Chapter 7
“This is ridiculous. They need to put on more trains. Heaven knows we pay enough for our tickets,” muttered Amy, squeezing into a gap between a little old lady and a suited city gent, ignoring the gent’s tutting glare and impatient shake of his newspaper as he tried to read it.
“What?” asked Sal, barely hearing her over the noise.
“Nothing, hon. I’m at the station…chaos as usual. Another joyous journey of sardine-packed, stinky arm-pit, breath-holding hell. I’m soooo done with London. I wanna live by the sea, get a cuddly Saint Bernard dog, tend a vegetable patch, have good Wi-Fi, and work from a shed in the garden,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “No rush hour, no dirt, noise, congestion charge or the expensive costs of a city. Dartagnia—what kind of name is that anyway?”
“Her mum has a thing for The Musketeers, apparently,” grumbled Sal.
“Ohhh…I love them in that TV show. Athos is delish, although Aramis is quite cute… and that theme tune always gets me tingly.”
“It means leader or something. I call her plain old Tanya to piss her off. She hates it. And do you know, she shags on my desk when we’re not in the office? I bleach my desk every morning and pick pubic hairs out of my keyboard. It’s disgusting.”
“Ewe…why don’t you tell your boss, if she’s so bad, hon?”
“Can’t. He’s the one she’s shagging.”
“What about his wife?”
“She’s shagging her, too.”
“What about her own husband?”
“He’s invited.”
“For god’s sake, is anyone doing any work in that office?”
“Swingers...I ask you, how the hell can I compete? Have you got a little tumble stone for that?” Sal said, grumbling sarcastically.
“Nope, I don’t think so, but Jasper may prolong sexual pleasure, and Rose Quartz is a great love stone.”
“Oh, for eff’s sake…shuuuuut uuup.”
“The next train on platform two is the Piccadilly line, eastbound train for Cockfosters.” The tannoy screeched above commuter’s heads while the platform bustled with anticipation.
“Talking of sexual pleasure, I think I fucked up last night, Sal.”
“Good. Glad to hear it’s not always me. What kind of fuck-up?”
“Waking-up-in-a-stranger’s-bed kind of fuck-up...the walk-of-shame-from-an-address-I-don’t-recognise kind of fuck-up…the what-the-hell-happened, and with-who kind of fuck-up. I left my protection stone at home. Should’ve known.”
“Ooohh, who?” Sal said, cooing excitedly. “One of the guys from your internet dating site? The architect? The gardener? The scaffolder? The upholsterer? Oh my, not the priest?”
“No. Well I don’t think so. I’m still trying to work it out. I didn’t see who it was as I snuck out of the bedroom,” Amy admitted with a prolonged sigh. “It was the office party last night; I don’t even know if it was a guy. It could have been a client or Velma.”
“Who’s Velma?”
“You know—the one with yellow teeth and personal space issues who always stands too close when she’s talking to you. Our receptionist.”
“Oh yes, oh no. But she’s not…and you’re not…are you?”
“No, no. But she does get a little creepy, needy, in your face, especially when drunk. I’m sure I didn’t go home with her. I think it was a man. Even paralytic, I would know the difference, surely.” She shook her head, trying to get rid of the image of Velma’s yellow teeth going in for a kiss. “It didn’t smell like a woman.”
“Ewe…”
“You know what I mean. It was a macho pad. A woman would’ve had nice perfumed smellies around the place. Oh, I don’t know.”
“You’re such an old tart, Amy Fox,” Sal giggled. “Never a dull moment.”
Amy cringed. She could hear Sally’s snorting laughter.
“Stop laughing. I’ve got to go straight into the orifice this morning, stinking of Beaujolais and vodka shots.” She slurped her coffee. “If I see Velma later and she gives me a loving look, at least I’ll know it was her last night and not a client. I can’t ever walk through Reception again, I’ll have to use the back door.”
Sally’s laughter got louder.
“Stop laughing,” Amy shouted into the phone.
The stuffy newspaper gent gave Amy a raised eyebrow with a disdainful glint. She gave him a full-on, fake smile and shrugged. Miserable twat, you need to get laid, mate.
“She may be too mortified to turn up today.” Sally’s laughed.
