© Matt Shaw

The right of Matt Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

The characters, and story, in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

My employer sat opposite me as we sit in silence.

He’s just looking at me.

Am I supposed to say something?

No.

The letter says it all.

The letter, that’s in his hand. Still. Open. Read.

Finally he breaks the silence and holds up my letter, “I don’t want to accept it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing I can say?”

“No.”

“I think you’re making a mistake.”

“I don’t.”

“You realise you need to give us a month?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

I smile.

I have a plan.

Of sorts.

“I’ll tell you what - let’s keep this between you and me, for now... if you change your mind...”

“I won’t.”

“.... if you change your mind we’ll tear this up and forget it ever happened. Have a think about it tonight. Sleep on it.”

“Thank you but that’s not necessary.”

“Even so... it’ll make me feel better.”

“I’m going abroad.”

“Abroad?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Australia.”

“A holiday? If you just need some time out...”

“A bit more permanent than that.”

“Emigrating.”

I smile.

“Wow. Lucky. You kept that one quiet from us. Do you have family out there?”

“No.”

“Just decided to go over there?”

“Yes.”

He looks at me. A look of pity on his face? He think’s I’m lying. But I’m not. Admittedly I haven’t got the plane ticket organised yet but...

“What does your wife think?”

“Ex.”

“Sorry.”

“She doesn’t know. No need.”

He nods. It looks as though he’s searching for the right thing to say - the magic sentence which can undo this whole morning’s meeting. He puts the letter down on the table, in front of him.

“Definitely sure?”

I nod.

“Well, I won’t lie... it’ll be a shame to see you go.”

I stand up. The unscheduled meeting is obviously coming to an end.

In turn, he stands and extends his hand. In the last ten years of working for him, this will be the second time we have ever shaken hands.

The first time was when he gave me the job.

“I’ll have a letter for you by the time you clock off this afternoon, accepting your resignation then.”

We shake hands.

“Thank you,” I reply.

“If you need anything, my door is always open....”

I smile and leave his office, closing the door behind me.

As I walk down the corridor - towards the stairs that lead me to my office - a feeling of excitement tingles through my tired body.

Notice has been given....

A huge weight lifted from my shoulders. If I was going to back out of my plans - today was the day.

It should be easy from here on in.

I can’t wait.

The

Last Stop

Matt Shaw

1.

I never knew it was terminal.

When I was first diagnosed, I never knew it would be the beginning of The End.

Some people, I imagine, would be upset to learn they only had a couple of months left to live.

Not me.

No.

I’m glad.

I can’t wait.

The End.

I hope it’s as permanent as it sounds.

At first I thought this illness was something I simply had to live with; an illness that would plague me for years and years - stopping me from reaching my true potential.

The truth is...

It’s not terminal.

Far from it.

It’s only terminal because I choose it to be.

There’s medication that can help with the mood-swings. There’s pills to help silence the demons screaming in my head - pulling me into a darkness which shrouds me for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. But the pills.... it’s not as simple as that. The pills. They don’t make the monsters go away.

Far from it.

They just numb them.

They numb everything.

I don’t want to be part of the Prozac Nation.

A living zombie, slave to my tablets.

No.

I’ve had enough.

Her.

Her leaving me. The final nail in the coffin.

Proof that people, like me, don’t really function or fit in with the normal society.

The Rat Race.

Yes, I’ve had enough.

No more.

I’m done.

In two months I’ll be done.

I’ll be done with this illness.

I’ll be done with everything.

Get the next thirty days out of the way - finish work whilst clearing the possessions from my life... How I ended up with so much, I don’t know. Possessions don’t give you a fuller life. They just tie you down. He who dies with the most toys still dies. There’s just more left behind for the loved ones to  clear away.

And when I do finish work and I have got rid of my worldly possessions, tying me to this miserable life....  the thirty days after that stage is finished with....

Well, I’ll make them count.

I’ll make them really count.

Go out with a bang.

Literally.

Ringing?

I snap back to reality.

Sitting in my lounge, curtains closed hiding me from the outside world.

Prying eyes.

My mobile phone, on the side of the sofa, is ringing.

I don’t want to answer it.

Open the door to conversation, like I want that?

Could be important.

Could be her.

I reach over, from the other side of the sofa, and lift my phone towards me - pressing the ‘answer’ key as I do.

“Hello? Yes, this is me.”

It’s not her.

She hasn’t been in touch since the day she walked out. Why’d I think it was her? Stupid. Should have known better. Withheld number too. Definitely should have ignored it.

I hang up.

More debt collectors - all trying to get what they believe is owed. It is owed. I’m just not going to pay it. No need. I stopped my direct debits a couple of days after she walked out. My two month game plan was decided pretty soon after she left and paying off my debts didn’t figure into it one little bit. Instead, I applied for another credit card.

Came through too, nice limit on it.

That’ll go on a plane ticket.

First class, I think. I deserve it. Some happiness in life is owed and if that happiness comes in the form of extra leg room, comfier chairs and a better level of service - well, I’m all for that. A bit of luxury might even help shift this mood, which would be nice.

My moods come and go - sometimes happy.... mostly sad. I’m not sure why although I believe my father suffered from the same. The difference was, he was able to hide it. But then, he always was the better person when he was alive. He used to see how badly my moods affected me and he’d pull me to one side and tell me it was nothing but a state of weakness. Bury it or get over it, was his advice.

Good, old fatherly advice.

Where would I be without it?

And he wonders why we drifted apart during his final years before his own body punished him for burying his feelings and issues. A massive heart-attack. I wonder, is this what I have to look forward to? If that’s the case, I’d sooner it hit now - get it over and done with. Bang. Done. Over.

A knock on the front door of my flat breaks my morbid thoughts.

Debt collectors doing home visits now?

Since she has left, no one really visits. Her friends were my friends and, obviously, they sided with her during the split. Not that I can blame them - I was a miserable bastard to be around.

I’m my own worst enemy.

I got up from the lounge sofa and walked down the flat’s cluttered hallway, towards the front door - where another knock tries to get me to hurry up.

Spy-holes.

If you suffer from depression, this is one of the best inventions you could wish for. A little chance to see if the person, on the other side of the door, is worth opening it for.

Shit.

I’d sooner a debt-collector.

“I know you’re in there, I heard you...”

Mum.

The other main suspect in dad’s heart attack.

She banged on the door again.

No sense pretending I’m out. She’ll only hold it against me for months to come. Reluctantly, I opened the door.

“Hi, mum.”

She stepped in, past me, and immediately clocked the clutter in the hallway.

“I’ve just heard about your job....”

Ah, perks of working in the same office as family friends....

“What the Hell is all this?”

Cardboard boxes - some full.... some waiting to be filled. Various messages scribbled on the boxes. Messages to help me remember whether the contents are worth selling.... or just crap. The latter - ready to be dropped into local charity shops.

I’m all about the giving.

“You’re moving?!”

I opened my mouth. Pointless. I knew I wouldn’t get a word in edgeways.

“Were you going to tell me or was I going to have to rely on the whoever buys your flat to tell me you’ve moved on? Jesus, James, what are you thinking? What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Thoughts of topping my mother aside?

“I take it you have tea-bags.”

She walked on through to the kitchen. Might as well close the door, looks as though she’s staying a while.

“Your phone is ringing....” she called out from the kitchen.

That’ll be the debt-collectors again.

I stood in the hallway - torn between a conversation with my mum and a debt-collector.

“Aren’t you going to get it?” she called out.

No.

“It’ll keep,” I replied, walking through to the kitchen where mum was now pouring herself a cup of tea.

She turned to me, “Are you going to tell me what you’re planning?”

“I was going to call...”

“And how are you going to call when your phone is cut off?”

“What?”

“Well, you can’t pay your bills now, can you?”

Jesus.

“No income....”

“I’m working my notice, mum. You know I hated it there. I’m just moving on, not throwing my life away.”

A lie.

I threw my life away years ago. It’s only now I’m doing something about it, not that she’d understand. I try and hide most things from my mum, saves upsetting her. She acts the cold-bitch but it’s only because she cares. Took me years to realise this. Years, unfortunately, of conflict. Now, when she goes off on one - I just take a back seat. Let it get it out of her system. Her venting. She only vents because she worries.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

Her voice has come down a pitch, or two. Normal sounding.

“And what’s with all the boxes?”

“I want a fresh start - this is my chance.”

“And what about Mary?”

“She left.”

“Are you telling her your plans?”

“I don’t need to anymore. Perks of separating.”

Mum went to say something and suddenly stopped herself.

She bit her tongue?

That’s new.

Now I want to know what she was going to say.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Well, this is new.

A few minutes went by with neither of us speaking.

“She was asking after you....”

“What?”

“At coffee yesterday....”

“Coffee?”

“Wednesday morning coffee....”

“Wednesday morning coffee?”

“She was asking how you were doing.”

Did she really not see a problem with this? Pretty sure I’m not being unreasonable. My mum and my ex still good friends despite the break-up. Brilliant. Probably spend Christmas together too - two lonely old women....

“You had coffee with her yesterday?”

“Every Wednesday...”

“Every Wednesday?” I laughed. “Great - nice conversations?”

“What? I shouldn’t stay friends with her because the two of you split up?”

“Erm.... no? No, you shouldn’t... You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Silence.

“There might not need to be sides - she was asking after you.”

“Probably wanting to know how much I’m suffering...”

“She cares! She was asking....”

“That doesn’t mean anything, mum. Fuck!”

“Language...”

Mid-thirties and she still gives me grief about my language. Fucking brilliant.

“If she didn’t care - she wouldn’t ask...”

“If she cared, she wouldn’t have left.”

“You pushed her away!”

“Oh.... Nice.... My fault. Of course it is. Should have known that.”

“You....”

“I think you need to leave, actually.”

“How about we just change the subject?”

“I’m busy - lots to pack up and organize.”

Mum didn’t say anything. I guess she could tell by my face that I’d had enough now - she’d know from past experience that further conversation would just lead to more arguments. Another of my many flaws, which she has also highlighted to me before.

“Call me tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes.”

I won’t but, it’s easier to say ‘yes’.

Mum put her cup of tea to one side and walked towards the front door. I followed to see her out.

“And promise me you’ll call her....”

“Fine.”

Again, I won’t. Once again it’s easier to say that I will.

Anything for a quiet life.

What’s left of it.

“I mean it,” she continued, “she wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t still care.”

What mum fails to understand is ‘caring for’ and ‘loving’ are two completely different things. Besides, I doubt Mary cares. I know for a fact, with the last conversation, she doesn’t love me....

If anything, she was asking because she wanted to gloat. I was with that woman for eight years; I know how her mind works.

2.

The weeks are flying by, although the days seem to be going slower. The flat is on the market, getting a lot of interest, due to the ridiculously low asking price. The agent informs me that, of all the calls they receive about the property, the first question from half of the callers is them asking whether the price is a mistake.

Must really piss the estate agents off.

With regards to the property, I’m actually surprised it’s not been snapped up already. I guess the low price, half of what I was told it could fetch, puts some people off. Some people think too much.

I just want rid of it.

Rid of the flat and the bad memories which come with it.

“Well someone has put an offer in,” said the estate agent as he sat down in front of me - holding the file on my property in his right hand.

“And you accepted it?” I asked.

It had been a week since I heard from the estate agents. Normally they’d call to inform me of viewings, at least but - this week, they’ve been quiet. I guess a visit to their little office, in the centre of town, was long overdue.

“Well, no....” he said, shifting uneasily in his seat.

“No?”

“No.”

Where have all the ‘yes-men’ gone?

When I listed the flat with this small, independent estate agents - I explicitly told them.... accept any offers, I just want rid of the place. I even went into great detail about the troubles I’ve had, with my wife, in that property and how it would be a pleasure just to see the back of it. And here they are now - sitting on an offer.

They didn’t even tell me about it. I wonder, had I not come in - when were they going to call me?

“I told you to accept any offers that came in. I told you, in fact.”

“Sir, that’s not....”

“Don’t call me sir. Do I look like a sir?”

A pet-hate.

