Originally titled The Last Train, this story was scripted and staged as a Radio Play during Thriller Night at Theatre Gwaun in Fishguard, Wales. Now re-edited specially for Wattpad, it is released under the new title, 'End of the Line' - The first story in my London collection.
End of the Line - A Dark Tale
At the time it seems like a good idea - at the time. The end of a long week kissing ass and someone says, coming for a quick one? Except it never is a quick one, is it? One leads to another and then: "Crap, got to run or I'll miss my train." I grab my coat and run, not hearing the parting jibes from the others. I ride the underground three stops to the station. I'm not really in the right frame of mind to run for a train and I don't have time to take a leak: that's going to be a problem, but Chances are the carriage will be empty and I can go out the window. As I turn the corner to take the escalator up to the main concourse a filthy vagrant looms out at me; "spare some change, mate."
And as I run by him, I shout, "I'm not your mate. Why don't you get a fucking job?"
A dark look on his face, the vagrant watches the young man disappear then makes his down the tunnel to find a spot to sit out the night. The main concourse is empty, an oppressive blanket of melancholic stillness a far cry from the writhing sea of humanity that usually occupies this space. I run for platform 9, crash through the barrier and just as the train lurches away, hurl myself through a carriage door. It is one of those shitty, sad old commuter trains, smelling stale, metallicy and greasy. It is an enclosed eight seat compartment: only way in, or out, through the door I just fell through. I clunk the door shut and fall into a seat. I am not alone. The train lurches away. My companion says, "you cut that fine, you did, now."
He is a slight man in his late fifties but looks like he can handle himself. He has an Irish accent and he is wearing the distinctive white collar of a cleric. Not my first choice of a travelling companion!
"You a vicar?" I say, stating the obvious; alcohol has put my mouth before my brain.
"A priest," he returns.
"Oh, I see. Bat for the other side, do you?"
He says, "not sure I know what you mean?"
I chuckle, adding, "my aunt Ethel was a Catholic; her folks came from Dundalk. You ever see Father Ted?"
He frowns, his eyes hard, "not all Catholics are Irish, you know, there are over 800 million of us – that's Catholics, not Irish."
Back pedalling, I offer, "oh, yes, sure, of course I didn't mean any offence, it's just that you kinda associate Irish with being Catholic, don't you?"
He says, "do you, now. Hm, well now, I suppose... As to Father Ted, I take it you mean the Television show, which I have seen and it is very funny and there is a little bit of truth in it."
Laughing, I imitate one of the characters from the show, putting on a tacky Irish accent, "will you have a cup of tea now Father?"
Coldly, he answers, "as it happens, I don't drink tea!"
The train trundles on, clickity-clack-clickity-clack, the suspension creaking and groaning; the carriage lurching as it crosses points; the harsh light of the carriage making the blackness without, impenetrable.
Brushing his trouser leg, the Priest says, "you're a very forward young man; perhaps, maybe, you've had a few?"
I tap my nose, saying, "ah, you're an astute one, Father. Can I call you Father?"
The priest nods, "You may, I'm Father Ergrid. And what do I call you?"
"Bran, well it's Brandon, but my mates call me Bran."

YOU ARE READING
End of The Line
Short StoryWhen Brandon runs to catch the last train home he verbally abuses a vagrant, which sets in motion a dark chain of events...