The Passenger

by Daniel Hurst

  ‘That’s the right answer.’

  I watch her wander away again, and I’m relieved that she is giving me a minute before she tells me to get up for the tenth time. That’s because I need to stay at this flat until I receive the next message from that train, the one that will give me much more useful information than simply informing me of an estimated time of arrival.

  I sink back into the pillow again as Louise walks back into the room, holding her own mobile phone.

  ‘My mum’s just texted me. Her train has been delayed, so she won’t be back until seven now.’

  Of course, I already knew that, but I act as if it’s welcome news, peeling back the duvet and patting my hand on the mattress, inviting Louise to rejoin me in the warm bed.

  ‘Okay, but only ten minutes,’ she says, easily persuaded. ‘She’s delayed, but she’s still on her way.’

  ‘We can do a lot in ten minutes,’ I reply with a cheeky smile as Louise gets back into bed, excited by the prospect of passing the time in a much more enjoyable way than it might otherwise have to be.

  As Louise snuggles in nearer to me, I make sure to keep my phone a good distance away from her in case a new message should come through. It could happen at any moment and the sooner, the better.

  ‘So what do you want to do?’ I say as I begin to kiss her neck, but Louise stops me.

  ‘How about you tell me a little more about yourself.’

  That wasn’t what I had in mind.

  ‘Come on. We can do something more interesting than that.’

  I try to initiate another kiss, but Louise pulls away.

  ‘Seriously. You can’t just keep coming around here and getting into my bed. Not unless you actually answer some of my questions.’

  I sigh and sit up further in the bed. While this isn’t ideal, anything that kills the time between now and when I get the text message from the train is fine by me.

  ‘Okay, what do you want to know?’

  It’s a pretty open question, but considering I haven’t actually told Louise that much about myself, it’s a valid one. Besides, it doesn’t really matter what she asks me.

  I’m going to lie to her anyway.

  ‘I don’t know. How many girlfriends have you had before me?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Really, that’s what you want to know?’

  ‘You said I could ask anything.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ve never really had a serious girlfriend.’

  ‘No way. I don’t believe you. You’re lying.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Remember what you told me once. Guys don’t mature as quickly as girls do. I was way too immature to have a relationship when I was your age.’

  That is partly true. It’s definitely taken me a while to mature, and I did spend a lot of time messing around over the last few years although I don’t mean just drinking and partying. I mean three years spent in a prison, but I can hardly just drop that into the conversation and expect to get away with it. Therefore, I’ll stick to either being vague or just plain lying.

  ‘So what makes you think you are ready for a serious relationship now?’ Louise asks me as she snuggles into my chest.

  ‘I guess I’ve finally met the right girl,’ I reply, and I expect such an answer is going to score me some serious brownie points. That is confirmed when Louise leans up and gives me a kiss on the lips.

  She’s so easy to manipulate, and I almost feel a little sorry for her considering what I am going to do.

  Almost.

  ‘What do you want to do with your life? You know, now you’re Mr Mature,’ Louise asks.

  I take a moment to give an answer, not because I am stuck for one, but because I have to make one up. The real answer to that question would be to live abroad, somewhere sunny, preferably Ibiza, where I would enjoy a luxurious lifestyle selling drugs to all the tourists who visit the island to party and blow their cash. But I don’t think Louise will be thrilled if I say that, so I’ll just play it safe and lie again.

  ‘I wanted to be a doctor when I was younger,’ I reply, deciding that is a more socially acceptable choice of profession to have than drug dealer.

  ‘Really? You? A doctor?’

  ‘Hey! What are you getting at? I’m smart enough!’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  Louise laughs as I pull her in close and give her another kiss. Despite everything that is about to happen, I will actually miss her after today. Not enough to cancel the plan, obviously, but enough to look back fondly on these times when I am sitting enjoying a cold drink by myself in twenty-four hours’ time. We have had some fun together since we first hooked up a month ago. Back then, I was just out of prison, and all I was looking for was a casual relationship with any woman. That’s the thing about spending time inside. You aren’t exactly fussy about who you date when you get out. But far from just being a casual fling, this relationship quickly turned out to be so much more. That’s because ever since I met Louise and learnt about her life, my dilemma about how I was going to make money on the outside slipped away. It was as if we met by fate rather than the simple swiping of a thumb on a mobile phone app.

  ‘What would your dream job be?’ I ask, figuring that making this conversation a two-way thing will keep us lying here for longer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Louise replies. ‘I like animals, so maybe a vet.’

  ‘Don’t you have to be really clever to be a vet?’

  ‘Hey!’ Louise hits me playfully across my bare chest, and I grab her hand before she can remove it. Then I pull her in for another kiss, and this time we don’t go back to discussing our dream jobs. We’re far too busy passing the time in another way.

  7

  AMANDA

  I always feel better once I’ve lost myself in my writing. All of life’s problems seem to fade away into the background, and I’m free to just focus on what I enjoy. That explains why I’m so focused on what I am typing that I fail to notice that the man opposite me is trying to talk to me again. It’s only the fact that he waves his hand in front of my face that diverts my attention away from the laptop screen.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say as my fingers come to a stop inches from the keys. Once I get started, I don’t usually stop until the end of the line. But no such luck today.