“It’s not standard policy to accept offers on behalf of our clients without first informing you of said offer.”

“Right, so when were you going to inform me I even had an offer?”

“Well, it’s considerably lower than what you were originally asking.”

The flat was estimated to be worth around a hundred thousand pounds. Two bedrooms, in the middle of town, a nice area - I was even told to put it up for more than a hundred.

I put it up for fifty thousand.

I’ve only got a month left, after all. I’d probably struggle to blow the full fifty thousand as it stood. Especially given the fact I’ve had another credit card come through. That’s two to max out now. Sure, I don’t need to do it but.... the banks.... they’re happy to offer free money so why the hell not.

I put it up for half of what it was worth, though. Exactly how much was being offered here?

“Well?” I asked.

The estate agent, pompous little prick, pulled an A4 sheet from the file.

“Forty thousand pounds,” he quickly muttered. Perhaps he thought, by muttering it and saying it quickly - it would lessen the insult. “So you see....”

I stopped him, “Forty thousand?”

“Yes.”

He slid the piece of paper back into the file and closed it. Out of sight out of mind?

“It’s worth a hundred...”

“That’s what we had it valued at...”

“I put it up for fifty.”

“Yes.”

“So, do you really think another ten grand off the asking price was really going to bother me? I mean, seriously?”

“Pardon?”

“Call them up. Let’s do it...”

“Sir....”

“Forty thousand is more than enough. Fuck it, tell them I’ll knock it down to thirty-five myself.... just because I like their style.”

“I think you need to take a step back and think, it’s worth so much more....”

“Things are only worth what someone else is prepared to spend.”

Not sure where that came from. Did I just make it up or had I heard it before? Either way, it shut the estate agent up.

“Call them up,” I continued. “Tell them I’ll take thirty-five...”

“Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-five,” I smiled.

Thirty-five is more than enough to live off. Spread that through the thirty days I’ve given myself, not forgetting some of that will be spent traveling so less chance to be spending... that’s over a thousand pounds a day pocket money. That’s some good living.

The agent opened the file and, once again, took the paper from within. The contact details of whoever made the offer, no doubt.

“You’re sure about this.”

I smiled. He knows I’m sure.

The estate agent shrugged and walked away from the desk. Not sure why he felt he couldn’t call the buyer in front of me but, to be honest, I couldn’t care less. I just want the money. Hopefully they haven’t found somewhere else all the time the estate agent has just been sat on their offer.

A vibrating from my pocket; mobile phone.

I reached in and pulled it out. Why I bother I have no idea.... just another debt..... Mary?

Mary’s calling.

What does she want?

Mary’s calling.

Well, answer it!

“Hello?” I answered.

“Hi,” her voice down the other end of the phone.

“Mary?” I asked, pretending I hadn’t noticed it was her when the phone was ringing.

“Hi,” she repeated.

God, her voice - she sounds so cute. I can hear how pretty she is. My heart skips a beat. Come on, man, hold it together. Hold it together.

“What are you calling for?”

I haven’t heard from her since she walked out, after that argument.

“I needed to talk to you,” she said.

Her voice. Like silk. I missed her voice.

I missed her.

The last time we spoke - her tone wasn’t the same. It was filled with venom, anger, hostility. The look on her once beautiful face, mirroring the tone. I won’t forget either. How could I have pushed her.... someone so gentle.... so kind.... so pure.... I pushed her into that state. With my moods I shoved her so hard she was never able to come back to the loving girl she used to be, with me.

My moods.

I broke her.

The love of my life and I broke her. Destroyed her over the years as the Demon within me took control. When he was in the driving seat - no one was safe from being made to feel worthless and unloved. The other day, mum was right - she left because I pushed her. Every day Mary felt as though she needed to walk on egg-shells around me, until she knew what sort of mood I was in. If I were in a bad mood, she’d try and make herself scarce and, if I were in a good mood - she’d make the most of it but still.... she’d still walk on the egg-shells for fear of turning me. I hate being like this but I can’t help it. Like I’ve said before, I don’t wish to be part of the Zombie Nation. I just need to learn how to control it better - it’s just... the people who want to help.... their ‘help’ is always the same - fill you with medication... turn you into one of the braindead so you’re not a danger to anyone, or yourself.

I don’t need to control it.

The clock is still very much ticking.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Can I see you?”

She’s treading on egg-shells now. It’s in her tone.

“Sure, I’m just with someone now but.... could meet for lunch, if you’d like?”

“Lunch would be nice.”

“The usual? Shall we say about midday?”

“See you then,” she said.

She didn’t wait for my reply. The phone-line went dead.

What if she wants to take me back? Carry on as though nothing went wrong, in the first place? Move back in with me....

“They’ve agreed upon thirty-five thousand,” said the agent as he walked back over to the table.

If she does take me back, I wonder where we’ll live...

* * * * *

I got to our usual little cafe at about half eleven.

Our cafe.

Whenever we had a weekend off work together and the mood suited, we’d often grab a spot of lunch in this cafe. Quiet corner cafe overlooking the park. On a Summer’s day, a great little sun spot. A bit of lunch followed by an idle walk through the park, hand in hand - blissfully watching the world go by. Good days.

The cafe used to be quiet too but, it seems more and more couples are finding it too. Copying Mary and I - they’d eat their lunch and then head off towards the park for their stroll. That’s why I got here half an hour early.... ensure we got a nice seat outside, before the lunchtime rush.

“Hi.”

I span around to see Mary standing in the doorway to the cafe. She must have got here early and chosen a seat inside. We never sit inside. She knows that.

“Hi,” I said. “I’ve got us a seat....”

“I’ve got one in here,” she said before turning around and going back inside.

We never sit inside.

I followed her in.

She’d already sat in the far corner of the room, away from prying eyes.

“Hi,” I said as I approached her table. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’m good, thank you.”

Her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, which rested on the small wooden table. I sat down opposite her.

“It’s good to see you again,” I said. “How have you been?”

“Your mother said you were moving?”

Oh, right. Straight to the point then.

“Wednesday coffee?” I asked.

For the first time since getting to the cafe - I noticed how upset Mary was looking. Her eyes were red. Had she been crying? Was mum right? Did she regret leaving me?

“Is it true?”

“Maybe.”

Depends. If she wants me back... it’ll give me a sense of purpose. I’ll want to stick around. If she doesn’t.... nothing changes. I’m tired. The course of action I’ve chosen - I could never put it in place all the time I had someone waiting for me at home.... someone caring about me.... someone loving me.... I couldn’t ruin their lives by allowing them to live with the guilt of not being able to help me. When she left - it kick started my need to be done with it all again. I figured - without her there.... I have nothing stopping me. Nothing holding me back from doing what needed to be done to find some peace once and for all.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

I can’t tell her what I’m doing. I want her to come back because she wants to be with me again. Not because she’d worry I was going to do something stupid and selfish.

It’s only stupid to people who don’t understand the illness. People who have suffered, in whatever form, know only too well it’s the best thing to do. And those who say you are selfish for wanting to die; they’re the selfish ones. Too selfish to let you go, so you can finally be happy, because they don’t want to lose you. They’re selfish making us live like this... with these feelings. If only they could experience them for a day - they’d understand the drive behind our desires.

“Were you going to tell me?” she asked.

“I didn’t feel the need.”

“No, of course not.... I’m only your wife.”

“You left me.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I’m going to need an address....” she said, eventually.

“Weekend visits?” A joke.

“We need to sort things...”

“Things? You’ve already taken what was yours. And more...” I said.

“More?”

“My Pink Floyd album....”

“What?”

“It’s not in the flat, I was looking for it....”

“I haven’t got your album! That wasn’t what I meant!” her voice was quiet but her tone - the hateful tone I remember so clearly from when she first left. I don’t know why I even mentioned the album.

She hated Pink Floyd.

“The divorce....”

“What?”

My heart, once again, skipped a beat.

“I need an address to send the paperwork.”

“A divorce?”

“We can’t very well stay married forever, can we....”

I kind of hoped we could.

My heart feels as though it’s stopped.

“I love you,” I said.

Silence.

Never good.

“Did you hear me?” I asked. I reached across the table and put my hand on hers, until she pulled away.

“You don’t love me.”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“No. You don’t love anyone.”

“What?”

“You’re incapable of that. I always hoped you loved me but.... you never did.... you were never able to.”

“I’ve always loved you. It’s just my moods.... and I’m sorry... I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve ever said to you, done to you.... I’m sorry. Truly sorry...”

Not the first time I’ve apologised for my moods. When I have snapped at her - the blame was never entirely mine because she never spotted the warning signs that all was not right.... she’d start on at me.... pushing me.... until it ended with an argument. It was during the arguments I’d turn on her. My very own Mr Hyde. I’d say the nastiest of things to her, rip her apart even with mental mind games and slurs against her character - none of them true.... just.... during those moods, I’d want to hurt her. I’d want to crush her. It would only be hours later, after I’ve calmed.... I’d realise what I’d done or said and it would haunt me. I’d always apologise.

And then, when I’m in a good mood.... I always have the thoughts at the back of my mind.... whispering to me.... ‘Hey, do you remember when you said such and such.... how hurt she looked..... how upset you made her.....’ Guilt is a powerful emotion, worse for people such as myself for we often have so much more to be guilty about than the average person.

“It’s too late. We were over a long time ago, it just took me a few months to realise it.”

Her words crushed me and I felt another piece, of my tormented soul, die.

“We could start again....”

“I am starting again.”

“What?”

“I’ve met someone.”

“You’ve met someone? It’s been less than two fucking months,” I hissed.

Control it.

The Darkness within wants to come out and play.

Don’t let it.

Control it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please pass your new address onto your mum and I’ll collect it from her.”

She stood up and picked her handbag up.

“I hope one day you can find happiness and peace,” she continued, “but I think you need help, James.”

“No, I don’t.”

She gave me a pity smile and walked towards the door.

“I’m dying, Mary.... I’ve just over a month left to live....”

She stopped in her tracks.

“What?”

“I’m dying.”

I know why she wanted to meet inside now; less people to witness our argument. Less people to witness any tears, shouting or screaming. Less people to witness two fools who were once in love.

“You’re not dying,” she said - tears in her eyes.

Tears.

That’s good.

She cares.

“Yes, yes I am.” I said. “Just over a month left to live.”

“You’re not dying because - people like you - you’re already dead.”

And with that, she turned and left the cafe. The door slamming closed behind her. The harshest of words - a perfect comeback to the horrible stuff I’ve said to her over the years, when I’ve been in a dark place.

I take little comfort in the saying you always hurt the ones you love.

3.

Bored with charity shops now. Five different shops in one day, the last few saying they don’t currently need any more clothes. I’m not entirely sure when charities became so fussy with regards to what people donate but, whatever, I’m sick and tired of trying to give away my clothes.

Not all of them, obviously.

I need some of them.

Not sure I’ll be allowed onto a plane in nothing but a pair of pants.

It’s just.... how did I end up with so many clothes? Eight bin bags, in total. Some cheap clothes and some.... less cheap. As I was bagging all the bits I didn’t want to keep, I kept thinking - who needs this many clothes? Surely, you only need enough clothes to see you through a full week. Maybe you don’t even need clothes on a Sunday - instead you could sit around in nothing but a dressing gown as your clothes are washed in the washing machine. I know, since being alone, I’ve hardly bothered dressing myself on the weekends - unless I had to run another errand to keep myself on track for my plan.

I’ve saved myself a suitcase worth of clothes. If it weren’t for the trouble I could get into at customs - I probably wouldn’t have even kept that many items. It’s just, it may raise a few eyebrows if I try and go to their country, for a month, with nothing but the clothes on my back and a smile. They might end up thinking I was going to disappear into the night, once I crossed over where the ‘arrivals’ ends and ‘Australia’ begins - become just another illegal immigrant. Another statistic.

I want to be a statistic alright, but not an illegal immigrant. Emigrating out of this shit-hole country into another won’t cure me of my moods. Sure, for a bit, I’ll feel happy - like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders but, not in the long run, the moods will catch up as soon as the jet-lag disappears. Of that I’m positive.

