The Last Train
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: Never catch the last train.
_____________________________________________________________________
The restaurant buzzed; the constant noise of conversation filled the air. Mouth-watering aromas drifted from a range of dishes. Waiters, with practiced skill, balanced trays in each hand as they twisted around tables and customers.
David glanced at the woman opposite him as his last Loch Fyne Oyster vanished into his mouth. “These are delicious.”
Claire’s expression was serious as she sipped her white wine. There was no sparkle in her eyes as she said, “David, there’s someone else.”
“Pardon?”
Relief was the feeling she had as she spoke, “Listen to me, David. It’s over, kaput, finished.”
He looked inquiringly at her. “How long?”
She lowered her eyes. “Nearly three months.”
“Well that answers one question. No sex for a couple of weeks. You can be a nasty bitch when you put your mind to it. Do I know him?”
“No.” She became amused by his indifference.
“Why?”
“You‘ve changed.
“Ok, I’m listening. In what way?”
“You don’t care about anything apart from yourself. I love Peter. He’s everything to me, you aren’t.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
She toyed with her food. “He loves me.”
“Waiter,” said David.
A young girl scurried over. “Yes, sir.”
“A double gin and tonic, please.”
The girl noted his order and left.
“I should have told you sooner,” said Claire.
“Ring please. I want it and then you can piss off.”
Clare slid her engagement ring from her finger and placed it in front of him. She stood, removed her coat from the back of the chair and with her head held high, walked out.
David’s gin and tonic arrived followed by several more.
The manager eyed him warily; trouble was the last thing he wanted. “Excuse me, sir.”
David looked up. “Yes.”
“Perhaps you should take it a bit easy on the G&Ts, sir.”
“Perhaps is a good word. Get me another.”
The manager stood straight, towering over David. “I’ll get your bill, sir, and would ask you to leave.”
“Don’t fucking bother. Here’s fifty quid that should cover it. If it doesn’t, tough luck, old boy.” David stood on his second attempt and concentrating, journeyed unsteadily to the door.
Outside, the cold air stung his face. There were no taxis but he needed the walk to Waverley Station to clear his head. With difficulty, he staggered up Leith Walk to Princes Street, visiting numerous bars on the way. At the top of the steps next to the Balmoral Hotel he stopped. With his left hand on the steel rail, he supported himself and made his unsteady journey down to the ticket office.
At the bottom, no lights lit his way. Dizzy, he stood leaning against a wall. Confused and disoriented, he collapsed like a rag doll. Flat on his back, he breathed slowly and deeply. Angry, he forced his body into a sitting position.
“Ticket, where’s my ticket?” he said aloud, fumbling in his pockets.
“Are you alright?” A young woman leaned towards him, bringing her face close to his. A look of pleasure filled her eyes.
David turned his head from the smell of her body odour. From behind came the blow to his head. Someone kicked while the girl grabbed his wallet and ran. With one final kick, they raced away.
David trembled as a wave of pain swept across his chest. Wincing, and with the aid of a drainpipe, he dragged himself to his feet. He focused his eyes on the clock suspended above the concourse. Ten to eleven, he could still make the train if he could find his ticket. He remembered, jacket, top pocket. His fingers probed the opening and found a five-pound note.
With maximum effort, he stumbled to the ticket office. The duty clerk smiled pitifully at another drunk catching the last train.
“Single to Inverkeithing, please.” David pushed the note through the opening beneath the glass and waited for his ticket and change.
“You’d better hurry, platform eight. You’ve got about three minutes.”
“Where?”
“Platform eight. Out of here, turn left, up the stairs and left at the top. You can’t miss it. It’s the last platform.”
“Thanks.” As he scurried outside the lights behind him went out. Heart pounding and ribs aching, he bounded up the stairs. You can’t miss it repeated itself in his mind. Brightly coloured posters depicting seaside towns in summer hung from the roof beams.
A man in uniform pointed to a set of downward stairs leading to the platform. The metal grill shut behind him. The train began to move, inching forward. In desperation, he grabbed a door handle and matched the train’s speed. The door opened and a hand grabbed the back of his jacket and dragged him inside. Gasping for breath, he lay on the floor. The carriage door slammed shut behind him.
“You alright, mate?”
