The Kommuter

The Kommuter

kəˈmjuːtə/

noun

a person who travels some distance to work on a regular basis.

"a fault on the line caused widespread delays for commuters"

synonyms: daily traveller, traveller, passenger;

Like with most explosions, before all was still. A flat atmosphere. Followed by a crackling in the air. A flash. A bang. The still before the silent screams.

Death mumbles from swelling lips in the confusion, as golden miracles slip from their fleshy sheaths. He is unashamed, hungry and bestial as he devours vitality from the emotional effusion. Positively gleeful, he sucks up souls. Unrepentant. Unashamed. Unabashed. He flaunts his insatiable appetite.

Lives were lost.

Snatched away like a gasp of breath after a blow to the head. They didn’t have the privilege of feeling the warm red, flow freely from their temple; of stemming that blood flow; of feeling that shock.

They didn’t have the privilege of crying, feeling that they hadn’t hugged their partners enough; feeling that they hadn’t cared for others enough; feeling they had not loved enough.

They didn’t have the privilege of having the movie of their life rush before their eyes in a kaleidoscopic chaotic millisecond - no.

A flash.

A bang.

Then the plunge into the cold, deep, dark.

Day one 10. 10. 2017

Joe sat on the train, squashed between a fat man with his legs wide and a woman putting her makeup on. Heavy bodies crammed in too small a space. All carpeted seats contained bottoms and bodies spilled over in the gangway. Others looked for a handle to hold onto while the train zoomed through man made tubes.

The air was moist. Heavy with morning breath. It was ridiculously early, but he had said he could take the train. After all, he was 16 now.

The train jostled from side to side. One of the other commuters who Joe had decided looked like a Kathy, was carefully applying her mascara with a steady hand. She paused, her body swaying with the movement of the train as it thundered in time, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, down the dark track. Whizzing past black trees and wild bushes silhouetted against indigo skies as it raced onward.

Another commuter Joe decided was a Glenn. Red spider veins lay tracks across his cheeks; his hair a Joker green, he tapped his foot along to the rhythm that pounded from his headphones. Joe noticed his purple doc martens. Perhaps he wasn’t a Glenn after all. Maybe he had something a bit more of a loser name like Parker. As it was, this guy’s breath smelt of coffee and cigarettes. The fetid funk found its way over to Joe, who breathed slowly through his mouth and turned his head to one side.

A sleepy sun crept up into the sky sending an array of pinks and oranges bleeding through powder-clouds. Mist hung low over pale green hills as the world slowly slumbered. Fresh dew was forming. Glass globules balanced on the lush green tips as the newness of the day yawned in all directions.

Chelmsford was beautiful but Joe wasn’t interested in changing schools. He had argued his case and eventually wore his mother down. He didn’t want to go to Chelmsford College with those knobs - Chelmsford Essex boys with the stupid hair. His sister (who Joe was pretty sure had a crush on one of those Chelmsford twats) said that his hair was just as stupid. But he wasn’t stupid enough to pile it high with gels and hairspray. His hair puffed round his head like a microphone rather than a sculpted turd balanced in his head. He didn’t tan himself (no need to, God had already made him golden) and he didn’t chat a load of bull-crap like they did in Essex. Nope, he may not be in Cov anymore, but East London suited him better.

It was the guilt of having already moved from Coventry that finally made mum relent. Guilt made parents agree to the most wonderful things.

With the approaching city, the scenery went from pea-green to concrete-grey. The previously indigo sky was paling into blue and had become cloudy with dull low hanging clouds. Teeming with early morning commuters, Joe was almost carried off the train by other bodies. He took a sharp intake of breath as cold air nipped at his cheeks.

The dress code in the 6th form was smart. He wasn’t the kind of knob who’d wear a suit so his black supermarket trousers would have to do.

The pale sun didn’t smile at this time of the morning. A rather reluctant illumination sidled over the horizon; disapproval at having been woken up so early.

Skipping around some commuters and accidentally barging into others he managed to make it just in time to hop onto the second train’s open doors. His mother’s voice echoed around his head, ‘board at the beginning or the end of a train…’

This slower train chugged its way towards Forest Gate as concrete Westfields gave way to endless rows of terraced houses with weeds stubbornly growing out of cracks in the walls, the dull window-eyes stared blankly as he shot by. Familiar faces greeted him. Whereas on the Chelmsford train, he sat with Alistair’s and Kaitlin’s - on this train he sat with Abdi’s and Filip’s - and of course, Sahil’s. Joe fiddled with the crucifix on a wrist tie. He found it weird that Eastern Europeans spell things wrong. Or differently, he corrected himself. Thomas, he noticed, was Tomas. Phillip, was Filip and Alexander was Aleksander. He was musing on these spellings when he saw her. Right on time.