Dad used to say, “You can’t run from your problems.”

Of that, we agree.

I emptied another one of the bags of clothes onto a pile I had already made in the communal gardens, outside of my flat. Just one more bag, to fetch from the car, and that’s the lot.

Wonder what this lot cost me, over the years.

Didn’t bring happiness.

And the memories I have, from wearing the clothes... most of them washed away when the clothes were cleaned in the weekly cycle. Hell, half of the clothes here I don’t even remember wearing - let alone what I did when I was wearing them.

The trip back to the car was short - only parked around the corner - and I emptied the final bag onto the pile.

A yellow shirt on top.

Did I really buy that?

Couldn’t have done.

Must have been a Christmas present from someone who doesn’t know me very well... or doesn’t like me. Fucking hideous.

I walked over to the steps, which lead to my flat, and picked up a can of petrol which I had already stashed, when I first started emptying the clothes out. I’ve always wanted to do this.

Can open.

Petrol over clothes.

Sick joke runs through my mind, how do you make a cat go woof?

Can of petrol and a lighter.

With the petrol soaking through the clothes, I fished a small, black lighter from my pocket. Being a non-smoker, I had to buy this especially for this occasion. I didn’t budget for this, in the sale of the flat.

A quick flick backwards, of my thumb, and a spark turned into a flame.

I’ve always liked fire.

So pretty, the way the flame dances around.

“What are you doing?!”

I looked up - a concerned neighbour looking down from the balcony.

No need to be concerned, for once I’m sure everything is under control.

I dropped the lighter onto the pile and stood back as it went up in a ball of fire.

“What the fuck?!”

“Spring-cleaning....” I called up.

He didn’t hear me, too busy dialing a number on his mobile phone.... no guesses who that’s going to be.

“Fire brigade please!”

Spoilsport.

He needn’t worry. I won’t be here after tonight. The sale of the flat has gone through quite nicely and he’ll have shiny new neighbours to cosy up too within a week or so - whenever they decide to move in.

I threw the empty can onto the burning pile and walked towards my car. I best not be present when the fire brigade turn up. Although, is this really my fault? Or is it the fault of the charity shops who turned my stuff down? Yeah, that probably wouldn’t stand up in court.

I climbed into my car and sat back in the driver’s seat, the flame visible via the rear-view mirror. Jesus, that’s pretty big. Not sure what I expected but I didn’t think it would look like a proper bonfire with thick, black smoke flowing from it. Can’t help but think my neighbour did a good job, calling the brigade out.

Turning the key in the ignition, I fired the engine to life.

Really don’t want to be present when they show up.

Reverse gear selected I pulled out of the parking space where I had abandoned my car and drove from the car park.

Everything’s falling into place quite nicely now. Within days, the money from the sale of the flat should be cleared in my back account. Most of the furniture and worldly possessions, which were worth anything, were sold a few days ago in Cash Convertors - a fraction of what they were actually worth but I didn’t care. It was nice to have the clear out. If anything, I felt cleaner for it.

It won’t be long now.

A couple more days at work to secure my final pay cheque.... what am I doing? Do I even need the money from the job? With everything sold and the sale of the flat, minus the commission for the estate agents, I’ve probably got just over forty-thousand pounds.... and that’s not including the new credit cards - there’s another five thousand pounds right there. What, in my brain, made me think it was a good idea to work the notice in full? It’s as though a tiny bit of me was telling me to do the notice, on the off-chance I changed my mind... I’d have something to fall back on. Why’d I doubt myself?

I’m sure, given how much time and effort I’ve put in for them over the years.... I’m sure they wouldn’t put a stop on my wages if I didn’t go in for the final couple of days. Sure, they’d probably dock my wages by a few days but so what? I’ve got money at the moment, more than enough for what I need. What’s a few days worth of wages? Fuck all.

Walking out. Leaving them in the lurch. Probably leave a bitter taste in their mouths when it’s time to leave a reference, though.

A reference?

What am I thinking?!

I don’t need a reference!

Decision made - I’ve now officially finished work too. I’m a free man. For the first time, in a long while, a smile spread across my face.

I’m a free man.

This is it.

No turning back now.

Freedom.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Freedom.

It feels great.

I’ll get mum to phone into the office in the morning. Let them know I’m not coming in.

* * * * *

“How many nights will you be staying with us?”

A nice hotel close to the railway station - the railway being the only option I have having sold my car to a dodgy dealership a few streets away. Another five hundred and twenty pounds towards living my final month. The man in the car yard wanted to give me five hundred pounds on the dot. He made out he was doing me some huge favour but, he’ll get at least a grand for that car. Not the newest of models but... what do I care. I don’t need to worry about it now. It’s not my responsibility. I got what I wanted. Even forced him up by another twenty pounds - the cost of the taxi ride home. The fact he didn’t bat an eyelid proves he knows he’s got a good deal there.

I hate people like him but, again.... won’t be my problem much longer.

“One.”

The hotel receptionist frantically bashes the keyboard - inputting God only knows what into the hotel computer.

“Not a problem, sir.... will you be needing an early morning wake-up?”

“No, thank you.”

I hate it when they call me sir. It implies I’m better than them. Far from it.

“Any newspapers?”

I shook my head. I only want a bed.

“Thank you....”

More frantic keyboard bashing. I wonder how many keyboards they get through in a day.

“How would you like to pay?”

“Card,” I said.

I handed it over before he asked. I know the procedure from when Mary and I used to book into the hotel, the night before we’d fly off on one of our annual holidays. The hotel’s only about an hour and a half away from the flat but we’d always treat ourselves to a night here before the flight - so posh, made us feel like royalty. Made us feel like we were starting our holiday early - especially as it was in the country.... everything seemed calmer here. Nothing nearby other than a small village with the train-station I’d be using in the morning.... at least, that’s the impression the hotel gives. Yes, it’s in the country but only just - drive a few miles further down the road, from the village, and hey-presto - civilization and a motorway linking you to major towns and, of course, the airport. The illusion of seclusion.

With my credit card details stored, the receptionist handed me my credit card back, along with a keycard to what would be home for the next couple of days.

“You’re in room sixty-three,” he said. “We’ll get someone to bring your bags up to you.”

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary.”

“We hope you enjoy your stay and, if there’s anything you need, just press zero on the phone in your bedroom to come straight through to reception.”

“And for an outside line?” I asked as I gathered by bag up.

“Nine, sir.”

I grimaced.

“Thank you.”

And with that, I headed in the direction of the lift and, ultimately, room sixty-three.

4.

Large bed, bigger than the one I have at home.... a small desk in the corner of the room with a flatscreen television on top of it. Bedside cabinet next to the bed, two chairs by the window. The window, overlooking fields as far as the eye can see.

The illusion of seclusion.

If I were to stick around - I’d get a house in the country, I think.

Not that it matters now.

I closed the door behind me and threw the suitcase onto the bed. The unnecessary suitcase. The illusion of someone who isn’t going to come into someone else’s country and disappear into the crowds or kill themselves.

Wonder which the officials would be more upset about.... if I were to go and stay, as an illegal... or when they have to scrape my broken and battered body from the cliff-edge, overlooking Sydney Harbour.

I picked the spot out, years ago, on a holiday with Mary to Australia. Not that I told Mary, “Hey, one day, I’m going to end my life here...”

We had been on a bus tour, going around the surrounding streets. For the life of me, I can’t even remember what the bus tour was for. Some badly run thing, no doubt. I just remember the bus pulling to the side of a cliff and the guide standing up to tell us about it - a suicide location of some notoriety. She went on to tell us that, approximately, fifty suicides happened there annually.

The Gap, as the tour guide called it, was beautiful. High up, obviously, with breath-taking views - my favourite view being of Sydney Harbour on the right hand side. As soon as the guide mentioned the suicide rate..... I could see the appeal for people with my disposition.

When the guide invited us to step off the bus, for a closer look, I was one of the first to leave my seat.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” I remember an old lady, also part of the tour group, asking me.

I could definitely see the appeal.

Watching the waves crashing against the rocks, far down below... beautiful. And, even with the crashing of the water.... hauntingly peaceful.

1857, I think the guide said.... A sailing ship carrying around seventy passengers and sixty-odd crew members crashed into the rocks at the foot of The Gap. James. I remember the name of the Captain for we shared the same first name. Always easy to remember when that happens! Green, I’m sure. James Green. Our guide told the story how he was trying to come into the harbour on a stormy evening, when the winds were high... the Captain misjudged the entrance and his ship crashed into the cliff. There was one survivor - another James. He had hung onto the rocks for hours, well over thirty if memory serves me correctly. The corpses of his friends and colleagues were being pounded on the rocks around him, by large breakers.

Rumour has it – there was another shipwreck in the same spot and, again, there was only one survivor. The name escapes me so it couldn’t have been a James but.... the James who survived the first wreck.... he was the one who pulled the latest survivor from the waters.

What was the name of that fucking boat? Jesus.... I remember random stuff but forget other things so easily... what... what was it.... Dunbar! Yes, that was it. The Dunbar.

Morbid curiosity made me look it up when I got home from that holiday. They say the funeral procession of the Dunbar victims was one of the longest Sydney had ever seen.

I doubt people will turn out in such number for me.

Will anyone mourn me?

Anyway, it shows how different things affect different people, though. When Mary walked in on me, reading about the wreckage - she couldn’t remember anything that the guide had previously told us. She told me she had simply switched off when it started getting gruesome. Switched off and just enjoyed the beauty of the area.

I wish I could do that sometimes. Turn off from anything negative and only allow myself to see the positive. Life would be so much easier. Hell, I might not have even ended up where I am today. More to the point, my relationship may never have crumbled around me, had I had a different outlook on things.

That’s by the by.... I’m just looking forward to seeing The Gap again. A visit there as part of a tour first, make sure that’s the spot I want to end things on. I’m ninety percent sure it is. The other ten percent likes the Three Sisters in the Blue Mountains. Very pretty. Nice views to admire, on the way down. With a decision, such as this.... for the big full stop of life.... I want to be sure I’ve chosen a good spot.

It’s not like I’m going to get to do this again and again. Pretty sure once will be enough.

Pretty sure.

Knowing my luck, thinking about it, maybe I’ll be like the other James and, somehow, end up surviving.... stuck, clinging to the rock like an idiot until someone can come and rescue me.

That’d be embarrassing.

Best make sure I go head first.

I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. Jesus. I look as tired as I feel.

No surprise.

Haven’t slept for as long as I can remember now.

Not properly, anyway.

Haven’t worried about it, though. I figured - plenty of time to sleep soon enough. Until then, keep pushing to get everything done. Get everything accomplished so I can finally live my final month.

It’s weird, thinking like that, but I’m not worried. I’m looking forward to it. And, even with my bad moods... I’m looking forward to the last few weeks of my miserable life too. Experience everything I can in the one place, in the world, where I’ve felt one hundred percent at ease. It’s going to be great. Just a shame those feelings won’t last forever.... I could have just worked on moving out there but, like I said, no matter where I go... eventually the moods catch up.

They won’t have time to catch up this time. Not in four weeks. The good times, coming thick and fast.... they’ll keep them at bay for four weeks at least. I think. Pretty sure.

I guess, if the bad moods do take over.... if the good times and the calm of Australia don’t hold them back.... I can always punch my ticket early.

A smile spreads across my face.

This is a win-win situation.

I pulled an envelope from my jacket pocket and opened it up.

Plane ticket.

First class, as promised to myself.

Roll on flight time.

I dropped the envelope onto the table, next to the telephone. Thoughts of running away suddenly cease. I should call them.... let them know I’m going. Let them know I won’t be back? Maybe it’ll be better if I just tell them I’m going away for a holiday to get my head straight. Might be better. Otherwise they may come and look for me.... even if they don’t - they’ll just be sat at home worrying.

What if they do find me? Find me and bring me back? No. Impossible.

They can’t.

But what if....?

I have nothing here now. Nothing.

