Grand Theft Planetary & Other Stories
Chapter 15: Ticket

I awake as I do every morning; violently and suddenly. The small red-framed window at the foot of my bed rattles as if lashed by heavy rain, but when I get up and draw the curtain, the day is bright and dry. I sigh; I never need to be reminded of this day by man or calendar. I recognise it by the feel of the air and the sadness of the light.

I lie back down on my bed, listening to the birds’ proclamation of daybreak outside - I hate them, in the same way as a jealous man may hate his successful neighbour, and I wish that they would be quiet just for today. I ache from the hard mattress and I feel sticky from the unwashed bedding, but I cannot do anything about it just now.

I grudgingly accept that I must rise, and struggle into a standing position. I feel haggard and wasted, but manage to struggle on the same clothes from yesterday, which are the same clothes as the day before and the day before that. My small bedroom is musty and the air is loaded with dust specks that flash in the sunlight. The dresser overflows with clothes, a cascade of browns and beiges spilling down its front to pool in clumps on the bare floor. I kick a path to the rickety door and curse my own untidiness.

I don’t breakfast and my stomach complains from the lack of food, although I should be used to it by now. I have two appointments today, but I scrawl a message onto a large scrap of paper and hobble down the front path to hang it on the gate. It simply says “Closed – Please Call Tomorrow”. I wander back, ignoring the overgrown grass either side of me.

The hedgerow separating the garden from the outside world is large now; unkempt and dangerously bristly like some large green hedgehog sat guarding the cottage. I should be embarrassed; this town of Halefield used to pride itself on its appearance and purposefully-outdated mode of living, but over the past few years too many people had left. Electric lighting was being installed in most homes now, and the odd motorcar had been seen trundling victoriously down the small cobbled streets like the vanguard of an invading force. Nowadays, a smelly dirty recluse could live in a run-down cottage without any intervention from the neighbours, and that made me sadder that being the aforementioned character.

I retreat into the safety of my hovel and slam the door shut, draw all the curtains tight, and lock all the doors. Today is not a day for bright lights or good weather, so I secure my cottage against these unwanted elements and turn it into a land of shadows and stillness. I feel my face; dry, bristly and rough. A much older face than 5 years ago. 5 years… an absolute age to a person in their 20’s. I bark a harsh laugh to the imagined evil beings listening to my thoughts and they flee – for now.

I light a candle and find my way into the kitchen, and then into the small storage cupboard towards the rear of the cottage. Stumbling along in the semi-darkness, I realise how dirty this house has become. Why am I only seeing it now? I can’t remember the last time I performed housework, the stack of dirty plates by the kitchen sink sit smugly in their weeks-old filth and heckle me. I wander on through the kitchen, vowing to put right the wrongs I have done upon this previously sweet cottage.

The door hinges on the storage room resist noisily against my pulling; eventually, they surrender, and the door yawns open. Inside, I am surrounded by shelves of old boxes and piles of paper, my own tiny hall of memories; physical evidence of my experiences, as if I might be called upon to prove my life. By my left hand, love letters from an old girlfriend. She is now married – happily married, I add sadly to myself. By my right foot, correspondence between me and an old friend. She is now lost in the murky swirling river of Time, our lives too different to sustain a friendship. At one time, I did want more from our close bond, but…well, but.

I am here for one particular item; the small pale box directly in front of my head, dusty and frail-looking. Putting the candle to one side, I carefully lift it down without disturbing too much of the dust that has accumulated over the past…year? Again, I start to feel a little shame over the state of my abode. It might be worth attacking the hedgehog tomorrow, then cleaning the plates and some clothes. Anyway, that can wait another day, once again. Candle and box retrieved, I kick the door closed and make my way back to my small living room.

It could be an interesting living room, the fireplace certainly taking up any visitor’s attention with its large dark-wood mantle and ornate carvings around the outside. The deep etchings in the wood depict suns and stars – nothing poignant. A flimsy layer of dirt makes the surface sticky to the touch. On the right-hand wall, a large writing-table and hard wooden chair, the table covered in a mess of papers and pens from my work as an accountant. Not much work though, not nowadays. I briefly wonder if I can afford to cancel my appointments today, but quickly reason that it’s not about money, not this day.

