Keeping Time

Beginning of a story about a character stuck on the treadmill of the daily commute....tbc.

      

     You’ve needed a new watch for months. The battery expires every now and then, only to wheeze back to life when you least expect it, several hours later. The russian roulette of time keeping. You like the game. The absence of ticking leaves a gap in the air that is picked up by your ears even on the rush hour train. You slap the face with the same short sharp force you’d apply to a buzzing bluebottle. The ticking resumes but the watch face cries a lonely tear as the second hand breaks loose and meanders down to join the rest of the cheap gold detritus hiding in the bottom of the watch. Numbers lie blank, increment lines sulk hopelessly. The heart is failing. But you refuse to resort to euthanasia.

     This is the late train. Always is the busiest. You would have caught the 8.37 if you’d had a watch that worked. Or if she’d ironed the shirt properly. Everyone looks s****y and creased today. It’s too hot to care. You’re sitting on those conscience-twisting seats, the ones with the flap that sits up when you leave. You can never relax on these seats. The entire journey is a battle of ‘Guess Their Age’, and ‘Pregnant or Fat?’. Then there’s the problem of offering the seat. There are certain rules to adhere to. You’ve got to make a move within the first minute that a women of a certain age boards, otherwise you’ve missed the boat. You half-rise onto your haunches, gesture with your hand, “Would you.....” The eyes tell you everything. Tight smile, curt “No.” while she stows away her senior pass, flipping you a mental middle finger. So you slide back down onto the seat from your embarrassed crouch. Closer to the perimeter of forgotten sweets lost to the lure of the carriage, softened by the sweltering heat, sticking to the sole of your new loafers. Closer to the level of a screaming toddler, veins raised in exhausting wail, fat crocodile tears released at five minute intervals. You shouldn’t have missed the 8.37, Carl.

     Late. Again. Late, in a crumpled shirt. You text in an excuse, can’t face Jean answering and giving you s**t for s**t’s sake. She rings you anyway.

     “Carl, jesus christ.”

     “Look, Jean I’m two stops away, I’m on the next train,”

     “You’d better bloody be. Sprint from that station or I swear we’ll run the meeting without                        you”

     “I’ve got time. Just please wait. I’ll be there.”

     “Be here in ten Carl. Or Linn will be taking your place. She’s already here. Don’t text again.” She hangs up and you exhale through your nose.

     It’s quieter now on the train; you’re past the city centre, heading into the industrial estates. The baby has hushed it’s complaints and is alternating sucking on the metal hand bar with drinking from a bottle. The bottle is filled with a brown liquid and it takes you a moment to realise it’s cola. You groan inwardly and watch as the baby gulps it down and rots it’s little teeth. You look at the mother and her hair is scraped back into a greasy ponytail; there’s baby sick on her t-shirt. She pushes the kids dummy into its mouth as soon as it leaves the teat of the bottle, avoiding any more shrieks at this early hour. The baby stretches its arms looking for some reciprocation of emotion. Finds none. The mother turns her face to the window with a sigh and you watch her eyes flick from periphery to periphery scanning the landscape of graffitied tracks. She looks tired and unloved and in need of another f*g.

     Your shirt is sticking to your back. You fan your face with the clipboard meant for the board meeting. When you open your eyes back to the glare of sunlight two lads have boarded and sit opposite you with mud encrusted trainers resting on the seats. The carriage silently seethes. You can tell there’s a collective thought rippling through the passengers of “What a bloody cheek”. Both are chewing gum in unison, letting it peek out of the precipice of their mouths before being drawn back in. Their eyes scan over your body brazenly; roaming over your briefcase, stopping at your watch. You glance at the CCTV camera skittishly. Their eyes smirk.

     The train arrives at your stop. Up, out, air. Mother yanks the pram down to the platform, refusing help with vacant eyes. You walk in step with her, conscious of two figures raising their hoods behind you. The baby starts to wine and throws the dummy onto the tracks. The mother hesitates, sees that it is unretrievable and curses loudly. The sun is burning hotter out here, no trace of a breeze. It dries the saliva in your mouth and makes your heart quicken. You know they’re behind you before they touch. One of them twists your arm up behind your back so far it almost reaches your neck and your early morning muscles cry out in indignation. But you don’t make a noise. Noise will make them do something worse, you know this. They’ll get spooked and make jerky movements, maybe fracture your wrist, tear the ligament. Better to bite through the pain, let them see that you are as weak as their expectations. The mother treads past. Sees but doesn’t see. Turns her head away. Averts her empty eyes.

     “Don’t f*****g move. Over here. Slow. We’re going to let go. Evan, let go” he smacks his accomplice’s hand when the order isn’t followed. You’re marched over to a lonely corner of the platform carpeted with cigarette butts and crisp packets. They fish out your mobile from your trouser pocket, transferring it to their tracksuit and kick your briefcase, scuffing the leather. You wince. They smell like cheap aftershave.

     “Open it.”

You make the smallest inclination with your head. Submit. Evan shoves you towards the wall and they both make a barricade with their bodies, hiding you from view. Your fingers are damp with sweat and they slip over the combination lock. She bought you this case last Christmas, like a child getting a new pencil case for the first day of school. She made you change the password to her birthdate. Sixteenth of march. The case clicks open with a metallic chime and the two teens descend upon it, ravenously kicking the presentation notes into the dirt, leaving tread marks. Jean’s going to be pissed. You check your watch; you’re between ten and fifteen minutes late, depending on when your watch last stopped for breath. There’s no way they’ll have waited for you. Linn has immaculate blow dried hair and pointed nails and a smile that will let her bullshit her way through your presentation. Why would they wait for you.

     Evan notices you checking your watch.

     “What do we have here?” he smiles without using his eyes and runs his tongue over his teeth as he grabs your wrist and starts to unfasten the watch clasp. You can’t let this happen. You twist free out of his grasp and hold your arm rigor mortis behind your back.

     “Play nice” he warns, “or we won’t.”

     “No” you hear yourself say in a wavering tone, stepping back.

It’s no use. They corner you amidst sniggers and hold you by your hair against the wall, the bricks grazing your cheek and making it worse the more you struggle. You feel one of their fingers slip the clasp and the weight of the watch is gone. They peer at the watch face and throw it to the ground in disgust.

     “Piece of junk. Not worth nothing. Leave it.”

Evan watches your face closely as he places his heel on the face and grinds it into the floor until the glass splinters and caves in. The ticking stops. He smirks at your horror and spits onto the debris. The watch is dead. Dad’s watch, all broken in the dust. 

Reviews

[ANM]

Wonderful observation and description I felt I was on the train! It was very true to life and very well written!

What happens next.......

[Paul McCall]

Well Rebecca, that so very descriptive I think I will avoid public transportation for the rest of my life! Very well written, I would love to read what happens when he gets to work? Surely you are a professional, which humbles me.
Paul J. McCall