Stop worrying about it. They won’t be able to find me, even if they do come out. The sheer size of Australia, there’s no way they’ll find me. No way. And even if they do - they won’t be able to bring me back. I won’t let them. It’s too late now. Everything is set in place.... but....

No!

No ‘but’.... it’s fine.

Everything is fine.

Everything is spot on. It’s just my moods trying to put doubt in my mind. For once, ignore them. For once put them out of your mind... in this instance - the doubting is unjustified. Everything is fine and dandy.

Either way, I’ll play it safe - I won’t tell them my plans. I’ll just tell them I’m going on holiday. Won’t even say where. Just tell them I’m going abroad to think things through and sort my life. Technically, not a lie. I will be thinking things through and, for the final time, I’ll be sorting my life.

They’ll find out what happened eventually. Still not sure if they’ll even care.

Start with the easy phone call... mum.

I leant over to the phone and picked it up off the receiver, before stretching the cable right out and sitting on the edge of the soft bed.

Forgot how comfortable these beds were.

Nice.

I pressed the phone against my ear and hit the relevant number, on the keypad, to get an outside line. Okay, the easy phone call first. I punched in mum’s home number. Even easier call if she’s out and I get the machine. I don’t have that sort of.....

“Hello?”

Didn’t even ring. What was she doing - sitting on it?!

“Hi, mum....”

“I wondered if I’d hear from you again,” she said. She tried to keep a jokey tone in her voice.... tried and failed. It was a dig.

“How are you going, mum?”

“The outside drain’s gone again....”

She wonders why I don’t phone much. Every time I do call, there’s some sort of problem. Without fail. Normally a stupid, little problem.... you know, something which can be fixed quite easily. But, to her, when you call.... it’s the end of the world. No doubt trying to make it sound worse, than it actually is, just to get you to go around and see her. The only problem is, the constant moaning and bitching on the telephone - it makes you want to stay away for longer.

“I’ll look at it next time I’m over....”

The easy way out.

I won’t be round her house again.

“Well, the smell...”

“There’s nothing I can do over the phone, mum....”

“Fine....”

She’s annoyed. I wait a second - no sudden intake of breath, from her, ready to start her next whinge.

“Mum, I’m going away for a while... just off on holiday for a bit to clear my head and....”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Not far,” I lied. “I’ll call you when I get out there,” I lied again.

“Wouldn’t it be better for you to stay here and think about what you want to do now you’ve given up your job?”

Another dig.

“Not sure what I want to do at the moment.... I need this break. It’ll let me get a clearer perspective on things. Sort things out...”

“If you’re sure...”

“I need this, mum.... Look, I’ve got to go but I’ll call you when I get there - let you know I arrived, okay?”

“Fine...”

She doesn’t like not knowing what I’m doing. She feels as though she needs to be part of everything. I can hear it in the tone of her voice, she isn’t happy.

“I love you, mum...”

It’s rare that I say that... But, as this is going to be the last time I speak to her - I might as well make it count.

“Okay,” she said.

Nice. I waited a bit longer, just in case she returned the love.

Nope.

Nothing.

“Well, chat to you soon...”

“Bye then,” she said.

The line clicked dead and a tinge of sadness washed through me. For the last call home, I thought... I don’t know..... maybe it would have been sweeter. You watch that sort of phone call home, in the movies, and they’re always powerful, heartfelt scenes but that really was something of nothing. If anything, a waste of money - especially as the hotel will probably charge me a ridiculous fee for the privilege of making the call in the first place.

Well, that was the easy call anyway.

Mary.

I’m not looking forward to this call. Will she even answer the phone to me? Will she hang up when she realises it’s me? I suppose, as much as it would hurt... it’d be easier that way.

The way she’s turned so cold towards me - I must have been really hard to live with!

I dialed her number and pressed the receiver against my ear once more.

Ringing...

5.

Tired.

I didn’t sleep much last night, not that I didn’t try my best. I’m in for a long day today - a lot of traveling to be done. Really should have tried harder to sleep. I’ll be like the walking dead by the end of it.

Especially given the fact I rarely sleep on planes. I’m the one who’s normally sat next to a larger person - squashed into my own chair... or I seem to get stuck near to the children... worse still are the people who snore loudly. So loudly, in fact, their snores echo around your section of the room. You never have a chance of sleeping near them. You just get to sit there and stare at them in envy at their sleeping abilities.

Sometimes I ‘accidentally’ make a loud noise near them just to give them a jump. Wakey-wakey. If I can’t sleep.... I don’t see why they should be allowed either.

Fair is fair.

Last night I just laid awake, in the soft bed, thinking about Mary. She didn’t answer the telephone. Must have been out. Wonder where. I tried, a few times, during the course of the evening but nothing. Picked up by her answer-phone machine each time...

I didn’t want to leave my message with a machine. I would have, for mum but... not for Mary. Even if she had picked up, I wouldn’t have known what to say to her.

Maybe something along the lines of, “You won’t need to file for a divorce...”

I wonder, would she rather be divorced or widowed?

The telephone call would have just been the final chance for fate to throw me a line and change the course of my life. She’d have been given one final opportunity to take me back and forgive me for what an idiot I’ve been. The very fact she didn’t answer...

Well, just another ‘fuck you’ from fate.

Mind you, if would have been worse if she had wanted me back. More so considering I sold my flat and most of my worldly possessions. I wonder what we would have done.

Ah well, doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not happening. No point even thinking about it.

Would she have changed her number?

Maybe.

No, she’s had it for ages. You don’t go out of your way to keep a number for so long just to change it because you split up with someone. It’s not as though I’ve been calling her everyday since our break up. I’ve given her the space she obviously wanted.

Needed.

Unless, she thought I’d be the sort of person who’d call her constantly and thought it would be the best thing to do? No, she couldn’t have thought of me as that sort of person. She’d have known that wasn’t in my character. But, even so, on the off-chance I was... maybe she changed the number.

Does she hate me that much?

Such a loving woman... what have I turned her into with my depressions? Could I have turned this compassionate, peaceful, fun-loving woman into someone now capable of hate and hostility?

I hope not.

I couldn’t live with that.... knowing I’ve given her such a poisonous trait.

The way she reacted in the cafe, though, that was new.

Unpleasant too.

A taste of my own medicine.

My mobile phone, on the table next to the flat-screen television, played the first few chords of the alarm I set, causing my heart to skip a beat. I should have expected that to go off and deactivated it before it hand the chance to make me jump.

It’s the same every time I wake up before my alarm.... a few minutes later, the alarm goes off scaring the crap out of me.

I sprung from the comfiness of the bed and turned the alarm off - a particularly annoying sound of a duck quacking repeatedly. Why, from all of the choices I had when selecting a noise to wake up with, I thought a quacking duck was the most suitable I’ll never know.

In Australia, I wonder if I’ll even bother to set an alarm call or whether I’ll simply allow myself the chance to sleep in. Stay in bed for as long as I can, drifting in and out of a peaceful slumber.

Well, first of all - I rarely get a peaceful slumber... when I do sleep, I tend to wake up a few times during the night anyway. I have no idea why. It’s not as though I even get nightmares which frighten me awake. I just... wake up.

And, secondly, if these are the last few weeks... it kind of seems like a waste.

I doubt I’ll need it but I’ll set it just in case.

The whole point of going back to Australia was for one final, amazing trip. If I was going to spend all day in bed, I could do that here.... and, surely if that was the case, it would have just been easier to punch my ticket earlier than originally planned.

No, I’ll set my alarm.

For these last few weeks - my eyes are going to be wide open and I don’t want to miss a thing.

* * * * *

I’m not sure what her perfume is but it’s nice.

In the ticket line, at the train-station, I even find myself standing closer behind her than is necessarily needed just to be able to smell her perfume more...

But then, it might be her hair... long, blonde hair down to her waist - tied back in a neat little pony-tail. I step a little closer....

It’s not her hair...

That smells nice too but... not the same as the other scent. Actually, her hair smells of coconuts. Must have just washed it.

She took a step away from me, towards the counter, as the man in front of her moved away clutching his freshly purchased rail ticket. As she takes a step forward, she drags a suitcase along the floor next to me.

I step forward with my own suitcase.

Hopefully she’s going to the airport too. Unless she lives in this small village, somewhere, and is going on a holiday somewhere in Britain.... maybe up to Scotland or across to Wales?

It’s not important.

I’ll still make sure I travel in the same carriage as her. The smell of her delicate perfume is far more preferential to the smell of dirty train carriages. Had I still been with Mary, I might have even asked the lady what the fragrance is, just so I could get a bottle for Mary.

I’ll refrain from asking. As much as I like the scent, I don’t think it would suit me.

The lady pushed her bag to one side, and stepped out of the way to put her ticket away. I stepped forward to get my own.

“Single to Heathrow, please...”

The miserable looking woman, behind the glass, punched a few buttons into her machine which, in turn, spat a ticket out of it.

“Twenty-two pounds.”

So polite.

I took a twenty pound note from my wallet, and two pound coins from the pocket of my jeans, and dropped it through the hole in the cashier’s window. Unless I get a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you’, I always drop the money in front of the person I am dealing with. I always figured, if they can’t be polite to me - I sure as hell can’t be polite to them.

Mary hated it when I did that and always felt the need to berate me in front of whoever was dealing with me. Used to piss me off further.

The woman pushed my ticket through another gap in the glass and tried to look round me to see who was next in line.

People like her baffle me. If they hate their jobs that much - why do they stick with it? Surely it would be easier, and nicer, just to get a new one...

I laugh to myself...

Or easier to book a ticket to Australia where you plan on killing yourself.

I stepped away from the ticket desk and followed the nice-smelling lady to platform two. A quick check on the computer screen, attached to the platform’s wall, confirms we’re heading in the same direction. Thought so. Better safe than sorry. Would have been embarrassing to just presume we were going to the same place, only to find she was actually headed in the complete opposite direction.

She turned around and flashed a quick, polite smile when she realised I was looking right at her. Busted! A quick smile back before I looked down at my watch, pretending to take note of the time.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her face properly.

She’s pretty too.

Nice smile.

It’s nice when people smile at you, when they catch your eye. Too many people walk around, looking at the floor.... or worse still, when they just see you looking at them, they simply scowl at you; a warning to keep your distance.

The blonde lady.... I didn’t expect a smile from her - not that I meant for her to see me watching her. Normally, the prettier the person - the more likelihood they’re just going to ignore you, or do the scowl.... at least, that’s what experience has taught me so far.

Goes to show - shouldn’t judge a book by the cover.

I wonder how she’d feel being compared to a book?

A proper watch check. The train should be here in a couple of minutes. I timed that well. Normally I get to the platform just as the train pulls away and I end up having to stand around for hours on end. Nothing quite as irritating as watching your train leave without you on it, knowing you have at least another thirty minutes to wait before the next, slower, train pulls in.

“Excuse me, what’s the time, please?”

The blonde lady.

Talking to me?

“Erm... eight forty-three,” I replied.

“Thank you,” she said, turning away again.

There are clocks all over the place. From where I’m standing, I can clearly see two. Why’d she ask me for the time? Why didn’t she just look to one of the clocks, suspended above the platform. They have large digits so eye-sight can’t be an issue... And the way they hang from the roof of the platform - suspended by two chains.... You can’t miss them. She must have wanted to talk to me. Turning around and catching me looking at her.... did she just turn around to have a sneaky look at me, having seen me out of the corner of her eye? Did she..... No.....

Girls don’t approach me. Not since Mary approached me all those years ago. I think and, even then, she was the first woman to approach me. Normally I’d be the one approaching the ladies.... when I was trying to meet them.... nine times out of ten, I’d be the one being rejected too.

I felt my self-confidence go up, a fraction.

And, as though my fortunes were already starting to change for the better, the train pulled into the station. A whole minute early.

Today is a good day.

As the train slowed to a stop, I could see it was one of the older style trains. Carriages with a set of doors for every row of seats - not one of the trains with the fancy electric doors at each end of the carriage.

Although I prefer the ease of pushing a button, to open the door.... I do like the character of the older carriages. There’s something about them. The seats, in the older carriages, are more bouncy too - compared to the newer carriages. The seats are definitely harder in the new carriages. Probably better for your back on the longer journeys.

