Station Master

Tall, skeletal plants hunched in each corner of the hotel lobby, licking the ceiling with their yellow leaves. They screamed in dry desperation, clawing at the air for moisture. Henry had the sudden urge to set the plants alight, to put them out of their misery. He gulped as he passed them by, his own throat itching for a drink.

A handsome lass with panicked eyes greeted him, talking deliberately as if he had a hearing problem. She fidgeted by his side when he walked down the line of strangers who congratulated him on his retirement.

He eyed the double doors that led into the main hall and the bar. He did his best to ignore the banners that screamed Hero Station Master Retires.

“Help me,” said Henry, shaking a moist, dainty hand. “It’s not too late.”

“Y-You’ve been an inspiration, sir,” said a lady with smeared, red lipstick. “We won’t forget you.”

“It’s gone. I can’t remember any of it.”

She smiled demurely, bowed and stepped back. He hadn’t seen a familiar face yet.

Forty-one years. That’s what he’d given Kirkness railway station. Forty-one years, and Station Master for twenty. They’d forced him into retirement, saying he was blocking the line like an old, mangled train. Retirement yawned like a cavernous tunnel with nothing on the other side.

“Suave suit,” said the next in line – a man with teeth and eyes like a rodent.

Henry turned his head and almost saw the mirage of his wife. Looking fair dapper, my goodnight sir. His heart twisted.

“You should be here, Maggie,” Henry said aloud.

“Huh?” said Ratface under a hairy, furrowed brow.

Henry felt his eyes go sad as he clasped the man’s thin hand. “Let me at the bar before I kill everybody.”

“Ha ha. Scotland’s finest. What a legend.”

The air on the other side of the double doors was as dry as a Greek island. He kept a smile on his face despite the sweat beginning to slide down his temples. At the far end of the hall, beyond the sea of people vying for his attention, rows of amber bottles glistened.

A frizzy-haired lad with scattered, jerky motions placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder, pointing him at another group. The mouldy reek of puke phased up from the carpet with each step. Inside his trouser pocket, he clawed at the side of his thumb with his index finger. The urge to light a cigarette roared within him. He’d quit ten years ago – wife’s and doctor’s orders. His lungs yearned for sweet smoke.

“Henry Campbell,” said a weaselly voice.

A rotund man turned to face him, tucking his thumbs into his braces. The movement was done with the flair of a Bond villain.

“Mr. Garrity,” said Henry. “Are you here to end it? Exile me to the sheds never to be seen again. Quick! Lock me in.”

“Ha, funny,” said Mr. Garrity with not a trace of humour.

When his boss leaned closer, Henry caught the mustard-like tang of body odour.

“Just smile and say thank you,” hissed Mr. Garrity. “You’re a hero in these parts. Wouldn’t get away with a simple card and flowers. You seem a little edgier than usual. Not planning on dying on us tonight, are you?”

Henry eyed the bar, doing his best not to wet his lips. “That depends. You know what’s funny? Forty-one years and I can hardly mind fuck all. Not a single good memory. And I used to argue about how important the almighty railway was to my Maggie. She deserved better.”

He slapped his boss on the arm as he slid past. The slight blow made Mr. Garrity jerk like he’d been stabbed.

“Some shindig this is for an old geezer like you, H.”

Henry turned, a smirk tugging the corner of his cracked lips. Dahlia, the crone who ran the WHSmiths attached to the station leered at him beneath eyebrows like white caterpillars.

“Kill me,” said Henry. “Kill me now, ha ha.”

“Surprised Mr. Garrity’s smell didn’t do that for you.”

“Being serious.”

“Aye, right. You go get yourself a drink before you erupt, you handsome—”

“Ladies and gents,” said Mr. Garrity, leaning onto a lectern on a small stage. “Old engines and new.”

This drew titters from the crowd. Henry shook his head.

“Everybody please take your seats,” Mr. Garrity continued. “We’ll get our Henry up on stage after we’ve filled our bellies. Please ensure you keep all luggage and belongings with you.”

The crowd spurted cheesy, overthrown laughter. Dahlia rolled her eyes and slunk off like she wasn’t planning on coming back. The ashen perfume of cigarette rolled over his face as he watched her go.

“Take me with you,” he said. “Please?”

“Mr. Campbell,” said a bothered young man who seemed an iota of stress away from a stroke. “Your table is front and centre. Table one, if you please. Make your way to your seat. Please. Table one.”

“Jesus, how much does Fife rail make? If we took all that money we’d make one hell of a bonfire, eh? Watch that baby burn all night.”

He ordered a double whiskey, no ice, and was still waiting on it by the time the mains were done. The bar had shut up shop while the dinner was served. Shards of the driest chicken were stuck in his teeth as the seven strangers at his table peppered him with questions. He continued to give the servers the eye, but none saw him.

“Describe your hardest day at work,” demanded a man across the table who sat like a card shark.

“Hardest day?”

Henry studied the mottled scars on the back of his hand. It still sang of the searing pain from the day he’d hauled passengers from a burning carriage. An echo of the heat stung his eyes.