She looked like a Sammi, or aToni, or an Ani. Her loud black hair with red highlights puffed up around her head, the sheen spray that glittering against the black. Joe was reminded of Romeo and Juliet, ‘Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear, beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear’ - well… her sheen spray didn’t quite glitter like that, but she did. ‘She doth shine bright.’ He thought to himself as the sweet smell wafted past him in a capricious breeze from the open window.

She wore black boots, with silver hooks that led up to the middle of her shins. Her full lips were hot, blood purple, and in her nose she wore a ring. Oversized black headphones, blinked an electric blue light and blasted out metal that was out of sync with her calm demeanor. She stared blankly out of the windows. Obviously an art student, Joe decided.

One guy with a large afro, looked like a Tykie, or Tom. His trainers were blue, and as he sat on the train, he read what Joe guessed was a Literature text. Maybe he was a college kid too. Or maybe he was just a keen reader. It wasn’t the sort of book you picked up from the supermarket.

Opposite the Tykie, he decided to be Fatima, or Mariam. She wore a sky-blue hijab. Her face was caked in too much makeup and as she looked down, Joe noticed her glued on eyelashes were coming loose.

There was one white British man. He looked like a Conner, or a Robert or something like that. Dressed in a very stiff-upper-lip-British, grey suit, his eyes were a milky far-away blue. He carried with him a soft brown leather case and looked like a teacher. Perhaps he wasn’t White British after all - it was hard to tell. The man must have felt Joe staring and as stern blue eyes met his and Joe looked away.

Sahil had left their school and gone to a community college instead. Jordon had said it was because he was Muslim. At their Catholic school they went to mass a lot. ‘It’s to be expected in a Catholic school innit?’

‘Sahil though, had enough,’ Jordon had said. And he knew cos he lived next door to Jamie, whose mum was good friends with Sahil’s mum. Sahil’s mum wanted him to be more focused on Islam now he was getting older, instead of some foreign religion. Jordon said that his mum said that Sahil would jump off a bloody bridge if someone told him to. ‘Sheep.’ Although Joe wasn’t sure if that last comment came from Jordon’s mum or Jordon himself.

Sahil sat in the next carriage. What a twat. He would have been better off staying on at school with his mates. Instead he had crossed enemy lines cos his mummy made him. Twat.

They both got off at the same station but whereas Sahil turned left, Joe turned right. The sky became overcast - a blanket of pale grey spat at Joe as he walked.

Sahil wasn’t the only muslim in the Catholic school but he was the only muslim in their class. They were in History. Jeremiah - with his large forehead and wonky hairline, was taking the mick out of Sahil. It was just a bit of banter, even though Mr McGuinness tried to wrap it up as bullying, no one was buying it. But it was Tomas that started it - ‘BOOM!’ he yelled when Miss Layne called Sahil’s name on the register.

Laughter exploded from the class as boys echoed ‘Boom! Boom!’ in Sahil’s face - mimicking an explosion with their hands, including Joe.

Sahil didn’t find it funny and the next day Miss Layne gave them a lesson on racism. Joe’s face felt hot at the memory. He hadn’t meant to be racist. Besides, Jacob was also making the boom noise. Everybody was. But seeing Sahil reminded him that he never did apologise, he simply ignored it - like everyone else.

That was over a year ago but Joe still felt the worms of guilt squirming inside his gut. He wished he had apologised. It got too late though, and now it was pretty much impossible. Sahil would think he was stupid if he went up and said ‘Hi mate, sorry for shouting BOOM! at your name every time it was called in the register. Didn’t mean to be racist’ - stupid. It was Sahil’s fault anyway.

As Joe walked down Woodgrange Road he saw others caught in the same routine. The Big Issue seller outside Tesco’s muttering ‘Big Issue’ under her breath who everyone just ignored her. The girl from a local secondary school who looked exactly like her dad as they went into the Co-op, a woman in a white jacket that Joe measured his timings on. Today though, right on cue, he saw her turn into the main road he was walking on, and rush past. Routine was good, routine was predictable, routine was borning. Mum reckoned routine was what kept her going.

Joe’s mum, Marcia Evans, was a nurse. Joe remembered harassing her when she came home from a long day at the hospital. He had presented his case about staying on at school, despite their move to Chelmsford, and now all he had to do was wait for the right moment to ask her again. Tired - not in the mental frame for a decent row: this was the right moment.

Marcia’s slumped onto the sofa, her black hair, thick and opaque against her blue uniform, hung in battered clumps. Strands of her hair stuck up as she shut her eyes, groaned and kicked off her shoes.

‘Make your mother a cup of tea darling…’

‘Yeah, alright. Mum, about school. I can stay in 6th form can’t I?’

‘Joe… I’ve just got in ca-’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m making the tea, I promise, but I can stay can’t I? It’s just that time is running out and I have to send in the application, and everyone in my class has done it, and I’m the last one, and Sir says that if I don’t do it soon, there won’t be any places left! And I want to do my A levels there, plus it’s familiar so I am more likely to pass…’ The kettle began chugging to life, boiling the water as Joe fussed for a mug, scooping the gravy-like granules into the cup.