Slowly, David pulled his sore carcass onto the seat. “I’ve had better days. You know one hundred percent less ninety, otherwise great.”
The train gathered momentum, surged and immediately entered a tunnel. Leaning into the corner, he rested his head on the window. His view, a long empty nothing. A musty smell filled his nostrils adding to his confusion. He shook his head and in the dim light attempted to determine his fellow travellers.
There were four men wearing sailors’ uniforms. On the luggage rack above, four kitbags.
“Thanks, it would have been a long, cold night stuck in Waverley.”
The big man grinned. “No problem, mate.”
David began to relax. “On your way to Rosyth dockyard?”
“Yeah. We’re joining our ship, HMS Lark. On our way to Archangel in the morning.”
“Isn’t that in Russia?”
“Bloody better be or someone’s in trouble.”
The compartment door slid open. “Tickets, please. I’ll be turning the lights out before Dalmeny. Can’t make ourselves a target for Gerry can we?”
The three other sailors now wide-awake took out their cigarettes and began smoking. “Want one,” said the big guy.
“I didn’t think smoking was allowed on trains,” said David, taking one.
“If you can see a no smoking sign we’ll put them out,” said a dark-haired sailor.
“How long are you in for?” asked David.
“The duration.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the dark-haired youth. “It’s alright. Might stay in when this lot’s over. Let’s face it, three meals a day, a tot of rum and cheap fags. What more does a man want apart from the occasional bit of skirt and there’s plenty of that about.”
“Where we’re going,” said a man in the opposite corner, “the next time you’ll get your leg over will be in six months if you’re lucky.”
The train gathered momentum, dashing along, its clatter almost soothing. On approaching Dalmeny, it braked, shuddered, stopped and the lights went out.
In the dark of a moonless night, David said to no one in particular, “I don’t understand. Why are they turning the lights out?”
“Gerry, night-fighters. They use the train for target practice,” said someone.
“Gerry what?”
“Bombers, you know the things that drop bombs.”
“I know what a bloody bomber is,” said David. “What's the problem?"
“Since their daylight raid on the ships in Rosyth went tits-up, the docks are a night target.”
David sat still darting quick looks from one to another. “Good joke, lads. I know I’m rat-arsed but this is the twenty-first century. The war’s over or do you lot live on another planet?”
“Really,” said the youngest, with an indifferent smile. “Then why are we escorting a convoy to Russia. It’s not a game of hide and seek?” His voice was very cold when he spoke.
Befuddled, David attempted to make sense of it all. With apprehension, he reached out and touched the sailor nearest. He was real. “I don’t believe it,” he muttered. Panic gripped him. He stood and dashed into the corridor.
The train rocked, bombs exploded, destroying and ripping apart what they struck. Outside, explosions and flames, debris rained down but the locomotive rattled along. Scared, his nails dug deep into his palms. The train braked and gave a lurch, throwing him into an empty compartment.
A voice broke his nightmare. “You’re not supposed to be here, son.”
David lifted his head and through bleary eyes saw a short, balding, middle-aged man in a dark blue boiler suit looking down at him.
“What year is this?” David asked.
“You look like you had a good night on the beer. Well if my memory serves me well, it’s the same year today as it was yesterday. Ninth of June, twenty-eleven. Now get yourself sorted and out of here before the charge-hand sees you and calls the police.”
“Where’s here?” said David.
“Inverkeithing goods yard. This carriage is on its way to Boness in half an hour. They’re going to restore it. Seventy years old this carriage is.”
David dragged himself to his feet and stared open-eyed along the shell of the coach. No windows, doors hanging off and the carpet of the night before ragged and covered in bird droppings. “Which way do I go?”
“Follow me; I’ll let you out the gate. That way no one will see you.”
“Thanks,” said David.
Through the gate he started to walk up the slope to the main road. A chill wind circled him. Glancing down, he glimpsed something poking from his jacket pocket. He pulled out a faded brown copy of The Mirror and glanced at the date; ninth of June, 1940. The wind gusted and plucked it from his hand.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: Never catch the last train.
_____________________________________________________________________
The restaurant buzzed; the constant noise of conversation filled the air. Mouth-watering aromas drifted from a range of dishes. Waiters, with practiced skill, balanced trays in each hand as they twisted around tables and customers.