Above this desk is a small window that overlooks the back garden. On a nice day, wild animals and birds can be observed playing out their simple but stress-free lives; I have little time for nice days though. On the opposite wall is another window that looks out onto the overgrown garden and the guardian hedge, and the front door is next to this. Finally, a small comfortable armchair faces the fire; this is my favourite place in the whole world, a warm protected spot within my own territory. Today is not about comfort though. Today is not about me.

I clear the papers off of the table with a sweep of my arm, place the box down and slowly unpack the contents. It is a measly collection of objects:

A sheet of music, crumpled but still legible (the tune unknown to me),

A burgundy-and-blue hat, woolly and worn,

A small board game, many of the pieces lost,

A school tie, blue and yellow striped,

A green bottle with a Greek symbol on it,

A program for a play,

A letter – the letter, tattered edges hiding its importance,

A portrait in a battered silver frame.

I pull the fragile little stand out of the back of the picture, and stand it up on the table. I light two candles, put these on either side of the collection of objects, and sit down in the chair. I always feel guilty at this point; guilty that I don’t have more to this collection of keepsakes. For all the years that one person spends in another person’s company, this pathetic smattering of materials is the only evidence I have. For many people, these objects would probably be consigned to the rubbish, yet now they are treasures. Funny how circumstances define the value of an object. I close my eyes and remember.

5 years ago, I awoke gently and gradually. I dressed without hurry, breakfasted without thought, and left the house in good time. There had been terrible weather during the night, and the cobbles glistened with a dark sticky slickness. My mind was full of an important business venture that I could be part of, if the terms were in my favour. As such, I was barely concentrating on the world that existed past my own forehead. Nevertheless, I did notice that there were people surrounding a house at the end of the street, burly men in white coveralls carrying boxes and putting them onto a cart. I crossed the road and continued on my way, this scene about as relevant to me as the clouds in the sky.

My journey to work was one that I usually made without even thinking about; a left onto Hill Road, past The Thicket pub, then right along Forester Road for about 200 yards. Then, where the road branches off to the left, a hop over the small wall to rejoin the cobbles half-way down Parnall Avenue. Finally, a quick right along Dodge Crescent and I am there – Neill Grace Barkers & Co., a small but very respectable accountancy firm. I am usually a little late, and that day was no exception.

Clutching my notepad of figures and barely-important calculations, I hurried through the doors and took off my coat. My desk was immediately inside the door, which had its benefits in terms of light and fresh air but also had the drawback of being in front of anyone who visited.

Once seated at my desk, I had no sooner put pen to paper when the door burst open and Miss Jones entered. She was a slight, frail, petite girl whose physical size was countered by the size of her heart; she would have cared for the smallest cutest creature or the biggest ugliest monster with equal energy. Quite literally, the milk of human kindness flowed from her like a holy fountain. We found ourselves to be friends through regular contact; she owned the hairdressers next door and lived in the same direction as me, so would find ourselves walking home together frequently. As befits someone who has business in fashion, Miss Jones was wearing a small petit bonnet that covered her blonde hair and a pink and white fashionable dress, the overall impression being of a delicate porcelain doll. I had known many men who had started the age-old ritual of courting this lithe creature, but it soon become very clear that no one man could secure her heart; he might as well hope to secure every butterfly in the world, for their flitting was infinitely easier to direct than Miss Jones’ love.

“Oh Mr Cook! Thank goodness you are here! I feared the worst,” she cried.

I was a little alarmed by this outcry and dropped my pen onto the floor. “I am fine; what has happened, Miss Jones?”

“The word is that you had left! During the night!”

“I assure you Miss Jones, I am here, and plan to be for many years,” I said, retrieving my pen, and not knowing what on earth had made her believe that I had left the town, either by choice or forcibly. After a few minutes of halting breathless explanation on her part, it became apparent that the scene I witnessed on the way to work was the person’s belongings being moved out. In a town so close-knit as Halefield, the act of moving away was comparable to a crudely-worded insult on the place and its residents. This person had moved out so suddenly that no-one knew who it was, although someone had seen the person coming out of the house that night, and because it was on the same street as me, my name had been put forth as a potential suspect. To muddle matters even further, the person’s description was a passing resemblance to me too; same age, same hair, same look. However, it wasn’t me - obviously.

Thanking Miss Jones for her concern and spending many more minutes of constant reassurance (together with an arrangement to meet after work to walk home together), I had barely returned to my duties when the door burst in again – this time, Kris the town baker came striding in with concern etched all over his tired face, his blond hair ruffled and wind-swept. Exactly the same scene ensued as with Miss Jones. In fact, during that morning, I was visited by 5 more friends all coming to ensure that the departure wasn’t me. Even my boss, a normally distant recluse, took time to “drop-in to see how things were going”.