As soon as the train stopped, completely, I twisted the handle and pulled the door open. The pretty blonde did the same on the next door down. Same carriage. Great!

She walked to the right hand side of the carriage and sat down so I stayed on the left - so I could still see her though the gap in the aisle. If I sat at a certain angle, I could see her in the reflection of the window too.

So pretty.

I feel like I’m cheating on Mary - looking at this stranger but I can’t help myself.

Despite the time of the morning, the train is deserted. Just the two of us in this particular carriage. I’m not sure how many in the other carriages but the platform wasn’t especially busy - although, it is a small village so that hardly surprises me. Just presumed the train would have already been full from previous stops.

Why am I even thinking about it? I hate the train when it’s busy. People hacking and coughing over each other, noisily drinking their hot morning drinks or rustling packets of sweets.... some people, with their personal headsets on blasting music to such a level you can only stare at them and wonder how they aren’t deaf yet.

At least my traveling companion is quiet.

Quick glimpse.

She’s looking out of the window on her side of the carriage.

Still smiling.

A few seconds later and the train slowly pulled out of the station. A nice rocking sensation, throughout the carriage, as we slowly gathered some speed.

This is it...

Australia here we come.

6.

Well that was unexpected...

Slowly I opened my eyes. I knew I was tired but.... never fallen asleep on a  train before now. I wish I hadn’t, though... napping like that, I always end up with a headache....

A few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the surroundings... What?

What the Hell?

The carriage is dark. Lit by a couple of lights only. And outside.... outside is pitch black.... Night time. How long was I asleep? What happened to the day?

Pretty lady in the window’s reflection.

I turned my attention back into the carriage. In the same seat as earlier - the pretty blonde lady with the nice perfume. Fast asleep.

She looks cute when sleeping too. At least she looks dignified. The wet patch, down the front of my shirt, says I look anything but dignified when I sleep.

I stood up.... we’re not moving... the train has stopped? Quick look out of the window; I squinted into the darkness. We have stopped. How come no one came and woke us up?

Should I wake her?

Yes.

I’d want to be woken up.

I moved, softly, over to her seat and gently tapped her on her arm, “Hey...”

Slowly she started to stir.

“You fell asleep,” I said.

She seemed to come round to the situation faster than I did...

“Shit, what’s the time?”

She was more polite the first time she asked, back at the station.

I looked down to my watch. The second hand was stuck, as were the other two hands.

“Cheap battery,” I laughed, showing her it had stopped.

“I had a plane to catch!” she moaned.

“Me too.... Guessing by how dark it is outside, I reckon we’ve probably missed our flights, though.”

“Shit! You fell asleep too?”

I nodded, “Pretty stupid or what?”

She shook her head in disbelief.

I’d be annoyed but, waking up with this pretty lady took the edge off for me. Too bad the thought of waking up with me wasn’t enough to take her edge off as well.

“They’ll be other flights.”

“It’s my sisters wedding tomorrow, I’m supposed to be the Maid of Honour.”

“Ah...”

Last minute flight for her, then.

I only have to kill myself. It’s not the end of the world if I have to put that back for a day or two.

“Well,” I said, “we can’t fix anything sat here... What say we get off this train and find out where we are at least.... then we can figure out how to get back to the airport.”

She nodded. “I don’t believe this.... Angie is going to be so mad at me...”

“Your sister, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s see where we are - might still be able to make it yet....”

I returned to my seat and grabbed my suitcase before returning to the pretty lady.... the pretty lady? Jesus, this is stupid....

I extended my hand, “James...”

She smiled the same pretty smile from earlier and took my hand, “Lisa.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Lisa...”

She smiled again and opened the carriage door. As I watched her step from the train, onto the platform outside, I couldn’t help but wonder whether this was fate trying to throw me a lifeline.

I doubt it. I’m not that lucky.

I, too, stepped from the train.

“Well this is creepy,” said Lisa.

She wasn’t exaggerating either. A long, deserted platform. The clock, on the wall of the platform was the old analogue style - as opposed to the digital clock seen in most other train-stations. Ivy had grown up the wall of the station building. The station that time forgot.

“Talk about the last stop,” said Lisa.

She walked over to the station door and pulled it open, disappearing into the old building. May as well follow her.

The inside of the station wasn’t much better than the outside. Just as deserted. The ticket booth was empty with the computer systems off. The automated ticket machines, on the wall, were also off. I wonder whether they’ve ever been turned on.

Some of the ivy, from outside, had even managed to snake it’s way through various cracks in the brick-work, and the station windows, to continue creeping up the walls on the inside too.

“They really need to think about decorating this place,” I said.

“There’s no times anywhere....”

A quick glance around; she’s right. There’s no information posters saying when the next train will be passing through.

“Well this is just great,” she said. “Now what?”

“Sit and wait?”

“Really? I half expected to find a skeleton behind the counter in here....”

“Okay, so we might have a bit of a wait on our hands.”

“A bit? Do you think anyone ever comes through this way?”

Another look around.

No.

Probably not.

I turned my attention back to an increasingly frantic Lisa. She was flicking through various leaflets which were dotted around, “What are you looking for?”

She stopped, “You realise - there’s nothing around here which says where we are...”

“What do you mean?”

“Normally there are signs which say the station’s name.... or, on leaflets, it says where we are.... but here, there’s nothing....”

I had a quick look around. She was right - there was nothing. The leaflets were just generic station leaflets; health and safety, various timetables - none of which made sense.

“And how come no one woke us up?” she continued. “Aren’t you finding this just a little bit weird?”

Now she mentions it, yes. It is fairly strange.

“Maybe it looks better in the daylight.”

“I don’t relish the idea of sitting here for the night, thanks.”

I don’t blame her. Creepy station. If I were alone, I certainly wouldn’t stay here until the morning. The station has an eerie feel about it - as though it should be the home of an insane station-master who slays people who stumble through the station late at night....

Great, now that’s in my overactive imagination. Brilliant. Probably best I keep that thought to myself.

There is an awkward pause between the two of us.

I’m sure, as the man, I’m supposed to be the one who figures a way out of this but my mind is blank - other than the evil station-master lurking somewhere, in the shadows, waiting for us to temporarily go our separate ways.

“Fancy going halves on a taxi-fare?”

Good suggestion. Wish I thought of it.

“I mean,” she continued, “we’re going to the same place....”

We’re in the middle of nowhere. It would make sense to go halves on a fare. God only knows what it would cost otherwise.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

* * * * *

“I think it was less creepy in the station,” I said, whilst trying to maintain some of my alpha-male status.

The taxi rank was full of taxis. No drivers in the car, just lines and lines of empty cars.

“Where do you think everyone is?” asked Lisa.

I shrugged.

The only sign of life was from a dog barking somewhere deep within the thick fog... The fog... where did that come from?

“Maybe there’s a little cafe a little further up the road?” I offered. “Maybe we’ll find the place brimming with life? All the taxi drivers enjoying a full English.... cups of coffee.... a station-master ordering himself a ham omelette....”

Lisa just looked at me.

I guess she doesn’t agree with the idea of a busy cafe.

I tried again, “Maybe they’ve all topped themselves?”

“If I lived here, I’d have topped myself a long time ago!” replied Lisa.

Ah, a girl after my own heart.

A green flash, somewhere in the fog, caught my eye, “What the hell was that?”

Seconds later the dog yelped and fell silent.

“I have no idea...” said Lisa. She stepped closer to me.  “Maybe we should check to see if that cafe exists.... might be warmer...”

And less freaky.

We both extended the handles on our suitcases before heading up the hill in the direction, we hoped, of civilisation.

“I’m pretty glad you fell asleep too,” said Lisa as she walked closely by my side.

I wonder if she’s as grateful for me as I am for her... 

Don’t ask.

Act brave.

You’re the man.

The street we chose to walk up, the only one leading away from the deserted railway line, was lined with terraced houses - all of which looked similar in not only their general appearance but also in the flaws they had.... same bricks looked to be damaged.... tiny borders, in front of the windows.... filled with exactly the same weeds... more weird was that, none of them had their lights on. Not a single house with anybody home or anybody up. Sure, we didn’t know what time it was and it could have been the middle of the night but.... normally there’s someone milling around somewhere.

“Maybe there’s a power-cut,” said Lisa.

Her brain seeking the logical explanation whereas mine was simply seeing the ‘weird’.

“Maybe,” I agreed.

Not convinced. Even if there were a power-cut... in one of the windows.... somewhere.... I’d still expect to see a flicking candle-light.

A few more minutes of walking passed by. The silence of the eerie night shattered only by our footsteps and the trundling sound of the wheels on our suitcases.

“Look,” she said - pointing with her finger.

I turned to look in the direction her finger indicated; a small alley-way with a building set back from the other houses. A sign outside of the property made it out to be a small, family-run bed and breakfast. A lit sign, under the main ‘bed and breakfast’ board showed them as having vacancies. And, better yet, there was a light on in the front window.

“Maybe they’ll have a telephone we could borrow,” Lisa continued. “We could call a taxi....”

I nodded in agreement but suspected I already knew the answer.

Lisa’s pace quickened, as she turned towards the bed and breakfast - forcing me to quicken my own pace just to keep up. I wonder if she’s quickened her pace because she’s desperate to get to a phone or because she’s desperate to get off this quiet street. It has to be said, there is something decidedly spooky about, what appears to be, a ghost-town. Your mind can’t help but wonder as to what happened to everyone.

7.

The sound of Lisa’s hand knocking on the large, wooden door echoed around the alley-way. Hardly any time went by before she knocked, loudly, on the door again.

“You could wake the dead,” I said... more to break the silence between us than for any other reason.

She looked at me. When we first met, she seemed bright and cheerful but now, it seems her mood is changing. Probably stressing about missing the plane to her sister’s wedding.

“She’ll understand,” I said.

“Who?”

“Your sister,” I continued, trying to be helpful. “These things happen....”

“These things happen? You know of many other people who have fallen asleep on a train only to wake up hours later, at the train’s last stop, when they’re supposed to be catching a flight to their sister’s wedding?”

“Well, now you’ve put it like that....”

She knocked again, “They must be in there, the lights are on... Where is everyone?!”

“In Indiana there’s a town called ‘New Amsterdam’,” I said....

She just turned and looked at me.

I continued, “They have a population of one.”

Again, she didn’t say anything - just stared at me with her sparkling blue eyes.

“Maybe this is the English equivalent,” I finished. “One person running around the town trying to get everything done....”

Lisa responded by banging louder on the door.

Strange, the harder she banged - the less of an echo. Seconds passed before she simply reached forward and turned the handle. Surprisingly the door creaked open.

“Well, if they’ve popped out, I’m sure they won’t mind if we just borrow their phone,” she said.

My mind was still thinking about the crazy murderer, living in the train-station, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Do you have any other ideas?”

I shook my head.

Ever the gentleman, I let her go first.

Inside the bed and breakfast - a counter, built under the stairs with a room behind it - faced us. To the left was a living room and, to the right appeared to be a dining room. We both noticed the smell at the same time - musty.... damp...

“No wonder they have vacancies,” said Lisa as she wheeled her suitcase to the counter. “Hello?”

I left my case by the front door and went and stood by her side - both for comfort and to allow the sweet smell of her perfume to stifle some of the damp.

Looking around the counter she said, “I can’t see a telephone...”

“They have to have one,” I whispered. I pointed out a telephone book to her.

“Hello?” she called out again. “Anyone home?”

My attention turned to a guest book which sat on the counter, next to a small gold bell - no doubt to be used to signal the attention of someone.

“Popular place,” I said, flicking through the blank pages of the guest book.

“Hello?! Anyone home?!”

“Maybe they got bored with waiting and went somewhere else.... probably a Ritz down the road, stealing the custom....”

Lisa just looked at me, again, like I was a little strange. Given the circumstances, I’m surprised she’d think of me as the strange one. All I’m trying to go is alleviate some of the tension.

I smiled at her and hit the gold bell with the palm of my hand.

