The Writers Bureau Short Story Competition 2019
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Short Story Competition 2017

Karen Wallace

4th Prize – Karen Wallace with:

Under

“An update for passengers travelling on the London Underground: there are severe delays on the northbound Northern and Bakerloo lines due to a person under a train at Charing Cross.”

Caitlin yanks out her headphones.

“What did they say?” she asks the man sitting next to her. He looks up from his paper.

“Severe delays on the Northern and Bakerloo Lines. Person under a train at Charing Cross.”

“Oh crap,” she says; then, “Sorry. I’m late for work already.”

“Such an inconvenience, aren’t they?” He gives her an ironic smile.

“Sorry.” Caitlin feels her cheeks grow hot.

The train pulls slowly into Waterloo station. Caitlin marches down the platform with the usual crowd of commuters. She mentally kicks the people in front of her. She doesn’t understand why anyone needs to walk so slowly: this is just wasted time before getting to work and accomplishing things. She has an important report to give in a meeting, which she finished writing at two that morning.

When she finally gets on an overcrowded bus, though, the thing she finds herself feeling most stressed about, as she tries to turn away from the armpit of the person squashed in next to her, is not the meeting, or her lateness; but a lunch appointment she has agreed to go to.

Her brother, Jamie, phoned the night before. He asked if he could see her as soon as possible. She hastily agreed to lunch, mostly just to get him off the phone. Now, she wonders what he wants. She can’t think that it will be anything except money. She tries to remember when she last saw him, and realises, with a slight jolt in her stomach, that it was at their father’s funeral six months ago. There hasn’t been a word from him since, even though he only lives at the southern end of the Bakerloo line; but really, it’s a blessing that he keeps his distance. She resents the thought of having to see him; of her day being blemished by what is sure to be a disastrous lunch break.


“Cait, are you alright?” her boss says. Caitlin tried to avoid her after the meeting by rushing off down the corridor, but she isn’t the only one who can walk in heels at breakneck speed.

“I’m fine, why?”

“Surely you don’t think that went well?”

“It could’ve gone better.”

“Why don’t you take this afternoon off? You’ve been looking off-colour lately.”

Caitlin assures her again that she is fine; then goes straight to the toilets. She sits in a cubicle with her head in her hands. She does feel “off-colour”. She is sick of her long commutes into work; of never having time to stop and take a deep breath; of feeling constantly exhausted and pressurised. She is quite sure her colleagues are aware of how she feels, too, after this morning. She arrived to the meeting fifteen minutes late, and had a mind blank half way through reading her report, despite the fact that the words were there in front of her. But she can’t go home. She has to stop being so weak. No one else lets trivial, routine things defeat them.

She suggested a pub near her office for lunch. Not the one she sometimes goes to with colleagues; she doesn’t want to risk them seeing her there with Jamie. He is already there when she arrives, sitting at a table in the corner, looking worse than she’s ever seen him before. He hasn’t shaved for weeks. His hair is long and greasy. She pretends not to notice any of this.

He stands up, slowly. They hug, awkwardly. Caitlin goes to get drinks (pinot grigio for her; a coke for him). They study the menu.

“Bit pricy,” says Jamie.

“It’s okay. Have what you want.”

“You don’t have to pay.”

“I insist.”

They sit in uncomfortable silence while they wait for their food to arrive. Caitlin had assumed that Jamie would be straight in there with his motive for wanting to see her, but he appears to be in no rush.

“So, how are things?” she asks. She sounds impatient, although she didn’t mean to. Jamie merely shrugs.

“Still nothing on the job front?”

“Not really.”

“How’s Faith doing?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“I thought you were supposed to have her every other weekend?”

“Well, that habit seems to have been dropped.”

“Well you can’t just let Martine get away with that, can you?”

“She’s got away with everything else.”

Caitlin doesn’t know what else to say. His apathy infuriates her; but she doesn’t know how to make him see that he has to take control of his life without picking him up and giving him a good shake. When lunch arrives she tries to change the subject by talking with forced cheerfulness about the weather, and the good food, and even her job; but Jamie stares vacantly throughout at something in the distance. Caitlin concentrates on getting the wine and salad down her gullet so she can get away from there.

She almost chokes with surprise when Jamie volunteers speech.

“I just – I asked to see you because…”

“It’s alright,” she says, hoping that gentle encouragement will speed him up.

“Well, you’re the only person who – but – I just can’t…”

“Jamie, it’s okay. How much do you want?”

“What?”

“How much do you need?”

“How much what?”

“Money. I can transfer some into your account today. It’s fine.”

Jamie stares at her.

“I don’t need – I mean I do – but –”

“I’ll do it today, alright? It’s okay. You don’t need to be scared about asking me for things.” She flashes him what she hopes is a warm smile. He continues to stare at her. Does he have no manners at all?

He stands up abruptly.

“I’ve got to go.” He lingers next to her for a moment, as if to say something else; but then leaves without another word.

“Bloody ungrateful,” murmurs Caitlin, downing the last of the wine.

By four o’clock Caitlin is flagging. Her head feels like it is being squeezed in one of those metal clamps they used to use for woodwork at school. She shouldn’t have had wine at lunch; she can’t seem to tolerate even one glass these days. She ducks out of the office. She sticks her head around the boss’s door on the way out and mutters that she’s going home, shutting the door quickly to avoid further questioning.

By the time she gets to the tube station the pain in her head is almost unbearable. There are leaden weights pulsating behind her eyes and nose, and knives jabbing her temples. She feels drowsy and suddenly queasy. She staggers a little as she steps onto the escalator down to the platforms.

There’s a wait of seven minutes for the next train; longer than usual.

“We apologise for the delay on the southbound Bakerloo line service,” announces a bored-sounding voice.

“This is due to an earlier person under a train at Elephant and Castle. The Bakerloo line is suspended between Lambeth North and Elephant and Castle until further notice.”

“Bloody hell.” Seven minutes is hardly an interminable wait, but it feels like forever. If only she can get to Waterloo, she can run into the toilets and throw up.

She sits as still as possible in the stuffy carriage, suppressing wave after wave of nausea. When she finally gets to the top of the escalator that leads onto the station concourse, she gulps down the hit of cool air and makes a beeline for the loos.

Her phone is ringing. She pulls it out and answers, without thinking. It’s her mother. She reaches the turnstiles into the toilets and fumbles in her bag for 30p.

“It’s Jamie,” her mother eventually says, between spluttering sobs. “Threw himself under-”

Caitlin barges into the nearest cubicle, drops the phone on the floor and pukes into the toilet. She can still hear her mother’s detached voice, wailing Caitlin’s name. Caitlin leans back against the wall and cries too, great guffawing, hiccupping sobs, until she is silent and empty.

 

About the Author

Karen has been writing fiction for many years. She wrote 'Under' about eight years ago but never submitted it anywhere, until now! She studied theatre at university, and then trained as a librarian. She currently works in a library at a membership organisation in London. In her spare time, when not writing or reading, she tackles the occasional long-distance run.

 

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