At midday, my curiosity had been sufficiently piqued into finding out the identity of this town traitor and I set out to visit a more socially-linked acquaintance. At this point, I was hit very suddenly by a feeling of unease. A spectre lurked behind this anonymous victim, a ghoul that was out of sight but whose influence I could sense. The instinct to flee was moving me into action, yet I didn’t use this resolve to put distance between me and this threat; I used this energy to charge fully into it.

I dressed in my coat and scarf, and went quickly through the streets, slipping along the cold cobbles until I came to the house of Mrs Larrs, a most social and connected individual. If she did not know, then the mystery person was surely as faceless as a shadow and unknown to anyone.

Approaching her doorway, I was struck again by a feeling of dread. A cramp, like panic, gripped my stomach. It is said that people always remember events of extreme excitement or sorrow in the finest detail, as if the brain suddenly becomes a sponge, soaking up all sensory input. I was in this mode now, my mind capturing all the colours and grain of the moment for future analysis.

Mrs Larrs’ door boasted a large black-iron knocker shaped like a buzzard. The surface was rough and slightly worn. It peered at any visitor brave enough to interrupt the occupant, sizing up all who dared to approach. It had a small dent on the top of its head which struck me as odd; why would a door knocker have a dent in it? The door itself was a painted yellow affair, 9 or 10 beams running vertically and held in place by an interlocking piece of wood at each end, secured by a large-headed black nail. A nail was missing from the upper middle beam, but otherwise the door was in good shape. A large weed grew out of the space between the doorstep and wall. I was never good with plants, but I thought this was a dandelion without its head. Somewhere behind me, I heard the cackle of a magpie and the incessant barking of a dog. Someone walked past me, probably a lady from the tapping noise made on the cobbles. I could feel my hair on the back of my neck; it tickled every time I looked up, and I reminded myself to go to the barber after work. I could smell something tasty, probably a meat pie or a steak. This in turn made my focus switch to my empty stomach, and I quickly thought about lunching on the way back to the office. All this was captured like darting fish and placed into my memory to swim there forever.

Before I even had time to use the iron buzzard, the door was whipped open and Mrs Larrs stood before me. She was a small eccentric woman who, in another time, would have been labelled a witch and either burnt at the stake or feared and respected. Her flowing white dress was old but well-cared for, her round kind face slightly wrinkled with age, but still harbouring warmth and past beauty. She had a sprig of holly in her hair, and smelled faintly of apples. She looked at me for a moment, then suddenly touched me on my arm. “Ah, the respectable Mr Cook. I take it you are well?”

“I am not sure,” I replied, and explained my morning’s events to her. She paused for a moment, as if making a decision within her mind, then spoke to me in a firm tone. I was instantly afraid.

“Yes, I think I can help you. I have heard a name, nothing more.” She paused again. “Do you wish to hear it?”

The question threw me a little; did I wish to hear it, or need to hear it? After the events of the morning, I needed to hear the name in order to convince my mind that it was not anyone I knew. At least, that’s the outcome I wished to happen. A sudden flash of irritability; why should I care? Such fuss over nothing! The logical side of me wanted to finish this foolish errand - my over-active imagination had interrupted enough people already. If it was anyone that I knew or cared for, they would have told me months in advance.

“Please tell me,” I snapped, “to rest the demon that stalks me today.”

She spoke the name, and the demon made his move into the light.

I open my eyes, the living room still gloomy from the shut curtains. The candles are almost spent, and I quickly calculate that I must have slept for a couple of hours. That isn’t like me. I feel a little dry in the mouth, so I fetch a glass of water from the grotty kitchen.

As I watch the water gush out of the old rusty tap into the cracked sink, I think about what it must have felt like to leave; was it so sudden that there was no time to think or feel, or was there time to feel all the pain, the loss, and the emptiness of moving away so suddenly? Was this life an inconsequential dream or everything? Now that I think about it, I know little about places outside of this town, my life so full of the here-and-now that I felt that anything else was not worthy of my attention. These things now suddenly seem important – spiritual development, classic literature, good music, a varied group of friends, love. By ignoring the world outside of my own, I have ignored the things that make this world perfect.

