The Time Traveller

Another one from the 'archives', also from the same 2007 notebook as the two previous stories and, like Underground Tigers, this was written on my commute.

The Time Traveller

He wished his train was a time machine and that he'd end up just over a month ago, but he would remember what he knows now.  He hopes that when he reaches his destination it is that place that he used to stay at, that small village he had begun to resent.
    How could a place blind him so much?  Was it selfishness on his part, the need to 'make something' of his life, to prove his parents wrong?  Why had he run so far?
    Now all he could do was listen to his life fall apart over the telephone.
    But in the underground there is no signal, it's almost like the conversations never happened, it's almost like nothing exists.
    He wills the train to go faster until that low hum and clatter of transportation rises into a high squealing pitch that only dogs can hear.  He hopes that the next stop will plunge him into daylight, that outside those windows he will see the familiar fields and trees of the countryside and not the old stale tiles of the Piccadilly line.
    Everyday he is reminded of everything he has lost and he is forced to trace the journey back, in his mind, toward the first domino that toppled.  He remembers how they met, it was hard not to in that town, but it stills feel miraculous, fateful.
    Where did this fog come from that clouded all of this from his mind for so long?  It's as if his past is flashing before his eyes, he sees each silly moment of the relationship pass by like billboards.  He sees haircuts, burnt suits, scrambled eggs, picnics in front rooms, beach bonfires, but he also sees how distant he was, how hurtful he had been and now he can hate himself for he sees that was not how he felt.  Well, that is not how he feels.
    He had pushed her away before and that time around his time machine had worked, it had been a coach then, perhaps that was it, he needed a smaller vessel?
    No, there is something tragically permanent about this time, something sickeningly inevitable.  It no longer feels like an emotion but a tumour, and for all the guilt it may incur he pities himself that he may curl up into a tiny ball and wither.
    Soon she will be far away and happy, her eyes will be opened to the optimism of a world without him, he thinks she knows it exists already and is eager to see what else it has to offer her.  This is why he needs a time machine.
    He has failed at this attempt of life, he has lost and the damage feels irreparable.  If the machine doesn't work then he will battle wearily on, but shall most probably be forced to watch from the sidelines, as if imprisoned in an invisible cage, as someone else lives the life he can now only dream of.
    He can envisage their first flat together, her and this better man, he can picture their furniture and dining set, their books and records, the view out of the window, he can smell his cooking and feel the way he kisses her cheek in the morning, he can sense the tender grip of his fingers curling round hers as they watch television, and he can hear her laugh at his bad jokes and silly voices, or when he does a puppet show with the teddy bears.
    Now he sees further into the future, as if floating over everything, detached from his body.
    He can see them making love, how warm their bodies are, how he holds her and she feels safe and special, touching her hands to his chest and being comforted by the distant drum of his heartbeat.  He can see the conception of their first child, it's a girl and they name it Freya like she always wanted.  They start looking for a house as the pregnancy begins to show, they're engaged now and soon after the child is born they'll be getting married.  The wedding will be held outside, it's a beautiful day, and her father and mother will love this man, they'll be as proud of him as if he were their own son.  Not long after there is a brother for Freya on the way, and the time-traveller watching overhead can hear her thoughts and, for the first time in years, she thinks of him.  The child is a boy and she remember what he would have called his son, but she dismisses this notion as quickly as it arrives and that is the last time she ever thinks of him.
    So that is all the time traveller sees before he is stirred by the unsteady rocking of the tube train, there is no lullaby and goodnight being whispered softly in his ears, yet he longs to bawl and cry like a baby.