‘Joe! Take a breath! Jeez!’ Marcia flipped off her shoes while Joe chucked in two and a half sugars.

‘And have you thought about the commute? And the danger?

‘Oh mum! That’s not gonna happen in East London. Bombers always go to Central London. They want to make some kind of political statement don't they? Like the Westminster terrorist attack which, incidentally, wasn’t a bomb.’

He had a point and Marcia knew it. Her feet pulsed through sheer exhaustion. She had spent the majority of her shift in the hospital, on her feet, and now they had something to say about it. Her back ached too. Mrs Dilby needed moving, the hoist was broken so Marcia and Helen had to lift her. Pulling her left leg up, she began to massage her foot.

‘If, and it’s a big IF. If I allow you to go, you listen to the advice we’ve been given!’

‘Yes!’ Joe pounded the air in triumph.’

‘Are you listening?! You go in the end of the train or beginning, bombers want to do maximum damage, so they place their bombs in the middle. And… see anything suspicions, you get off you hear? Joe!? Joe!’

Joe was only half listening as he hurriedly made her tea. He slopped in a ton of milk - as far as he was concerned, it was a yes.

‘It doesn’t matter if you are late. Get the next train.’ She continued, ‘or better yet, a bus. Don’t travel if you don’t feel it’s safe, okay? Keep your eyes open! You’re not a stupid child!’ She knew at this point, Joe had stopped listening completely. ‘I didn’t raise no ‘toopid child…’ she muttered as she focused on massaging her feet and silently prayed that she made the right choice. Joe left the tea in the kitchen and ran upstairs to his room. Marcia, too tired to shout after him, kissed her teeth in annoyance and shut her eyes for a few moments.

School was right next to an impressive Gothic Catholic Church. Black church spires seemed to disappear into the sky, and inside lay way to a huge open nave. Joe imagined the stained glass windows looming over the wooden pews on the inside. He had a whole school mass that morning - just as well. The catholic guilt was beginning to set in. It had the guilt of Sahil to keep it company.

The stained glass needed warmth. When the sun shone, sweet tangerine oranges and reds spilled onto the deep rose wood parquet flooring. Warm tones crept up the hardwood as the sun kissed his forearms as it rested on the pew during mass. Today though, it was cold, overcast and grey.

Joe, adjusted his rucksack on his shoulders and sidled into 6th form through the side entrance as the gunmetal sky threatened a downpour.

‘Morning Miss.’

Jenny Jones, eyes him suspiciously. He was one minute late and as such, he really ought to sign the late register. But she liked the boy. He was charismatic, clever and friendly, and reminded her of her own son. He was always so smartly dressed, all the other students liked him, and his GCSE grades were good - she checked. He had been one of the students who volunteered to do the buddy reading with the year 7’s. She was so pleased when she saw his name - if she hadn’t she was going to suggest to him that he put his name down. You weren’t supposed to have favorites, but everyone did and she was going to make sure, as much as she could, that Joe was making the right choices for his future. Seeing him doing so well in sixth form, made her bristle with pride.

‘Joe, you’re late.’ She said in false reprimand. Her red curls from her fringe hung in her eyes as she blew them away. Sharp blue eyes glared as she tutted. She didn’t need to say anything else. He nodded to her as if to apologise, then hurried into school.

During mass in church, Joe sat next to Sean. He told him about Sahil going to Forest Gate College.

‘Nah mate, he’s gone there!?’

‘Yeah, he has. Knob head.’

‘He’ll fit in there then won’t he?’ They sniggered together as the bell rang for the start of mass. The whole congregation stood up and made the sign of the cross.

‘In the name of the Father, and of The Son, and of The Holy Spirit… amen.’ Joe bowed his head momentarily and gave Father Michael his full attention while the rain raged outside.

Day two. 17.10.2017

The train thundered forward as Joe sat perched on the carpeted chair. The woman who sat next to him spilled over her seat and invaded his with a false sense of entitlement. Heavy bodies crammed into too small crevices that someone had the audacity to call seats. Flesh rolled over allocated spaces, spilled over in the gangway, while others looked for a handle to hold onto while the train sped on through the dark.

Kathy was in a different seat today. She was crammed next to a window, carefully applying her mascara. She paused, her body swaying with the movement of the train as it thundered in time, down the dark track, whizzing past black trees.

Glenn wasn’t lucky enough to get a seat this morning. His too-small tweed jacket was buttoned up at his middle and he shivered in the cold.

As the countryside sped by, the black faded into indigo then ultramarine as the sun shed its sleepy sheath. Joe watched the landscape steadily become more built up and industrialized. He could understand why his mum hated London - the pollution, the teeming people, the overcrowded trains, buses, streets. But, there was something about it that made his heart skip. Something about the multicultural aspect that you just didn’t get anywhere else.