In my mind, I imagine what I must look like to others; a stooped man dressed in rags, untidy long brown hair falling at the shoulders, pale blue eyes flanked by wrinkled laughter lines, ironically on a face that no longer smiles. I zoom out and imagine my cottage; once brilliant white and covered in beautiful flowers, now cracked and surrounded by weeds. I zoom out to imagine the town; once bustling and lively, now half-deserted and falsely-lit. I zoom out again and imagine the world… I suddenly feel agoraphobic, as if I have looked at the submerged part of an iceberg in its entirety, so I fill my cracked cup and take it back to the now-chilly room.

I throw another log into the fireplace, but it refuses to burn. The darkness of today has soaked into everything. I retrieve a blanket from my bedroom and wrap it around my body. It instantly provides some benefit.

Sitting back in the chair, I gently take the school tie and feel the fabric between my fingers. It is coarse, made for a purpose rather than as a luxury item. Why should it; it was meant as an identifier, nothing more. I remember wearing these ties, and I remember the school days that we spent together. Mostly good times, some bad, but all shared, which is now the important thing.

A mad impulse comes over me; I put the tie on. My hands resist and I fumble the knot, but past habit takes over and in a few moments it is wrapped around my bare neck. It feels awkward and a little wrong, as if wearing another man’s underwear or kissing someone’s wife. I take it off again and put it back on the table, next to the other memories.

5 years ago, I staggered back, almost slipping on the jagged doorstep. “You must be mistaken,” I manage to choke out, “he is not from around here.” Mrs Larrs shrugged.

“It is the name I have heard. It may be wrong, but it did come from a reliable source.”

In a bit of a daze, I turned and left Mrs Larrs on her own doorstep; I don’t even remember saying goodbye. In the days that followed afterwards, I visited Mrs Larrs and made my apologies for my rude behaviour; she simply looked at me in that all-knowing way, patted my arm and told me that “never to think twice about it; rudeness depends on the intention”.

In what seemed like a split-second, I was sitting at my desk staring at a blank page. My mind was still rejecting the idea, and I found myself clinging onto one assumed truth; wrong area. He did not come from around this area, therefore it could not be him. Simple. It was another man of that name, and as tragic as it may be for anyone to be suddenly displaced, I was also glad that it wasn’t the man that I know. Probably not the man that I know, my inner demon pointed out. When was the last time I talked to him? A couple of months? Yes; more than enough time to move house, unfortunately. Despite trying to sooth myself with logic, I remained unsettled for the remainder of the day. I feared the truth.

A knock at the front door breaks me out of my reminiscence. ‘Can’t people bloody read?’ I snap angrily at the door. Still wrapped in my blanket, I hobble through the murkiness of memories to the door; it is Wilson, one of my only friends still in contact with me.

Wilson’s shock of bright red hair compliments the joyous day behind him. Birds sing, people stroll by, horses clop their path through the streets. He looks at me without emotion, a long face, freckled and usually on the verge of laughter, but it is far from humorous today. His normally flamboyant clothes are sombre, and I step aside to give him entrance into my shadowy world. I offer him a seat in the desk-chair, but he raises both hands in rejection. “I am sorry but I cannot stay for long.”

“But why not, Wilson? Today is – “

“I know what today is!” His voice is raised, his eyes suddenly wide, “I have come to tell you that I cannot do this any more. I cannot keep re-living the past every year.” He looks at his feet, almost embarrassed. I am too shocked to respond, and after a moment has passed, he continues. “I will remember in my own way, but too much time has passed now. It’s over. He is gone.”

“I don’t understand; it’s only one day a year. Is it too much to ask?” My voice sounds thin and shaky compared to his. There is also a twang of…what? Desperation?

“I must let him go, my friend.” He stands and heads to the door. Then, over his shoulder, he adds “You should let him go too. It is not healthy”. With a bang, he leaves the cottage. The room is once again dark and quiet. I sit back in the chair, then start to cry.

5 years ago, a knock at the door interrupted my chores; I welcomed the distraction. Since I had returned from work, my mind had been racing, and a racing mind by itself is sure to eventually crash. I opened the door to find my good friend Wilson stood at the doorstep, a deep worrying expression on his face. “Wilson? What is it my good man?”

“You haven’t heard then?” He motioned to enter, and I stepped aside to let him. Taking off his hat, I suddenly noticed how red his hair was, almost as if it were ablaze with flame. Funny the things you notice in times of stress.

“Heard what?” I suddenly felt the creep of the spectre again. “This isn’t to do with...?”

