Mark Russell
MIDNIGHT TRAIN
Gregor had a keen sense of self-awareness and knew he was not the most sociable person. But he couldn’t help himself exclaim what a pleasant surprise it was to find a train with so many spare seats. There were just two other people in the carriage. A large, thin-lipped man wearing his hat indoors (a habit of which Gregor disapproved), and an elderly lady with a cat box on her lap. Gregor sat, unwrapped his tinfoil parcel, and ate one of his sandwiches. The next thing he knew it was morning and he felt a dabbing on his mouth and chin. A tender-faced young man finished wiping him. ‘There,’ he said. The carriage was full. Gregor’s tinfoil was ripped into pieces and his shirt and trousers were smeared in food and drinks of all kinds. The young man folded his handkerchief in half twice, then half again to form a triangle, then brought the two long sides together and placed it in his top pocket with the point upward. ‘I never knew how to do that until a couple of weeks ago,’ he said. ‘This handkerchief was waiting for me on my seat here when I boarded. I’ve been practising while you were asleep.’ ‘How long have I been asleep?’ Gregor said. ‘Señora Esposito said you dropped off late one Friday night in March. A day or two before her cat died.’ ‘What day is it?’ Gregor said. ‘It’s Thursday. A lovely summer’s Thursday in June. Here, you should hold my hand for a while. It helps to pass the time.’ Gregor wanted to read a newspaper. To visit the bathroom. To check his phone. But there seemed no great rush. He put his hand in the young man’s.
WINSTON AT THE PICTURES
Siân asked Winston to wait for her outside the women’s toilets. There were leaflets in some shelving on the wall advertising screenings at the ship’s cinema. He hadn’t realised there was a cinema on board. Siân was taking such a long time, Winston decided to sneak away. A quickly drawn notice said the ticket machine was out of use, and as a sign of the company’s goodwill, passengers were invited to watch Roman Holiday for free. He wished he’d dressed up like Audrey Hepburn. He took a seat in the centre of the empty auditorium, feeling like a king for the day. After twenty minutes, with the lights still on and with no background music, two women joined him. They sat two or three rows behind and to his right. ‘Have we missed anything?’ one of them said. ‘Nothing’s happened yet,’ he said, ‘though I think there’s somebody behind that curtain.’ The three of them sat like this for fifteen minutes. Winston thought he heard the women saying there was nobody behind the curtain, and that maybe they should move seats, further away from him. Just then, a party of what looked like archaeologists arrived and quietly took their seats. They scattered themselves around, as if they’d had a great falling out over a missing trowel. The lights soon went down. They sat in darkness. More people came in. Half-an-hour later the auditorium was full, but still there was no music and no movie. Snoring was audible from all parts. The front curtain rustled. A broom and bucket appeared, and then a cleaner. She peered at the audience. They peered at her. ‘Lunch,’ she said. ‘You must leave now.’ People made their way out, waking their friends, helping each other to the doors. ‘Except you, Winston.’ She pointed at him. The two women behind him wouldn’t catch his eye. The cleaner started to scratch the heavy curtain. People moved faster. ‘Don’t try to run, Winston,’ she said, scratching.
VILLAGE LIFE
During the riot, Jimmy and Stella lost one another. The majority of the crowd was making its way past the Queen’s Arms and through the village toward Mrs Dylan’s tumbledown barns. The chant had changed from one of protest against corruption, to one urging violence and looting. Jimmy was quite short, certainly a lot shorter than those around him, and every now and then he leapt up to see if he could spot her soft orange bonnet moving through the crush of bodies. His old schoolmaster Mr Donnington came alongside him. ‘That’s how my dear Emily was lost to me.’ Jimmy had never liked Mr Donnington, and remembered well the tale of Emily Donnington leaving him for Janette Buchanan-Watts, a Chief Superintendent with the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. ‘You’ll need to be very watchful, young James,’ Mr Donnington said. ‘All notions of honour and trust are being eroded.’ The mob stopped at the Dylan property limits, queued at the stone pile, politely took their allotted number of stones, and fell into place. ‘There can’t be much left, surely,’ Mr Donnington said. Jimmy weighed up his stash of stones and began to think of how to regain Stella’s love. ‘Don’t worry Mr Donnington. They re-stock the barns every autumn. We’re going to have a fine time.’ Mr Donnington perked up. ‘And fuck the police, eh, Mr Donnington?’
