Barbican, 2007
The Last Train
I ask the Nu-Rave Vagrant is it raining, or just the remains? as I step out of work and onto slick pavement. He mutters remains and stumbles off down the road, trainers swallowed by curbside tributaries that reflect the streetlamps as they flow towards half-clogged sewer grilles. I pull my hood up and head for the tube and don’t check my texts until I’m squashed in the lift down to the line, a little present for myself as we descend, us night workers.
I can’t really see who’s in the carriage of the last tube with me. Three of them have papers guarding their faces, the thumbed copy in erratic condition being fourth or fiftieth hand by now. As we trundle on I remember a ride at Universal Studios in Florida, the memory buried by years of neglect. I have no idea what dredged it up. I remember I knew it was fake.
I change to the mainline and think about what I’m coming home to. Ian’s long gone. Months have passed. I’ve stopped caring, because you have to at some point. When I get in I’ll see a pink wig on the hook by the door, a jacket I never wear and too too many shoes. I’ll probably see one of Amy’s cute post-it notes on the mirror too: Borrowed shoes/dress/make-up, will cover you with kisses in the morning.xXx and of course I’ll roll my eyes and tut when I see her, but secretly I’ll feel really cool.
There are papers everywhere on this last, late train. The overhead lights flicker like a “scary” TV movie, but it stirs me in a different way. I feel like I’m on a journey into night. We cast no light and chase towards some unfixed point, guided by rails and kicking up sparks. I let myself think I’m in a Kate Bush song and close my eyes.
© Matthew Sheret, 2008