    Has he just had a nightmare?  He hopes so.  He hopes he will soon realise that the past two months were all a bad dream and he's on his way to London Victoria, he has to catch a connecting train, he's been for a job interview.  Or perhaps he didn't move so far away, and after work he's on his way over for dinner and to watch a film.
    The truth climbs over his back, crashing down upon him with the unnegotiable force of a wave.  He is reminded of drowning, of feeling trapped in the ocean, being held in its unchanging grip, stuck between the safety of the shore and the deep, murderous depths.  That is where he is now, between life and death.
    He begins to suspect that this underground train is transporting the recently deceased from the waking to the after life.
    He closes his eyes, they're wet with tears, and he longs the sound of the pre-recorded announcments to silence and for the sensation of movement to cease and the smell in his nostrils to expand, like cinemascope, and be the distinctive aroma of a hospital room, and, even though he cannot move, he will be elated to realise that he is in a coma.  Yes, if he had slipped underwater all those months ago and had not died, but been pulled to shore where his condition had stabilised, and, though people would be sad, it may have just saved his life.
    How funny, he thinks, that drowning might have saved him, that if his life had taken that turn then he might not be dead now.  For the one and only time he will find comfort in the idea of a cold, sterile hospital room.
    But it's hot, like a warm, clammy bath and he's brought back to this train, this journey that lasts forever and, most cruelly of all, takes him closer and closer to her.  Maybe he should continue, forget his job, just arrive at her door, fall to his knees and beg her to turn back the clock, wipe the slate clean and let him wrap his arms around her and weep.
    Tears will fall from his eyes, tracing the shape of his face and dribble into his mouth, perhaps they will fill his lungs and he will drown.  His mind is alive with possibilities, he suspects he's been looking in the wrong place, that the time machine is not a vehicle or a transport outside of himself, but it is himself.  He is both the time traveller and the time machine and he is fuelled by sorrow and despair.
    He lets himself cry, he drinks his tears, but he struggles to force them into his lungs, and they unhappily fall into the safety of his gullet.
    He considers filling a sink, but knows he could not cry enough and the cruel heat of this early summer would evaporate any he tried to collect over time.
    Perhaps a full bath laced with tears will do just as well?  He feels a great surge of hope as he stands undressed, watching the water level rise, and he is pleased by the temperature as he climbs in.  Neither too hot or cold, like in the fairytale, it is just right.
    He finds it surprisingly easy to sink underwater, opening his eyes wide and seeing the ceiling with an odd sense of clarity.  He did need a transport after all, but smiles because he never would've guessed it would be a bath tub.
    Now he finds it easy to relax and open his mouth, the water doesn't scare him as it pushes impatiently down his throat, and it feels like the soft and romantic massage of a lover as it fills his lungs.
    He closes his eyes.
    He must be travelling, he can feel himself being buffeted as if he's still on the train.  He can also feel himself flying, as if he has departed from his body once more.
    Yes, he thinks, he is travelling through time.
    He can see again, he can see her and she takes his hand, applying a small amount of pressure, enough so that he knows she will never let go and she leans close to him, he's lying down, his eyes are shut but underneath his eyelids he is staring ahead and now he can feel her breath upon his ear, and her free hand strokes his hair, pushing it away from his eyes, her voice, though it is cracked and fragile, she sounds like she has been crying and has almost exhausted every syllable she could ever utter, but she has saved enough breath for one last sentence, and his skin grows cold as she speaks to him for the final time.
    She is with him now and he is happy, perhaps he has not failed after all, because before everything goes dark and silent he can hear her say 'I love you.'

