1 - Waiting for a Train

it begins

1

Waiting for a Train

Two platforms face each other in the sullen February morning.  The tracks between them are bathed in hazy light, but the platforms remain unilluminated. I feel the same way today.

Last night’s whiskies have caught up with me; I got through the shower bit fine, and the ride over to the station was lacking-in-other-humans-enough to be considered at least somewhat blissful. Leaning low and slow into the corners, a passing motorist might swear that they had spotted me grin for a second. I was alive and fit, I was keen and free and confident.

But that was ten minutes ago, and by the time I’ve parked the bike, locked away the helmet, queued, bought my ticket, queued again, bought a can of Irn-Bru and ambled, shivering to the bench outside the cafe I am in an entirely different and diffident headset.

Most eyes are fixed upon their shadowy mirrors; clutched in one gloved hand while the other endlessly swipes, but the odd conversation is being struck between strangers, quieted for the hour, on both sides of the line. Whilst I am not looking for a new friend today, I refuse to look at my phone. If she has messaged I have to spend the next minutes trying in vain not to read it, if she hasn’t I’ll spend those minutes trying to make myself set it to flight mode.

Sometimes you have to work harder on not knowing.

I make a rollie in the breeze and walk to the end of the platform where I can get away with smoking it. The train is “4mins behind schedule” apparently, which is plenty of time.

I caught up a clod of lung-butter at the first, over-sized drag. I grimace in disgust at what I have produced, and - like any right thinking man - I take a long second drag. 

I put my earphones in, and- without thinking - swipe the screen on my phone unlocked to select some music. And there’s there message. From her. God-dang music tricked me into it. So I read the message.

6:43: “I’m sorry about last night :-( x ”

6:46: “are you?”

Urgh. I put it on flight mode. If I’m getting through today, this is going to be a Portishead day.

I pull my hoodie up and over like the gangster I’m totally not, dig my spare hand into the jacket of my leather and slowly nod to the scratchy strains of “Mysterons”.

The song scrapes and quivers and invigorates me as only the right song at the right time can. The questioning Chorus calls out out to me, asking “Did you really want?” Want what I ask? Cos that can be a million questions in one, sister.

A young man, younger than myself, wakes me from my musings. His face is gaunt and pale, troubled by something. He’s talking so I pull out an earphone.

“Mate, you need to check the news.”

I blink at him.

“I what?”

“The news mate, have you heard?”

I don’t know what he’s talking about, and my facial expression makes this abundantly clear.

“A bomb’s been dropped on London. A nuke.”

It takes me several seconds to grasp this point, simple as it is at root.

“I’m sorry mate.”

And walks off hurriedly raising his phone to his ear.

“Barbara, Barbara, I’ve just heard.”

And just like the movies, shock sends me into slow-mo, figures passing by like blurred ghosts, slow but fast, and shouting, crying out at their phones and companions. My mouth and throat are dry and scratchy and my breath comes in sudden sweeps and rushes. I bend over to release some inward pressure as I turn, and in creeps the train alongside me. It stops, and out comes the driver;  and after a moment a flood rushes from the carriages as the passengers follow.

I snap myself back to, and allow myself to be swept along among the cascade of people now heading into the cafe, where all stand to watch the blaring television behind the bar.

The news reporter intones.

“For those of you just joining us, we are reporting a massive Nuclear blast upon London at 6:53 AM. So far we are getting limited information, but we are expecting from all available data that we will be looking at millions dead. I will repeat we are looking at several million people dead, in an act of devastation unknown before in size or power.”

There is no air in the whole cafe right at that moment, not one drop, as all of us - even the most hardy and unfeeling - breath in deeply and hold our breath. Silence fills the empty void, and only the newsreader’s voice continues as the feed switches to a helicopter camera.

“The bomb was dropped my an unmarked and unknown assailant following the UK’s entry into the war at 4:30 this morning, allying ourselves with several European allies, and of course the North American Alliance.”

The camera begins to track a plane over the the nightlights of the capital, and you can just see it is a mammoth thing. And as the camera zooms, in something grows from it’s belly.

“Following the announcement of war, British troops were deployed in several locations across the Middle-East and Asia. Unconfirmed reports suggest the Armed Forces have themselves deployed Nuclear Weapons in the early hours of the war.”

And a dark spheroid falls from the plane’s belly as it accelerates. It disappears swiftly behind the sparkling towers.

“As I say, these are unconfirmed reports, and we are still waiting for a report from the Ministry of Defence.”

The camera shudders violently as beam of light breaks through the towers and fills the sky.

“Many British people are of course only discovering these two pieces of news at once.”

And the mushroom grows. Beyond reason or explanation it continues to grows until it reaches the now violently-swaying helicopter. All is fire, all is light.

The silence of the cafe breaks as people scream blasphemies at the government, plead for the relatives and lovers to pick up their phones or begin to weep, but strangely no-ones moves.