The eclectic mix of people kept it fresh, new and intriguing - made it feel current, prevalent. Momentous. Something about the freedom of just being. In the present, it thrilled him. He wasn’t finished with it yet.

Hopping off his train, he ran over to platform 8 and boarded the slow train to Forest Gate. Among the usual suspects, Tykie with his blue trainers wasn’t reading today. Instead heavy metal blared out of his headphones.

Mariam was chatting loudly, laughing behind cupped hands with a friend - both girls in sky blue hijabs - a school uniform perhaps. And underneath the deep purple dress from which peaked sea-green trainers.

Whereas Mariam was chubby, her friend was thin with dark henna hands and a narrow nose - black narrow frames balancing on the tip. Her eyes sparkled like little black beetles as she talked animatedly in a language that Joe didn’t understand - and there, behind the chatting girls, was Sahil.

All he would need to do is flick his eyes up and he would see Joe staring. He looked different. He was beginning to grow a beard. Instinctively touching his own chin, he felt a twinge of envy. Maybe Sahil would be one of those men who would wear a little net to keep it all in. It was longer than it had any right to be, thought Joe, and wondered at the speed it was growing. Still, Sahil wasn’t trimming it up but letting it grow wild. Joe had been carefully trimming the bit of hair that had bravely fought its ground among his acne.

He also noticed Sahil was dressed differently. He had on this dress thing… Joe flipped out his phone to google it. He typed, ‘Muslim dress for men’ and watched the images pop up on his screen. There were lots of colours, mainly dark browns and blacks but there were white ones as well. Sahil’s was grey. He still carried a school rucksack as well as his art folder, but now he was growing a beard and he was wearing what google told him was a ‘thobe.’ He also read that muslim men should ‘lower their gaze and guard their modesty,’ whatever that was supposed to mean.

Part of him wondered if that was why he wouldn’t look at Joe. Maybe. Maybe that was concerning women.

They approached Forest Gate. As both Sahil and Joe got up, someone new caught Joe’s attention. This man looked white British, or white Polish - or European. He looked like a James, or a Robert. Perhaps an Aleksander - something distinguished for such a well dressed man.

He clutched his brown leather case so tightly that Joe could see the white skin around his knuckles pale to yellow. His black shoes were new with a crease across the toe section. His lips pursed as he gazed out of the doors’ window. The smell of cigarette smoke clung to him as he slowly lifted his hand to hover over the exit button.

Past the man who Joe had decided now was a Doctor, Sahil stood. His art folder bumped his ankle as he got off the train adjacent to the doors that Joe stood at with the Doctor. The Doctor… whoever, got in Joe’s way as he walked too slowly whilst adjusting his tie and breathing heavily in the chilly air. Sahil hopped up the stairs nonchalantly.

‘Excuse me…’ he said as he maneuvered his way around Joe. Yep - definitely white British, he thought as his gaze glanced off Doctor Who and followed Sahil as he turned left.

The sixth form canteen was crowded with students. By lunchtime, Joe was ravenous and way too cool to even contemplate queuing with the younger students, so he and Jeremiah decided to go out to the chicken and chip shop on Masey Street - the one on Clarence Road was banned.

Just a few weeks ago there had been what kids are calling a ‘drive by shooting.’ The Head had spoken to them about it in a special assembly. The police had been called and were ‘apparently’ investigating. It was pretty much a freak occurrence, the shooter being a child and what others were saying was a kind of initiation shooting to get into a gang. Wayne and Charles were in hospital getting pellets removed from their lower legs, as the YouTube video, released by the chicken shop owners, circulated.

‘Let's give Clarence Road a miss mate.’ Jeremiah said as they headed towards a queue of students outside Masey Street.

‘Reckon we might see Sahil?’ It made sense that other kids went there for lunch too.

‘Nah mate. Muslims are vegetarians, ain't they?’

‘Not all of them you knob,’ Joe laughed, ‘although I think it’s similar to Kosher where there might be rules around certain meat… I think.’

‘Get you! All expert on it!’ Jeremiah laughed, his hairline smiling even higher up his head than Joe thought possible. Joe smiled. He never boasted how clever he was - it just wasn’t done, but he wasn’t a fool. That’s one of the things Jeremiah liked about Joe - he was humble. He didn’t flaunt it that he was clever. In fact, Joe was the cleverest person Jeremiah knew and thought Joe would end up running the country or some shit like that. He chuckled - Joe for Prime Minister - East London kids can dream.

As they walked down Woodgrange Road, Joe marveled at how different the street looked at different times.

At night, Forest Gate was seedy - dangerous even. In the morning, it was busy with commuters, school children, homeless people waking up and businesses opening. Sometimes lairy prostitutes, still high, shouted excitedly at each other. They passed around sucked-dry cigarette butts and tapped passers by for breakfast. The place was literally yawing in the crisp morning air, struggling with the transition of night to day.