“A departure. You may want to sit down.” Wilson looked pale and ghastly, and from that moment, no more words were now necessary. The numbness of shock and anguish came over me, seeping throughout my body and soul. A blackness edged my vision, and all thoughts were halted in their path. My body needed a release, to vent the pressures building inside me. Tears boiled underneath my eyes, then flowed thickly like molten metal over my dry cheeks. I felt a guttural roar building in my chest, and as Wilson tried to gather me up in his arms, I pushed back and let out a scream of undirected rage.

I woke with a jerk; did I just shout out? My ears can make out a fading echo, or maybe I am just hearing the last parts of my dream? I ache from sitting in the hard wooden chair for so long, my arms a little tingly.

Through the thick curtains blocking the back window, I notice that the light is dying away into night. The candles around the temporary shrine are flickering again, trying to stay alive. It is inevitable though; they will burn out regardless of anything I do now. Life is that harsh. I open the drawer in the desk and retrieve two more candles.

As I light them, the words on the program for the play catch my eye more keenly, so I pick it up.

On the cover, it states the name of the play: “Help! Call ’ee!”, a whimsical offering set in the West country presented by the local dramatical society. I remember some parts of it, although the storyline was a little weak. I smile a little as I remember the girl dressed like a chicken walking through the crowd until she came to me, then she sat on my friend’s lap so suddenly that he cried out “Get it off!” Get it off!” I start to smile, but it feels very macabre and inappropriate.

I dispose of the dying candles and sit back in the chair. The new candles are very bright to my gloomy eyes, and flicker madly in some sudden draught. Shadows spring up from behind their hiding places, peeking out as if stalking me. My eye wanders over the tie, the programme, the bottle and then, as I glance over the portrait, I notice the eyes in the portrait looking at me. The candles flicker violently, and the eyes flicker too, searching the room as if examining every corner. Our eyes meet again, and a warmth I haven’t felt in many years washes over me. Old friend, your eyes say, I recognise this place.

5 years ago, I fell into my chair exhausted and spent. Wilson fetched a cup of tea for us both from my then-immaculate kitchen. The warmth and comfort of the brew finally calmed my mind, but didn’t change a single thing. I sipped and half-listened to Wilson’s version of events, although they were just sounds on the air at this point. I remember the words ‘woman’, ‘had to leave’ and ‘gone forever’ in Wilson’s monotonous tone, yet the meaning escaped me completely (in fact, I visited Wilson several times afterwards in order to get the full story again). Never before had I felt so empty and powerless. I could do nothing. This was tragically unique. This was a huge black jagged sliver of glass in my otherwise calm placid world, and there was nothing I could do to take it away, to pull it out and make it disappear. It was part of my life now, and I despised that fact already. I could hardly bring myself to face this dark shard right now, let alone constantly deal with it every day for the rest of my days. The thought of how my life would feel…no, it wasn’t worth thinking about, but I will be forced to find out.

“I can’t believe he left so suddenly. If he was in trouble, he could have come to one of us” finished Wilson.

“Sorry?”

“He left suddenly because of this girl. He didn’t have time to take a thing with him, so I reckon he left by train. Are you OK?” he asked, a concerned hand on my shoulder. I dismissed it gently, strength returning to me.

“Where did he leave? Do you know?”

“Yes. Unfortunately. Old Mrs Willows thought she saw him by Mureel’s Maze - the corner opposite there.” Questions arose all at once, squabbling together - He was forced to leave? By whom? There was a train station by the ’Maze?

“Any other clues?”

“No.” He rose suddenly. “I must go; there are others that I must inform.” I stood up too and shook him by the hand, completely by the habit of civility rather than choice.

“I understand. Thank you my friend.”

After he had left, I leant heavily against the inside of the door, my forehead resting on the smooth wood. Too many emotions flowed through my mind. I needed to slow them down, deal with them one at a time in a measured way; I couldn’t handle all of them at once. They were as unruly as a herd of cats, all screeching and pawing at me.

I fetched a small bottle of whiskey from the kitchen cupboard and took a huge draught from it. The coarse burning sensation in my stomach gave me a slight reprieve from the mental onslaught, and I sat in my armchair, eyes closed, trying not to think. The warmth of the fire, the comfort of the chair, the random crackle of the logs and the effects of the whiskey were soothing. My exhausted spirit crashed, and I slept.

