On a Train

I was huddled up at the back of the carriage, trying to look as small and unassuming as possible. My bags were firmly planted on the aisle seat, presenting a wall that I hoped would deter my fellow travellers. There was always the danger of a particularly gregarious assailant resolving to topple, sap, or otherwise overcome my defences, but there’s no sense in planning against such pure psychopathy. In general, I felt that my position was as secure as could be expected. I was all set to people-watch happily for the duration of the journey, untroubled and unmolested until I reached wherever it was I was going.

At a nearby table, a young man was striking up a conversation with the young woman sitting across from him. She was being as politely uncooperative as she could, but he didn’t seem too discouraged. Their stop-and-start patter continued as we rolled on. I was paying half-attention. He’d apparently been let out of prison recently (that did little to ease her discomfort). She was coming back from visiting her granddad. His had died last year. Hers was recovering from a minor infarction. Et cetera. The whole thing was affable enough, I suppose, but awkward in far greater measure. Never sit at a table. The risks are simply too high.

I was drowsy, flirting with sleep but never quite making the connection. Still, there were times when I was sloughing gently from the world, far enough gone to have no awareness apart from the rumbling of the train and the spritzes of colour sailing across my eyelids. It must have been during one of these intervals that he showed up. Drifting reluctantly back into an approximation of wakefulness, I saw a man across the aisle who looked exactly like me. He caught my gaze, a knowing glint in his eye, and I snapped back to staring out of the window. Curiosity proved stronger than aversion, and I took a series of furtive, skittish glances at my doppelganger. Sure enough, it was me, in nigh-perfect facsimile. He was dressed a little sharper, he looked a little less muggy than I must have, perhaps a little graver, but that was it. He’d even erected the same luggage-fort I had. I tried my hardest not to focus on it. These things can happen. Well, clearly. It just had. Still, it was eerie, oppressively so. I was tingling with the impulse to look again, but held in check by the fear of once again meeting his eye.

Distraction, eminently welcome, came in the form of a hen party claiming the front half of the carriage. The event was clearly already mid-flight, its participants being fairly drunk already and bedecked in luridly pink regalia to match their luridly blue conversation. The situation with my double went more or less forgotten as I hunkered down and took shelter, both from the torrents of jubilant innuendo and from the groundswell of finger-wagging complaint stirring among the other passengers. Attempts from the staff to resolve these tensions proved effective only in the most ephemeral sense. The true cure, as ever, was time and absence. The group left after two stops, presumably to besiege a nearby restaurant. As the chorus of satisfied tutting petered out, I unthinkingly looked over to my mystery twin. A mistake. He was crying, quietly and without much outward motion, but clearly enough. For whatever reason, I sat and watched. This window into another’s misery felt somehow acceptable, given our resemblance. There was no logic to that, and yet I allowed myself to indulge in this naked voyeurism, unafraid of being caught, fascinated by each rolling tear and each twitch of distress.

This transfixion was broken only when physical circumstances forced the matter – my line of sight was interrupted by a mother and child, a boy of maybe seven or eight years. Realising what I had been doing, I jumped ship and instead focused on these new arrivals. The other me deserved his privacy. Besides, the boy was in the throes of a creative fervour, a prolonged flight of slightly over-loud, slightly over-agitated artistry that I supposed had been going on for the entirety of their journey. The mother certainly seemed to have gotten tired of the concept a long, long time ago, and was now offering only the most perfunctory of responses as her son charged on. He was writing aloud, working on what seemed to be a rather optimistic spacefaring epic. The scene at hand called for a fleet of invading spacecraft, the description of which was… comprehensive. Having exhausted every type and category of vessel known to him, and apparently to humanity at large, he was now interrogating his mother for further suggestions. Many were forthcoming, but all fell short. Frigates, dreadnaughts, corvettes, brigantines, monitors, and so on… all had already been included in this obsessively thorough armada (wasn’t she listening?). With admirable grit, the mother battled on in a seemingly endless cycle. For somebody not directly involved, it was surprisingly soothing. I drifted off, as the train and the conversation trundled down their rigid courses.

The sun had set by the time I woke up, so I suppose I must have been asleep for at least an hour. It was near pitch black outside, the country offering only fleeting, misshapen silhouettes of hedgerows and trees. These were almost entirely walled over by the reflections from inside the train. The lights felt garish in their intensity, insensitive to the empty quiet of the carriage and the gentle night. There was nobody there but me, my double, and a dozing passenger much further up. Perhaps it was just an excuse for morbid curiosity, but it seemed to me that there was nowhere else to look at that point in time. The doppelganger had cast his bags to the floor, and was now lying, foetal, across both seats. He was mostly still, except for the occasional sob, and his clothing was crumpled, flecked with bits of dust and other dishevelment. Clearly our similarities did not extend to the willingness to make a scene. I felt awful, but nonetheless compelled to watch. And so I did, vaguely hypnotised both by the display of sorrow and by the fascinating discomfort of one’s own reflection. After some time, long enough to draw me in without my habitual defences, he moved his head and looked at me. There was a sense of vicious accusation in this glance that put me to flight at once (to say nothing of the inherent panic of unexpected eye contact). I pushed myself hard into the corner, turned my head and tried with all my might to become a world unto myself. An island, totally unassailable by the likes of this distressed mirror-image, or anyone else for that matter. It didn’t work. I tried to deny the outside, to focus only on safe thoughts and scenes of my own construction, but few were forthcoming, and those that were did not survive for long. No method of self-absorption, no matter how desperate, was able to isolate me to the desired extent. The other’s presence could still be felt, a tickling of stinging nettles that I was unable to soothe.

Clearly, my own mind was incapable of mustering up a functional distraction. Trapped within my fortress, with only two other people in the carriage, there was but one remaining straw at which to grasp. Pouring my every drop of effort into the endeavour, I listened to the old woman sleeping. It proved remarkably effective. There was a certain tranquillity to her snoring and muttering, and I was happily subsumed.  I imagined her to be totally free of all concerns, both in this slumber and in all things. Just a perfectly contented person, leading a perfectly untroubled life, her struggles being all behind her. It was a fantasy, of course, but a comforting one. My heartbeat slowed, and I was calmed. If I needed an imagined, vicarious peace to achieve that, so be it.

There was a chime, and the driver announced that we would soon be arriving at the terminus. Stirring back into attention, I felt a breath on my cheek. Fighting every impulse to somehow shrink yet further into my seat, I turned to look. The doppelganger loomed, inches away, perfectly still, staring straight into me with wide, vacant eyes. He was pale, intense and motionless, projecting an aura of such pure, cold absence that all the drowsy warmth of this long journey was at once dispelled. Were he not still breathing, anybody would have thought this was a corpse. I loosed a (mostly) internal scream, sprang to my feet and pushed him down into the aisle. He simply lay as he fell, crumpled and unmoving while I rushed to the door. I made it just as the train came into the platform, pounding against the ‘open’ button with a shaking hand.

I sprinted out into the station, taking a few random turns before stopping for breath. It was unlit, silent, and empty. In a confusion of fear and relief, I slumped to ground, the sound of my fall echoing out into oblivion. Still overwhelmed, still uncertain of what to do next, I lay down and drank in the blankness of the hall. Here, if nothing else, there was safety.

The End

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