Apocalypso (3 page)

Porrig
scuffed his heels upon the tiled floor. He had always considered himself to be
an easy-going fellow. And it could be truthfully stated that, as with the
duffel-coat of paranoia, the red cagoule of anxiety did not hang in the crowded
wardrobe of his failings.

The
double-breasted blazer of impatience did though. In fact it took up much more
than its fair share of space.

‘Hurry
up,’ cried Porrig, ‘get a move on.

A lady
in a straw hat now entered the booking hall.

‘Good
morning to you, young man,’ she said. ‘Do you know what time the next train
goes?’

‘Any
minute now,’ said Porrig. ‘I’m waiting to get a ticket.’

‘Do you
mind if I wait with you then?’

‘Eh?’
said Porrig.

Russell’s
smiling face now appeared at the window of the ticket counter. ‘So then,
madam,’ he said, ‘how may I help you?’

‘Oi!’
yelled Porrig. ‘I was here before her.’

‘Come
now, sir,’ said Russell. ‘Ladies first.’

‘I’ll
miss my bloody train.’

‘No
need for bad language, there’s plenty of time before the train gets in.

‘No
there isn’t.’

‘Yes
there is, sir. Now, madam, what can I do for you?’

‘A
return please,’ said the lady.

‘Return
to where, madam?’

‘Return
to here, of course.’

Russell
laughed.

The
lady laughed.

Porrig
did not laugh.

‘The
old ones are always the best,’ said Russell.

‘I
prefer the young ones myself,’ said the lady. And they both laughed again.

‘The
train’s coming.’ Porrig pointed up the track. ‘I can hear it.’

‘Long
way off yet,’ said Russell. ‘Now, madam. Where did you want to travel to,
before you returned to this station?’

The
lady in the straw hat cocked her head on one side. ‘I can’t really make up my
mind,’ she said. Where do you think would be nice at this time of year?’

‘What?’
went Porrig.

Well,’
said Russell to the lady. ‘It all depends on how much you want to spend. The
West Midlands are very nice. Particularly the town of Harcourt, which was noted
for its steel mills. Before the war they produced many of the 4-2-4 bogie
couplings that were used on the old LNER.’

‘That
takes me back,’ said the lady.

‘It’s
coming into the station,’ shouted Porrig, jumping up and down.

‘Have a
care, sir, that floor is Grade Two listed.’

‘Perhaps
you’d better serve this chap first,’ said the lady. ‘He’s getting himself in a
bit of a state.’

‘If you’re
quite sure,’ said Russell.

‘I am,’
said the lady.

‘All
right then, sir, what do you say?’

‘A
single to Brighton and make it quick.’

‘Not to
me, sir. To this lady.’

What?’

‘Two
little words, sir.

‘Thank you, sir. Say
thank
you
to the nice lady.’

‘WHAT?’

‘I’m
waiting, sir. Courtesy costs nothing, you know.’

‘The
train’s in the station. I’m going to miss it.’

‘They’ll
be taking on the mail. There’s plenty of time. Come on now, sir. Say thank you
to the lady for letting you push in front of her.’

Porrig
clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘All right,’ he gasped. ‘All right. Thank
you. Thank you. Now give me a ticket to Brighton.’

‘I don’t
think you said please then, did you, sir?’

‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Porrig.

‘I’m
prepared to accept that,’ said Russell. ‘After all, it’s not compulsory for
passengers to be polite to us. Only that we be polite to them.’

‘A
single to Brighton. Please, please, please.’

‘A
single to Brixton. Coming right up.’

‘Brighton,’
said Porrig.

‘It
certainly is a bright’n today, yes, sir. But I expect it will cloud over later.’

‘Brighton!’
shouted Porrig.
‘Brighton! BRIGHTON!’

‘Oh,
Brighton. I thought you said Brixton. I’m a bit deaf in my left ear, you see.
Actually, it’s quite a  funny story how it happened. They were doing these
tours of the engine sheds at Crewe and I—’

‘Give
me my ticket. Give me my ticket.’

‘Quite
so, sir. Now what kind of ticket was it that you wanted? Was it the
super-saver, the value-variable, the weekend-wonder, the mmmmmmmble
bmmmmmlemmm—’

‘I can’t
understand what you’re saying. You’re mumbling! I… look, just give me
anything, anything, the train isn’t going to wait.’

‘First
class or second class?’

‘Anything!
Anything!’

‘The
choice is yours, sir. I can’t influence you either way. It’s more than my job’s
worth to do that.’

‘Second
class then, the train’s going to go. It’s going to go.’

‘Second
class it is then, sir. Nine pounds, seventeen and sixpence.’

Porrig
flung a ten-pound note across the counter. ‘I don’t think I can change that,
sir. Do you have anything bigger?’

‘Bigger?’

‘It’s
these new computer tills.’

Porrig
snatched back his tenner and rummaged in his trouser pocket. He had brought
with him all his savings. He produced a twenty-pound note and flung this across
the counter. Russell handed him his ticket. ‘Now,’ said Russell, ‘let’s see if
I can get the hang of this till. I think you have to press this button, or was
it this one?’

Wasn’t
that the guard’s whistle?’ asked the lady in the straw hat.

‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’
went Porrig, abandoning his change, snatching up his suitcase and making a dash
for the platform.

Russell
and the lady watched him go.

‘A good
turn of speed,’ said the lady in the straw hat. ‘Do you think he’ll catch it?’

‘Oh
yes,’ said Russell. ‘Just. I’ve never had a passenger miss one yet. I pride
myself that I can get it down to the very last second. That’s the humour of it,
you see. It’s all in the timing. It wouldn’t be funny if they missed their
trains.’

‘You’re
a comic genius, Russell,’ said the lady in the straw hat. ‘And you’re wasted
here. But your day will come, son. Your day will come.’

