Compartment by John Booth
The train was going so slow that the droplets of rain on the window ran down vertically. There was little to see as we were passing though countryside and there wasn't even a streetlamp to warm up the night. The dim lamps in my carriage served to make things gloomier. The clickerty-clack of the wheels over the rails provided a monotonous rhythm that threatened to send me to sleep.
I looked at my watch and knew the train was going to be late in tonight, very late.
The compartment door slid open and a woman entered. I thought she must have got turned around because the last stop had been fifteen minutes ago. She was tall, blond and slim, wearing a tight fitting black dress under a grey coat. She clutched a small clasp handbag to her tummy as though it might be about to escape.
I did the English thing of looking everywhere but at her, while studying her closely through reflections in the glass. She surprised me by pulling the compartment blinds down on the corridor side.
"Would you like this one down as well?" I said, standing to reach for the blind over the outside window.
"Please." Her voice was mellow and reminded me of the scent of jasmine.
We sat facing each other. There was really little choice.
"Are you going to Crewe?" A stupid question on my part as that was the only destination left.
"No, I don't think so."
She fiddled with the clasp of her handbag and took a snub nose revolver out of it. She pointed it straight at my gut. I spread my arms and raised my hands. If you took the total value of everything on my person it might buy you a meal at a good hotel. Not worth fighting over or getting shot for.
She gestured with the gun and I had no idea what she wanted.
"Anything you want, take it," I suggested.
"I want you." She giggled. "Or perhaps you want me. Do you want me?"
Sex was the last thing on my mind, though she had been highly attractive until she took out the gun. Now she was like a cobra in a woman's skin and my only concern was avoiding her bite.
"Do you want to play for me? It's a game you can't lose?" She smiled, pearly white teeth gleaming and a voice like desire refined and boiled down to its essence.
I nodded and whether that was from a sense of self preservation or need wasn't clear to me then or now.
"Put down the gun and we can talk."
She waggled the end of the gun like a finger, chiding me for being a naughty boy. Then she clicked out the cylinder and spilled the bullets into her palm. Before I could react she'd slipped a single bullet into a chamber and put the gun back together again, spinning the cylinder and pointing the damned thing at me.
"Are you feeling lucky?" she asked as her finger caressed the trigger. There was a click and I jerked backwards. She spun the cylinder again and pointed the gun at me again. The carriage heating must have been on overtime because sweat soaked my forehead and a trickle of it ran down my back.
"Your turn," she said and pressed the gun into my hand. She must have pulled the trigger for me because there was another click and then the gun was back in her hands. She put the gun against her mouth so she could lick the cylinder. Her tongue caressed it and forced it round a single click.
"Can't we talk?" It was the only things I could think of to say; though I planned to make sure I kept the gun if it was ever in my hands again.
"Get up!"
I got to my feet, hands still in the air and she stood up with me. In the small carriage of a rocking train our bodies collided gently and repeatedly. I felt the muzzle of the gun press against my chest.
"You can't know what living is until you die," she said in a tone like a priest reciting a prayer.
The gun clicked again and I felt my balls retreat into my body.
She spun the gun and pressed it into my hand, pulling me so the barrel pressed against her breast. I struggled to pull the gun away, to take control of the situation.
"Too late to love me," she said and the gun blasted in my hand, throwing both of us back.
She lolled in the seat on the other side, her eyes wide open and a smile on her face. There was no blood I could see and I wondered for a wild second if this game had been played with blanks. But she wasn't moving and she didn't breathe.
I took the gun and put the gun into her hand. It was difficult to get her fingers to move the right way and I may have broken one. I got out of the compartment and rested against the closed door, breathing as though I had run a marathon.
I walked down the corridor to the next carriage without seeing a soul. I sat in an empty compartment and tried very hard not to cry.
Crewe was a hive of activity. I opened the door of the carriage before the train stopped moving and made my way to the nearest bridge with my head down low. I heard whistles and shouts but none of them aimed at me. I was in the street in less than a minute and slinked home, keeping to the darkest places.
