End of the Line
The air was stale with the rancid smell of beer and sweat and unwashed bodies. It was strange to think that all this smell emanated from only 2 people in the carriage. The strength of their combined odours made Gemma wonder how long they and their clothes had gone without a wash. Luckily for everyone, she was pretty drunk and cared less than she usually would.
Two more stops. Why was she living in Ealing again? Ah yes. Cheap rent. The rent generation - that’s what they were calling people like her now. Luckily Nan had left her a bit of money so this wasn’t forever, but at the moment Papa was keeping a firm hold on the purse strings. Something about inheritance tax. Gemma yawned. She was probably just being punished for setting his precious stamp collection on fire when she was 8. It wasn’t deliberate at all, just a seance gone slightly awry, but try telling Papa that. She didn’t think he looked at her with anything but anger and bitterness since then - thinly veiled in paternal fussing. His hugs were almost always a bit too tight (and they hurt) and his kisses too quick. And now he was keeping all the money from her so she had to live in a mouldy flatshare with a manic depressive on-off heroin addict. And she had 2 pence left over every month after paying the rent and bills. Her culinary options ranged from baked beans for savoury and rice pudding for dessert – basically anything that was tinned and 99p or thereabouts. It was all character building stuff, so Papa said. All it was building up in her was a searing resentment.
The man opposite her opened one blood shot eye and looked at her appealingly. He seemed to have trouble keeping his balance even though he was sitting down. Gemma was sure he’d keel over like a skittle any minute now. She got up and moved away to the other end of carriage, pretending to look at an ad for Eve mattresses, so as to not appear rude. The man shut his eyes again. Next to him, the elderly man with the suspiciously stained trousers grunted in his sleep. The train stopped and a draught swept through the carriage, bringing the putrid smell of the two men straight to Gemma’s nostrils. She gagged and considered moving to another carriage, when suddenly just in the nick of time, just before the doors slid shut, there burst into the carriage a beautiful, beautiful man. Gemma prided herself on having some depth and was usually not swayed by anyone’s good looks (alone), but she had to admit that this particular specimen of manhood made her knees feel a bit like jelly. Suddenly she could empathise with Bloodshot’s lack of balance.
He settled down opposite her. Was he a model? An actor? That looked like a Saville Row suit. What was he doing on the tube going to Ealing? He should be in a limo with Prince Harry or someone going to Knightsbridge. Gemma realized her mouth was open and quickly shut it. He flicked his hair back and met her eye. His beautiful grey eyes, speckled with gold, looked around the carriage taking in the two somnolent men at the other end: “Hello – you must be relieved – to finally travel with someone who’s alive…” Gemma giggled. He wasn’t even that funny. She wasn’t going to fall in love, was she? It was tiresome being in love. All the awful gut wrenching, heart aching drama, almost always culminating in a completely debilitating heartbreak.
Outside the train was coming to a halt, its wheels shrieking in a high-pitched cacophony, heralding the end of the journey. The usual voice came on: “The next station is Ealing Broadway where this train terminates. All change please. All change.” At the other end of the train, the two bodies stirred, and began to stand up. Gemma was afraid they’d start leaking from one orifice or the other as soon as they stood up, but they seemed to have enough control over their bodily functions to make it to the door and get out. Dapper got up too, and languidly stretched his limbs. Gemma rose, a bit unsteady in her high heeled Boohoo boots (new). He stepped aside to let her leave the carriage first. Gallant – but of course. He made to follow her but stopped suddenly, bending down to pick up something from under the seat where the old man had been sitting. It was a small carrier bag – black and flimsy, usually used to pick up dog poo. Inside, was a big, fat roll of fifties. Grimy, smelly, dirty and crumpled – but unmistakably money.
Dapper looked at the bundle, holding it gingerly - but only for a minute, before dropping it smoothly into the pocket of his expensive suit. His eyes met Gemma’s and there was something in them that made her look away, pretending that she’d seen nothing. Outside, she saw the old man helping the other man, both slipping and sliding around in the rain making their way down the pavement. She passed them without saying a word and when she’d turned around, Dapper had disappeared.