Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

When questioned about its legitimacy he just shrugs
and asks what harm it can do.
Before cashing up I check the inbox on my phone. It
makes unpleasant reading: no new messages. I turn off
the main lights and complete my chores by the flickering
of the popcorn machine and the second-hand rays of the
streetlights outside. 2ps, 5ps, 10ps, 20ps…I arrange
them all in order, in rows, just how the boss likes them.
The door flies open and a man comes barging in,
collar pulled up high, his head masked by a balaclava. I
draw his attention to the closed sign on the door but he
doesn’t want to listen. He wants the money in the till,
the money I’ve just spent the last
twenty minutes arranging, the
money that was providing me
with an excuse not to head home.
We struggle and the money goes
flying everywhere. This angers
me. I hate to see my handiwork
undone, and I go for him, biting
and scratching, trying to wrench
the wool from his face. He’s far
too strong for me though, and I
find myself flung against the wall,
a knife pressed up close to my
throat.
‘Make another sound,’ he hisses, ‘make another
sound and I promise that I’ll fucking kill you!’
‘Kill me?’ I chuckle. ‘I’m already dead.’
3. The Silver-Tongued Devil
***
The beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad, so I had
another for desert. Pellets of rain clattered into the
windows, launched from the swirling wisps of cloud
that circled above. The clock hit eleven with a
begrudging ‘thunk.’ I gathered up my overcoat, slung it
on and headed for the door.
Outside a kid swore at a can that he was kicking; the
tires of a U-Haul truck squealed; a man with a badge
skipped on by; the smell of frying chicken aroused my
nostrils. I passed it all by and blundered into the nearest
bar, rubbing my malnourished eyes as the artificial
lights hit them.
She was stuck in a world
where she didn’t belong; if
she left him then she left
everything. Gutsy little thing
went ahead and did it.
Credit to her.
4
postgraduate fiction
The barman nodded and handed me a beer. I
thanked him and surveyed my surroundings, mapping
out the day. Drank my beer down and gazed out the
window. Traffic flashed past, a girl in an orange dress.
The bar was filling up now; people were on their lunch,
eating, drinking. Smoke hung low in the air and I had to
rest my chin on the bar to escape it. Time passed and I
went with it: some kids being refused admission, the
whirring of a fruit machine, the monotony of the
barman’s chatter. Life became a haze, a smoke-filled
oblivion. My eyes strained against it, working harder
than anticipated. There was a girl alone at a table –
brunette, nice smile.
I introduced myself. Talk
flowed freely. I lied about my day;
she did likewise. There was a
copy of the local rag on the table
and we skimmed through it.
Seems there’s a killer on the loose.
The press have dubbed him ‘The
Silver-Tongued Devil’. He
charms his way into people’s
houses, wins their trust and then
slays them. Uses whatever’s at
hand. Sometime last month he
caved an old lady’s skull in with a brick. It made one hell
of a mess on the carpet. I pointed this out to the girl and
warned her against being out late at night; she did
likewise. We laughed, inhaled smoke, watched it follow
its tail, round and round. She was alone for the night,
had walked out on her bloke. The barman came over
and brushed aside the glasses, winking at me. We
continued talking, had lots in common. Poor little thing
had got involved with the wrong guy and hadn’t realised
until it was too late. It was a nasty situation: she was
stuck in a world where she didn’t belong; if she left him
then she left everything. Gutsy little thing went ahead
and did it. Credit to her.
The drinks kept flowing and our jaws kept jacking,
hours melting into hours as we exchanged stories about
a world gone wrong. Then the bell rung, last orders
were called and we were out in the street, arm in arm,
heading for her place. The rain still came but it was
almost apologetic now, its rage quelled. We bantered
on the doorstep, standing in defiance of the cold. The
door was opened and we staggered inside. Laughter,
jostling, the smell of wet denim.
Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
World Gone Wrong
Ben Hart