The Last Train

Sensitive Content - Implied Violence

The Last Train

I come to suddenly, relaxing once I realise where I am.

The gentle rocking and the clickety-clack, clickety-clack over the rails must have lulled me into sleep. The darkness blanketing the fens is disrupted by an occasional light shining from a lone house or farm. Blink. It’s there. Blink again, and it’s gone.

Almost home, a long way from the sparkle of the city. We make brief stops at remote stations with empty benches and faded posters. No passengers waiting. Only the sound of a whistle, a glimpse of night workers in high viz jackets, releasing the train into the night.

I’m on the 11.18. The last train. Mum insists I’m home before midnight on a weekday, even though I’m eighteen. I’ve messed up tonight. Ignored her rules. This train won’t arrive until gone midnight, and then there’s the short walk home. Surely, she’ll understand. It was one last drink. And there was Jed. I’d not expected him to be there. He’d casually slung his arm around me in the bar, said he’d hoped to see me tonight. Came especially. Just for that reason. And when I told him I had to go to catch my usual train, he’d looked at me with his puppy dog eyes.

“Just one more drink?” he’d said. “Is there a later train? I’ll walk you to the station.”

Who could resist? Certainly not me. And he’d lived up to his promise, waiting on the platform until my train pulled in and kissing me lightly, his lips pausing on my cheek, leaving me wanting more. He said he’d call soon. I’m floating on air.

I pull my scarf and coat around me and huddle into the seat. January. Cold and frosty, and despite the heater blowing warm air into the carriage, I shiver. Red letters scroll on the information screen. My station is on the list. I’ve not missed it in a sleepy haze.

A man is sitting a couple of rows away on the opposite side to me. We’re the only two in this compartment, maybe the only two on the train. Not many people need to be somewhere at this time on a Wednesday night. I wouldn’t usually be on this train midweek. But it was Sophie’s eighteenth. Her actual birthday. A meal, some drinks. I couldn’t let my best friend down on her big day. Getting people to come out in January is a tough ask, especially this soon after Christmas. They’re all partied out and have no money. But I’m starting a new job this Saturday, so Mum loaned me some cash in advance of the wages I’ll soon be receiving. Sophie’s party is this weekend. It will be more family than friends. I wonder if Jed is invited. We’ll need to be on our best behaviour in front of her parents and Gran, whereas tonight, we could be ourselves, lark around, and share stupid stories. The dress I’ve decided to wear is already hanging on the front of the wardrobe. Mum had helped me choose and made me parade around the front room like it was a fashion show.

The man is watching something on his phone and listening to it through headphones, a music video maybe. I can hear the tinny beat of it breaking the silence. He’s wearing a black padded jacket, which is partly unzipped, and a black beanie is on the table in front of him. Underneath the jacket, he’s wearing a shirt, and there looks to be a company name or logo on it. He looks familiar. Like I might know him from somewhere. I guess he’s heading home after work. He’s unwrapping a sandwich, and there’s a coffee on the table in front of him. Although he’s facing me, he’s not looked at me or in my general direction. Or not that I’ve noticed. I look at him though. His head gently bounces to the beat of the music, and he’s more interested in the sandwich than anything else. He pulls the two pieces of thin white bread apart, examines what’s inside and flings slices of tomato onto a napkin. Gross. He takes a large slurp of coffee from a takeaway cup, and I watch as he bites his bottom lip like the coffee is too hot. He goes to take another sip and thinks better of it, putting the cup back on the table, still focused on whatever’s playing on his phone. The strong scent of coffee snakes its way to me. I wince, turning away. I don’t like coffee. Mum says maybe I’ll develop a taste for it.

Mum. I think of her now. She’ll be waiting. I texted her earlier to let her know I’ll be late. She worries if I’m not back at my regular time. She still insists on staying up until I’m home, despite me telling her not to. It’s a regular argument. One I can’t seem to win.

“I’m eighteen now. Just go to bed. When I move out, you won’t know what time I’ll be getting home,’ I’d told her. ‘I'm perfectly capable of locking up, sorting out and doing all the adult things.”

“You going to pay the mortgage too?” she’d asked, raising her eyebrows. And that was the end of that.

I guess it’s how Mums are. Each time I come in after a night out, she’s there, dozing in her armchair. She’ll force open her eyes when I say hello, some random programme on TV flashing images into the barely lit room. And then we go through the usual routine.

