End of the line

Walter walked along the high street, angrily ignoring the looks from passers-by. He turned down a side street then stopped at the wooden fence, reading the sign.

He looked round then put his hands on top of the fence and heaved himself up, feet scrabbling vainly for purchase on the wooden slats before sliding down. He bent over, hands on knees. When he’d got his breath again he took a few steps back and ran at the fence, jumping and clinging on, then managing to get one leg over the top, the other dangling. He paused, his face drenched with sweat.

A creaking groan and the fence collapsed beneath him. He hit the ground and began to roll down the slope, coming to a rest against a tree. He checked where the broken wood had dug into him. It was sore but no real damage done. Cushioned by my own fat, he thought bitterly.

Walter hauled himself up and peered through the trees. He could just about see the tracks ahead and he headed towards them.

As he walked, last night’s dream kept coming back to him, so vividly. The tearing sound as the front of the house was pulled away, the light flooding in, then the crane arm swinging over, plucking him from the bed, lifting him into the air. The standing, staring crowd; blinding photo flashes; an army of journalists scribbling in notebooks and shouting questions.

Walter didn’t want to be that guy. The guy who needed two seats on the plane, who was on freakshow TV for people to laugh at, the guy who people looked at with pity and disgust when he ordered a Big Mac and fries.

He checked his watch. The 16:09 from London would be here in four minutes. On board it would be his mother, returning from her monthly shopping trip, no doubt with some sweet treat for him.

He thought about what she would think. Would she blame herself? Maybe he should have left a note after all. But no, let the stupid bitch wonder why. He’d tried to stop, tried to turn away the second helpings and the home-made cakes, but she’d always get that hurt look on her face, as if he was rejecting her personally. “Oh go on, Walter, you need to keep your strength up. Can’t have you wasting away, can we?”

Do I look like I’m wasting away you stupid fucking bitch? Do I look like I need another fucking biscuit?

But he never said it, never said anything. Just smiled and swallowed it down, food tumbling endlessly into his stomach.

There was no barrier at the bottom of the slope. He checked his watch. One minute. He took a deep breath, stepped onto the track and looked into the dark of the tunnel, waiting for the light to appear. He imagined it growing brighter and brighter, filling his world before ending it.

He had an absurd image of the train simply bouncing harmlessly off him, or embedding itself into his flesh, disappearing completely, never to be seen again. He laughed; a bitter empty sound. The dark of the tunnel seemed to move, flowing over him, engulfing him. He closed his eyes and waited. All was silent.

A shrill ringing shattered the quiet, making him jump. He opened his eyes and stared into the tunnel then fished his phone out of his pocket. ‘Mum calling’. Muttering, he pressed the green button.

“Hi Mum.”

“Darling, it’s Mummy.”

“I know.”

“Listen, sweetheart. Some foolish person has thrown themselves in front of the train. What will his mother think, poor woman? Anyway, all trains have been delayed so I’m going to be late back. There’s a lasagne in the freezer you can heat up, and you could get some chips from the chippy. And there’s that ice cream for dessert. Is that okay for you, sweety? Sweety?”

“Fine, Mum. See you later.”

Walter hung up and looked once more into the tunnel. His stomach rumbled. He sighed, then set off for home.