Along Those Lines

by Philip Murray-Lawson

“Hurry,” Damien said. “We can catch it.”

“Bloody hell!”

The three of them ran forward, piling into the compartment. The doors closed; snatching at Sophie’s handbag. With a hiss of brakes, the train juddered forward. They staggered, clutching at each other.

She tapped Steve’s arm: “Don’t swear.”

He frowned at her. They were both on edge.

“Anyway” — Damien reached for a handrail — “that’s the situation. I’m sorry.”

Steve sought about for something to cling onto. He was perspiring, and dearly wanted to loosen his tie. Paris was in the middle of a heat wave, and there was no air-conditioning in the Metro. Damien, who had finished his education at Science Po, was indifferent to extremes of temperature. Despite opting for similar suits, Steve could never match his elegance. He was cursed with a wider girth, ginger hair and freckles.

“Can we talk about it?” He felt Sophie slide her hand into his. “If it’s a question of training, I’m willing to put in the time—”

“It’s just not your thing.” Damien’s level gaze hid his discomfort. “No amount of training would turn you into a salesman.”

“I really need to keep this job.”

“It’s a small company, Steve. I can’t afford it.”

“It’s just that—”

“We can’t get by on one salary,” Sophie said. “You know how much I earn.”

“We’ll do everything by the book.” Damien brushed away a hovering mosquito. “It’ll be a layoff. Steve will receive what’s owed him and have ample time to look for another job. It’s been what? About two years?”

The train screeched on its rails, plunging deeper into the darkness. Sophie’s arm was jostled by a youth seeking to join a chattering group of girls. An accordionist with a lined, scowling face launched into La Vie en rose.

“Two years to this day. You’d invited me for a beer. When you mentioned it, I nearly choked.” Steve took a deep breath. “Actually, you might have saved my life.”

“What? By offering you a job?”

“By inviting him for a beer,” Sophie said. “Don’t you remember? July 17th. The République Metro Bombing?”

“Yes, of course.” Damien frowned. “I don’t see how I saved his life though.”

“If he hadn’t been with you, he would have been right in the middle of it. He always left the Alliance Française around that time.”

Steve forced a laugh. “Bet you regret that now.”

“I do,” Damien said. “Sophie would have married me.”

Looking into the green of her eyes, his heart ached. She had returned his ring. He touched his jacket pocket. He kept it there, pressed against his heart. Why should she not come back to him one day? Would it really take so much? Steve was incapable of looking after her.

“I had just arrived home, and his mother called from Manchester.” Sophie said. “She’d heard it on the radio. I switched on the TV. They had no idea how many people... I tried his cell phone, but only got his voicemail. So I called the school and the secretary said that he’d left at the usual time. By then the estimates were rocketing: thirty, forty, fifty... I was convinced he had been killed.”

An inner voice warned against dwelling on the possibility of Steve’s death, but she was overwhelmed with images of twisted rails, shattered carriages, blood-stained faces, broken limbs... “I remember staring at his slippers, and thinking he would never wear them again.”

“But the chances of him being on that train at that time...” Damien closed his eyes. If you really wanted something, and the stars were aligned... Might not your wish come true?

“It was here,” Steve said. “Between République and Temple. Exactly here. Right around this time too.” He peered at his watch. “7:30 pm. I would have been on it.”

“Be careful what you say,” Damien said. “Remember what Einstein said about time being an illusion.”

“What do you mean?”

“You might find yourself back there.” He laughed. “That would solve a problem or two.”

Steve had stopped listening. He was gazing around distractedly. Sombre forms were flowing between him and Sophie. He tightened his grip on her hand.

Sophie was pale: “When I think of all the people who died...”

Her words were muffled. The shadows intensified as if a floodgate had opened. Steve wondered whether he was getting a migraine.