  ‘I was just saying that you’re going to wear that keyboard out if you’re not careful,’ he tells me with a warm smile.

  ‘Oh, right. Yeah,’ I reply, returning the smile even though my brain is still deep in the story I was just writing.

  I’m not really sure that what he just said was worth him interrupting me for, but never mind. I’m just about to get back to work when he speaks again.

  ‘That’s the strangest way of playing solitaire that I ever saw.’

  I laugh at his witty observation, and my loosening up obviously gives him the confidence to carry on.

  ‘What is it you’re writing? If you don’t mind me asking.’

  I do mind, but I’m too polite to let it show. While I appreciate the attention from the handsome man and even feel a little flattered that he is interested in me enough to try to make conversation, I really would rather just focus on the task at hand. Maybe this guy is looking for something to do to pass the time until his stop, but I don’t have that problem. I know exactly what I need to be doing, and it’s not engaging in chit-chat.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I reply with a shrug, but he doesn’t let me get away with it that easily.

  ‘Hmmm. If it’s not work, and it’s definitely not solitaire, what could it be?’

  Even though I’m a little irritated, I smile at the man, mainly because he is still smiling at me. As I look at his brown eyes, his slick black hair and his designer stubble, I feel a slight bubble of excitement inside me that comes from being around somebody attractive. I really should concentrate on my work. But the more he looks at me with those dreamy eyes, the more I’m hoping he keeps on talking.

  ‘I think I know what it is,’ he says smugly.

&n
bsp; ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Yep. You’re writing a book because you want to be an author and you don’t want to have to commute into London anymore.’

  I pause because I’m actually impressed, as well as a little shocked. Is he that good at guessing, or am I just that obvious?

  ‘That’s right. How do you know that?’ I ask him, intrigued to know.

  He seems satisfied with himself as he leans forward across the table, closing the gap between us considerably.

  ‘Can I let you in on a little secret?’ he says, and with his handsome face this close to mine, he can almost do whatever he likes.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say, but you’re not exactly special.’ Then he sits back and winks at me.

  Oh. That wasn’t what I was expecting.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I ask, feeling a little deflated.

  ‘I don’t mean it like that,’ he assures me. ‘I’m sure you are very special in your own unique way. I just mean the whole wannabe writer thing you’ve got going on here. Let’s just say you’re not the only one on this train who is dreaming of better things.’

  I frown because I’m not sure what he means until he points something out behind me and tells me to look.

  I turn around and glance down the carriage.

  ‘See that guy there with the iPad?’ he asks me. ‘He’s writing as well.’

  My eyes scan the carriage before I notice the bald-headed businessman a couple of rows down typing on the device on his lap.

  ‘How do you know he’s writing? He could be doing anything.’

  ‘Trust me, he’s writing. I’m guessing it’s an action thriller about an undercover spy travelling the world. He looks the type who pretends to be James Bond when he’s not selling insurance in a bad suit.’

  I laugh.

  ‘And you see that guy a couple of rows further down typing on his phone? The one with the wild hairstyle? He’s writing a science fiction novel. Lots of epic space battles in that one.’

  I see the young man with an unruly mop of purple hair staring at his phone and smile because I get what game this stranger is playing. But I’m having fun, so I want to play along too.

  ‘What about her?’’ I ask, nodding towards a woman behind him who is also working on a laptop.

  ‘That’s an easy one,’ he says as he turns and looks in her direction. ‘She’s trying to make it as an erotic author. Very steamy stuff. I can’t be sure, but I believe her pen name is Lola Lipstick.’

  ‘I heard it was Penelope Passion.’

  He laughs, seemingly approving of my attempts to join in the game.

  ‘See what I mean?’ he says, gesturing to all the people in the carriage around us. ‘Everybody here is trying to become a writer. But now we know what their books are about, the only question is, what are you writing?’

  I know I shouldn’t be allowing myself to be this distracted during what little time I actually have in my day to work on my own thing, but I’m enjoying myself too much to put a stop to this conversation. Instead, I let out a deep sigh and go for it.

  ‘I’m writing a psychological thriller,’ I confess.

  ‘Interesting. Let me guess. Your hero is an ordinary woman who ends up in an extraordinary situation.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘How many words have you got?’

  I make a check on the count at the bottom of my screen.

  ‘Just over forty thousand so far.’

  ‘Wow, you are a writer!’ he says, and even though I know he is joking, it still feels good to hear somebody call me that. He is the only one who has ever done so, besides me, of course.

  ‘I’m trying,’ I confess. ‘But it’s tough. There’s so much competition. Lola Lipstick has more fans than I do.’

  He laughs again, and I’m actually starting to think this might be going so well between us that it could lead to something beyond just a simple train-journey chat. But then I remind myself of my track record when it comes to the opposite sex, and I’m quickly brought back down to earth with a bump.

  There’s a reason why I haven’t dated anyone in so long.