Now it was lunch. Cooked food wafted on the air. A red double-decker sailed proudly over the hill near the entrance of Forest Gate train station, and the sky, overcast that morning, was returning to a reluctant blue.

Three black angels floated down the concrete pavement just in front of Joe. Flowing cotton; bulbous and billowy puffed out in free floating forms, while quick legs paddled over misshapen concrete slabs. Their little black feet skipped over cigarette stubs, crisp packets and chewing gum trodden into flat light dalmatian-like spots over glittering asphalt-grey. He wondered just how much they saw from the narrow slit in their niqabs. Enough to skip over freshly stepped in fox shit and strewn chicken bones from last night's banquet.

In corners of shops, last night's vomit was picked at by pigeons, and older stains discoloured flagstones. Tomas, who was behind Jeremiah and Joe, trotted past at pace, nodding affirmation before his blond hair disappeared into the chip shop.

The cool blue cloudy sky seemed to climb down from above. Unable to make up its mind, it sent a brief shower; baptizing the alcoholic-strewn broken glass, transforming it to diamond-like grit on grey. Joe silently marveled at the miracle as he entered the steaming shop for momentary cover.

His stomach rumbled. Hot chips, lightly dusted in salt, and chicken in crispy seasoned batter was occupying his thoughts as he looked at the selected pieces behind the glass.

Tomas made his order and Joe moved up. There was just one asian girl in front of them now, dressed in uniform from a different school. She began ordering what Joe thought was enough for a small army.

‘I saw Sahil this morning. He’s got a beard now.’ The image of Sahil was bothering Joe, it felt like he was changing in front of his eyes. The boy that used to be in his class was becoming more alien to him. Perhaps it was the throbe, perhaps it was the beard, perhaps it was the guilt of the racist ribbing - before he realised it was racist.

Perhaps he just felt abandoned.

‘A beard! Hahaha! Ah mate… how’s yours coming along? Non-existent I see.’ Joe rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he gazed down the street of where Sahil disappeared off in the mornings.

‘You see him every morning?

‘Yeah.’

‘Why don’t you say hello?’

‘Nah mate, he’s crossed enemy lines’.

‘Ah Joe mate, that’s crap. Just say hello. He was cool’.

Joe thought about how the conversation might go, and wondered if Sahil held a grudge. They had talked since, but never sort of mentioned it properly. What did his mum say? ‘Sometimes it was better to let sleeping dogs lie.’ He had at the time thought that was good advice - now he wasn’t so sure.

Day three. 24.10.2017

Joe was tired - commuting was getting to him. He wished they hadn’t moved to Chelmford - what was wrong with London anyway? He ignored the little voice inside him which shouted his mum’s fears of terrorist bombings, terror attacks and random acid attacks - not to mention the gang problems. Chelmsford had gangs, he had argued but she wasn’t listening.

Today he wasn’t lucky enough to get a seat, so he balanced in-between a middle aged woman who stank of cat wee and an older gentleman all dressed up in an overcoat, walking cane and stetson hat. Glenn was in the next carriage this morning, but Kathy was nowhere to be seen.

Standing room only that day, he became lost in thought as he closed his eyes for a cat nap.

The day before he had left college a bit later. Doing his homework worked out better if he did it at college - better working atmosphere, he told his mum. As he walked in the near darkness he saw a homeless man on his knees beside a dirty street bin. He had his hands up towards him, as if in prayer. The Catholic guilt reminded him that ‘whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers, you did for me.’ It was as if Jesus himself was telling him to show compassion. It was cold and dark and getting late so Joe offered to buy him some dinner.

The Asian man, who didn’t seem to speak English very well, muttered. Joe pointed to the chip shop and asked him if he wanted some chips. The temperature was dropping, and Joe wondered if he had anywhere to sleep. The man again, said something unintelligible. Joe, confused, pointed again to the picture of warm chips and motioned for them to go inside. It was then that the man himself shook his head and pointed in the shop window two doors down - a butcher.

‘Eh? I don’t know what you’re on about mate…’ Again, the man put his hands up in prayer towards Joe and then pointed to the shop. There was a picture in the butchers, and as Joe looked closer, he could see what he thought the homeless man was asking for - a lamb carcass.

‘Lamb?’ In the butchers, he could clearly see the carcass hanging behind the counter.

Joe looked on incredulously. ‘You want me to buy you a baby lamb!?’ The homeless man nodded yes with his hands up in prayer. Joe, shocked at the request, shook his head in shock refusal and walked past. And as he stood in the packed train, he thought just what the homeless man might want with a whole lamb.

Perhaps he wasn’t homeless like he appeared. Perhaps he had wanted to chop it up and sell it himself, or perhaps he had a family at home to feed. He had heard that not all beggars were homeless, and not all homeless were beggars. He was beginning to realize that not everything was as it seemed.

