WJEC ENGLISH LITERATURE

The last tube train
It was nearly 2AM, and Jan was about to miss the last tube train. He had stayed out too late
and was sluggishly drunk, his vision blurred and his movement slow. The tunnels leading to
the tube platforms seemed like a labyrinth to him; he staggered around corners, down stairs
and up escalators, searching in vain for the westbound train to Hammersmith.
He knew, at the back of his blurring, swimming mind that he was going to pay for this in the
morning. He had to be in Hampstead, right on the other side of the city, to start a construction
job at 7 in the morning. He hoped his supervisor wouldn’t notice his bleary eyes, or be too
angry. More xenophobic than most, the boss told his building team to ‘F*** off home to
Poland’ at every available opportunity.
The tinny sound of jazz music drifted out of one of the tube alleys. Jan loped towards it,
hoping to ask for directions from someone. But the busker playing the jazz music was already
asleep – or passed out – under a big black bin bag, the dulcet tones of Louis Armstrong
flitting out of the CD player through his dreams.
Baffled, the young man found himself again at the entrance to the tube station, no closer to
reaching his destination. He resigned himself to walking home, or at least trying to find a
night bus. The tube entrance had been quiet before, but the hall was now crowded with a
group of teenage boys, leaning in a nonchalant yet menacing way against the walls.
He thought of asking for directions, but thought better of it. The boys faces were almost
completely covered, their heads lowered, sinister black hoods concealing their identity. He
stumbled out of the station, trying hard not be noticed. But his feet were unsteady, and he
tripped over, toppling to the ground.
The boys looked up. They jeered at the pathetic sight of a dishevelled, semi-conscious man
wincing on the concrete floor. They circled him, laughing at his weak attempts to stand back
up, kicking him as he tried to struggle to his feet. Jan yelled, cursing at the children to leave
him alone. Couldn’t they tell he had a job he needed to get to the next morning? What kind of
country was it where young children kicked and jeered at an innocent man, gleeful at his
humiliation? He closed his eyes and remembered the day he stepped onto the bus in
Bialystok, afraid but full of excitement and hope, and a strong feeling in his heart that
everything would be better in England, that he could follow his dreams.
A final, sharp kick in his chest left him winded and gasping on the floor, unable to move. A
dozen bellowing youths sprinted out the train station, roaring with laughter. And Jan was left
alone on the floor of the tube station, still hoping he would not be late for work the next
morning.
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