What happened in the hours that followed seemed too extraordinary to be true, even now. I would have dismissed it as a vivid dream, a combination of shock and whiskey together with a warm fire and a snug chair. Except that I brought something back with me. In the gathering dank of the box-like cottage, I reach out and take the letter. Inside is just a single piece of paper, completely blank. It wasn’t blank 5 years ago.

5 years ago, I snapped awake, the fire but glowing embers. My dream had been…full of ideas, important ideas, yet they now eluded me. Still…one thought did remain. Go to the station. Go to where he departed.

The idea was ridiculous; what would that achieve? He’s gone. I stared at the wood grain in the floorboards, following the lines running between my feet.

He’s there; catch him before he leaves.

“He left last night” I mutter.

Only part of him has left.

QUICKLY!

The shout was like a heavenly seal breaking, deafening me with its silent fury and spurring me to action. I grabbed my fleece-lined coat and whipped the door open effortlessly. The evening was deathly dark, yet I could see perfectly as if everything was tinged with glowing gold and overlayed with spitting bronze.

I flew down the street, my feet light and swift on the cobbles, gliding along at an incredible speed. I ducked between people, almost bumping into a small dog who yelped in surprise. I was desperately willing myself to go faster in fear of missing this moment, this event that could never be repeated. Finally, I got to the corner of the road that went up to Mureel’s Maze.

As I turned the broad gas-lit corner, I tripped on something and tumbled to the pavement, hard. Looking back, I saw that my foot had caught on a large discarded tool.

It was a hammer, ugly and menacing in appearance. A dark stain covered the dull silver metal of the head and part of the wooden shaft. The hilt was splintered and parted. It simply oozed evil and menace. I feel repulsed by it, and scrabbled away until I could gain my footing again. I jumped to my feet and continued my flight, extremely grateful to put distance between me and that implement.

Mureel’s Maze was a pub that sat on the top of a large hill on the outskirt of the town. It was an old building and heavily frequented by the many beer-drinkers in that area. I myself used to frequent there for a time, my eye set on a barmaid who I thought I had a good chance of successfully courting until I learnt that she was betrothed to a young soldier.

I came to the front of the well-lit public house and stopped; opposite was the station, a glittering tall building of magnificence. The majesty of it made the ’Maze look like a candle in a strong wind by comparison. To the side of the station’s wide entrance was a small gathering of locals facing an arrangement of flower and cards; someone had been killed recently, and on this very spot. The mourners were mostly in pairs, hugging, weeping, and whispering to each other in the low tones of those comforting one-another. Thankfully, no-one glanced at me despite my rather sudden and rough appearance. I moved around them as respectfully as I could, and entered the station.

The station could have been built that very morning; it was pristine. All the walls were clad with a white tile, holy and purity radiating from each one. The ceilings were large arches, dazzling lights beaming from somewhere within them. The floor was a black and white chequered pattern. I thought I was the only person in the station until my eyes finally adapted to the brightness; stood on the station’s only platform several metres away was a man with his back to me. He was wearing a white suit jacket and black trousers. His hair was a glowing blond, and there was a small briefcase on the floor next to him. It looked like… I started to walk towards the platform, my feet making crisp ticking sounds in the empty station.

After a few steps, a train suddenly glided soundlessly into the station in front of the man. It was the biggest train that I had ever seen; huge, black, and unbelievably silent. There was some writing on the engine in big gold lettering: 654 – Angel of Death. As my eye read the writing, I was suddenly paralysed with fear and could not take another step. I remember rocking backwards and forwards in an attempt to break this spell on me, but I could not.

The train’s only carriage finally rested in front of the man, and, picking up the briefcase, he opened the gold-trimmed door and boarded. The slam of the door broke the spell on me and I covered the remaining distance in a couple of seconds. With a cry, I crashed into the black door and tried to open it, but it was firmly locked. Shielding the glass with my hand, I peered inside. There was nothing, as if darkness itself was staring back at me. I gave the handle a final yank, then started to run towards the engine in order to enlist the driver’s help.

Like a spider, the driver leapt out from within the cabin and leant over the edge of the engine at me. Even 5 years on, I sometimes wake up screaming because of that face. It must have been the face of a man once, but it was twisted with hate and malice. The lips were drawn right back until they almost touched the ears. The eyes were wide – too wide for a normal person, and they were completely black to the edges. I could see blood between the over-sized teeth, and the fingers that were holding onto the side of the engine were three times the length of normal digits. The overall effect was that of a monster extremely pleased to be a nightmare to all.

