by E. F. S. Byrne
John bumped into a stranger, his head falling onto her shoulder. She shrugged him off. The rattle of carriages filled his ears, swamped his mind, blotted out memories, thoughts, imagination, leaving him with the ceaseless rumble of lives shuttling from one station to the next, squeezing in and out of electronic doorways, minding gaps, diving into darkened tunnels to come out the other side in exactly the same place.
John hadn’t moved for hours, perhaps days now. He followed the rules, got out when the train was emptied, then waited and boarded the next. Circle line, they kept him going, one after another. Some carriages were older, some newer, some with windows that opened others air conditioning, but they all hummed and rattled in much the same way, jostling from side to side, swooshing into stations, steaming off in a huff once emptied, refilled.
“Bet you can’t stay a full weekend.”
“Bet me what?”
“A weekend in Paris.”
Sounded like a fair swap.
“Circle line, round and round. You can get off when a train finishes, use vending machines only. We can track you via your phone.”
It sounded easy. John smiled. “Seriously?”
They packed him on board. John grinned as the doors hissed. They waved, slapping each other on the shoulders, laughing him out of sight.
The phone had lost power ages ago. They would no longer know he hadn’t given up, where he was. Endlessly circling, people came and went, blotted his vision, stood on his toes, smelt like old socks and the overpowering perfume they throw at you when you go shopping with your mum.
He watched the blur of bare ankles, reading glasses, graying hair, recently shaved tattoos, listened to the rustle of papers, the dotted echoes of earpieces, shredded conversations, rap or disco rhythms losing all their beat as they hounded him from across the aisle.
He was starving. But he wouldn’t give up. He was on a winning streak.
Somebody poked him awake. He jerked, knocked his head against the emergency button, heard breaks squeal, let out a roar.
People ran in all directions, limbs twitching, voiceless panic piercing their eyes. Sirens wept, uniforms stampeded, whistles jabbed the air, smoke filled lungs as a rush of heat hit John on the head.
John lurched off and slumped onto a platform bench. He couldn’t go further. It must be Monday at least or maybe Friday all over again. He had no idea where he was, how to find those friends and claim his weekend in Paris.
“Move it!” The Police grabbed him by the shoulder.
He’d have to stop gambling. It was leading him astray.
Dedicated to education and being a father, E. F. S. Byrne has finally found more time to devote to his writing and is currently working on everything from very short flash stories to full-length novels. Samples and links to over thirty published stories can be read at efsbyrne.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter @efsbyrne.