by Glen Johnson
“I will show you who controls things on this world. If He is in control of things down here, would He allow me to do this?” His eyes never left mine, as if enjoying the look of utter panic that was being radiated back to him.
“Enjoy your ride,” he said in a whisper. His eyes part closed, making his face all the more malicious. Then his eyes closed tight, his head whipped back violently, snapping several vertebrae, his head now hanging back at an impossible angle, causing his Adams apple to distort and push through the skin. His arms were akimbo, fingers stretched wide to there limit.
Suddenly the train lurched. Loud ear piercing screeching resounded along the carriages.
People were now screaming louder. Everyone trying to climb over the next to get away. But there’s nowhere to run to on a train.
The laws of physics then took over.
The slight shaking became violent jolts, and then it happened. An ear piercing sound of metal being rendered in two engulfed the air. The carriage no longer jolted but flew, as the train left the tracks. For a split second everything became weightless as it tumbled through the air. Then one carriage started to collide with another. Metal bending, glass shattering. The momentum was still forward as the front carriages twisted and compressed into each other. The next carriage folding on top of the first, like a flimsy piece of wet cardboard.
I was tossed forward like a ragdoll, no more being able to stop my own momentum than I was able to stop the train. My head slammed into the seat in front. I realized I was upside down and still moving. I had images of being crushed like an egg. It’s at moments like this when you realize just how fragile the human body really is. How effortlessly the small flame of life can be extinguished.
The body’s impact velocity times kinetic energy squared, equals painful, bloody bone crushing death. Newton’s laws of motion can be a bitch.
The screeching and jolting continued.
People flew past me, trying to get a purchase on anything. Personal items became weapons. Bags and briefcases hit the seats like bricks fired from a cannon. A leather wallet struck me in the left temple, knocking me almost senseless.
One woman’s body sailed past, her head crushed, her skull compressed like a rotten mushroom.
Then the carriage started to roll, I was now being thrown the other way and then to the right. I instantly changed direction mid-flight, with my neck jerking hard. Everything became just a stretched out blur. Then just as quickly I could focus again.
What felt like an eternity later, the carriage came to a screeching halt, with one final slam; the carriage came to rest up on its left side.
Gravity’s weight returned.
The screaming started to recede along with the momentum of the train.
Then what felt like an eternity later, there came silence and stillness.
Slowly, whimpering and crying started to fill the twisted compartment. Along with the sound of the metal carriage resettling itself.
But I couldn’t hear any of this; my hearing had turned into a long high pitch ringing.
I rolled over; realizing most of my impact was against the conductor, who was motionless. Both his legs missing from being severed by some seating that had torn free from its foundation and cutting across him.
My head was still spinning. I felt like I had been hit repeatedly with baseball bats. Glass was sprinkling onto my head and shoulders .
Crying echoed up and down the carriage, coming from the survivors, which soon turned to shouting as people tried to locate family members, friends or loved ones.
I climbed to my unsteady feet, stumbling off the remains of the conductor, who seemed to have died with a wide grin etched on his face. I checked myself over. Nothing. Not even blood, because the blood inside the conductor started to congeal the moment he had died hours ago.
The carriage was on its side, perched up against another carriage in front.
I crawled on my hands and knees out the shattered window, crawling out from under the leaning carriage, in case it toppled the rest of the way. I crawled for several meters beyond the wreckage, eventually to lie on my back on the wet cold grass. The smell of the grass filled my nostrils. So fresh. So alive. It was as if all the sound of the world had been drawn away, sucked out, replacing it with loud muffled, ringing bells. I just lay there, letting the wet grass soak through my clothing. Breathing heavily. Eyes wide open, unblinking, staring straight up.
Above, the trees close to the track, swayed in the breeze. Old brown leaves still clung to the brittle branches.
The trees above blurred.
I could now see the image of my grandmother’s old pear tree, which sat right in the middle of her small back lawn. The branches sagged from the weight of the fat, juicy pears – not beautiful pears, like you saw in the supermarket; these were ugly bulbous, patchy, spotted things. But they were full of mouthwatering flavour.
I could hear my mother and grandmother in the kitchen, through the open window, clattering pans around, preparing dinner. My older brother and sister squabbling in an upstairs room. Rosy, my granddads old and severely overweight jack Russell, with her head resting on my arm – snoring.
The pear tree stared to fade. The spindly branches with the dead clinging leaves, returned.
The first sound to come back to me was the sound of a bird singing. So random and surreal after everything that had just happened. Then the slight whooshing sound of the leaves above, as the breeze danced through the branches. Then, as if the void was filling once again with air, the sounds started to race back.