I skidded to a full stop and fell backwards at this sight, my breath catching in my throat. If I had been armed with spear or rifle, I would have attacked this creature and pleaded self-defence of my senses. However, the compassionate man, the person who resides within all of us in some way, couldn’t put this creature to the sword for being a horror. Even if it was taking my friend, an eye for an eye makes everyone blind, doesn’t it?

The creature regarded me for a few moments with a look that I imagine a fox would give a chicken, then slowly retreated to the engine once again. Without a sound, the train started to move out, steam billowing up into the ceiling, until it had swiftly disappeared out of the station and into the swirling night.

With the departure of the metal serpent train, I found I could move and breathe again, and I slowly got to my feet. There was nothing left to do but to go home; I was too late to do anything. Complete despair filled me. As I turned to leave, I stepped on a letter, white and crisp. Much to my surprise, I could see that it had my name on the front, so I picked it up and walked out of the brilliant station.

In the sharp cool night air, I felt drained. The mourners had lit candles around the tribute, casting a feeble light around. I spotted someone puffing on a cigarette; I hadn’t smoked for years, but suddenly felt like one. I managed to barter a cigarette from the man, and then sat down dejectedly on the kerb by the candles. I inhaled the rough tobacco and enjoyed the light-headedness for a moment. When it passed, I replayed the events in the station; the man with the briefcase, the serpentine train, the horror that was the driver, the letter – I had forgotten about the letter, so I opened it up.

Inside was a single sheet of paper - good quality stuff and, although tobacco was spoiling my sense of smell, I got the hint of an incense of some kind. The only words I could see was on the front. In a cursive hand that I vaguely recognised was the word ‘Jack’. I sighed, and whispered “What is the point in a blank letter?”

Slowly, and to my utter amazement, words gradually appeared on the sheet of paper.

To accommodate words that are yet to be written.

I was stunned. How was this possible? I wondered what else to say in response to this magical turn of events, and could only manage “Hello?”

Hello Jack.

“Is that you, old chap?”

It is. I thought for a while, the cigarette burning out in the short time.

“Tell me what happened”

What happened is no longer important. What happens now is important.

“People must know. People must remember.” A couple of mourners looked around so I shielded the page from them with my body.

People will know what they need to know in order to continue their lives. You must too. People will remember; you never truly move on until people forget all about you.

“I will remember,” I whispered, “I will.”

Grief is a terrible thing, the page wrote, never let it control you. I watched the last sentence fade away, and desperately tried to think of another question. The light from the candles was dim now, and I worried about them dying and thus robbing me of this magical moment.

“Who was the driver? Was it a monster?” The page remained blank for a moment.

In a fashion. Its name is La Haggler, and it knows not the impact of its actions. It does not feel remorse. It will be dealt with in time, its fate similar to mine but in a different place. Do not worry yourself over La Haggler. You will not see it again.

“Good” I said selfishly. I looked at the paper and his writing, and I realise that this is going to be the last things I will ever say to him. “I will miss you.” I feel a tear trickle down my cheek.

I will miss you too. I will miss all of you, but do not be sad. We will all see one another again. The words vanished, then more rose from the depths of the paper; Goodbye, and remember to watch the path you tread. Don’t let grief be your master.

Then he was gone.

I open my eyes; the candles are just tiny droplets of fire hanging onto their string. It must be past midnight, the world quiet and asleep after another day. In my hand is the letter, the page as blank as when I first looked at it. Ever since that last sentence, it has never shown another word despite my efforts to invoke the writing again.

One candle quickly dies; the other is in its death throes. I feel my eyes starting to well up with tears as I remember those words. In that moment, I think about the 5 long years without my friend, the sting within my stomach every time I think of him, the tears that spring up without warning, the decline in my personal wellbeing and the retreat into my own personal cocoon away from the world. On that spot and with my eyes wet with grief, I decide that this is the end of my remembrance.

Don’t let grief be your master, the page had said. Tears wet my cheeks as I look into that portrait for one last time, the weak candlelight making lines dance around the face. For a moment, the portrait is smiling, and then is still again. I grip the paper tightly and whisper “I will always miss you.”

Tears are running freely now, but as the candle threatens to die, I see the paper in my hand. In the faint delicate light of the flashing candle, through eyes bloated with hot tears, and in my long-lost friend’s handwriting, the page says:

Live life my friend.

The candle dies, and the blackness is deafening.

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