Underground Tigers

Another story from the 2007 notebook.  This one was written on my daily commute from Oakwood to Boston Manor tube station.

Underground Tigers

Travelling on the tube had quickly become routine, and each day started with a high speed shower, a cup of coffee knocked back and a quick jog to make it to the bus-stop in time that would aggravate his in-grown toenail.
    He didn't mind travelling from one end of the Piccadilly line to the other, though, on this particular occasion, a large gentleman was staring at him, his eyes piercingly white, his expression like that of a tiger emerging from the bushes about to make a kill.
    He looked down at his book and, after a moment or two, glanced back up again.  The man was still staring.
    It's baffling how someone's sense of etiquette can be discarded so easily once they're sat on the tube.  Why do the rules change underground?  If these two gentlemen were sat in a cafe opposite one another, but at seperate tables, would he still be staring so intently?
    Another man, this one in a business suit with a sick-green shirt and tie combo, sat near the doors is looking his way too, but he's peering out the side of his eyes, lids streamlined into two slits and there's an odd smirk on his face, as if watching an innocent slowly lured to its doom.
    Perhaps this is pack mentality?  Make sure the prey is firmly in position, observe its behaviour and then strike.
    He's been looking at his book, re-reading the same line over and over, but the words won't stick and he keeps thinking about their eyes.
    He has to check again, but in an effort to seem casual he pretends to be looking up and down the tube, y'know, just in case.
    Sure enough their eyes are still on him, but now, at the far end, sat facing out into the aisle is a man in his late-fifties, a large thick grey moustache resting over his lips, which are pulled into some sort of contorted sneer.  He has a rucksack on, but it's too tight and has forced his arms back and chest forward, puffed out like a strutting goose.  Finally, despite his dark tan glasses, it is obvious that he too is staring at the poor, innocent commuter.
    For a while their gaze is locked and then the old goose slowly opens his mouth into a huge, wide, silent roar.  No, a yawn.  But, he doesn't cover his mouth and the passenger finds himself now squinting a little as he's presented with a view down the dark cavern of his throat.
    He's aware again of the other two sets of eyes and begins to imagine them licking their lips or eagerly scraping cutlery together.
    As the tube passes through the tunnels it makes a squealing sound like starving dogs battling with hungry seals and the commuter knows it is the rest of their species descending upon the train, readying to tear him apart limb by limb.
    His journey is only halfway through.  He grows impatient and his right buttock aches.  Unfortunately his job will do little to help with that.
    The businessman stands, moves to the doors and waits.  But the train stops in the tunnel and the lights flicker for a second.
    The commuter looks up and down the train, only he, the businessman, the white-eyed guy, the old goose and a woman applying lip balm are in this carriage, and he is certain that she is the female of the pack, probably heaving with cubs back in the den, many mouthes to feed, hungry sharp teeth, tiny teeth that need to grow.
    She purses her lips and makes kissing faces at her distorted reflection in the glass.
    Any second now.
    Any second.
    With a dull heave, and a thud that reverberates under the carriage, the train begins to move again, snaking its way to the final destination.
    The tigers of the underground dissipate as the penultimate stops go by until the commuter is left alone.  He looks around at the walls of the carriage, at the belly of the metal anaconda that digested them all then spat them out, or worse, one by one.  He wonders why he does it?  Why does he subject himself to their eyes and the fear that everyday, one day, he'll be eaten alive, torn apart like a Sunday chicken?  Why doesn't he go to the country and grow vegetables and read books by candle light?
    But, as his stop approaches, he gathers his bag, puts his book away and eagerly awaits the opening of the doors.
    The day is still young and the smell of the morning is refreshing.  He is full of hope and optimism.  He crosses the road, a spring in his step, and soon comes to a standstill.
    He looks up and down at the small crowd of people that forms around him, and one man, at the back, is staring at him with hungry eyes.
    They both get on the bus.

Mr. Preston Brown

I was tidying my room and started sorting out some old notebooks.  Flicking through them I wound up reading a fair few old bits of writing, some half-finished short stories, some ill thought through ideas struggling to get out of my head as fast as I could think them, some transpositions or recordings of things that actually happened.  I have decided to write these up and post them on here for your reading 'pleasure'.

This first one was written in 2007 immediately after the events described below actually happened.