The train shuddered. A tourist with a hefty camera blundered into him. The lens bruised his chest. He reeled into the accordionist, who somehow kept playing. The girls screamed. Their boyfriends laughed. Sophie, still clinging to his hand, was flung against Damien. Her hair whipped his face.

“Whoops!” Damien inhaled her perfume. “I’ve got you.”

Her eyes met his. “What’s to become of us?”

“Us?” He frowned. “I’ll look after you.”

The accordionist segued into Ciao Bella. The train, howling in competition, gathered speed and stopped.

Everyone snatched at handrails.

The expected jolt did not come.

* * *

Sophie looked around. It was very quiet, and there seemed to be fewer people. Steve was steadying himself against the opposite wall. Damien had disappeared. The accordionist had disappeared. The tourist had disappeared. The girls and their boyfriends had disappeared.

She was mistaken about the number of people. The carriage was still crowded. The seats were taken and people lined the aisle. Other people. Nobody moved. There was no thudding from headphones, no ringing from cell phones, no rustle from newspapers. Mosquitoes floated, specks of golden filigree.

The train stood on its rails, lost in thought.

“Steve?” Her voice sounded very loud. “Why have we stopped?”

“They haven’t announced anything.” His regard was cold. “Where’s Damien?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice had picked up an echo. “Everything looks different.”

The edges of objects and people were darker than usual. Shadows gathered, growing denser by the second. Faces and hands were luminous. The passengers seemed pinned to black velvet. Neon fought encroaching inky tides. It was steadily losing the battle.

“He can’t just have evaporated.”

“I don’t think these people were here before.”

“Nonsense.”

Sophie peered into a window. It was like gazing into obsidian. “My reflection’s disappeared.” She felt depressed and frustrated, as if she had tricked herself into an irredeemable error.

She turned to a woman standing beside her: “Excuse me. Do you know what’s happening? Why have we stopped?”

Only the whites of the woman’s eyes were visible through her burqa. She did not reply. A fine, grey ash was settling on her head and shoulders.

“Steve” — she fought a rising panic — “where are we?”

“Let’s see if we can get to the driver.”

He began elbowing his way along the carriage. People shifted before him, before sliding back into position. Nobody moved for Sophie. She found herself pushing against rigid walls of flesh. With an almost superhuman effort, she wriggled between a corpulent businessman and a gawky teenager.

She grasped his hand. “Wait for me.”

“Try to keep up, then.”

They were level with three empty seats. An old man sprawled in the fourth. His head was tilted back, his eyes closed and his mouth open. Grime traced the wrinkles along his forehead, and food particles clustered in his beard. His anorak, which might once have been red, was caked with dirt. His trousers had fallen, revealing his penis and withered thighs. Decaying carrier bags, overflowing with junk, were stacked around his feet.

Both paused.

“It’s the smell,” Sophie said. “There’s no smell.”

Steve shivered. Buttoning his jacket, he felt softness on his fingers. Holding them up in the dimness, he saw that the tips were smeared with grey. “What the hell is this?”

“Steve, we’ve got to get away from here.”

“I... There’ll be a logical explanation.”

Perhaps he really believed it. His anger prevented him from focusing. The loss of his job would plunge them into poverty. Was there still something between Sophie and Damien? They had whispered together a moment ago. He regretted following her to France. His prospects had not been particularly rosy in Manchester, and her advent had seemed almost supernatural. Astonishing that a sophisticated French girl had shown interest in him! But now he was trapped in a foreign country. After two years, he had made no friends to speak of, and was still uncomfortable with the language. He had failed her. For all his faults, Damien had been the only one to offer him a chance. Small wonder Sophie was fed up.

He had arrived at the door to the next carriage. With a feeling of despair, he wrenched it open. “There’s a ticket inspector up ahead.”

The darkness seemed to fluctuate. Particles of ash, tipped with orange, spun like snowflakes. A woman, wearing a sombre uniform, was hobbling among the passengers. She cradled a clipboard and scribbled notes with a pencil stub.