Today though, although a fresh new day, he was tired, he made his connecting train quickly and there was Sahil in his white throbe - with a duffel bag. What did he need the bag for?

Underneath his throbe, his black trainers protruded. His scraggly beard had grown.

Before he knew it, he was at Forest Gate. He, Doctor Who as well as two other commuters, who were merrily chatting away together in Polish, stood up and made their way to the doors. The chatting commuters were dressed in orange high vis jackets, and big, sturdy boots dusty from rubble or cement. It was then that Joe noticed - Sahil didn’t get up. Joe’s heart thumped. The train stopped. Doctor Who pushed the open button and the doors slid open. He walked out with the Polish builders, but Sahil stayed seated. Joe’s feet stuck to the floor - he couldn’t move. His heart hammered as he realized that Sahil wasn’t going anywhere and in his head, a crazy idea formed.

Here he was, watching a Muslim man, with a bag, acting suspiciously. For he was acting suspiciously wasn't he? He normally got off at Forest Gate station. His clothes had changed, his appearance had changed - everything had changed in the space of a few weeks. Joe’s heart jumped up to his throat. These thoughts flashed by in his head as the doors closed and he realized that he hadn’t gotten off the train. Adverts screamed at him: ‘See it. Say it. Sort it.’ Joe’s mouth went dry.

Sahil was acting suspiciously, he should have gotten off at Forest Gate, but he didn’t and he has this massive bag. Plus all the changes in him lately. Could it possibly be? It’s never who you think, is it? After all, they are home grown… aren’t they? Most of them? What should he do? Should he be doing anything? Not yet, not yet. This would need further investigation.

AL. Day one. 01.09.2017

It's illegal. Probably. Al inhaled deeply. He imagined the chemical-filled smoke swell and balloon, clouding the sensitive capillaries in his soft pink lungs. Exhaling, the smoke shot out in a torrent. His dragon breath added to the fug that hung at eye level in the windowless, dank room.

A cough racked his body as his thin frame shook. His skinny legs were crossed as he steadied himself and breathed through his nose. Eyes watering, he winked as he brought his cigarette up for a second drag.

The room was stuck in the sixties. It must have been bright once. The nicotine stained walls stretched above him as they blended in with the brownish yellow carpet. Yep. On reflection, he was sure rooms like this were illegal now. Nowadays, you couldn't smoke in a building at all. You had to huddle outside like paedo’s. ‘Well,’ Al thought. ‘I’m not a fuckin’ paedo.’

Even though it was hard to breathe in there. Even though his clear brown eyes were watering because there was nowhere for his smoke to disappear to, and even though he sat there alone. He was proud. The shadow of a hint of a smile flickered at the left corner of his stubbled mouth. This place was totally his secret. He found it when he was wheeling Mrs something-or-other, ( he couldn’t be expected to remember all of their names) to the theater. He was new and got a bit lost. Asking directions showed weakness. His dear old mum taught him that, so he used his initiative. This little gem was tucked away on the eighth floor. Out of sight. Out of mind.

His mouth wrinkled and puckered up like a dog’s bottom as he took another long drag, luxuriating in the drug as he took it deep in his chest and held it there for maximum effect. He chuckled, pleased with himself.

Appearances can be so deceptive.

He took the train on the way home from hospital. Commuters bundled on, scrabbling around for a seat, whilst Al stood. He was only going one stop. If he had a car and could drive, he could easily have driven to work. Or, if he was health conscious, he could ride a bike - it wasn’t that far. But he was a people watcher. Others did stupid stuff like knitting or adrenaline rubbish that risked their lives - people were stupid like that. His was a more normal hobby. It fascinated him just how dumb people were. To be completely honest, he thought as his rough hands scraped his stubble and the world whizzed by, it wasn’t their fault that they were stupid - they really couldn't help it.

Here they were, packed in like sardines obviously unable to avoid one another and yet they were doing their best to avoid one another! Eyes scanned the roof of the train, or glared intently at shoes. And then there were those that were constantly plugged into their mobile phones or their ipads or their chromebooks or whatever electrical device they had - anything but engage with people. It was like watching a wildlife programme - observing from a measured distance. People in a goldfish bowl: the watcher watching. Weighing. Assessing.

Al wasn’t like other people. He would engage with anyone that dared to try to speak to him. It seemed to him that they had a sixth sense about him and they were afraid of him - afraid to meet his eyes, to engage with him on a level. He was The Watcher.

Sometimes he stood there, bold as brass and stared at an individual. They could feel him staring, of course they could, but they refused to meet his gaze. ‘Fuckin’ coward,’ he’d mutter. He had presented them with a test and they failed - they always failed.