‘Thanks,
Mum. And I really do appreciate you coming down here each morning to work on
these routines with me.’

‘A boy’s
best friend is his mother,’ said the lady in the straw hat. ‘And the extra
money comes in handy. Give me my share of the young buffoon’s change and I’ll
get off up to the shops. Pork chops be all right for you tonight?’

‘Magic,’
said Russell The Railwayman.

3

The station master
had
blown
his whistle and the train
was
leaving the station. Porrig rushed across
the platform, puffing and blowing and bewailing his lot. In the last compartment
of the very last carriage some Good Samaritan espied Porrig’s plight and opened
the door for him. Porrig scrambled onto the train.

He
slammed the door shut, swung his suitcase with difficulty onto the rack and
threw himself down onto one of the bench seats.

‘Thank
you,’ said Porrig in a breathless fashion.

The
Good Samaritan smiled in reply. ‘That was close,’ he observed.

Porrig
made a bitter face. ‘Bastards,’ he said.

‘Excuse
me?’

‘Bastards.
Some officious twat in the ticket office and some old cretin of a woman who
pushed in front of me. I don’t know about making pensioners resit their driving
tests. They should make them do their O levels again. And swim ten lengths of
the local baths. And if they can’t’ — Porrig drew a finger across his throat — ‘euthanasia,’
he said. The best thing for them.’

‘That
is perhaps a tad extreme.’

‘You’ve
got to be cruel to be kind,’ said Porrig. ‘Put them out of
our
misery.’
Porrig grinned up at his fellow traveller. ‘Oh shit,’ said Porrig.

The
Good Samaritan grinned at Porrig. He was a very
old
Good Samaritan.
Very
old. He was small and he was wiry, a bit like an ancient whippet. In fact
there was a definitely canine look to him altogether. He had a shock of white
hair that stuck up in two earlike tufts and his face had the appearance of a
bloodhound that had been given cosmetic surgery in some vain attempt to pass it
off as a poodle.

‘No
offence meant,’ said Porrig.

‘None
taken, I assure you. But then I
can
swim ten lengths of the local baths
and I
do
have an IQ of one hundred and ninety. The only way you could
offend me would be by attempting to mug me. And I wouldn’t recommend that.’

‘Why
not?’ Porrig asked.

‘Because
I am a master of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art known to mankind, and
I’d kick your bollocks right up your arse.’

‘I’ll
bear that in mind,’ said Porrig. ‘Thanks again for opening the door and I’m
sorry about the tactless remarks.’

‘Forget
it, lad. You’re still young and youth is its own excuse for stupidity.’

‘I’ll
bear that in mind too.’ Porrig settled back to gaze from the window. The train
was gathering speed now and the picturesque town of Brentford was falling away
behind. Ahead lay the big metropolis, another train and Brighton.

And
then what?

Porrig
really had no idea at all. But something. Something different. Something new. A
new be-ginning.

‘Do you
believe in fate?’ asked the old fellow.

‘Fate?’
Porrig shrugged. ‘If you mean do I believe that things are preordained, then
no, I don’t. Things happen because things happen.’

‘How
old did you say you were?’

‘I didn’t.
I’m nineteen.’

‘And
how old would you say that I am?’

Porrig
idly perused the ancient. ‘You look pretty knackered,’ he said. ‘Eighty,
perhaps.’

‘A
great deal older than that.’

‘You’ll
be dead quite soon then.’

‘Not
for some time yet I fancy. Would you care for a cigarette?’

‘No
thanks,
I
don’t feel like dying.’

The old
fellow laughed. ‘Then you do believe in fate. You believe that if you smoke
cigarettes your fate would be an early death.’

‘Fate
has got nothing to do with it. Cigarettes are toxic. I wouldn’t drink poison,
so why should I smoke it?’

‘Fate
brought you into this carriage,’ said the old fellow. ‘Fate decreed that an old
woman would delay you and an old man would open a door for you and then you
would find yourself here talking about fate.’

‘I
think
you
brought the subject up.’

‘Only
because you were thinking about it. You were gazing out of the window wondering
what fate would bring you. Something different? Something new? A new
beginning?’

‘How
did you know I was thinking that?’

‘Call
it an educated guess. Would you like me to tell you a little story concerning
fate? It would pass the time and I think it might amuse you.’

‘Oh yes
please,’ said Porrig, in a tone that lacked all conviction.

The old
fellow leaned towards Porrig. ‘Do you often find yourself being smashed in the
face for your sarcasm?’ he asked.

‘All
the time,’ said Porrig. ‘You’d think I’d learn, but I don’t seem to.’

Well,
just be advised on this occasion. I’ve a very short temper and despite my frail
appearance I could easily knock your nose clean through the back of your head.’

‘About
this story,’ said Porrig.

‘Indeed,’
said the other, settling back onto his seat with a creaking of bones and a
crackling of ancient flesh. ‘It begins long ago in the days of my youth. I was
born of humble working stock and grew up in the kind of poverty which, although
not so bad at the time, has, with the constant retelling of this tale, grown
into something so awful that many who hear of it scarcely believe it to be
true.’

‘Eh?’
said Porrig.

‘Folk
cannot bring themselves to believe that anyone could have endured the kind of
hardships I tell them I endured. And why should they, eh?’

‘Eh?’

‘But
endure these fictitious hardships I did. And although a sickly child, all gone
with the mange and the ringworm, the rickets and the bloat, I laboured fifteen
hours each day in the fields, drawing turnips and bringing in the sheaves. My
mother died giving birth to my brother and my father lived out his final years
a broken man, made barmy and blind through drinking fermented cows’ urine,
which in those days you could get on prescription from Boots the Chemist.’