“Will you stop laughing?”
“Sorry, Ames.” Sally took a deep breath to calm herself. “At least you’ve put an end to your dry patch, hon. It’s been a while.”
“I’m not sure if I did…and if I did, it would be nice to be able to remember the moment, for god’s sake.” Amy sighed. A thought came to her.
“You don’t think I was drugged, do you? My drink spiked? I’m never drinking again.”
“I’ll see you in the bar after work then.”
“What if it’s a client, Sal?”
“I hope not. You know what happened the last time. What did he…sorry she…sorry…it do when you left—” Sally’s voice was drowned out as the tannoy screeched.
“Mind the gap.”
Amy cupped her phone closer, unable to hear.
“Hang on a minute, Sal. I can’t hear you. I’ll plug my headphones in. Hold on.”
Placing her coffee cup safely on the ground between her feet, she fished around in her handbag for her headset. Something caught her attention.
She pulled out an old black and white photograph, torn and yellow with age. She turned it backwards and forwards in her hands, trying to understand where it had come from. She looked to the old lady and the grumpy gent, wondering if one of them had lost a treasured photo, but they ignored her, too busy preparing for the almighty charge to secure a place on the train.
The image portrayed a young boy and girl, no more than four or five years old, standing together and smiling for the camera. The blonde girl cupped a football in her short arms and the curly brown-headed boy cradled a toy machine gun. She couldn’t make out their faces, the image too worn and blurry. She turned the photograph over and read the words ‘I’m sorry’ scrawled in black ink across the back.
“Mind the gap.”
Could the photo have found its way into her bag during her one-night-stand? She couldn’t think now, her mind throbbing with hangover fog. She’d work it out later. She stuffed the photograph back into her bag and picked up her coffee. The distant train rumbled and churned in rolling rhythm, its vibration rocking the platform.
“Sal…” she shouted into her phone. No answer.
Leaning forward, she peered down the tracks into the black tunnel. Train headlights came screaming towards her while its thundering noise shook the air. Warm, soot-ridden wind sucked at her ankles, swirled around her body and lifted soft blonde hair from her shoulders. She scrunched her eyes tight from the percolating grime.
“Mind the gap.”
A grinding screech signalled the train’s declining speed.
“Sal, I’ve gotta go. Speak later, OK…OK?” Amy shouted above the noise.
As the train neared, a breathy wisp of air blew across her body, unlike the train’s stirring wind or an exhausted traveller gasping for air. Commuters jockeyed for position along the platform, knocking into each other, but this cool sensation delivered an eeriness she couldn’t explain.
She shivered, glancing over her shoulder but saw nothing more than anxious people shoving their way to avoid being late for work.
They shuffled nearer to the platform’s edge, ready to jump on board at the earliest possible moment. Why are we always in such a rush?
“Can you hear me, Sally? Sal?” She gave up. “I’ve gotta go. Love you,” she shouted.
A large crashing sound could be heard over the noise of the train. Passengers turned to see where the noise had come from. In the entranceway to the platform, for no apparent reason, the station clock, hanging from the ceiling, had broken from one of its hinges and swung to hit a wall, shattering its casing. Commuters squealed to avoid the falling glass, then quickly carried on jostling for platform position. The train was almost at a standstill.
As it’s cold shadow fell across her face, a powerful punch drilled into her lower back, delivered with such force it threw her body forward, and out onto the track.
Time stood still as she fell, flailing, hands grasping at her precious mobile, watching in slow motion as her coffee cup arced the air. She turned to see the stricken train driver’s face, behind the pane of oncoming glass. It's not your fault.
With all his might, the driver mouthed a silent scream, “Nooooo...”
She closed her eyes and waited for the pain.
Black.
Silence.
“Hello, hello…what’s happened?” The phone crackled, lying in the dirt beneath the platform’s kerb.
“Amy…are you there? I can’t hear you. Amy?”
Inquisitive tiny brown mice scurried to sniff the brightly lit screen and its surrounding droplets of blood. They scampered to safety as the train’s brakes screeched to a final halt, blocking the sound of Sally’s cries and commuter’s screams.
“AMY…. AAAMMMYYY.”