You would suppose he had his mother to thank for his sharp brain and above normal intelligence. In their sitting room, he sat glaring at the television without watching, while she marinated in the room upstairs. Eyes on the mantelpiece stared at him. But sometimes, just sometimes, his eyes would flick to the gold framed pictures which stood on either side of the fireplace that his aging mother had placed there years ago. Him - at 21 in his army fatigues, posing with his rifle, and the other side, Jamie, 18, posing with his rifle in similar army fatigues. Father and son. Son and grandson. Both grinning like muppets. Both proud in their uniforms. Both disillusioned idiots.

Both had been bundled off to Iraq, Middle East, Pakieland to sort out their shit - they’re all the same. But not both of them came back.

That morning, Al had sat in the living room, ignoring the screams of attention from the photos, and ignoring his mother calling from her piss stinking room. He had to go to work, and so he stood, dressed in his porter uniform, slung his coat over his shoulders and left. He had a train to catch.

Day two 18.10.2017

It was time for a change. Al shrugged off his last life and donned a new one. Butterfly-like, he emerged from his transformation a respectable man. His grey suit fitted better than his porter uniform and his newly dyed chocolate brown hair displayed a neat side parting, but his stubble remained. And of course, he had the briefcase - soft brown leather, buckles, and a strong sturdy handle.

On the train was the same type of people as the other train. People were like that. They moved like pack animals - pushing and shoving like sheep in a pen.

This train was going into London. But he was getting off at a specific stop. He was getting off at Forest Gate, for he had it in his head that he was an educator and, he did his research - that was where you’d find them congregate - like a virus, they were spreading.

In his briefcase he kept a laptop, black and blue biros, and a notepad. There were quite a few schools in and around Forest Gate. A man of his talents should soon be able to find a position - get them young. Cut them off at the knees - no point in just scorching the snake, needed to fuckin’ obliterate it and kill off the babies.

The day was overcast; the air had a chill to it. Halloween was coming. At that time of year, all animals need to be locked up so close to firework night, the poor helpless little things get frightened by the big bangs. All fire and bright lights - far too much for them. Far too much for sheep.

Forest Gate station approached and Al stood, straightened his suit and walked off onto the platform, careful to mind the gap. A kid, probably from one of the schools, nearly bumped into him. The afro kid muttered an apology without even meeting Al’s eyes, which made him bristle with anger. He stood, fists clenched, watching the kid skip up the steps. Muttering under his breath, he reminded himself that there was plenty of time. Patience was a virtue. Collecting himself, he proceeded to the local cafe - Forest Cafe - right next to the station. He sat, ordered a coffee, opened his laptop and began his research. He wasn’t silly - he hacked their wifi and scanned the internet for relevant materials. He would need to know what to buy and where to buy it so as to avoid suspicion. He also looked at the school websites, scanned the tes website for vacancies and checked out what teacher degree certificates looked like. They were easy enough to fake, easy enough to add onto to your CV. While he was at it, he would give himself a title, ‘Doctor’ had a nice ring to it. Besides, being a doctor with all the relevant qualifications was bound to get him an interview at one of the schools he’d apply to. For he’d need to do something else after - a continuation of his plan. If you want the babies, you’ve got to be willing to go into the nest. And the nest of Forest Gate was teeming.

After he taught the sheep a lesson, after he began to pay them back for all the shit they landed at his doorstep, he was going for their lambs. Anonymity was key though. He would need to be invisible. He would need to shape shift. He’d need to be the chameleon.

Day three. 24.10.2017

Graffiti stained ancient brickwork whizzed by water stained windows. It was morning rush hour which meant that commuters were crammed into carriages. And as they stood, hurtling through space, a silence descended upon them.

A pen flicked on and off as a businessman thought on a crossword conundrum. Warm recycled breath hung in the compartment, sauntering between bodies to be used again. Feet shuffled for a more comfortable position, newspapers flicked, and pages turned. Ipads blared box sets into headphones; vomited whole worlds in harmonious waves spilled in through ears and exploded into heads. And others just stared - lost, occupied, vacant - who knows? But they were silent - they all were.

Maybe there was something in the air. Maybe on some unregistered level, their souls knew, their essence knew, their Gods knew.

The train pulled into Ilford station and opened its doors. Passengers took a collective breath as cold, freshly polluted air flooded the compartment. Guards stood nearby, preparing for the inevitable stampede. Blue gloved hands pushed bustling bodies as they boarded over packed compartments, and Joe, pushing his way forward, balanced on the lip of the open train. A hand pushed him firmly while shouting at passengers to ‘please move down the compartments and use all of the available space’ - there was no available space. He squashed into the woolen coat in front of him. Everyone thought it but they held their onto British tongues and breathed in.

Flustered, and shocked at himself for following Sahil, he stood, balancing between two passengers as the doors closed behind him and he leaned on the reinforced glass.

Following Sahil had meant that he would have missed registration but he was still in time for period one. It was madness, he knew it was - he didn’t know what on earth got into him. Of course Sahil wasn’t a terrorist bomber - he was just going mosque! As soon as he saw the building come into view, green writing ‘Jamia Mosque’ staring at him accusingly, he realized his mistake. Flooded with shame, he turned around and headed back to the station before Sahil saw him.