“Yes?” came a voice, almost directly behind us. We both jumped and span around to see a strange, little old lady looking at us. “Can I be of help?”

Lisa took the lead. Not because I wouldn’t have. She just appeared more desperate to get out of here than me. “Sorry to bother you but we were wondering if you had a telephone we could borrow?”

“No phone,” said the lady in a short tone.

Lisa was too annoyed by the lack of supposed telephone to notice it but, there was something odd about the lady. Her blank, staring eyes seemed more vacant than her bed and breakfast.

“No phone?” continued Lisa. “You must have.... you have a telephone book.... who has a telephone book if they don’t own a phone?”

A valid point. One, to be fair, I probably wouldn’t have argued.

“No phone,” the old lady said, again.

She walked past us and stepped behind her counter.

“Only rooms....”

“Oh, I see what you’re trying to do....” said Lisa.

She does?

“Okay, what if I pay for a room.... would a telephone magically appear then?” she pulled her purse out, from her coat pocket, and opened it revealing a stack of notes - some English and some foreign. “So how much is a room anyway?”

“Fifty...”

Lisa froze, “Fifty? I can get a nice hotel for that...”

“Fifty,” the old lady repeated.

Lisa shook her head as she fumbled around in her purse for the right notes, “You’d better have a telephone...”

She handed the money over. In turn, the old lady slid a small silver key over the counter towards Lisa.

“Room six,” she muttered before turning away and disappearing into the back room.

“This evening just gets better and better,” said Lisa.

“I’ll pay for the taxi,” I offered. It seemed only fair if she had to pay fifty pounds for the use of a phone. Most expensive phone call ever.

Lisa left her bag by the counter, and I left mine by the entrance still, and, together, we walked up the stairs.

The general cramped-ness of the downstairs area made the upstairs come as a bit of a shock; a long landing stretching some distance before us.... doors lining the walls, on either side - the bedrooms. I guess the back area, behind the counter, must have been a hell of a sized-room if the upstairs was anything to go by. What a waste of space. Although, having said that, I guess they must have a kitchen somewhere down there too.

“What room was it?” I asked.

“Six,” said Lisa.

The old lady had done nothing to calm Lisa’s fragile mood.

Have to confess, this isn’t the best start to my final few weeks. At least things can only get  better.

Lisa, again, took the lead - stopping only when she was outside room six. She wasted no time in getting her key out and turning it in the gold lock, on the door. The door clicked open.

She stepped in and I followed, unprompted.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, after a quick look around. “There isn’t a fucking telephone...”

I had a quick look, for myself, and she was right.

“What exactly did I pay for?!” she went on.

“A room,” I said.

“A room I didn’t want.... I thought she was just trying to get some money out of me to use her phone.”

“In her defence, she did say there wasn’t a phone.”

“Brilliant.” Lisa sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t fucking believe this....”

“Look, it’s not the end of the world... I’ll go downstairs and get my own room - clearly they have the space... we’ll stay here the night and, in the morning, when everything is open again - we’ll make our way to the airport. You might still be able to get a flight out for the same day...”

“The wedding is tomorrow. I had already left it until last minute,” said Lisa - clearly upset, she started to cry. “Fucking work..... stupid deadline....”

I’m no good when people show emotions around me. I never know what to do or say to make things better for them.

“We’ll get you out there as quickly as possible.”

I’m not sure how. Even if the money, which I did have, was enough.... I don’t think I know her well enough to charter her her very own flight.

“She’ll hate me.”

“She’ll understand... I’m sure she’ll just be grateful to see you when you do get there. And, in weeks to come... you’ll both probably be laughing about this.”

“I doubt that,” she blew her nose.

How can a lady blowing her nose still look so attractive - especially with red eyes and smudged make-up.

“Look, freshen yourself up... I’ll go and get a room and then maybe you’d like to join me for dinner in a bit.”

“If they’re still serving,” she said.

Nearly as much of a pessimist as me.

The perfect couple?

“For the hundred pounds we would have just paid out - I’m sure they can rustle a sandwich up for us,” I said. “Failing that, I’ll break into the kitchen and do it myself when Mrs. Fawlty goes to bed...”

Lisa laughed.

I’m glad she realised it was a joke. I don’t want to be held to that.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” I said. With that, I turned out of the bedroom and walked down the stairs, back towards the counter.

I don’t know why, given what we had seen so far with regards to levels of service, but I was surprised to see our cases hadn’t moved from where we had left them. Part of me just presumed there’d be a member of staff to have moved them, at the very least. But then, I’m used to decent hotels where the staff offer to take your luggage to your room.

“Hello?” I shouted through to the back, as I approached the counter.

Nothing.

“Ground control to Major Tom....” I sang.

Still nothing.

“You’re having a laugh,” I muttered.... “Lady,” no longer muttering, “I have another fifty pounds for you....”

Still nothing.

Weird, I thought that would have worked.

A clock, hanging on the wall, behind the counter caught my eye.

Strange.

Exactly the same time on it as the one on the station.... and the one on my watch. What are the chances of that happening. I didn’t dwell on it - instead I simply craned my neck to try and see if I could spot the old lady in the back room. And then I remembered how big the place was upstairs...

I hit the gold bell and waited.

“Yes?”

The old lady came out of the back room almost instantly. Was she out there, ignoring me, just to be awkward?

“Yes, hello...” I said, choosing to give her the benefit of the doubt. “I’d like a room, please.”

“Fifty.”

She’s all about the customer service.

I smiled at her as I reached into my jacket pocket, for my wallet. She didn’t smile back. Just stared at me.... through me. I’m half tempted to hang myself in the room.... just to be a nuisance to her, in the morning, when she has to struggle to get me from the rafters. It’s a good job I really want to get back out to Australia....

.... That and the fact I don’t have a rope with me.

She slid a key across the counter, after I handed her fifty pounds. Fifty pounds?! Lisa was right - you can get really nice hotel rooms for fifty pounds. No wonder the guest book was empty. People probably came here, found out how much the rooms were and promptly left again.

I picked up the key and asked, “Do you have the time?”

“No time,” she said before turning her back on me.

“Could you at least tell me my room number?!”

She was gone.

At least there was a little number on the key. Hopefully it coincides with the door to my room. Otherwise I’ll be up there, for ages, trying all of the doors. On the plus side, at least I know it’s not room six.

Maybe she’s foreign, I thought to myself as I ventured up the stairs, with my suitcase, and down the landing towards, according to the key, room four. That must be it. It would make sense.... she’s foreign and doesn’t understand us. Believable. Loads of foreigners are coming into the country these days - getting jobs despite their ignorant grasp of the English language. Maybe, if Lisa and I were to come back, in a year.... maybe she’d be politer then having learnt some more English words.

The door’s lock clicked open with a single twist of the key.

Bingo - room four.

I wonder why Lisa wasn’t given this room.

Mind you, thinking like that - why weren’t we both in room one and two? I think it’s safe to say those rooms were available too.

Stepping inside the room, I could see it was identical to Lisa’s. A bed, a desk, a bedside cabinet and not a lot else. No telephone either, important to note that - I have a feeling Lisa will ask, when I go to her room in a bit.

I threw my suitcase onto the bed.

I’m glad I met Lisa and she ended up here with me. I’m pretty sure, if I was alone, I wouldn’t survive the night. There isn’t enough incentive for me to keep going, being stuck here. She gives me incentive.

It’s weird - considering we’ve only just met.... considering the obvious stress she’s under.... I feel a connection to her. A connection I haven’t felt since the first time I met Mary. It’s probably just my overactive imagination working overtime again but, even so, it’s nice. No need to dwell on it and try and talk my mind out of the idea. The whole point of these last few weeks is to enjoy every last minute and, if that means enjoying the thought of a relationship with a stranger.... who am I to say no?

* * * * *

“Telephone?”

I shook my head.

“You tried the bath yet?”

“I haven’t even seen the bathroom yet,” I replied.

“Down the hallway, last door to the left but,” she said, “I wouldn’t bother looking - nothing works...”

“Nothing works?”

Her turn to shake her head.

“Toilet?”

“Nothing. Doesn’t flush. The bathtub - taps turn but no water... I went downstairs but the crazy lady just kept telling me fifty....”

“Yeah, I’m not sure she’s all there,” I said.

“And I still have no idea what time it is....”

“There’s a clock downstairs but - dead.”

“What is going on here?” she said again.

She was getting herself worked up again. One of the things I’ve learnt, over the years living with my moods, is you really need to control your feelings... save from stressing over things you have no control over.

“I’m really not tired,” I said. “When we turn in, I’ll stay up... knock on your door as soon the sun comes up and we can check out.”

“I doubt I’m going to sleep,” she said, “everything feels wrong here.”

There was no denying there was a strange vibe to where we found ourselves.

“Everything might feel better after we’ve eaten.”

“I doubt it.”

Is this what it’s like living with someone who always looks to the bleak side of life? Is that what Mary had to put up with.

“You know everything is going to be okay...”

“I do?”

“Yes... See, I suffer from depression - badly. Lost my marriage because of it. It’s destroyed my life. And yet, now.... today.... with you.... I don’t feel as though it’s all doom and gloom. For once, I find myself looking on the bright side of life. Yes, I’d rather be on my flight right about now but... if I can’t be on that... well, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”

Lisa didn’t reply straight away. She just looked at me. I felt as though I deserved some sort of ‘well done’ for my little speech...

“Really?” she said, finally.

“Yes. Considering everything.... I’m actually enjoying your company.”

“I’m being a bitch.”

“Well.... for what it’s worth, I think you’re a nice bitch....”

What am I doing? Where has this confidence come from? I’ve never been confident with the ladies.

“Thank you,” she laughed. “Look, can we start again?”

“Over dinner?” I suggested.

“Sure.”

And there it was - that beautiful smile again.

“Want to take bets as to whether the kitchen is closed or not?” she asked.

8.

The dining room was larger than the first glimpse had hinted. Several tables dotted around the room and still enough space to get around them, if the room was ever at it’s full capacity.

Not being shown to a seat, we chose to sit in the corner of the room. Away from prying eyes? A force of habit. Every time I went to a restaurant, with Mary, I always made sure we sat in the corner - out of sight from people watching what we were doing. Not that I was embarrassed to be seen with Mary - I just preferred to sit in relative privacy. The world is full of nosey people-watchers and they make me uncomfortable.

There was a small hatch in the far wall. I’m guessing that’s where the food would be served from, for the waitress to collect. I’m guessing because, as of yet, there were no waitresses. Only Lisa and I - not that I minded too much.

“Feels strange,” I said.

“This whole place feels strange,” she agreed, “even the air doesn’t feel right...”

“I actually meant being sat at a table, waiting for food, with a lady.”

Lisa laughed, “Sorry.... no special lady waiting at home?”

Do I dare bore her with the whole story.

“Single.”

“That’s right, sorry, you mentioned earlier that your relationship was....”

“Broken,” I finished the sentence for her. She seemed to be struggling to find a fitting way of ending it, without being insensitive. “What about you?”

“Single. Work has always kept me pretty busy. Hard to meet someone when you’re stuck in an office twenty-four seven....”

“Who would have thought... all you had to do was fall asleep on a train?!”

Bad joke.

A bad joke met with an awkward silence.

Well done, me.

Change the subject.

“I think you would have won the bet, had I taken it...”

“Shut?”

I stood up and walked over to the hatch in the wall. A couple of hard knocks went unanswered.

“And no phone to call for a take-away.”

“I’m sure they won’t mind if we make ourselves a sandwich,” I said.

I slid the hatch to one side and jumped back when the opening revealed the old lady just standing there.... staring at me with her vacant eyes.

“Holy shit! You scared the crap out of me!”

The old lady didn’t respond - she just stood there, looking at me. I turned to Lisa who, I’m glad to see, was laughing at my expense. Ignoring her laughter, I turned back to the old lady.

“Do you think we could get a san.....”

The old lady passed two plates of sandwiches across to me; cucumber in white bread with a few crisps scattered next to them. No sooner had I picked them up, the lady slid the hatch shut again.