AU SECOURS!
I was scoffing hot smoked salmon on toasted sourdough bread when a couple joined me. I glanced at their name tags. Dr Antonin took out a cigarette and lighter. Professor Claudette DeClercq reminded him that smoking indoors was no longer permitted. Claudette sipped her soup. ‘Putain,’ she cursed, spitting it back in the bowl. Distracted, Antonin looked at my new name tag. ‘And what is your subject, Dr Wendy Potemkin?’ he said. I was momentarily unsure. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You are an historian?’ he said. ‘Yes, of course, that’s it,’ I said. ‘I am eating the runny shit from a horse’s arse,’ Claudette said. A couple of waiters gave the impression they might come over to our table and ask if we had any problems, but then went back to their duties. ‘And what does History teach us, Wendy?’ Antonin said, sniffing Claudette’s soup. ‘Ça pue la merde,’ he whispered in agreement with her. ‘Well, it tells us everything, Antonin,’ I said, thinking that if I kept it simple, I might not be revealed as Not-An-Historian, and be able to finish my salmon. ‘I will tell you what History does, Dr Wendy Potemkin,’ Claudette said. ‘History reveals the paucity of our forethought.’ Claudette pushed the bowl away from her and some of it splashed in my lap. They got up to go. ‘We are looking forward to your paper, Dr Potemkin,’ Claudette said without pausing to register my surprise and alarm. ‘Allez, Antonin.’ Before following her, he quickly checked she wasn’t watching and handed me a napkin. He had written something on it. His brow was wet with sweat. I held the napkin up to the light, but I don’t speak French, or any language other than English, so I mopped up the soup in my lap and finished my salmon.
Gregor had a keen sense of self-awareness and knew he was not the most sociable person. But he couldn’t help himself exclaim what a pleasant surprise it was to find a train with so many spare seats. There were just two other people in the carriage. A large, thin-lipped man wearing his hat indoors (a habit of which Gregor disapproved), and an elderly lady with a cat box on her lap. Gregor sat, unwrapped his tinfoil parcel, and ate one of his sandwiches. The next thing he knew it was morning and he felt a dabbing on his mouth and chin. A tender-faced young man finished wiping him. ‘There,’ he said. The carriage was full. Gregor’s tinfoil was ripped into pieces and his shirt and trousers were smeared in food and drinks of all kinds. The young man folded his handkerchief in half twice, then half again to form a triangle, then brought the two long sides together and placed it in his top pocket with the point upward. ‘I never knew how to do that until a couple of weeks ago,’ he said. ‘This handkerchief was waiting for me on my seat here when I boarded. I’ve been practising while you were asleep.’ ‘How long have I been asleep?’ Gregor said. ‘Señora Esposito said you dropped off late one Friday night in March. A day or two before her cat died.’ ‘What day is it?’ Gregor said. ‘It’s Thursday. A lovely summer’s Thursday in June. Here, you should hold my hand for a while. It helps to pass the time.’ Gregor wanted to read a newspaper. To visit the bathroom. To check his phone. But there seemed no great rush. He put his hand in the young man’s.
