Last Train on Platform 20

It is funny how alcohol brings you directly in focus with the
sensual present. Like a zoom lens however, it is only the object of
your heightened attention that is clear, everything else around it
rapidly fading to a uniform haziness.

Waterloo Bridge, late into the night and the lamp post ahead is his
next objective.. The walk is seeming unnecessarily long and arduous?
the original reasoning behind it lost in waves of alcoholic nausea that
he has been fighting hard to damp down. He is aware of a growing sense
of discomfort.. beads of cold sweat forming around his neck, wetting
his collar and trickling down his back and sides. He so wants to
scratch.. rake his fingers through his itching , sticky body. He has
become mentally tired of recording the sheer detail of paving stones
that leap out at him.. the elaborate patterning and markings of street
paraphernelia that he just cannot ignore in his present state. Half
annoyed that he still has to concentrate on not weaving wildly? he
forces himself onwards.

Waterloo Station. At last. Just beyond the railway underpass and he
will be there. He hastens his steps? hoping, praying.. that he is still
in time... trying not to believe otherwise. Not having a watch he
vaguely thinks it to be about 1 pm? surely still time enough for the
Last Train.

He stumbles through the main entrance expectantly. From the lamp lit
night into a wall of bright light.. and into an empty vastness. Not a
visible soul in sight, no signs of normal station life.. just the sight
and droning sounds of two cleaning machines.. scrubbing circles in the
distance . The floor he is standing on is polished to an unnatural
sheen.

He looks towards the display boards in the centre. Blank. He stamps his
feet in rising frustration.. at himself, at the world. Glancing up at
the large station clock in the center? 11:38? he does a hopeful double
take? realising as he is doing so that it can not possibly be and that
the clock must be faulty. This sends him into a further bout of fury
and on unsteady feet he curses loudly and unintelligibly at the sheer
stupidity of transport in London. Just as quickly his anger subsides
into an acceptance and a sobering creeping fatigue..

For a moment, now calmer, he pauses to take in the surreal breadth of
the vast station foyer ? lifeless, shiny and quiet.. in complete
contrast to the daytime hub of congested activity that he is familiar
with. Then the postponed fatigue finally hits him? a force between the
shoulder blades that causes them to visibly drop. Turning around he
just wants to drop and lie down and shut his eyes somewhere..
anywhere.

Something flickering catches his eye as he turns. Looking up to his
left he sees there is now a message on the display board. He ambles
towards it to take a closer look?

The writing blinks to him in an urgent capitalised orange:

PLATFORM 20

LAST TRAIN TO SHEPPERTON CALLING AT?

In the next instant, revitalised, he is in a lilting sprint towards the
far end of the station? Counting the platforms 8.. 10..13.. 16.. 18.19?
as he runs? where is 20? Braking and sliding theatrically past platform
19.. he sees the chalked 'PLATFORM 20' on a temporary black board by
the entrance.

Diving through? there it is? he sees three bright carriages
resplendently inviting in the otherwise platform gloom. A guardsman
stands in the shadows, poised with whistle to hand.

Then, in that time honoured unthinking way? he is rushing past the
smiling, muttering guardsman, "Dead on time, son.." towards the first
carriage.. in one flowing movement... bounding the stair and swinging
the door open and slamming it behind him with a sharp satisfying
'clack'? To the nearest available (window) seat and sinking into it
with reliedf written all over his face. Eyes shutting to enjoy the
euphoria of having made it.

A few moments later and feeling a little self conscious, he readies a
stupid grin before opening his eyes? in preparation for the looks and
the half smirks of his fellow passengers who must have observed his
undignified entry and self-indulgent celebration.

Wide eyed and swearing loudly, he is bounding towards the carriage
door? in a complete reversal of his previous movements. The polished
silver handle will not turn? he is kicking at the door in a frenzied
panic. It is locked. Through the murky window he can just make out the
shadowy figure of the guardsman.. he tugs at the window panel.. it
comes down an inch, then sticks. Fingers clenched as he tries to yank
it with all his might. It won't budge? Then face sideways.. he is
yelling through the gap? 'Wrong train.. wrong train.. Let me out.. I am
hurt.. I need a Doctor.. Let me out PLEASE.. please let me'. He hears
his own squealing voice trailing away into the deafening silence that
he knows awaits behind him. It is too late. He thinks he detects an
open armed shrug from the guardsman as the train lurches into
movement.

He stands by the door awhile, leaning into the window. Straining, he
looks at the slowly receding platform. The train gathers apace. He
imagines a stream of recognisable faces looking back at him. Blank
looks. Non-committal looks. He watches as the familiar London Waterloo
nightscapes take shape in the background then disappears from
view?

He returns back to his seat? Taking care not to look at anyone else.
There is a dark and spreading stain amongst the other dirt on the
chequered material seat. 'Filthy trains' he mutters. He settles back
into his warm and comforting wetness. He closes his eyes once again,
thinking to himself 'You've gone and done it now'. Slowing his
breathing, he tries to process the incredible thoughts clamouring for
attention in his head:

In quick cinematic succession.. a series of scenes tumbles into his
head; He sees himself on the Tube, just after work, with that Friday
anticipation of a long weekend on on his smiling features? The
staggered arrival of friends at their favoured watering hole in the
West End.. The drinks overladen table and alcohol fuelled banter and
laughter.. The jostling walk through the energetic crowds in Leicester
Square.. The alley, then the unfamiliar crowded pub they dive into...
More drinking..(it was a good typically fun Friday night out with his
closest friends, when exactly did it change?.). The tiny crowded dance
floor surrounded by bar stools and tables? Then she swings clearly into
view.. the dancing girl with the long frizzy blond hair. A distinct
silver jewelled pendant flying around her neck. Attractive.. but wild
eyed and seemingly possessed? she dances like a dervish. He is repelled
by her antics... grabbing at any male within her vicinity and dancing
inappropriately (he thinks) with them, and yet, he can not take his
eyes off her. Twice she pulls him towards her and twice he steps back,
much to the amusement of his hooting friends... Then moments later..
She is accidentally (?), in one of her wilder movements, slamming into
his midriff.. sending him careening into the tables behind.. he is
lashing out at her to steady himself.. failing.. spilling drinks.. The
sounds of bottles clattering and smashing unto the tiled floor.. eyes
turning...