Mr. Preston Brown

Walking towards me was a man with an odd look on his face.  At first I thought he was grinning eagerly, but as he approached I realised he was crying, or, perhaps he had been grinning and made himself cry once he got closer?
    He wore a black baseball cap with a cartoon green bird and the word 'Shag' on it, an unwashed dark grey (or faded black) and white striped polo shirt, Adidas tracksuit trousers and white trainers, but no socks.  HIs face was contorted into a grimace of despair as he began to tell me his woes.
    At first he just seemed to want directions - oddly that had been happening to me a lot lately - but suddenly he told me his father had just died and he needed to get to Manchester for the funeral.  It transpired that he had assisted other members of his family pay to travel to the funeral, he had however neglected to pay for himself.  Perhaps this kind of financial negligence, or selflessness, may have seemed foolish to others, but I grew up knowing my father and weirder choices have been made.
    He said he'd walked from Chelmsford, though he also claimed to live just down the road, he said he'd lived all over the world in Australia, Hong Kong, Canada and America - specifically North Carolina, where he said the racism was too prevalent.
    He told me of his seven houses and many cars, that he'd been trying to sell a BMW for cash in the preceding hours in an effort to raise the £20 he needed to get to Manchester.  He even kept offering me his phone - a strange teal coloured box, it had a touch screen like a PDA, activated by a little pointer - in exchange for financial aid.
    I had already told him I had no money on me - a lie, I'd just withdrawn £20 and spent £10 at Tescos, but I also told him I am unemployed and would help if I could afford to, which is true.  But he persisted, he kept dropping his hands to his calves and sobbing, bringing face and his wiry little goatee - deposited above the chin, in the space below the bottom lip - up and staring at me as if there were nobody else in the world.
    He was relentless, he said he'd walk to a cash-point with me, perhaps I should have walked to the train station and bought him his ticket, then I could have seen how genuine his need was.  But I was scared, scared that this one intense emotion of sorrow he was displaying could turn to another extremity.  Every time his hands went near his pockets, I took a cautious step back and wondered how I would defend myself.
    Finally I figured the only way to get rid of him would be to supply him with some money.  £10 would do from my end of the deal, though he kept asking me to make up the full £20, so, rather foolishly, I said I would go back to my flat and return, but he would follow me if I left and so all I could do was allow him to accompany me.
    He waited outside and rolled a cigarette whilst I pretended to go upstairs to find some money in my room, when in actuality I just stuck my hand in my inside coat pocket.  When I presented him with this crisp, clean note he continued to talk to me, he told me how he appreciated it because it came from my heart - a word he said with almost exagerated tenderness.
    He told me about his father, how he inherited his business; Preston Transport he said it was called, told me that they had helped people who were in trouble with the IRA.  He had introduced himself as Peppy (Pepe?) and then referred to himself as Mr. Brown, but when he insisted I took his phone number he told me his name was Preston, like the company.
    'Have you ever heard of Preston Transport?  You have now.'
    But he said his mother had wanted him to become a doctor, though he had trained as a barrister with the hope of becoming a magistrate.  He had taken odd and confusing pleasure in asking me to guess his profession, much like he had asked me to guess his age; he is forty two, though I might have guessed mid-thirties.
    He said he was born in Salisbury or Salford, but grew up in South Africa.  His father would teach him to fish in Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia) and had taught him of pride, pride being in your heart, again said with a sentimental whisper.  But he was also regretful of choices he had made, he felt unfit to fill his father's shoes, to live in his shadow especially as an only child, and he kept calling himself a wanker.
    I nodded and agreed where necessary.  He offered me his mobile phone again, and then more mobile phones.  He offered me his BMW and then, after asking if I liked 'boys or birds', he offered to get me a girl, but I continued to refuse.
    He insisted he would pay me back, he said he would never be indebted to anyone in his life and later swore on his father's grave that he would do something for me.  £1000 he said, asking if I was a student and whether that would be of any use to me, but I insisted he need not do me any favours.  But he wanted to take my address and we exchanged phone numbers.  It was only later that I remembered I'd told him I didn't have a phone on me.
    My phone, the little bastard, had ran out of battery charge when I was in Tescos as a friend was trying to call me and I hurried out after paying to get back and charge my phone quickly to call them back.  If they had called and my battery hadn't died and I had spoke to them whilst shopping I would not have left so quickly or may have left via a different route and not met Preston Brown.  Indeed, I had taken a slightly different choice to get home then usual and if I had taken my regular choice perhaps then I would have been £10 better off.
    How selfish I am, mourning the loss of £10 when Preston has lost his father, or how selfish Preston is using the death (or imagined death) of his dad to take £10 from a humble idiot like me.
    He said he'd remember my name because of Michael Owen and Owen Hargreaves, he said he'd bring me a Michael Owen shirt, and he shook my hands a good few times and even hugged me twice.  It was at this point - perhaps the pressure had pushed a button - that my seemingly dead phone returned miraculously to life and serenaded me with the 'low battery' sound twice in a row.
    Preston looked at me and questioned this noise, he said; 'I thought you didn't have a phone?'
    I said, 'I don't, but I have a watch.'
    Which made him nod and say, 'I have a watch too.'
    He began to leave, examining the house with his insistent eyes, placing the cap back on his shaved head.  He said he used to have long hair down to the base of his spine but his girlfriend had made him cut it.  He's got a Harley Davidson and wanted to be a biker, 'Y'know, just for the shit of it.'
    So, looking up at my house, trying to remember the street and insisting, imploring the I still come with him and get something to eat, or continue to aid him on his quest he began to walk down the street, he told me how generous I am, that he doesn't know how to articulate my kindness.  He said 'cool beans' and 'cool bananas', saying they were phrases from his Dad, from South Africa and Australia.
    He walked back toward the door, reiterated that he will do something for me and finally walked off, allowing me to  close the door and breathe.
    I blame my sixth year junior school teacher for reading us Great Expectationsm because now I have to help, I'm afraid to ignore people or walk away because there is the glimmer of a dream that perhaps they are genuine, they do have morals and heart, and one day will remember me and bless me, genuinely wish my dreams to come to fruition or, perhaps, just send me a Michael Owen shirt in the post.