WINSTON AT THE PICTURES
Siân asked Winston to wait for her outside the women’s toilets. There were leaflets in some shelving on the wall advertising screenings at the ship’s cinema. He hadn’t realised there was a cinema on board. Siân was taking such a long time, Winston decided to sneak away. A quickly drawn notice said the ticket machine was out of use, and as a sign of the company’s goodwill, passengers were invited to watch Roman Holiday for free. He wished he’d dressed up like Audrey Hepburn. He took a seat in the centre of the empty auditorium, feeling like a king for the day. After twenty minutes, with the lights still on and with no background music, two women joined him. They sat two or three rows behind and to his right. ‘Have we missed anything?’ one of them said. ‘Nothing’s happened yet,’ he said, ‘though I think there’s somebody behind that curtain.’ The three of them sat like this for fifteen minutes. Winston thought he heard the women saying there was nobody behind the curtain, and that maybe they should move seats, further away from him. Just then, a party of what looked like archaeologists arrived and quietly took their seats. They scattered themselves around, as if they’d had a great falling out over a missing trowel. The lights soon went down. They sat in darkness. More people came in. Half-an-hour later the auditorium was full, but still there was no music and no movie. Snoring was audible from all parts. The front curtain rustled. A broom and bucket appeared, and then a cleaner. She peered at the audience. They peered at her. ‘Lunch,’ she said. ‘You must leave now.’ People made their way out, waking their friends, helping each other to the doors. ‘Except you, Winston.’ She pointed at him. The two women behind him wouldn’t catch his eye. The cleaner started to scratch the heavy curtain. People moved faster. ‘Don’t try to run, Winston,’ she said, scratching.
VILLAGE LIFE
During the riot, Jimmy and Stella lost one another. The majority of the crowd was making its way past the Queen’s Arms and through the village toward Mrs Dylan’s tumbledown barns. The chant had changed from one of protest against corruption, to one urging violence and looting. Jimmy was quite short, certainly a lot shorter than those around him, and every now and then he leapt up to see if he could spot her soft orange bonnet moving through the crush of bodies. His old schoolmaster Mr Donnington came alongside him. ‘That’s how my dear Emily was lost to me.’ Jimmy had never liked Mr Donnington, and remembered well the tale of Emily Donnington leaving him for Janette Buchanan-Watts, a Chief Superintendent with the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. ‘You’ll need to be very watchful, young James,’ Mr Donnington said. ‘All notions of honour and trust are being eroded.’ The mob stopped at the Dylan property limits, queued at the stone pile, politely took their allotted number of stones, and fell into place. ‘There can’t be much left, surely,’ Mr Donnington said. Jimmy weighed up his stash of stones and began to think of how to regain Stella’s love. ‘Don’t worry Mr Donnington. They re-stock the barns every autumn. We’re going to have a fine time.’ Mr Donnington perked up. ‘And fuck the police, eh, Mr Donnington?’
AU SECOURS!
I was scoffing hot smoked salmon on toasted sourdough bread when a couple joined me. I glanced at their name tags. Dr Antonin took out a cigarette and lighter. Professor Claudette DeClercq reminded him that smoking indoors was no longer permitted. Claudette sipped her soup. ‘Putain,’ she cursed, spitting it back in the bowl. Distracted, Antonin looked at my new name tag. ‘And what is your subject, Dr Wendy Potemkin?’ he said. I was momentarily unsure. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You are an historian?’ he said. ‘Yes, of course, that’s it,’ I said. ‘I am eating the runny shit from a horse’s arse,’ Claudette said. A couple of waiters gave the impression they might come over to our table and ask if we had any problems, but then went back to their duties. ‘And what does History teach us, Wendy?’ Antonin said, sniffing Claudette’s soup. ‘Ça pue la merde,’ he whispered in agreement with her. ‘Well, it tells us everything, Antonin,’ I said, thinking that if I kept it simple, I might not be revealed as Not-An-Historian, and be able to finish my salmon. ‘I will tell you what History does, Dr Wendy Potemkin,’ Claudette said. ‘History reveals the paucity of our forethought.’ Claudette pushed the bowl away from her and some of it splashed in my lap. They got up to go. ‘We are looking forward to your paper, Dr Potemkin,’ Claudette said without pausing to register my surprise and alarm. ‘Allez, Antonin.’ Before following her, he quickly checked she wasn’t watching and handed me a napkin. He had written something on it. His brow was wet with sweat. I held the napkin up to the light, but I don’t speak French, or any language other than English, so I mopped up the soup in my lap and finished my salmon.
© Copyright Mark Russell 2020
Mark Russell has published two full collections and five chapbooks/pamphlets, the latest being o (the book of gatherings) with Red Ceilings. He won the 2020 Magma Poetry Judge’s Prize, and his poems have appeared most recently in Tears in the Fence, Adjacent Pineapple, The Fortnightly Review, Gutter, Denver Quarterly, and Tentacular.
