The Outside Of Everything

Chapter 21
The Late Night Train

I’ve had a song going round and round in my head of late. You know what it’s like when that happens. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Anyway, this song. As absurd as they come. But nevertheless one we were very fond of when it came out. Some lines have been haunting me. “Look at Sweet Julia, speeding on the late night train. They’re laughing at the way she dresses. Too smart and clean. But she don’t care because she knows she’s right ...”. Or something like that.

Late night trains are funny things. They used to be funnier still. That was before the 24-hour city, the extension of the night bus network, late opening hours and more relaxed licensing laws. I’m thinking about last orders and when everything stopped at eleven. And everyone headed for the last train. You’d see all life there. And believe me some of it you wouldn’t want to see again. Late night trains could be funny places. They could be scary places.

Funny? Apart from the fumblings and fondlings of youth? Well, yeah, once we were coming home from a night out on the town when we heard people talking about us. It was quite surreal. It was quite lovely actually. Some old school colleagues of ours had bumped into one another, and were busy reminiscing. Do you remember that group of red mods, they said? Little suspecting we were seated further down the coach, trying our damnedest to keep from laughing and joining in the conversation. Well, there are worse ways to be remembered I guess. And we looked all innocent as we all alighted at our home station, as though butter wouldn’t melt in our mouths, and it was oh such a pleasant surprise to see old friends again.

Scary? Oh yes. Alcohol, aggravation, anti-socialism. I mean, we were no angels. We’d played around with the best of them. But horseplay is one thing. Intimidation is quite another thing. And those days being what they were, some of the tribalism at large caused some unpleasant scenes. So being red mods, to coin a phrase and one we could quibble with, in some people’s eyes didn’t help our cause, but that particular occupational hazard isn’t what this is about. No this is The Fair One’s story, and it starts with him and his sibling, the very great Soul Sister Number One, returning home on the late night train, in a manner not unlike the song that’s been swirling round my head.

So our fair ones were sitting there, heads together. Trying to do the cryptic crossword in the day’s evening paper. They were doing their best to block out the hubbub of some drunken skinheads marauding up and down the aisles. Apparently these skins were of the as-far-right-as-you-can-go variety, known members of one of the neo-fascist factions. And they were uttering their filthy slogans, and quite simply in reasonable people’s eyes they were beneath contempt, and not worth taking notice of. This disdain naturally stirred up the stupid skins, and they thought it would be big to pick on an elderly couple who looked like they’d been to the theatre Up West. Very smart and clean they looked. And our big brave skinheads plucked the spotted hankie out of the old boy’s blazer pocket, and started waving it in the air. As the old boy made a grab for his hankie, he was pushed back, and raised his walking stick. One of the skinheads grabbed the stick and started swinging it in the aisle.

Did you have to do that, said Soul Sister Number One suddenly, and prove what prats you really are? Couldn’t find anyone infirm enough to pick on boys? The Fair One said later he’d never seen his sibling spitting with such fury. The skinheads naturally turned their attentions to her. Ah what have we here then? A brave wee lassie? Got a lot to say for yourself Miss Mo-dette. Maybe you should be taught a lesson? Little girls should be seen and not heard.

Erm, I wouldn’t mess with my sister if I were you lads, said our Fair One in a more than reasonable tone. The skinheads did a comical double take, and looked closely at our kid. Oh wouldn’t you pretty boy? Well, we’ll see about that shall we? Let’s see what happens if I stick my hand down her top eh? Like this. And just like that the sad skinhead suddenly doubled up in pain, pain, excruciating pain. Erm, did I mention lads that my sister is a dab hand at the more martial of the arts? No? Oh well, I suppose you didn’t really give me a chance. Not to worry. Here, watch, she’ll show you again something even Miss Piggy never showed Kermit. Ow, I felt that. Oh dear. How sad. Never mind.

One skinhead crumpled. The other skinhead was mesmerised. Soul Sister Number One demonstratively dusted her hands with distaste on her face. The old boy stood up and applauded. Tottering down the aisle, he retrieved his walking stick, and poked the fallen fascist pointedly in the stomach. If I thought you even understood the filth you’ve been spouting I’d beat the living daylights out of you son, the old boy said, but you’re not worth wasting energy on. You just make me sick. The forelorn fascist groaned. I’m going to be sick. Let me get to the window. We did. And he got there just in time. These were the old fashioned trains. With the windows that could be pulled right down. With the windows that you could put your head right out of. And that is just what the stupid skinhead did. Just as the train was about to enter a tunnel. A very solid tunnel. All very messy. Very, very messy.

The Fair One was quick to pull the emergency cord, to stop the late night train, and due processes were allowed to take their course. Thankfully the authorities were fairly pragmatic, and not too many questions were asked about the events that led up to the tragic-ish incident. The other skinhead held his peace, wisely. And of course everyone was too shocked to say too much. Of course. The funny thing is it couldn’t happen nowadays with modern trains being what they are, with a distinct lack of open-able windows. Difficult now to put your head outside of anything.