Then, while he stands there unsteadily.. trying to mouth an apology...
One of the bar stool men, looking with dismay down at his clothes now
dripping wet with beer bends down and calmly picks up a smashed bottle
by its head? and then turns almost apologetically towards YOU..
Suddenly in a moment of a searing painful truth? You are.. and have
always been utterly, utterly alone.. as everyone and everything you
have ever known recedes to the margins of your existence? Now, there
are just these eyes and you... and you see nothing reflected back? Then
unceremoniously, a red veil is drawn over your world.

You wake up amongst broken bottles and spilt beer on a deserted dance
floor with an unrelenting urge to make the Last Train.

Back on the Train. You let these final images play out time and time
again until they cease to physically jolt you. You make effort to
control your breathing and finally a sort of calm washes over.
Eventually you think to yourself "Well, I know what I must do'. Without
looking you examine your left side, feeling the ragged flesh and the
still seeping wet wound with your fingers. You make to tidy up as best
as you can the unsightly gash in your side.

You look up and stare. You see the young couple again. They are sat
close together facing you. He is looking sideways through the window,
his face set in consternation. Her head is lying on his chest as she
leans onto him. Her face is pale, eyes half shut and her lips are
moving in a whispering conversation with herself. Through her clothes
you see that her right chest has caged in completely and that her legs
take up
odd-looking positions within the remains of her tattered jeans. The
right side of his head is caked in blood, a dried trickle on his left
nostril. His left arm is wrapped around her, an extra joint formed from
a snapped forearm.. the bone jutting through a tear in his lower
sleeve... giving an apearance of touching closeness. Their clothes are
gashed and torn and are creased with dark grease streaks. The strong
metallic smell of fuel emanates from them. You can't help but cringe
when you imagine the stark mechanical forces that must have wreaked
havoc on their bodies recently. He suddenly moves his head and catches
your full gaze. Embarrassed.. you point feebly to the detached steering
wheel lying next to him and mutter 'Car accident?' He opens his mouth
to say something.. then instead gestures with his head in an accusing
manner towards a person sitting in the next row. Looking across, you
see a middle aged man with unkempt hair and a distinct red weal around
his neck. He seems harassed and looks away uncomfortably upon realising
he is the subject of attention. He distractedly swots at a particularly
persistent fly. You wonder at his involvement in the accident and the
fly's part in it. Somehow the resulting thought seems tragically
comical.

You get up slowly and deliberately walk towards the door of the
adjoining carriage. Looking around you see people, young and old, in a
variety of physical states, each one telling an abruptly ended story.
Some appearing resigned, others showing signs of shock and confusion
and a few more totally oblivious to their present fate.

Your curiosity aroused, as you pass through, you speculate as to the
manner of their recent demise. There are the obvious hospital cases,
the elderly long timers clad in their off-white NHS standard night
clothes who probably died in drug induced sleeps. At least three blood
stained others straight from an operating table and still physically
attached to drips and other monitoring equipment. The victims of
violence have shock written on their unbelieving faces and gaping
wounds which they are doing their best to ignore. A well attired middle
aged gentleman, soaking in his finest now two sizes too small, sits
with a brolly across his lap. Lost to the irony, he stares blankly
ahead, a mini Thames
forming around his legs.

In the next carriage, a short, stocky shiny suited man brushes
brusquely past you. He has a clean bullet hole through his forehead and
is pacing up and down the aisle, trying furtively to raise someone on
his mobile. Further on is a young girl with lined features, sitting on
the edge of her seat. Her body is immobile yet her is head rolling with
the movement of the carriage. A syringe, still impaled in a forearm
vein jerks around.. You look away. In many ways those with grotesque
injuries are easier for you to deal with.

The deceased winos and homeless have a section all to themselves, just
as in life, you note? You hurriedly kick past string-tied carrier bags
and cardboard boxes to get away from the overwhelming stench of urine
and cider..

You are now in last third of the final carriage.. You reflect on those
you have just seen, your fellow passengers. Those who made the last
train but had not made it through this London night. Each one appears
to have brought at least one thing from their last moments. You wonder
what you have with you. Then you finger your pockets and smile as a
fleeting memory comes back. You feel a sentimental attachment to this
motley assortment of characters somehow, for sharing this journey
tonight with you, for the fact you are in this together. You feel an
overwhelming sense of relief that you are not alone.

Outside, signal relays trip loudly, and the tracks switch. The train
swings from
daily life unto travels most worn tracks.

Well, wherever it is you are heading (you had decided earlier) you want
to be one of the first to alight when you get there. You make your way
towards the very front of the carriage to join the one other sitting
person.

As you arrive alongside, she turns, tossing her frizzy hair and looks
at you with those eyes. You reach into your pocket and bring out the
silver jewelled pendant. You say, "This is yours, I think".