I turned to Lisa who had stopped laughing.

“Did you see that?” I asked. “Scared the crap out of me.... and look, she’d already prepared the sandwiches...”

“We didn’t order?”

I put the two plates down on our table, “Well, I hope you like cucumber.”

“I think we should just be thankful we even received that,” she said. She picked up her sandwich and took a large bite from it. I guess she was hungr..... her face.... something’s wrong.... she stopped chewing.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Not cucumber....” she swallowed hard.

“What do you mean? It is!” I took the top layer of bread from the sandwich.

“They aren’t cucumbers, they’re gherkins....”

I looked at her as though she had lost the plot. Picking up the plate, I gave the ‘cucumber’ a sniff.

“Doesn’t smell much like cucumber,” I said.

“It’s a gherkin. I’m telling you...”

“Who makes gherkin sandwiches?”

“Obviously this freak-show!” spat Lisa.

“At least we have some crisps,” I said.

Lisa pushed the plate to one side, “This place is beyond a joke... Fifty pounds for a room.... a poorly decorated one, at that.... a broken bathroom, no telephone and gherkin sandwiches for tea... What’s next?”

I started to laugh.

“What? What’s so funny?!” she asked.

“This...”

Normally, I would have been spitting bricks by now. But, watching her getting worked up by the situation saved me from getting stressed. For a change, I could see clearly. There was no point in getting worked up. I realised, early on, that getting stressed wasn’t going to get us out of our predicament. It would have just made it worse.

“This is funny?” she said.

I nodded, “You have to admit.... it is pretty funny in a weird, roundabout kind of way...”

She smiled. Seconds later, her smile turned to laughter. It was a nice moment; the two of us sharing a laugh over our ‘romantic meal’.

I looked to one of the crisps, on the side of my plate, “What flavour do you think these are?”

“I dread to think.... I went first with the sandwich - your turn....”

“Can’t wait...”

A few sniffs didn’t give me any clues so I put the smallest one in my mouth and waited for the taste to hit.

“Well?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It doesn’t taste of anything...”

Lisa frowned and bit into one of the crisps from her own plate. We just looked at each other, bits of crisp in our mouths. I was the first to crunch the crisp up, into smaller fragments, before swallowing it.

“If it weren’t for the fact I put it in my mouth.... I wouldn’t have believed anything was in there!” I said.

“Maybe it’s a new flavour,” said Lisa, “something like ultra-plain?”

“I may have a tic-tac in my coat pocket upstairs, can always share that if you’d like.”

Lisa laughed.

I like her laugh. A cute, little giggle. Infectious. Whenever she laughs, I can’t help but smile, in return. Being around her, even when she is having a mild panic, is quite therapeutic for my moods.

“So where’s your sister getting married?” I asked - not wishing the conversation to dry up for fear of her deciding she’d be better off trying to get some sleep.

“Bermuda. A big beach wedding,” she replied.

“Nice!”

“I hope so,” Lisa continued, “they’ve been planning it forever.... what about you? Where are you jetting off to?”

“Sydney.”

“I’ve never been to that part of the world, is it nice?”

“The best. I’ve been lucky enough to travel to a fair few destinations but Sydney is the one place where I felt completely relaxed....”

“Really? I thought it would have been busy....”

“Well, it is busy.... it is a city, after all... it’s just - the people, the atmosphere - so laid back compared to here. I love the Australian attitude to life....”

“Sounds like you want to live out there!”

“Something like that,” I smiled.

“I’m probably going to go home in the morning....”

“What about the wedding?”

“Would have missed it. The guests are staying on for the week after the wedding but my sister and her partner were leaving the following day to jet off to a private island for their honeymoon. Doesn’t seem worth paying out to transfer the ticket to another flight just to get there when they’ve already left.”

“What about partying with the other guests?”

“Couples - no doubt they’ll be off doing their own thing. I just have images of me being left on the beach, by myself.”

“Come to Australia with me!” I blurted, without really thinking.

Why did I say that? She doesn’t even know me. I don’t even know her.

She laughed, “I can’t do that....”

“Sure you can. It’ll be a laugh.”

It would be a laugh, I suppose, even though I’m not sure what my quick-thinking process is trying to achieve. Survival instinct from my subconscious?

“Even if I could - I couldn’t afford it.”

“That’s okay, I understand, you don’t like me.... just sitting here, being polite for the sake of it,” I teased.

She smiled.

“No, I do like you....”

I felt my cheeks redden. I’m not used to this. Well out of my comfort zone now.

“Thank you,” I said. “I like you too....” autopilot is engaged.

“How long are you going away for?” she asked.

Awkward.

“Maybe,” she went on, “we could meet up when you get back?”

She started laughing before I had a chance to speak.

“What is it?” I asked. Was she just teasing? That’s mean...

“Sorry, this is all new to me - I don’t normally try and ask people out...”

I smiled. She was asking me out? I feel flattered. I feel.... I feel I should perhaps tell her my plans? No, that’s stupid. Maybe she’s my second chance of happiness..... I mean real happiness.... maybe she might finally cure me of my moods.

Do I really want to risk it? What if I go to Australia and it’s just a holiday? I come home to find she’s already met someone or we go out and don’t hit it off properly and I end up back in square one.... although this time I have no equity behind me to plan another ‘end of days’ trip... All this planning - is she worth taking a chance on... unless....

“Come with me,” I said.

“I couldn’t afford it,” she replied.

“What if I pay.... look, I’ve come into a bit of money... and I know you don’t really know me but I’ll get you your plane ticket.... even your own hotel room.... you don’t even have to come out for the whole time I’m out there, you could come home earlier and then we could meet up.... It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity... you know it is...”

“I wouldn’t feel right....”

“Why not?!”

“It’s your money... you don’t even know me.”

“It’ll give me a chance to get to know you.....”

And, more importantly, decide whether she’s worth changing my plans for. At the end of the day, if things do go well... I’ll worry about what to do when I come back home later.

She did a nervous laugh. Still cute. Still infectious. I smiled.

“You have nothing to lose,” I said, “you’ll have your own room - your own ticket.... it’s just a free holiday. If the money means that much, you can pay for our next holiday.....”

“Our next holiday?”

“What can I say - I’m being optimistic.”

This really is a new me. Did she bring this out?

She’s smiling. I think I’m convincing her.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes... okay.... okay, I’ll come.... but I pay for the next holiday,” she giggled.

I smiled. Even if things didn’t work out between us - I’m sure we’d have a good holiday anyway. And, the whole point of these last few weeks was to really live it up before I punch my ticket. Having her around will help me enjoy myself - it’ll be nice to share the experiences with someone. If things don’t work out - I can still finish off the way I originally intended after she’s gone home.

“That’s that sorted then,” I said, “I think we need a drink to celebrate...”

I turned to summon over the waiter only to remember where we were.

“I don’t think there’s even a mini-bar in the room,” she said, sensing I had just realised a drink order being placed was extremely unlikely.

“I’ll have a bet with you....”

“Go on...”

“The old lady.... I bet when I go to the hatch, she’s there with two drinks.”

“Okay.”

Feel confident, I stood up and walked over the hatch - I turned to Lisa with a cocky smile on my face. She gestured to the hatch....

“Why, thank you,” I said, in the direction of the opening, as I slid the hatch across...... nothing.....

The old lady wasn’t there.

“So, do I win anything?” Lisa called out from the table.

I closed the hatch and opened it again....

One more time?

Once again I slid it shut and slid it open again... she still wasn’t there.

“You can’t just keep opening and closing it until she’s there,” Lisa said as she stood up. “Admit it, you lose.... besides, I think I’m going to call it a night - sounds as though we’re in for an adventure tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I said, walking over to her. I felt a tinge of disappointment wash through my body. All things considered - tonight has been enjoyable. “I’ll walk up with you.”

“Thank you.”

We left the dining area and crossed the hallway, towards the stairs.

“Good night.”

The old lady was stood at the counter - staring directly at us.

“Good night,” I said. Lisa chose to ignore her. I guess she’s still upset by the lack of telephone.

It didn’t take long to get up the stairs, where I walked Lisa to her room.

She unlocked the door and stepped in, turning in the door way to address me, “Thank you for being good company and sorry for being a bitch at times...”

“It’s okay, you’re fine. I understand you’re disappointed....”

“Yes. Yes, I am. But at least I have something to look forward to now... you’re sure you want me tagging along on your holiday?”

I smiled, “Positive. It’ll be fun and I’ll be grateful for the company. You’ll be doing me a favour...”

“Well, I’ll see you the morning then.”

And, with that, she leaned close to me and gave me a little kiss on the cheek. Immediately I felt my face redden, again.

“Want me to knock on your door?” I offered.

“Unless I knock on yours first...” she said.

I smiled again as she closed the door with a final ‘goodnight’.

I can’t remember the last time I smiled so much. It feels nice.

Still smiling, I walked back to my own room and let myself in. The door swung shut behind me and I heard the door’s latch click into place.

I wonder whether that was a hint she may knock on my door sooner than expected, saying she might knock on my door first. She might want to stay in the same room? Stop it. She’s not that sort of lady. Because I can tell that, already... from the short time I’ve spent with her.

So stupid.... stop it. Pull yourself together. Anyone would think I’ve never spoken to a pretty woman before now.....

Take each day as it comes. One at a time. Don’t get your hopes up anything is going to come of this new friendship. Don’t lose sight of the end goal.... you want to leave on a positive note, not more heart-break.

Jesus, have you heard yourself?!

I turned to the window and gazed out. My room was on the street side, over-looking the alleyway we came down earlier in the night. Outside was just as dark as earlier. Who would have thought not knowing the time would have been so annoying. I feel disorientated. Did we really fall asleep through the whole day - not waking once, at any of the stations we stopped at?!

That, in itself, is weird.

On the rare occasions I have started to doze off, on a train or bus, a sudden jolt normally wakes me up. For both of us to sleep right through......

What’s that?

At the end of the alley - a shape in the fog.... what is that?

I squinted, to try and get a better look.

There’s definitely something there.

I squinted harder.

Definitely....

A shape.

Movement...

Is that....

Is that a child?!

9.

I didn’t bother disturbing Lisa. I just ran from my room, down the landing, stairs and out of the front door - leaving it open so I could get back in afterwards.

Why the hell was a child walking around at this time....

Time....?

What time? For all I know it could be the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of an eclipse. No, they would have mentioned something on the news. And people would have come out to see it.... why am I even thinking about this when the child could be in trouble. From the window, it looked as though it was young. Definitely too young to be on the streets by itself, no matter what the time of day was.

I ran to the end of the alleyway, into the fog.

Weird fog.

Eerie.

Maybe I should have disturbed Lisa....

“Hello?!” I called out. “Little.....” the glimpse from the window wasn’t enough to determine a sex, “Little kid?”

I stopped and listened. At first I could only hear my heart beating hard from within my chest. Hard because I’ve just run and it’s not used to it or hard because I’m scared? Could be either. There.... to my left....

I turned....

.... Crying.

“Little kid?” I took a few steps forward, in the direction of the crying and stopped when a small boy, no more than ten years old, walked out of the fog - towards me..

The young boy stopped in his tracks and looked at me. A petrified expression on his face.

“Are you a monster?” he asked.

“What? Not the last time I checked,” I said.

I stepped towards him and bent to his level.

“Are your mum and dad with you?”

He shook his head. His eyes were wide with fear. I try and avoid children, as much as possible, because I don’t have the temperament for them. Even so, from the times I have had to have dealings with them.... I’ve never seen fear like this in their eyes.

“Where are they?”

He shrugged.

The boy was wearing pyjamas - a clear sign he, at least, lived nearby.

“Come on, I’ll take you home....” I said. I held out my hand for him, “Where do you live?”

“No!”

As quick as lightening he turned on the spot and ran into darkness, swallowed by the thick fog.

“Wait!” I yelled out, giving chase.

I managed to catch up within seconds and stopped him by placing my hands on his shoulders and simply pulling him back. He struggled momentarily before realising it was pointless to fight with me.