  Every guy has ended up making my life worse than it was before I met him.

  ‘So what happens to this character of yours?’ he asks me, and I can’t believe he is genuinely interested. ‘Does she have to deal with a cheating partner? A murderous villain? A back-stabbing best friend?’

  I realise at that moment that while I have been working on this book for many months, I haven’t actually told anyone about the story. That’s for two reasons. One, I’m a little self-conscious about people thinking it’s a load of rubbish, and two, nobody has been curious enough to ask me yet, including my own daughter. Until today. This handsome stranger actually wants to know about me and my writing.

  I guess I should just tell him, then.

  ‘It’s about a single mum forced to do some things she doesn’t want to do for money.’

  Well, they do say write about what you know.

  ‘I won’t bore you with the details,’ I continue, ‘but one of those things she ends up doing goes wrong, and she has to fight for her and her daughter’s life.’

  I’m expecting him to give me some generic words of encouragement like “well, good luck with that” or “sounds great, I’m sure it’ll do well”. You know, the usual things people say when they are secretly thinking that nothing is going to come of it. But to my surprise, he actually seems interested in knowing more.

  ‘I’m fascinated by people who seem ordinary but possess such talents in private,’ he says to me, and I’m flattered he is referring to me as talented. At least I think he is. He could just mean other people, I suppose.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ I reply. ‘But I love writing, and they do say that the key to a happy life is to do what you love, so here I am.’

  ‘So why aren’t you doing it full time?’

  ‘Well, I’m not getting paid for it yet.’

  ‘No, but you will do one day, right? You have to believe in yourself.’

  I smile again, and the longer this conversation goes on, the more it reminds me of how much I have needed one just like this. It would have been nice for Louise to be the one saying these things to me, but she doesn’t approve of my goals and thinks I’m wasting my time. Yet here is a complete stranger who seems to think that I have what it takes to make it as an author.

  Maybe I was wrong.

  Maybe my luck with guys is starting to change.

  ‘Well, actually, I’ve recently quit my job in London, and my last day is on Friday,’ I confess, feeling my heart beginning to race as I do. But I don’t feel quite as nervous now as I did when I told my boss that I was leaving. He was shocked to hear me tell him that I was handing in my notice, but he was even more stunned when I told him the reason why.

  ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ were his exact words after learning I planned to make a go of it as a writer, and it was hardly the confidence boost that I needed to assure me that I was doing the right thing. But thankfully, I get a better reaction this time.

  ‘You have? That’s amazing!’ he cries. ‘Well done, you!’

  I accept the praise graciously, but my heart is still hammering away inside me. It feels good to talk about myself with somebody else, but it’s a little nerve-racking too. I guess I’m afraid of somebody telling me that I’m making a massive mistake and that I’ll be broke and living on the streets when my book flops and I can’t get another job.

  Somebody other than my daughter, of course.

  ‘Thank you. But the hard work starts now,’ I say rather sensibly, and I mean it. I have a mountain to climb if I want to escape this train ride for more than just a year or two, and I know there will be some rocky times ahead.

  ‘In that case, I’ll let you get back to it,’ he replies, and he settles back in his seat and takes out his phone.

  I appreciate the fact that he is willing to let me get on
with my writing, but now we have spoken this much, I don’t want the conversation to end here. It was going so well.

  The sensible part of my brain is telling me to start typing again, but the part that is seeking adventure makes me blurt out the next question.

  ‘And what is it you do for work?’

  The man looks up from his phone, and I hope he doesn’t mind me returning the questions.

  ‘Have a guess. But I’ll give you a clue. I’m not an erotic author.’

  I laugh. ‘Okay, thanks for the heads-up.’

  I take a moment to think of my answer. Judging by his appearance, he is clearly an office worker, but his confidence leads me to think that he isn’t just some lowly guy at the bottom of the chain. He could be a bit of a high-flier. A lawyer? A banker? A CEO? Then again, he is on the half-five train out of London, so he obviously avoids any overtime as much as I do.

  Hmmm, I’m not sure. I’ll just have to take a shot.

  ‘I think you’re an accountant,’ I say, veering towards finance because it seems like a safe bet.

  To my surprise, the man’s expression lets me know that I am correct.

  ‘Wow, good guess. I’m impressed.’

  ‘My talents extend beyond simply punching a keyboard on a crowded train,’ I jest, and when I see him laugh again, I can’t help but feel like this is actually leading somewhere positive.

  I wonder which station he gets off at. I wonder if he is going all the way to Brighton. That would give us another forty-five minutes to get to know each other even more.

  I think I would like that.

  ‘So where’s home?’ I ask him, my desire to know overpowering the part of me that is trying not to appear too keen.

  ‘I’m all the way at the end of the line,’ he replies. ‘And you?’

  ‘Same,’ I tell him, trying to keep a blank expression to not give away how happy I am that he lives in the same place as me.

  A nervy glance at his left hand confirms that there is no wedding ring either.

  This could be my lucky day.

  ‘Looks like we’re stuck with each other for a little while yet, then,’ he says, and I can’t hide the smile that spreads across my face after that comment.