“Wait.” Sophie hung back. She could hardly control her panic. Steve’s behaviour was incomprehensible. Surely he didn’t think all this normal? “Don’t speak to her.”

“Bonjour.” The ticket inspector was standing before them. Braid twinkled on her cap. Her complexion was swarthy, but the skin around her eyes, nostrils and lips was pale. She pointed with her pencil: “Tickets, please.”

Sophie dug in her handbag, and produced her pass. The woman reached for it. Her hand was distorted and lumpy as if the bones had been shattered and reconstituted. She shook her head. “You shouldn’t be on this train.”

“I... What do you mean?”

“We’re not waiting for you. Only for those we missed.” Her face darkened. “We take one every year.”

“Take one? I don’t understand.”

“None of us do.” She gave a brittle laugh. “Do you think that even time suffers traumas? Or if not time, trains... Train times... On time, off time... Maybe all this is you. Have you thought of that?” She returned Sophie’s pass, tears welling in her eyes. “It’s so lonely waiting here. Waiting until we have them all.”

She turned abruptly to Steve. “Ticket.”

After searching his pockets, he proffered something which flickered like a blue flame.

Sophie clutched his arm. “Where did you get that?”

“I don’t know. It was just there...” Now, at last, there was awareness in his eyes. “You don’t think...”

“Move on up the carriage, Monsieur.” The woman stepped aside. “Madame, turn back.”

“No, Steve. Stay with me.”

“I...” He shook his head. “Maybe I should be here, Sophie. Maybe it’s for the best... After all, you and Damien...”

“No.” Had she given a guilty start? “We’re going back.”

She felt a blow on her chest. She staggered and almost fell. It took her a moment to realise that the woman had struck her.

“Steve...”

He had joined a queue of shadowy figures. She had the impression that he was already fading, merging with the others. Had he looked back? She sprang after him, but was caught by the woman. Flaming ash spun. An acrid odour. Screaming in her ears. The carriage exploded in a burst of orange.

She was flung over and over.

* * *

“It’s all right.” Damien had caught her. “You must have fainted.”

“Damien?” Her ears were ringing. “What’s happening? Steve? Is he here?”

“Steve?” Damien looked at her oddly. “Excuse me, can we sit down? My wife isn’t well.”

Two North Africans immediately gave up their seats.

“You’ll feel better in a moment,” Damien said. “What with the stress and the heat...”

The train slid forward, and everyone sighed with relief.

“I hate those long halts too. No wonder you felt ill.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. She was grateful for him. She often felt guilty for not being more grateful. Damien was kind and attentive. She admired him for the risks he had taken. He had turned down a place in Ecole Nationale d’Aministration and a career as a high-ranking civil servant in order to follow his dream. Despite the morose economic climate, he was making a success of it. She wished that she could love him as he deserved.

The train rattled onwards, and she closed her eyes.

If only she had not met Steve. Funny, chaotic Steve. So big-hearted. Her soulmate. She should really try to forget him. Turn the page. After all, he was dead now. He had died two years ago. Two years to this day. In the République Metro bombing.

She missed him so much. It was the silly things. His dreadful accent when he spoke French. The way he looked so uncomfortable in suits. His swearing that both shocked and amused her. She never dared say such words.

She sat up. How was this possible? Steve couldn’t be dead. She had been with him. Married to him. That train. The darkness. The ash. The ticket inspector. The explosion. What had happened? Her memory was dissipating. She strained after it.

“What’s the matter?”

“Damien,” Sophie remarked a diamond on her finger, “what was that you said about Einstein and time?”

“I was speaking about Einstein?”

“A moment ago.”

“Was I? Well... Einstein thought that past, present and future existed simultaneously. That there wasn’t so much time as times. So from that we can theorise about alternate or parallel... Er... What are you doing?”

“This is all wrong, Damien.” She was standing up. “I’m meant to be with Steve.” She began moving through the people. “I have to go back for him.”