“You can’t be out here,” I said, “your mum and dad will be worried about you....”

“They aren’t my mum and dad,” he wept.

Maybe he lived with relatives. Maybe he was from a foster home.... either way, I knew he didn’t belong on the street.

“Come on, I’ll take you home... and I promise I won’t leave you until you’re safe and sound from scary monsters....”

“I don’t want to go home...”

“Outside is where the monsters live, though....”

A cruel tactic, but I figured - if he was scared to be outside, on the streets, it might have made it easier to get him to go home. I never said I’d make Father of the Year.

The boy looked round nervously. I offered him my hand.

“Shall I take you home?”

Another quick, nervous look around and he nodded, taking my hand in the process.

“Which way?” I asked.

As it turned out - the boy lived down the same street Lisa and I walked up earlier that evening.

“Can I stay with you?” he asked when we got to his front door.

“What?”

“I want to live with you....”

I frowned.

An odd thing for a child to say.... for anyone to say.... to a stranger.

I nodded towards the door, “Your mum and dad will be worrying....”

“They aren’t my mum and dad.”

Ah, relatives.

He’s in quite a state already - no sense making him upset further by asking what happened to his folks.

The boy struggled a bit as I stepped towards the door but, again, soon gave in when he realised I wasn’t letting go of his hand. Not when there’s another chance of him running. It’s as though the air is thin here, everything seems to take more effort.... I certainly don’t need to be chasing after someone who is a lot more than half my own age. Fuck that.

I knocked on the door and, more or less straight away, it opened to reveal who I presumed were his relatives. They first looked to me and then down to the little boy, who was shaking like a leaf.

“Thomas, where have you been? Your mother was worried,” said the man.

I thought he said they weren’t his mum and dad. Foster, I presume.

The mother stepped forward and took hold of Thomas’ other hand. In turn, I let go.

“Thank you for finding my boy,” she said - stepping back into the house.

“Not sure what happened but he seems pretty sha -” I went to say before they closed the door in my face.

How rude.

Sure, I wasn’t expecting a cash reward or anything but a little gratitude perhaps would have been nice. It was only after I stepped back from the house that I noticed none of the lights were on.

Could there be a power-cut? Maybe the Bed and Breakfast runs on a separate generator? That would be a strange set-up.... no.....

Something’s not right.

Terminate.

I span around on the spot, “Who said that?”

No reply came.

Was there someone in the fog toying with me? Had the little boy come out - perhaps sleep walked - to the street and the same person freaked him out too and that’s why he was running away when I spotted him? Makes sense.... at least, it does in my mind....

Did I even hear anything - the darkness.... the fog.... the disorientated feeling playing tricks on my fragile mind...? I turned my attention back to the house - I feel uneasy about leaving the boy. I feel as though something’s wrong. And I did promise I wouldn’t leave him until I knew he was safe and sound...

...I need a telephone.

A perfect reason to knock on Thomas’ front door again. A reward for finding their son; the use of their phone. If they have one. I’m sure Lisa won’t mind if we leave now - get to the airport as soon as possible to start our little trip together.

I walked back over to the front door and knocked again.

For some reason, I half-expected the door to swing open no sooner had my fist left it but.... nothing. No one answered it.

“Hello?” I called out, “Sorry, I was just wondering if I could borrow your telephone? My friend and I need a taxi...”

Nothing.

I knocked harder on the door, causing it to gently open.

Weird.

I stuck my head in, “Hel.... what?”

The house was empty.

No furniture.

Nothing you’d expect to see in a lived-in house.

Nothing.

And no mum and dad.

“Thomas?” I called. “You here?”

No answer.

I ran up the stairs just to find more of the same emptiness I had noticed downstairs.

Thomas wasn’t here.

Something’s very wrong.

I turned and ran down the stairs, back out of the front door. By the time I had reached the bed and breakfast, I was out of breath and my chest was feeling tight - as though I had run a marathon. I burst through the front door half expected the creepy owner to be stood waiting for me at coun.....

The counter wasn’t there...

Nothing was.

The counter was gone.

The carpets....

A quick glance in the dining-room and that too was empty.

What the fuck is going on?

Lisa!

I ran up the stairs, down the hallway towards room six....

“Lisa! Lisa! We need to go!”

When I was outside of her door, I started banging on it with my fist.

“Come on, Lisa, we need to leave.... now....”

Nothing.

She didn’t come to the door.

“Lisa!” I banged again - harder this time.

I didn’t wait for an answer. Instead I just turned the door handle.... locked. A quick look down the corridor to check for the old lady. Nope. If I had disturbed her, she wasn’t here yet. Good. She wouldn’t approve of this...

Without a second thought, I kicked the door as hard as I could. Unsurprisingly, it splintered on the first kick. The second kick weakened it further. The third kick sent took it off it’s hinges....

“Lisa.....”

I already knew she wasn’t in the room, she would have called out when I started kicking but.... I wasn’t expecting the room to be empty. No bed. No desk. No bedside cabinet. Even her suitcase was missing.

“This isn’t possible....”

I left her room and ran back to my own room. The door was still open from where I had run out, earlier, to get to the little.....

Empty?!

Everything in my room is gone too....

What the fuck is going on?!

Without any warning, I dropped to the floor as though a heavy force knocked me down. My eyes shut tight and everything seemed to be getting darker....

Blacker...

....

Slowly I peeled my eyes open.

Letting in the light hurt. As though my eyes had been shut for a long time.

I shut them again and tried to re-open them.... doing this a couple of times to try and adjust to my surroundings - my head pounding with one of the worst headaches I’ve ever had.

I can’t move.

Everything is bright.

This isn’t the bed and breakfast.

10.

Subject is awake.

Who said that? A strange voice. Piercing into my brain. Who’s there?

I’m in a large room, circular.... white.... bits of metal... clinical.

I tried to sit up but couldn’t... my head feels as though it’s strapped down. What the fuck is this? Hands too - I can’t move them. I feel something foreign against my wrists... the same feeling on my ankles. What the fuck is going on?

Directly above me is a saw....

A saw?

It’s not moving, thankfully.

“Hello?!” I called out.

Strange noises... I can hear various things buzzing around me. I can’t turn my head to see what they are.... can just move my eyes.... out of the corner of my right eye is a monitor.... strange hieroglyphics on the screen with images of my mum... Mary.... my old flat... work bosses.... Lisa.....

Lisa?

Where is she?!

“Lisa?!”

Beyond the monitor are windows. Tinted, I can see shapes on the other side of them. Weird shapes... bushes with leaves and sticks dancing in the wind? No.... Octopus? No.... people.... People shapes with bits sticking from them?

“Hello? Please, where am I?” I called out.

I can hear noises coming from their direction - a language? Foreign sounding as though someone’s over there making clicking noises with their tongue....

Why is subject awake?

Program terminated.

These voices - I can hear in my mind, crystal clear. As though someone was stood directly in front of me talking to me - face to face.

“Please, I’m scared... where am I?”

More tongue-like clicking noises.

You were taken

Part of a program

Help us determine whether we could take Planet by stealth

By force

My heart raced as I heard more and more... as much as I wanted to remain brave - I was so confused.... so scared.... I couldn’t help but cry.

Crying

Same as female

Female? Lisa?

“Where’s Lisa? Please.... where’s Lisa?”

More tongue-like clicking.

Lisa

The female

The shadows on the opposite side of the darkened windows moved around to the other side of the room - my eyes, as best they could, followed..... wait.... no.... Please..... No.....

To my left was another table. Lisa was laying on it. Strapped to the table, just as I was. The top of her head was missing - in it’s place was a large circular saw. It was then that I noticed a smaller, metal table next to where she lay.... Oh Jesus...

A vase with what looked to be a brain, floating it in.... eyes still attached... pretty blue eyes...

I want to be sick... I can’t.... can’t turn my head. I closed my eyes.

It’s okay.

Everything is okay.

This is all nothing but a terrible nightmare. When I open my eyes, everything will be fine. I’ll probably still even be on the train. A terrible nightmare. Lisa, in the dream, because my mind likes to torture me - making me think she’s mine but, when I wake up, she’ll be nothing more than a stranger again.

Yes, a terrible nightmare.

Animal sensed Us

Terminated for study

Child sensed Us

Oh God, I promised him I’d stay with him. Did he meet the same fate as Lisa?

Terminated for study

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

Need Planet

Need Resources

Earth

Close match

Stealth not an option

It’s all just a terrible nightmare.

Program terminated

Subjects to be studied

Weaknesses Discovered

Use of Force

The circular saw above my head span into life.

No.

Please...

I turned my eyes to the side - to look, as best as I could, at the monitor.... my mum.... Mary.... Lisa.... various events from my life in quick succession...

All these thoughts of ending my life and I’ve only just come to realise...

....I’m not ready to die....

~ END

A Quick Word, if I may...

I realise ‘The Last Stop’ is pretty far from my usual type of story but, you know me, I like to mix it up a bit. It’s also two ideas mashed into one. The first was about a manic depressive who was going to travel to his favourite place, in the whole world, for a final blow-out before topping himself.... only to realise there’s so much beauty in the world, he simply wasn’t ready to throw it all in. I had even prepared a title for it, ’30 Days Notice’.

The only problem was, I don’t really like happy endings (sure you’ve come to realise that now - unless this is the first book you’ve purchased of mine). I like the twists and, what’s more, I like the shocks. I like to keep people on their toes and try and hit them from a blind-side with something they weren’t expecting.

Okay, so not all the time do I get away with it. “Writer’s Block”, for example, had many of you re-reading the last chapter to try and get your head around the twists. But then, I just think that’s because you’re thick (joking, of course). I still stand by my statement, ‘I think that’s a great story.’ Anyway, that’s not the point of this section.

The other story was always going to be called “The Last Stop” - an idea I had, when I was about fifteen years old, about a guy who woke up at the last stop of a train only to.... well, you know the story - it’s where I picked up with the middle section of this book.

I combined the two ideas because I thought it worked better - it made the story better and gave it more substance. It also fleshed the characters out a little more. Every time I have previously gone to write “The Last Stop” I always struggled - not with the idea... With the characters. They were dull and flat. I hope, making the main character from “30 Days Notice” take the lead, he became more like-able. More so because, towards the end of the book, his viewpoint of suicide changes as he considers the possibility of a future with Lisa.

Now, I know the ending is far out. Like I previously said, it’s nothing like I’ve played around with before and, to be perfectly honest, not something I’m comfortable with or plan to return to in the future. Horror or comedy seem to be my preference. But, I did like the idea of the ending which is why I went with it. After all, I’m trying to get a book out based on all of the different possible genres. That way, I’ve got something for everybody. I don’t want to narrow my audience before I’ve really found it!

Before I started writing this book another possible ending hit me, though, and I very nearly ended up going with the alternate. What if the train had crashed... Lisa and James being the only people in the carriage, the last station is a holding ground as they wait to move on. Blue flashes from Lisa’s room, when James goes to get her, could signify paramedics trying to shock her back to life with defibrillators? Everything going dark, at the end, for James because The Reaper is coming for him....

It was an idea I toyed around with for some time - going back to the Alien idea (the one I ended up with) and back to this one again. I struggled to decide. In the end, I went for the Alien story for two reasons....

The first reason was because it was a story I had from an early age and one I’ve always wanted to write. With that in mind, I wanted to stay true to myself and go with my gut.

The second reason was far more basic - the ‘train crash’ ending... well, it just sounds like typical Hollywood rubbish. The same lame ending you see again and again in films where the screenwriters were obviously rushing just to reach an end product. Sure, sometimes it can be amazing if it’s done correctly (and I haven’t seen a film do it properly since ‘The Sixth Sense’) but... it’s still been done before.

That’s not saying this idea is one hundred percent original - sure there are probably films out there which have done things similar but, I haven’t seen them! Anyway, I’m not here to justify why I chose this particular ending - I just felt as though I was cheating you by not telling you about the alternative...

Either way, I hope you enjoyed the book.

Matt Shaw

With Thanks To

Lisa Lamb

Julie Shaw

Mandy Hartley

* * * * *

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