Luckily, as soon as he entered the barriers, he heard the announcement for his train approaching and so he ran down the stairs, jostled his way through the crowd to near the front and was pushed on into the carriage further by the guard with the blue gloves.

He was on his way back to Forest Gate at a good pace and was some moments before he realized his mistake: he was on the fast train. Silently cursing, he saw Forest Gate whizz past in blurry greens and browns. He definitely would miss registration. By the time he got off at Stratford, changed platforms and then took an all stations train to Forest Gate, he’d be lucky to get to college half way into period 1. His mum would kill him when she received a text from school saying he was late.

To his surprise he noticed Toni (he decided that she was definitely a Toni.) What was she doing on this train? She was usually on the train to Forest Gate, not Ilford. She looked a little flustered - she was late. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. This was definitely a plus - they were both late. Perhaps he could use that to strike up a conversation. She must have felt him looking at her because her large brown eyes slid towards his. Her mane-like black hair seemed to glitter as he imagined he could smell her hair sheen. Black heavy egyptian-like eye makeup made her stare intensely. He held her gaze. His heart pounded as his palms became tacky. Perhaps he would - after all, he was taking a lot of risks lately. Perhaps he might just go and speak to her - providence and all that.

Her blood-red lips parted as if to say something, and he mimicked as if to reply. And as soon as his thought he talked his feet into standing, her gaze slipped away - just like that. Crestfallen, he wondered if he missed his chance.

As the train hurtled through to Stratford, The Kommuter’s eye twitched. He smiled inwardly as his clear brown eyes twinkled. He stood, in his pristine grey suit. The seam pressed to perfection, his brown hair combed to the side and slicked down with gel. He wore a grey woolen overcoat and carried a warm soft brown briefcase. Doctor Who.

All went quiet as the train whizzed forward in silence - maybe it knew. The Kommuter’s left thumb hovered over the remote switch. He didn’t need to be there but… he needed to look into their eyes. Right before it happened.

If anyone was looking they could see the bulging outline of the bomb laced in his heavy, brown, innocuous looking soft case. He shifted his weight. His black leather shoes made a shuffling noise on the dry flooClosing his eyes he mouthed what one might like to think was a prayer, although to whom he was praying to is a mystery. Tilting his head back he breathed in, then out with his mouth hanging wide, his sharp brown eyes framed by long fair lashes, flicked open as his head levelled and caught Joe’s eyes. Joe’s fingers fiddled with his crucifix on his wrist band. He stroked the smooth cool metal. The Kommuter held Joe’s gaze before his thumb, purposefully, without hesitation, pressed down. Firmly on the button and set off the silent timer.

The train pulled into the next station. Dr Who went off, head down, he practically ran off the train whilst leaving his case. It wasn’t his usual stop. Joe watched as the Doctor hurried to the exit. He imagined the different reasons for such haste - but none came close. Doctor Who had disappeared, and moments later...

A lightning flash, followed by an ear-splitting crash, blinded the commuters with its jagged edges before ripping them apart and throwing away the spoils. The 19th Century dividing brick wall was blasted to bits as chunks of train were violently spat out into oncoming traffic. The immediate vicinity was plunged into silence, before car alarms shrill screams filled the air, as if slowly waking from a nightmare.

A fireball exploded. Baptismal flames licked the broken skeletal metal frame of the train.

Toni.

Joe.

Mohammad

Emmanuel

Tamil

James

Matthew

Mark

Luke

John

Simon

Parvez.

Death was invited.

Day three. 24.10.2017

London tube bombing: terror threat level raised to critical. Theresa May makes TV statement the public is gripped with grief. Britain’s terror threat level has been raised from severe to critical, indicating a further attack may be imminent. Countless people are pronounced dead as a bomb exploded on another London train bringing carnage to a London rush-hour train packed with schoolchildren and commuters.

Police, ambulances and fire response are at the scene which witnesses described as ‘something from a war zone.’ Currently the death toll stands at 15 with that figure set to rise. Police are understood to have found CCTV images of the bomber as he boarded the train with the bomb packed inside a brown briefcase. The train is believed to have had onboard CCTV, and there are a large number of cameras covering the network.

As of yet, no one has claimed responsibility for the blast. This counts as the fifth terrorist attack Britain has suffered in less than six months. In a televised statement, the prime minister said the UK terror threat level was being raised to its highest rating and that armed police and members of the military would be seen on the streets in the coming days.

Day three. 24.10.2017 - Text message flashed on Marcia Evans’s phone, which lay in her black leather handbag, locked in her locker, in the staff room of the hospital where she worked, as she delivered the medicines to the patients on Heather Ward.

Joe Evans was absent from school today. Absences will affect Joe’s attendance record and could have an impact on their attainment.