“You okay? How was it? Had fun?”

I answer, but she’s hardly listening, and I add, “I’m surprised you’re still up.”

“Well, I was watching this crime drama and had to find out who did it.”

“And who did do it?” I’ll say, trying to catch her out, knowing she’s only awake because of me. She smiles but never answers, and her body betrays her. Sluggish, slow movement and a heaviness to her as she goes around the living room, switching off lamps and the television, moving into the hallway and checking the front door is locked and bolted.

But tonight, I hope Mum’s up and waiting. I want her to be awake and watching one of her programmes. I want to tell her about Jed. Tell her how tall he is, how handsome, how generally wonderful he is. And how he’s going to call. And I can imagine the hundred-and-one questions I’ll get. I close my eyes. It’s late, and I realise the excitement of the evening has left me tired. Maybe some of this can wait until the morning. Now, I want to be home and tucked under the duvet, warm and cosy. I want Mum to do the adulting stuff and have her round me up for bed with her usual words.

 “Up we go. Come on, Laura. Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire.” And adding, “Sleep tight, sweet dreams,” as we part at the top of the stairs and go into our separate bedrooms.

I push my eyes back open. I don’t want to be in the same situation I was in before, missing my stop like I did and getting off the train further on, not knowing where I was and how I would get home. That happened the only other time I’ve caught the later train. A shudder runs up my body at the thought of it. I focus on the man once more for something to do. Something to keep me awake. I don’t remember him getting on the train. It must have been when I was asleep. I’m surprised; usually, the announcement of a station and the slowing and squealing of brakes would wake me. I must have been out of it. Stay awake, Laura. Not far now.

The automatic door shushes open, and the ticket collector enters the carriage. You never know if there will be one on duty or not. It’s the way the rail company keeps us on our toes to ensure we have a ticket. You could chance your luck and maybe get a free trip, but there’s often a conductor. I prefer not to play Russian Roulette. My ticket is on my phone.

The man doesn’t remove his headphones but holds out his wrist, and the conductor blips his watch. They nod, and the man continues with his sandwich. I lean forward from my seat by the window, but the Conductor walks past me. I call out after him. He turns and looks like he’ll return. He glances around the compartment. He looks straight at me. But then he turns around once more and continues walking past the empty seats to the next carriage. It’s a bit odd, but perhaps he has something urgent to do, and he’ll come back.

I snuggle into my seat, stretching my feet out. Something rustles. Probably an old newspaper someone’s left behind. I try and push it out of the way, but it won’t budge, and it’s stopping me from getting comfortable. I reach under the seat and pull it out. And then I see the front page.

And I know.

I turn to look out of the window. The blue-grey patterned seats, overhead lights, the tomato-hating man, and his bag in the overhead luggage rack. All there. In the reflection beaming back at me. Just one thing missing. I put my finger on the window and draw the shape of where my face should be.

I’m Laura Jackson. You might know me by the reports on the television and in the papers, the missing girl posters in stations now faded and torn, and the lead story for a while until other news pushed me aside. Yes, I’m that Laura Jackson. You remember, don’t you? I’m the girl who went to a birthday party and was seen getting on the 11.18 train and who didn’t get off at her usual stop and was never seen again. The girl who was expected to do well in her A levels and go to University in the Autumn, the girl due to start a new Saturday job, the girl who never got to find out if she’d grow to like coffee or if Jed called the next day.

I’m riding the last train.

Trying to get home.

Mum’s waiting.

And the familiar man finally takes off his headphones and puts his phone away. He looks at me. And now I know who he is. And I move silently down the aisle and sit opposite him. It is his turn to shudder now as my fingers reach across and touch his. He sits up straighter in the seat, and he’s staring right at me. And I look right back at him until he turns away and squirms uncomfortably. And I know he can feel the echo of me. I did it. I made it back. Back to the last train. And the man looks out of the window, and his breath creates a mist in which a blurry, distorted image forms. And he jumps back, startled, and then laughs out loud into the empty carriage at his stupidity. And he wipes away the outline of me. But I have him now. And I won’t let go.

And as the train clickety-clacks into the night, the darkness blanketing the fens is disrupted by an occasional light shining from a lone house or farm. Blink. It’s there. Blink again, and it’s gone.