SHORT STORIES: ‘Misapprehensions’

I check the time on my phone once again. Almost 10 pm, and the train now hasn’t moved for over 6 minutes. I turn to the window, and squint to try and see out, but aside from a metre high bank of snow I cannot see anything, and soon my attention turns to my reflection. I look tired. My skin is pale but for thin dark rings below my eyes. I think about returning to work the next morning, and waves of dread sweep across me. I resolve to think of something else.

I look across the carriage. One other passenger, a man, around 30 I would say, with greasy medium length hair and what must be a weekend’s worth of stubble. He seems agitated, and he continues to fiddle with the end of the sleeve of his fleece, constantly pulling it down over his palm and then releasing it. He is sitting several rows away, and has a tattered black hold-all with him.

All of a sudden he lifts his head and looks up. Our eyes meet for the shortest moment before mine dart back to my phone. I check the time again: 10 pm, and still we remain stationary, between the last two stops, high up in the mountains.

I finally notice that I am not alone in the carriage. My mind had been so tied up in this awful weekend of recriminations and squabbles that I had totally forgotten my surroundings. A few rows away there sits a young girl, maybe twenty-something, with silky brown hair, framing a pale, alert looking face.

I caught her staring at me, and I continue to glance up at her, to see if she is still looking. She isn’t. Her eyes remain glued to her phone. I look back down to the tatty paperback I am trying to read. I must concentrate, and stop losing my train of thought.

After a few lines I feel the train shudder back into life and my eyes glance to the window: nothing. Then to the girl, and our eyes meet again before she looks down again. What a peculiar woman.

Finally the train is moving again, albeit only slowly. The fidgety man in the carriage keeps staring at me. He is making me most uncomfortable. He seems to be out of control of his actions. He seems utterly unaffected by the constant movement in his lower arms. He could be crazy. He could be dangerous.

I look back out the window and see one solitary house’s light above the snowbank. At least we are almost back. My eyes check quickly on the man. He is still looking, so I return my gaze to the window, and let out a heavy sigh as the train slows again.

The train stops again and my heart sinks. I am desperate now. I rifle through my bag once more to check but there is no result. Five hours on the train mulling over my maladies has left me in desperate need of a drink. The nature of my sobriety is thick and oppressive in the air. I can hear every tiny mew of the train’s mechanisms, see every detail of the seat pattern and feel the wound of every arrow fired during the weekend.

I clasp my head in my hands and despair of my habits. I had improved so much, but the family has such a knack for bringing out the worst in people. I let my head fall gently onto the icy cold window and shut my eyes tight.

There is nothing more odious than having to work the last train on this line. A dead end of humanity tucked deep in the mountains, my cul-de-sac, the freezing nook of “home”. I leave my paperwork and stride along the aisle toward the front of the train to try and out what is the matter. If we do not arrive soon my reservation shall be lost and I shall have to confront my mother, admit to her I lie about never working this line and plead for forgiveness and refuge.

In the final carriage sit the only passengers on the train. They both look distressed, but not dangerously so, so I march on into the driver’s cabin. I ask about the delays and receive the usual answer: signalling. As I return to my empty carriage the train is dragged back into motion and I smile gently and utter a possibly premature sigh of relief.

As the lights of the town come into view in the distance I gather my belongings and go to stand by the door. I dream of the comfort of my bed and rest my head on the wall near the door. The man continues to fidget, and shivers creep up my spine from my waist to finally envelop my head.

The streetlights have surrounded the train line and I can almost taste the relief. Seconds until the station and then a five minute dash home to satisfaction. I stand up and head towards the atrium. I hadn’t noticed but the girl is already there, leant immobile against the wall.

Panic grips me as I see the figure approaching. The platform materialises below the train, and my eyes dart round in search of the controller. The train stops, and after an endless second the doors open. I try to step nervously out of the train, but I am knocked by the man and I fall to the ground. He belts towards the exit leaving me flat on the concrete with my bags still on the red carpet of the train’s floor. My panic is replaced by an indulgent sense of ire. The controller, helps me up, takes my bag from the train before darting off herself. I begin to trudge gently home, unaffected by the chill of the mountain air, revelling in the anticipation of home.

The light dazzles me and the cool air soothes me as I hurry along the deserted streets. As I turn into my street, guilt suddenly strikes me for knocking over the girl in the station. I did not look back, but I heard her yelp. I leap excitedly over the low stone wall and begin to scrabble for my keys. The door is soon opened and the stale, tepid air of my house seeps into the darkness for several minutes before I return to close the door.