David glanced at the woman opposite him as his last Loch Fyne Oyster vanished into his mouth. “These are delicious.”
Claire’s expression was serious as she sipped her white wine. There was no sparkle in her eyes as she said, “David, there’s someone else.”
“Pardon?”
Relief was the feeling she had as she spoke, “Listen to me, David. It’s over, kaput, finished.”
He looked inquiringly at her. “How long?”
She lowered her eyes. “Nearly three months.”
“Well that answers one question. No sex for a couple of weeks. You can be a nasty bitch when you put your mind to it. Do I know him?”
“No.” She became amused by his indifference.
“Why?”
“You‘ve changed.
“Ok, I’m listening. In what way?”
“You don’t care about anything apart from yourself. I love Peter. He’s everything to me, you aren’t.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
She toyed with her food. “He loves me.”
“Waiter,” said David.
A young girl scurried over. “Yes, sir.”
“A double gin and tonic, please.”
The girl noted his order and left.
“I should have told you sooner,” said Claire.
“Ring please. I want it and then you can piss off.”
Clare slid her engagement ring from her finger and placed it in front of him. She stood, removed her coat from the back of the chair and with her head held high, walked out.
David’s gin and tonic arrived followed by several more.
The manager eyed him warily; trouble was the last thing he wanted. “Excuse me, sir.”
David looked up. “Yes.”
“Perhaps you should take it a bit easy on the G&Ts, sir.”
“Perhaps is a good word. Get me another.”
The manager stood straight, towering over David. “I’ll get your bill, sir, and would ask you to leave.”
“Don’t fucking bother. Here’s fifty quid that should cover it. If it doesn’t, tough luck, old boy.” David stood on his second attempt and concentrating, journeyed unsteadily to the door.
Outside, the cold air stung his face. There were no taxis but he needed the walk to Waverley Station to clear his head. With difficulty, he staggered up Leith Walk to Princes Street, visiting numerous bars on the way. At the top of the steps next to the Balmoral Hotel he stopped. With his left hand on the steel rail, he supported himself and made his unsteady journey down to the ticket office.
At the bottom, no lights lit his way. Dizzy, he stood leaning against a wall. Confused and disoriented, he collapsed like a rag doll. Flat on his back, he breathed slowly and deeply. Angry, he forced his body into a sitting position.
“Ticket, where’s my ticket?” he said aloud, fumbling in his pockets.
“Are you alright?” A young woman leaned towards him, bringing her face close to his. A look of pleasure filled her eyes.
David turned his head from the smell of her body odour. From behind came the blow to his head. Someone kicked while the girl grabbed his wallet and ran. With one final kick, they raced away.
David trembled as a wave of pain swept across his chest. Wincing, and with the aid of a drainpipe, he dragged himself to his feet. He focused his eyes on the clock suspended above the concourse. Ten to eleven, he could still make the train if he could find his ticket. He remembered, jacket, top pocket. His fingers probed the opening and found a five-pound note.
With maximum effort, he stumbled to the ticket office. The duty clerk smiled pitifully at another drunk catching the last train.
“Single to Inverkeithing, please.” David pushed the note through the opening beneath the glass and waited for his ticket and change.
“You’d better hurry, platform eight. You’ve got about three minutes.”
“Where?”
“Platform eight. Out of here, turn left, up the stairs and left at the top. You can’t miss it. It’s the last platform.”
“Thanks.” As he scurried outside the lights behind him went out. Heart pounding and ribs aching, he bounded up the stairs. You can’t miss it repeated itself in his mind. Brightly coloured posters depicting seaside towns in summer hung from the roof beams.
A man in uniform pointed to a set of downward stairs leading to the platform. The metal grill shut behind him. The train began to move, inching forward. In desperation, he grabbed a door handle and matched the train’s speed. The door opened and a hand grabbed the back of his jacket and dragged him inside. Gasping for breath, he lay on the floor. The carriage door slammed shut behind him.
“You alright, mate?”
Slowly, David pulled his sore carcass onto the seat. “I’ve had better days. You know one hundred percent less ninety, otherwise great.”
The train gathered momentum, surged and immediately entered a tunnel. Leaning into the corner, he rested his head on the window. His view, a long empty nothing. A musty smell filled his nostrils adding to his confusion. He shook his head and in the dim light attempted to determine his fellow travellers.