My other senses started to return. I noticed a dead body beside me, which had a long shard of steel, protruding from her blood soaked neck. Big globs of bloody flesh lay sprinkled around me; one part was a hand still attached to a severed forearm, it had a tattoo on the wrist – a swirling tribal turtle, facing downwards.
Looking the other way I could see along the rest of what remained of the train. There must have been about seven carriages on this intercity 125, as well as the other power car, which had caused most of the damage with its extra weight.
Three or four were now nothing more than flat-packed, each crushed up against the next, some rested completely across the others, some disconnected and laying slightly to one side. People and luggage was scattered all over the area, littering the ground along with pebbles of glass and rods of twisted metal.
Individuals were also staggering from the wreckage, some tripping over other dead bodies; ripped clothes and splattered with blood, they started to climb free of the destruction. Some were shouting for help. Others were stumbling as if drunk or dazed, confused as to what had just happened. A few were even trying to get back inside.
I noticed my bag an arms length. I pulled it close, tipping a bloody lump of flesh off it, and clutched it to my chest. I started climbing to my unsteady feet, having to sidestep the top half of a male torso, who was still clutching a shred of The Daily Telegraph’s business section in one hand.
Realization dawned on me that he had done this. A demonstration for me. But I couldn’t think about that now, within minutes the place would be buzzing with ambulances, fire fighters, and more importantly police. I needed to get as far away from the scene as possible. I ignored all cries for help.
Limping unsteadily I started to make my way towards what looked like a busy motorway. Cars had started to pull over, people running across the fields, coming to the casualties’ aid. Already I could hear numerous sirens ringing out clearly, heading in our direction, and the dull throbbing of helicopters rotor blades.
Surely things couldn’t get any worse.
How wrong I was.
18
A Busy Day
Several people, who were running across the field, came to my aid. Looking me over, presuming I had just climbed from the wreckage and was disorientated. I brushed them aside, stating I was fine compared to others who really needed help. They gave me one more glance before continuing on their way, satisfied that if I was walking
and talking then I must be fine. But after what I had just witnessed I would never be okay again.
Then I reached the road, masses of cars were parked on the hard shoulder, engines turning over, just as they left them before heading to be of some help. Some cars had people sat in them, either crying at the sight before them, or to young or old to be of any real usefulness.
I picked a car that wasn’t blocked in, and had its keys resting on the seat, either dropped in haste or left on purpose. It was a H. registration blue Vauxhall Astra.
I tossed my bag on the passenger seat, started the engine and forced the gear into place. No one noticed me driving off in some one else’s car; the scene was just too hectic. Just before I pulled away, fire engines and ambulances started to pull over. A fireman cut a large chain that was keeping the gate secure. The vehicles then started to pour across the flat field.
I could imagine the paramedics pouring from the ambulances dumfounded at the sight around them, and trying to figure out where to start.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before the owner realized his car had been stolen, so I wanted to simply get to somewhere where I could get on some other sort of transport, and continue on my way to London.
I wasn’t a hundred percent sure exactly where I was, until I came across the first huge green signpost, stating in big white letters that Bristol was twenty-seven miles away. It was a large city, with plenty of hotels to accommodate any tired driver.
As I headed towards Bristol I saw another sign for a service station, which was only four miles away. I decided to pull into this service station, instead of continuing to drive along in the stolen car.
I wanted to sit and rest in case the shock of what happened started to kick in. But then again, I had been feeling strange, almost numb for almost a week now, and even though what I had just been through and seen was horrific, I didn’t feel it stir my emotions the way it should have.
All service stations seem to be the same – slightly different in design – but all exactly the same with respects to what they provide. Large car parks with numerous hidden corners. A large complex filled with a large open eating area, with numerous establishments to choose from. Either McDonald’s or Burger King or sometimes KFC, with the service stations own food serving area that provides dried up day old food, and grumpy attendants, who walk around wiping the tables with greasy cloths that simply smear dirty water over the Formica top. Also a small odds-and-ends shop and a small arcade and flower shop. All selling their products at ten times the price they would normally be. Because lets face it, who can complain? The next service station could be up to thirty miles away.
I pulled in.
The side road leading to the service station was so long I was starting to think I had missed the turning, or was going the wrong way. But suddenly a large gaudy sign advertised the entrance to the station. I turned in, continuing to drive down yet another long winding road. It eventually opened up into a mammoth car park.
The first section was for lorry drivers, which was starting to fill up. It then led down another smaller lane leading into another huge car park that the main complex seemed to be huddled in the middle of. I continued driving around, until I found a quiet out of the way location. It was around to one side.
