a Ghostly short for Halloween
fog
On foggy nights I work late and take the last metro home. The station is brightly lit when I get there and so is the train.
“Mind the gap! Mind the gap!” says the voice on the tannoy.
I always sit in the same seat. Further down the carriage I can see the businessman, smart in a suit and tie, wearing a black cashmere overcoat. The first night I saw him, he was reading a newspaper but tonight it’s a Kindle. Opposite him sits a young man with greasy hair and multiple piercings in his eyebrows, his nose, his lips. I haven’t seen him before but I know when he’ll get out. He’s agitated, chewing his nails, jiggling his leg – he’s needing something and he’ll soon go after it. Nearer me there’s a greyhaired woman. She’s tired, urgently lacking sleep, she’s been working too hard. She sits in the end seat, leaning her head against the glass partition with her eyes closed. I wonder if she’ll sleep past her stop. I won’t be able to wake her.
“This is the last train,” the driver announces over the tannoy, “when we reach the end of the line, everyone will need to alight so please don’t miss your stop!” he’s laughing as he speaks but in our carriage no one laughs. They don’t even smile.
Two stations further on the woman wakes up and stands. To my surprise, as she walks past me, she says, “Take care of yourself, dear,” and I nod, remembering now that she always says this.
The train rattles on along the Northern line, past Euston, past Camden Town. The fidgeting young man gets off at the next station and I follow him out, then I quickly get back on the train three carriages further down – I don’t know why, there’s no point. I’m the only passenger as I sit in the empty space. The man in the suit doesn’t follow me but I know it will make no difference.
We go rumbling on, soon we’ll be out in the open air but I’m unable to see anything much, partly because it’s dark, mainly because of the fog. I can make out a few blurry orange globes in the distance although whether they are houses, streetlamps or lights on the track, I don’t know.
At the end of the line I get out and stand in the fog for a minute, getting my bearings as I always do. The air is dense and cold and smells metallic.
The driver walks down through the carriages, shouting, “Please get off here, folks. This is the last stop. Good night, everyone.”
The station lights have already been dimmed and darkness closes round me. The businessman has got off, too, further down the platform. The driver gets out of the train and looks oddly about but he’s used to our presence and he moves on, “I hate foggy nights,” he says, not addressing me, “You never know what it’s hiding.”
He joins two transport workers at the entrance, they’ve already switched off the station lights as I walk down the steps onto the dark street. The fog is so thick now I can hardly see a yard ahead. I know what’s coming – the man in the suit will find me but I don’t bother to run, I know what will happen next. I feel the small kitchen knife, sharp in my pocket as I walk slowly on, and I wait.
Poems
There is a woman
in the moon
living alone
and the space around her
grows vaster every day.
She watches the spinning earth
so far away
green with life
in the sun
but then she turns away
and looks only at the bare rock
the empty moonscape of her life
and the void of endless space
with no boundaries
to rest her eyes.
She reaches out her arms -
but then they drop
and hang empty at her sides.
© Miriam Hastings. Pub. Spokes, issue 17