There was nothing in the newspapers or on the radio. It took me days to find her in the central library archive. Helen Stokes, 25, committed suicide on the train to Crewe after her boyfriend got her pregnant and deserted her. Three years previously to the night.
I looked at my watch and knew the train was going to be late in tonight, very late.
The compartment door slid open and a woman entered. I thought she must have got turned around because the last stop had been fifteen minutes ago. She was tall, blond and slim, wearing a tight fitting black dress under a grey coat. She clutched a small clasp handbag to her tummy as though it might be about to escape.
I did the English thing of looking everywhere but at her, while studying her closely through reflections in the glass. She surprised me by pulling the compartment blinds down on the corridor side.
"Would you like this one down as well?" I said, standing to reach for the blind over the outside window.
"Please." Her voice was mellow and reminded me of the scent of jasmine.
We sat facing each other. There was really little choice.
"Are you going to Crewe?" A stupid question on my part as that was the only destination left.
"No, I don't think so."
She fiddled with the clasp of her handbag and took a snub nose revolver out of it. She pointed it straight at my gut. I spread my arms and raised my hands. If you took the total value of everything on my person it might buy you a meal at a good hotel. Not worth fighting over or getting shot for.
She gestured with the gun and I had no idea what she wanted.
"Anything you want, take it," I suggested.
"I want you." She giggled. "Or perhaps you want me. Do you want me?"
Sex was the last thing on my mind, though she had been highly attractive until she took out the gun. Now she was like a cobra in a woman's skin and my only concern was avoiding her bite.
"Do you want to play for me? It's a game you can't lose?" She smiled, pearly white teeth gleaming and a voice like desire refined and boiled down to its essence.
I nodded and whether that was from a sense of self preservation or need wasn't clear to me then or now.
"Put down the gun and we can talk."
She waggled the end of the gun like a finger, chiding me for being a naughty boy. Then she clicked out the cylinder and spilled the bullets into her palm. Before I could react she'd slipped a single bullet into a chamber and put the gun back together again, spinning the cylinder and pointing the damned thing at me.
"Are you feeling lucky?" she asked as her finger caressed the trigger. There was a click and I jerked backwards. She spun the cylinder again and pointed the gun at me again. The carriage heating must have been on overtime because sweat soaked my forehead and a trickle of it ran down my back.
"Your turn," she said and pressed the gun into my hand. She must have pulled the trigger for me because there was another click and then the gun was back in her hands. She put the gun against her mouth so she could lick the cylinder. Her tongue caressed it and forced it round a single click.
"Can't we talk?" It was the only things I could think of to say; though I planned to make sure I kept the gun if it was ever in my hands again.
"Get up!"
I got to my feet, hands still in the air and she stood up with me. In the small carriage of a rocking train our bodies collided gently and repeatedly. I felt the muzzle of the gun press against my chest.
"You can't know what living is until you die," she said in a tone like a priest reciting a prayer.
The gun clicked again and I felt my balls retreat into my body.
She spun the gun and pressed it into my hand, pulling me so the barrel pressed against her breast. I struggled to pull the gun away, to take control of the situation.
"Too late to love me," she said and the gun blasted in my hand, throwing both of us back.
She lolled in the seat on the other side, her eyes wide open and a smile on her face. There was no blood I could see and I wondered for a wild second if this game had been played with blanks. But she wasn't moving and she didn't breathe.
I took the gun and put the gun into her hand. It was difficult to get her fingers to move the right way and I may have broken one. I got out of the compartment and rested against the closed door, breathing as though I had run a marathon.
I walked down the corridor to the next carriage without seeing a soul. I sat in an empty compartment and tried very hard not to cry.
Crewe was a hive of activity. I opened the door of the carriage before the train stopped moving and made my way to the nearest bridge with my head down low. I heard whistles and shouts but none of them aimed at me. I was in the street in less than a minute and slinked home, keeping to the darkest places.
There was nothing in the newspapers or on the radio. It took me days to find her in the central library archive. Helen Stokes, 25, committed suicide on the train to Crewe after her boyfriend got her pregnant and deserted her. Three years previously to the night.