Large blue bins the size of cars rested up against one long dark wall. Small lights units bought grainy light to the area, which was fine with me. It was also surrounded by tall-uncut bushes, which the leaves hadn’t fallen from, but had simply turned brown.
I left the key in the ignition. Hopefully someone else would notice and steal the car, leading it far away from me.
Walking around the side, I passed staff members having a quick smoke, before returning inside with dirty unwashed hands to serve the customers, with their nicotine covered fingers.
I seemed to have parked as far away from the entrance as physically possible. It took a good couple of minutes to reach the main door. While walking along I also noticed a Travel Lodge. I decided I would get something to eat before heading over to the hotel.
The inside of the service station was just as cold as outside. I walked past the small expensive shop, noticing tee-shirts, which I would look at on the way out. First I headed straight for the toilet.
Like all service stations the toilet was like a huge cattle market. Lorry drivers washing in the open sinks, shirtless, shaving or giving their armpits a quick splash. Even though there was sections put aside for lorry drivers, even showering facilities. But to use them they had to pay; where as the public toilets are free.
Numerous men stood staring at their own reflections. Brushing hair or trying to plaster an odd strand at the back down with handfuls of water. You had the children who seemed to be parentless, running around using the toilet as their private playground, screaming and calling out to friends or relatives. And not forgetting the cleaner who ignores everyone, walking around with his blackened mop, spilling far too much brown greasy water on the floor and seemingly missing half of it as he attempts to mop it back up.
I tried to ignore the mayhem and headed for the first available cubicle. The first was filled with the janitors cleaning equipment. Hasn’t he got a cupboard for that? The next couple had OUT OF ORDER, written on sheets of paper then duck-taped to the door. The next few were busy. The next was covered in runny shit, all over the seat and up the wall and filling the bowl. How do they do that? It looked like an elephant with the splats had reversed into the cubicle and repainted the toilet and sidewalls. Even stranger was there was no toilet paper anywhere in sight? How do they do all that, and not wipe?
The next cubicle was empty, but I wanted a few between the stink and me. Second from the end was empty and almost acceptably clean – if you call someone wiping his backside then dropping the soiled paper beside the toilet, clean. Where did they think they were, Latin America? I kicked it into the next empty cubicle.
I shut the door, and had to pull the top with my hand to get the catch to slide into place. I dropped the seat and sat down, pulling my bag onto my lap. Then, with some tissue, I filled in the holes that the perverts had made. Glory holes I think they call them? Then I opened my bag.
The whole reason for having to go through all this was simply because all the money was piled in the backpack. I didn’t want to simply open it in front of some cashier to grab a handful of money and slap it down on the counter. That would start alarm bells ringing inside someone’s head, and the next thing I would know some old wrinkled security guard, who thinks himself to be one of the Keystone Cops – that should be wrapped up tight against the cold and soaking his feet in hot water while drinking Ovaltine – would be asking me to step to one side, thinking I had robbed a bank.
I pulled out what I thought would be enough and filled my wallet, before zipping the bag back up and hooking it over my shoulders.
I sat quietly for a few moments, resting my eyes and aching body, trying to get everything into perspective. But I needed food, my gastric juices were bubbling away. And then a wash and a good night’s sleep. I wouldn’t concentrate on what had happened. My mind had become adept at shutting things out. And I had to keep moving, if I sat too long after the pummelling my body have received, I would start ceasing up.
I reopened my eyes and was rewarded with a childish drawing of someone’s erect – over exaggerated – genitals, along with an advertisement, with some closet gays phone number. It always made me wonder about their mentality, are they truly stupid enough to write down their own mobile or home phone numbers on latrine walls? And if so, then why don’t the police do anything about it? Children sit in these cubicles, and have to look at this shit. Surely they had websites or clubs they could meet at?
With seeing the telephone numbers it reminded me of my phone. I pulled it out of my trouser pocket, expecting it to be broken, or at least battered. The iPhone was fine. It was still off. I would leave it off until I needed to use it. For what, I had no idea.
Once again my stomach started grumbling.
I needed food.
I needed normality.
I needed my fucking life back.
I pulled some paper from the roll, to make some noise to make whoever was listening think I was finishing up. I then tossed it down the toilet and gave it a flush. I composed myself for a few moments before unlatching the door, giving it a kick to get it to unwedge form the stall on either side. I then headed for the food serving area, after washing my hands, and checking my altered appearance was still looking good. Even after everything I had just been through I still didn’t stand out. I looked plain and normal. Not like someone who had just survived a train crash. I simply had the start of a bruise on the side of my head where the wallet had hit me.
