them to move forward, screaming at them to get to the safety of the next cabin. I’m pushing and wrestling against the great mass of bodies.

And then it comes. A thunderous boom that rips and peals in my ears. I’m launched off my feet and thrown forward. There’s a flash of bright light before I’m consumed with darkness.

*****************************************************

The darkness recedes, my vision returns, the double image of everything superimposes. The ringing in my ears subsides in time for me to hear the train come to a screeching halt. The tumult in the carriage sharpens into focus: people moaning, children crying, indistinct chatter. I rise unsteadily to my feet and look back through the window between coach E and coach F, except coach F is no longer adjoined. It sits about fifty metres away, derailed and sitting askew, flames licking up out of its blown off doors and windows. I just made it. I tear my gaze from the wreckage and pick my way through huddled, hunched and cowering people. After all this we’re still not done.

I see his silhouette approaching through the window to coach D as I stand ahead of everyone, ready to meet him. He bursts through the door, his face ghost white, a hunted look in his eyes. He brandishes something – the dull black metal of a firearm.

“WHERE ARE THEY!” he screams.

There’s whimpering behind me. I raise my palms to him and apologise.

“WHERE. ARE. THEY!” he repeats. His eyes pool with tears, he blinks one off, then two. He juts the gun forward, my breath catches. “I will kill every, single person on –“

Something whistle past my ear. The light goes out behind the man’s eyes before his knees buckle and he folds into himself to the floor. A shiny conker rolls towards my feet. I whip around and there’s young Romain, one eye closed with his slingshot still poised. I feel like a boulder in a gorge as people rush past me to subdue the man.

I fall into an empty seat. My mind feels like a snow globe that has just been shaken. Someone hands me a phone. “It’s the police.”

“Hello,” I answer.

“Sir, this is counterterrorism.” The woman’s voice is edged with urgency and authority. “I understand you can operate the trains, is that correct?”

A hope that has been dead for years flutters to life in my chest. “Yes, I –"

“Can you open the doors?”

A hysterical laughter almost bursts from my lips. “I, uh… yes, of cour-"

“Is it safe to go outside?”

I look outside. The snow has dwindled to a light dusting. “Yes. The other carriages, they’re burning but we decoupled after the, err, explosion. They’re a safe distance away from –"

“Ok. Open the doors and safely exit the carriage. Stay on the line.”

I let my hand drop to my side and shamble over to the nearest set of doors and open them. The wind, still biting, howls at me, its earlier fury tamed. I hop down onto the grassy verge, my trainers crunching in its coating of frost. The burning carriages crackle and roar against the whistle of the wind.

“I’m outside.”

“Are there any signs of damage to any of the carriages? Any fires?”

I walk the length of the train, marvelling at its majesty. All it’s been through today and it still stands, defiant. “No damage, no fires. By some miracle we haven’t derailed either.” I crouch and look under the carriages but it’s still dark so I can’t see much. “I think the threat has passed."

“Ok, good. I need you to evacuate the train in an orderly fashion. Can you do that safely?”

What the… “Yes, I could, but –"

“Your nearest station is Market Harborough, which is –"

“About fifteen miles away, yeah I know. Listen, I’m a trained train driver I could transport us to London.”

“Your instructions are to evacuate the train – safely – and escort the passengers to Market Harborough."

Something twists in my chest. After everything I’ve been through – everything all these passengers have been through – this is the thanks we get. A long trek through the snow. I look at the train, its frame stark against the orange tinted clouds above. A burning resolve suddenly surges through me and I hang up the phone.

I climb back onto the train and shut the doors.

“Right, everyone.” My voice carries over the chatter. “I’ve been instructed to take us back to London. Don’t be alarmed, I am a trained driver and will transport us safely. Use any cabin you wish but you might want to avoid coach A.” I turn to the guy who gave me his phone. “I should hold onto this. In case they call.” He gawps at me before nodding fervently.

The lads come over and we have a group hug. “Go show’em how it’s done, pal,” Jordan says.

I walk past the pile of people pinning down the hijacker. “Keep him subdued.”

When I reach coach A, I feel every nerve ending thrumming alive when I see the door to the driver's cabin swung wide upon, the opening illuminated by the flickering lights overhead. I reach the light and look down at the driver’s feet as a solid lump forms and expands in my throat. He woke up today not knowing it would be his last. I hope that hijacker gets the book thrown at him.

Inside the driver’s cabin, that hope that was fluttering to life takes wing, floating and bouncing around my chest cavity like a caged butterfly. I take my seat. A shiver passes through me as I lower my hand onto the thrust. I fire her up and I swear to god, electric sparks zip across the surface of my skin as the engine hums to life.

I untrip the safety rests, do my checks, and finally… finally move the thrust forward. We stumble and judder at first, and then melt into a smooth acceleration. Hot tears drip onto my cheeks. I sniffle and swipe them away as a grin slides onto my face. I take the strangers phone out of my coat pocket and see seven missed calls from the police. Pfft, they’ll bloody knight me when I turn up to London intact. I dial my dad’s number from memory.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Dad,” I sob. “Dad, I…”

“Son, what’s happened, where are you? Your mother’s worried sick, you didn’t come home last night.”

“I’m fine, dad,” I choke out. “I’m driving the train. I’m driving the bloody train!”

I sail smoothly along the tracks just as the sun peeps up from the horizon, the flames from burning carriages dancing vibrantly in the wing mirrors.

******************************************************

The train pulls into London later that morning. The platform is absolutely chocka – press with flashing cameras, armed police standing stoic like sentries, a sea of civilians waving, jostling to get to the front. I watch them all, beaming. Word must’ve got out.

I bring the train to a soft stop. Perfect position if I do say so myself. I do all the checks and put her in park. A police officer floats up by my window and tells me to open the doors.

“Alright, give me a minute,” I tut. I’m not going to let him rain on my parade.

I toggle the door controls and hear the symphony from the platform flood inside.

But something’s flashing on the controls. A malfunction with one of the doors in coach C. That’s odd. I jump up and rush into coach A just in time to intercept a wave of people before they stumble across the dead driver. I explain the situation and usher them off, manually closing the doors behind them. I march into coach B and do the same, getting off with the passengers and manually shutting the doors behind me.

I wade through the sea of people hugging and waving and elbowing. Cheering and chanting and screaming. I untangle a random bunch of arms that get draped over me and needle my way through the mass to get to the affected door. Weird, it looks like it started to open but something stopped it. I push my fingers through the gap and try to pry them apart. No good. I crouch to look under the carriage and see the culprit – some sort of box, strapped to the undercarriage but blocking the doors from opening. I lean in to get a closer look.

The blood in my veins goes icy cold.

The box is strapped to the carriage with layers of criss-crossing duct tape. On the box is a screen. The screen displays a timer, counting backwards. Eleven seconds. Ten. Nine.

The electric zips on my skin short circuit, rendering me numb.

It’s funny, in those final moments I almost feel like I’m floating. Excited limbs flail around me, cameras flash, but I don’t hear a thing. All the noise has melted away, leaving only a muffled silence, and the tick-tock of an imaginary clock counting down to zero.

Tick-tock

Tick-tock

Tick-tock

Tick-