“What?” He was on his feet. “You can’t.” He tried to catch her hand. “Steve’s dead.”

“I’m sorry, Damien.”

The train had stopped at Temple. Pushing at the passengers, she scrambled onto the platform. The doors closed before he could reach her.

She ran through the passageways, up and down steps, her heels echoing. She had to get back to République. Start again. She collided with a girl, who screamed. Somehow get back to the point where she had lost Steve. She was on the platform. Among the crowd. The right direction. Breathless.

A train arrived. She pushed her way inside. Perspiration soaked her back. People were staring at her. Everyone squashed together. Why didn’t they move? But they were off. It was taking forever. Airless. How much time did she have? What was time anyway? She would come back every year if necessary.

République. People standing like zombies. The doors swept open. Hard bodies. She was out. A swathe of protests. Hurry! Along the platform, up the stairs. White tiles. So many people. Oaths. Get out of the way then. Another passageway. Peeling posters. Look out! A corner. Steve? Are you there? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...

Down to the other platform. I was depressed. We both were. I was scared. You were too. We didn’t really want it. So many steps. We made a wrong turning. We got lost. You are the one. You were always the one. Come back. She tried to fix him in her mind. Push through the crowd. Get as close as possible... Closer. Did she glimpse him on the periphery of her vision? Get closer. Closer to what?

Death.

She had to get as close as possible to death.

She teetered on the edge of the platform, the rails glinting below. Anxious people drew away. The train was coming. A breeze cooled her cheeks, lifting her fringe. It became a wind. A horn blasting. The train charged in. She let herself go.

The driver’s ashen face.

The doors were open.

Let me on! A contest of elbows. Cursing. Shouts. She was in. He was there. Somewhere in the depths. Seeking her. Other people shared the space. Other darkness. An accordionist played to a vaporous audience of injured and dying. Damien waded among spectral dead. Shadows overlapped shadows. Teenagers laughed, ankle-deep in pallid puddles of blood. She was there. Coexisting with herself.

The alarm sounded. Steve had reached for her. Yes, he had. She could see him. As pale as a dream. Struggling towards her. Clawing through veils of time. A tourist with a camera merged into him. He reappeared. Nearer. His face strained, but bright with hope. The doors were closing. He was fading.

Something was blocking him. Blocking her.

She tore the ring from her finger. Incredulous faces. She flung it — a diamond arc — through the gap.

The doors had closed.

Too late.

“Steve!” she shouted. “Come back! Bloody hell! Try!”

The train quivered.

She was too bloody late.

“I’m here,” he said. “Bloo... I mean, wow.”

His arms were around her. She was vaguely aware of a tourist with a camera and a group of teenagers. The accordionist had stopped playing. Everyone looked shaken.

“That was quite a jolt,” Damien said. “For a moment, I thought...” He smiled sheepishly. “I thought, maybe, there had been another bomb.”

A displaced strand of hair had fallen over his left eye.

Sophie had never seen anything so funny. She began laughing.

“Oh,” she said. “Did I swear a moment ago?”

“Nah,” Steve said. “You’re way too posh for that. What’s up, Damien? Have you lost something?”

Damien, his face a sheen of perspiration, was searching his pockets. “Not recently,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s strange. I thought, for a moment, that my life was different... It didn’t feel good, though.” He took a deep breath. “I felt like a murderer.”

“You know,” Steve said. “I think you’re making the right decision. I’m not cut out to be a salesman. I’m grateful though.”

“Here’s what I’ll do...” Damien managed a pale smile. “I’ll set you up with a coach. Someone to help you find a job more suited to your skills. Sophie, you might consider something along those lines. You don’t want to be my secretary all your life.”

Steve proffered his hand. “You’re a chum, Damien.” They steadied each other as the train slowed. “Well... Au revoir.” The doors were opening. “This is where we get off.”

Copyright © 2018 by Philip Murray-Lawson