Saturday Night Train / Claire Bowles

Saturday Night Train

Saturday night. Glad rags and thick layered mascara. The party cocktail mixed to a lurid shade of pinky-orange and decanted discretely into an emptied Lucozade bottle. Songs heard on X-Factor now hummed and sung in various stages of tunefulness as the girls go out on the town and the boys go out to get laid. Mini-skirts and red lipstick. Lynx and up-turned collars.
But not for me. Sensible shoes, a knee length black skirt and white button-up shirt. Name tag: Molly. Hair in a ponytail and a tired look about my eyes. They're going out; I'm going home.
Right now I'm counting myself lucky. I'm sitting down after eight hours on my feet, a rare thing on the party train. Ever other seat is taken and there are groups of posturing teens loitering in the open space at each set of doors. But I know why this one was left free: hemmed into a corner beside the bruiser and his bird. He's drunk, and she's pissed.
But it's alright: the train's full. Plenty of other distractions for his malignant glare to rest upon; plenty of witnesses to come to my aid. Keen to stay unnoticed, I bury myself deeper into my book, MP3 player turned up high so I can pretend I can't hear their muttering about how she's a slag and he's a prick.
More people pile in as the train pauses at Rutherglen and Cambuslang. The windows are fogging up with the stagnant air of each anticipation-filled breath. Hormones are rife. Or is it just cheap perfume? As the Glasgow tunnels swallow the train, claustrophobia sets in and I shift in my seat, flinching automatically as the movement attracts the scrutiny of Them.
I take a deep, steadying breath. Not long to go now. Right on cue, the cool, detached robotic voice of the female announcer declares we are now arriving at Argyle Street. Half the carriage empties. A minute later, at Central, we lose the rest.
Except me. I'm on here for the long haul, till the tunnel spits the train back out to cut a swathe through darkened countryside until there are no more lights to wink flirtatiously as we pass.
Me. And Them.
We process this at the same time, looking up, glancing around, eyes darting from empty seat to empty seat. Then back to each other. I look away first; to the door, hoping desperately some last second saviour will jump aboard and rescue me from being alone with Them. Nobody does. The doors beep shrilly, then close, locking me in.
Though just five minutes ago almost fifty people filled this space, now it's only three of us, and it's much too small.
As the train pulls away I bite my lip and stare down at the pages of my book, but I'm not reading anymore. I want to move - seat, carriage, train - but I'm too chicken. Instead I pretend to be invisible. It seems to work. They break their self-imposed huffy silence and begin to bicker as if I'm not there.
"We're going to be late."
Her. Shrill, harpy. Nails on a blackboard, to me and him.
"And who's effin' fault is that?"
I could turn up the MP3 player as loud as it will go and it still wouldn't be enough to drown out the menace in his voice.
"Don't you swear at me, ignorant shit! I didn't want to go to the damn thing anyway. You'll just end up steaming and pissing all over your shoes. Wish I hadn't bothered."
I wish they hadn't bothered, too.
"Aye, well. You didn't have to come, did ye? I never asked you to."
"Oh, you'd have loved that, wouldn't you? Then you could have fired into that tart, Andrea."
I know straight away she's said the wrong thing. So does she. Her eyes still sparkle with defiance and cheap eye shadow, but her hands curl into fists, anticipating his reaction.
He rounds on her.
"What did you say?"
I try to retreat back into my chair, but there's nowhere to go.
She tries to brazen it out.
"You heard."
His fist slams out, catches her square in the jaw, splitting the soft bubble gum pink of her lips. Crimson red oozes out.
She freezes, and so do I. My mouth opens ready to scream - for help or in horror - but the abrupt violence has stolen my breath. I just gape.
Slowly, elegantly, with hands that don't shake an inch, she reaches up and wipes away the blood. Then reapplies her lipstick. The train slows down, coasts to a stop. Partick.
Without a word, both of them stand, walk away. Just as the doors close I see him wrap an arm around her shoulders. She looks up and smiles.