There were four men wearing sailors’ uniforms. On the luggage rack above, four kitbags.
“Thanks, it would have been a long, cold night stuck in Waverley.”
The big man grinned. “No problem, mate.”
David began to relax. “On your way to Rosyth dockyard?”
“Yeah. We’re joining our ship, HMS Lark. On our way to Archangel in the morning.”
“Isn’t that in Russia?”
“Bloody better be or someone’s in trouble.”
The compartment door slid open. “Tickets, please. I’ll be turning the lights out before Dalmeny. Can’t make ourselves a target for Gerry can we?”
The three other sailors now wide-awake took out their cigarettes and began smoking. “Want one,” said the big guy.
“I didn’t think smoking was allowed on trains,” said David, taking one.
“If you can see a no smoking sign we’ll put them out,” said a dark-haired sailor.
“How long are you in for?” asked David.
“The duration.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the dark-haired youth. “It’s alright. Might stay in when this lot’s over. Let’s face it, three meals a day, a tot of rum and cheap fags. What more does a man want apart from the occasional bit of skirt and there’s plenty of that about.”
“Where we’re going,” said a man in the opposite corner, “the next time you’ll get your leg over will be in six months if you’re lucky.”
The train gathered momentum, dashing along, its clatter almost soothing. On approaching Dalmeny, it braked, shuddered, stopped and the lights went out.
In the dark of a moonless night, David said to no one in particular, “I don’t understand. Why are they turning the lights out?”
“Gerry, night-fighters. They use the train for target practice,” said someone.
“Gerry what?”
“Bombers, you know the things that drop bombs.”
“I know what a bloody bomber is,” said David. “What's the problem?"
“Since their daylight raid on the ships in Rosyth went tits-up, the docks are a night target.”
David sat still darting quick looks from one to another. “Good joke, lads. I know I’m rat-arsed but this is the twenty-first century. The war’s over or do you lot live on another planet?”
“Really,” said the youngest, with an indifferent smile. “Then why are we escorting a convoy to Russia. It’s not a game of hide and seek?” His voice was very cold when he spoke.
Befuddled, David attempted to make sense of it all. With apprehension, he reached out and touched the sailor nearest. He was real. “I don’t believe it,” he muttered. Panic gripped him. He stood and dashed into the corridor.
The train rocked, bombs exploded, destroying and ripping apart what they struck. Outside, explosions and flames, debris rained down but the locomotive rattled along. Scared, his nails dug deep into his palms. The train braked and gave a lurch, throwing him into an empty compartment.
A voice broke his nightmare. “You’re not supposed to be here, son.”
David lifted his head and through bleary eyes saw a short, balding, middle-aged man in a dark blue boiler suit looking down at him.
“What year is this?” David asked.
“You look like you had a good night on the beer. Well if my memory serves me well, it’s the same year today as it was yesterday. Ninth of June, twenty-eleven. Now get yourself sorted and out of here before the charge-hand sees you and calls the police.”
“Where’s here?” said David.
“Inverkeithing goods yard. This carriage is on its way to Boness in half an hour. They’re going to restore it. Seventy years old this carriage is.”
David dragged himself to his feet and stared open-eyed along the shell of the coach. No windows, doors hanging off and the carpet of the night before ragged and covered in bird droppings. “Which way do I go?”
“Follow me; I’ll let you out the gate. That way no one will see you.”
“Thanks,” said David.
Through the gate he started to walk up the slope to the main road. A chill wind circled him. Glancing down, he glimpsed something poking from his jacket pocket. He pulled out a faded brown copy of The Mirror and glanced at the date; ninth of June, 1940. The wind gusted and plucked it from his hand.
About the Author
Ron A. Sewell was born in Leith, Edinburgh. At the age of fourteen, he ran away from home. Heading for the south of France, he found work as a deckhand on luxury yachts. On his return to the United Kingdom, he enlisted in the Royal Navy, eventually becoming a commissioned officer. During his career, he travelled the world, qualifying as an engineer, deck officer, boarding officer, a diver, and parachutist and for a time part of an Air Sea Rescue team. This has given him much experience and many ideas.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.