“You wouldn’t know a hard day if it sniffed your arse and bit your knob,” said Henry. The man’s jaw hung open like Henry had just socked him one. He sighed and gave them what they wanted. “No such thing as a hard day at work if you’re prepared.”

“A-any advice?” shook a reedy boy not long out his teens.

“Find your soul and hold on to that bastard. I lost mine when I took up Station Master.”

The guests stared at each other, then giggled. Some looked as if they held off the urge to clap.

Two thuds pounded from speakers at each corner of the stage.

“This thing on?” Mr. Garrity said, almost splitting Henry’s ears open. “Woah, guess I don’t have to be that close, huh? Look at you all. Packed tighter than a Virgin train in here.”

The crowd guffawed and slapped their knees. Henry eyed a waiter, holding up a pretend drink and pointing at it.

“Station Master is a serious duty,” Mr. Garrity continued, “and Mr. Campbell has been the utmost example of the values we represent. Though many of you have never met him, you have all heard the heroic tale of the great rescue of ‘98, when he pulled burning victims from a fire that engulfed an entire carriage, saving women, children and many others.”

A round of applause catapulted Henry’s senses. His face went red as he flexed his burnt hand, almost able to taste the cloying smoke from that day. He had never needed a drink more in his life.

Mr. Garrity droned on. Service this. Commitment that. What a load of prattle, especially coming from the bloke who signed off on the budget cuts that had turned the railway into a shadow of its former self.

“You deaf, Henry?” boomed Mr. Garrity. “Come on up here, you goof.”

His spine cricked three times as he rose to his feet. The crowd slapped their eager mitts like seals. He imagined the way Maggie’s eyes would’ve crinkled with joy had she still been alive to see this.

When he got to the stage, Mr. Garrity slapped him on the back with a hot, meaty hand. The stench of cigar and body odour roiled off him as he leaned close, whispering in Henry’s ear. “Show them what Station Master meant to you.”

Another round of applause circled the room as Mr. Garrity stepped to the side of the stage, leaving Henry in the limelight.

He leaned on the lectern. The spice of a freshly lit cigarette caught his nostrils. He breathed deeply of the phantom smell.

“I haven’t prepared anything,” said Henry, “and thanks to this fucker’s speech, we’re running late. And you know how I like to keep time.”

The crowd exploded with raucous laughter. Some pointed at Mr. Garrity who nodded politely, although Henry saw the big man wring his hands behind his back.

“Well, this is it, I guess. Since I’m drier than a train to Aberdeen, I’ll see you at the bar.”

He walked to the side of the stage. The crowd stared up at him with vacant, confused eyes. A few clapped slow and unsure.

Mr. Garrity ambled over and grabbed his wrist. “Where you going? Stay right there, you old baboon. Embarrass me in front of the workforce. Can’t believe you. After everything.”

Mr. Garrity let go and walked to the lectern, a jolly smile back on his doughy features. “This man, eh? Always brief. Always so ... humble. Do you think we’d leave you without sending you off properly? Now, on behalf of the railway service of our glorious Fife, I present to you—”

Mr. Garrity whipped out a small silver thing and placed it in Henry’s hand. It slumbered coldly in his palm. The intricate engraving on the metal made him squint his eyes. For a second, it looked like a picture of him hauling kids from a smoky carriage. It morphed into the image of the Flying Scotsman rolling through the countryside.

Henry held it up to his face. The crowd stood, slapping their hands together.

“A lighter?” said Henry, closing his fist around the gift. “I haven’t smoked in—”

“Least you could do is say thank you,” Mr. Garrity hissed in his ear. He jabbed a dirty finger at the lectern.

The ground seemed to tremble up Henry’s calves like a train rumbled beneath him. His tongue almost stuck to the roof of his mouth as he stared beyond the crowd at the joyless plants that clawed the walls in each corner of the room. Sweat gleamed on the guests’ foreheads as they leaned on pale tablecloths, ready to bark out dry laughter.

The lighter grew hot in his grip.

“You know something?” he said into the mic. “I never liked trains. Hated the bastarding things.”

The glittering eyes of the crowd darted about nervously before a ripple of giggles flowed through them. The sound picked up speed, turning into a collective belly laugh.

“I mean it,” he continued. “Worst thing I ever did.”

“You're roasting us right good,” cackled a bespectacled young man near the front.

“Should never have become Station Master. Hated every arse-kissing moment of it. Cost me everything.”

“Stop, stop,” wheezed an elderly lady from the back. “You’re killing us.”

The crowd boiled over in hysterics. The noise made something pulse deep within Henry’s brain.

He opened his hand. Two lines of dents showed red on his palm where he’d pressed into the metal.

Forever a part of us the lighter said in scrawled writing.

He flicked the lighter. A wholesome flame sparked to life. Warmth prickled up the scarred skin on the back of his hand.

“You find that funny?” said Henry. “Laugh yourselves dead, then. I want those years back. I want my Maggie. I want the bairns we should’ve had.”

With his free hand, he rolled up a sheet of paper from the lectern, holding it over the still flame.

“I hate you all.”

The crowd continued to roar.