Daisy on the Outer Line

by Ross Sayers

  A jangle ae keys means the arrival ae the subway man. The Subway Man wid be a rubbish superhero. Whit wid he even dae? Make ye a sandwich then take ye hame? Actually, that wid be amazin.

  Ah look up at him. His orange high-vis vest is pulled tight ower his shirt and tie.

  ‘Hullo,’ ah say.

  ‘Och jeezo, hen,’ he says. ‘Yer face is split open.’

  He takes a packet ae hankies fae his pocket and hawns yin tae me. Ah dab it roond ma mooth. Ah stuff it deep inside ma jaiket pocket when ah’m done.

  ‘Will ah call ye a taxi?’ he asks.

  ‘Ah’m waitin fur the subway.’

  ‘That wis the last yin.’

  ‘Bound tae be another yin along soon.’

  ‘Ah can assure ye there willnae.’

  ‘Ah’ll take ma chances.’

  He rolls his eyes lit ah’m bein unreasonable.

  ‘Listen, lassie,’ he says. ‘Either ah’ll phone a taxi, an ambulance or the polis. It’s up tae you. Ah’ll be waitin at the top ae the stairs. Ah’ll gie ye five minutes tae pit yersel back thigether. Ah’ve got a warm bed and a less warm dinner tae get hame tae.’

  He scratches his moustache then clomps back up the stairs.

  Noo ah’m aw alone in the echoey subway. The Cowcaddens station hus iways givin me the heebie-jeebies. It seems deeper intae the Earth than every other station. Mair cut aff fae the world above.

  In front ae me, the tracks urr thick and dirty and rusty. Ah wonder if thur still hot. Thur’s only wan way tae find oot ah suppose. Seems a bit pointless tae check noo.

  As ah’m readin a poster fur some fancy opera at the Concert Hall, the lights go oot above me. Dun. Wan set ae lights oot. Dun. And another. Soon ah’m sat in near darkness, the light fae the top ae the stairs no quite able tae creep intae the far corners doon here.

  ‘Hullooo,’ ah shout.

  Ma voice echoes aff the curved walls lit a penny swirlin doon a charity box.

  At the end ae the platform is a door. Clang. The door opens and somebdy steps oot. Another clang as the door shuts and the figure starts comin towards me.

  ‘Hullo?’ ah say, makin a valiant attempt tae stand up. ‘Ah wis jist aboot tae go, ah swear.’

  The figure, still too dark fur me tae see properly, starts speakin.

  ‘Ye’ll like this yin,’ it says, still a shadow haufway doon the platform. ‘Whit dae donkeys at Blackpool beach get fur thur lunch?’

  11

  As the figure comes within spittin distance, ah can jist aboot make oot thur features. An aulder wife, white hair streamin aw the way tae her belt buckle.

  ‘Whit?’ ah ask.

  ‘Ah said,’ she repeats. ‘Whit dae the donkeys at Blackpool beach get fur thur lunch?’

  The question ricochets against the walls and chases ma shout doon the dark tunnels.

  ‘Ah dunno.’

  She smiles.

  ‘A hauf oor, same as everybody else.’

  Noo the platform is alive wi the sound ae this wife’s laughter. Her body shakes fae the exertion and light fae naewhaur seems tae reflect aff her vest. Her heid tilts back and her hawns slide intae her pockets. She seems tae exist oot ae this time, oot ae this place. This isnae how ye act at the end ae yer shift on a Friday night on a dark subway platform.

  ‘Dae ye get it?’ she says. ‘It’s no ma best yin, mind ye, but it’s better than nuhin. Better than sittin here in silence lit you wur daein, nae offence intended. Ye wur sittin here in the dark on yer tod, in case ye didnae notice.’

  Ah gie her a chuckle. ‘Aye, it’s no bad.’

  Fae inside her fleece, she produces a wee electric lamp. She turns it on and places it on the groond, bathin us in a sharp white light. She shoots a hawn oot at me.

  ‘Ah’m Yotta,’ she says. ‘It’s a pleasure tae meet me, ah’m sure.’

  ‘Yotta?’

  ‘That’s correct. Y-o-t-t-a. It’s a unique name and ye’ll remember it, won’t ye? If ah’d telt ye ma name wis Alison, ye’d huv awready furgotten it by noo. Ah mean, Alison’s an awright name but, let’s be honest, parents that name thur child Alison didnae get past the first chapter in the baby name book, d’ye get whit ah’m sayin? Yotta means… it means a giant number.’

  ‘Cool. Ah’m Daisy.’

  ‘Nice tae meet ye, Daisy. Gid hing ye’re no called Alison or we’d huv oorsels an awkward wee moment here.’

  We shake. Thur’s suhin interestin when ah touch her. Some feelin ah cannae pit ma fing’r on. Suhin ah’ve no felt afore. Lit when ye meet a celebrity and they huv an aura that normal folk don’t.

  ‘Yer colleague wisnae pleased wi me,’ ah say.

  ‘Colleague?’

  ‘The guy who went up the stairs.’

  She shrugs.

  ‘Ah’m new here. Usually ye’d find me at HQ. This is, eh, a different kind ae shift fae whit ah’m used tae.’

  ‘Right. Well, ah better clear aff afore yeese shut up fur the night.’

  Yotta steps tae the edge ae the platform, her black steel-capped boots restin on the raised bumps fur visually impaired folk. She stares doon intae the tunnel, intae the darkness.

  ‘Ye’d be as well stickin aroond, Daisy,’ she says. ‘There’ll be another yin along in a minute. Thur’s iways another train tae catch doon here. Lit clockwork. That’s whit they call it, eh? The Clockwork Orange. Ah dunno who “they” urr but apparently some folk call it that.’

  She turns suddenly.

  ‘Whit happened tae yer face?’

  Ah pit ma hawn tae ma mooth. Ma top lip is swollen. Ah check ma fing’rs but the blood’s awready dried. A flake ae blood seems tae be caught under ma nail but ah realise it’s the chipped paint fae earlier.

  ‘Ah fell on ma face,’ ah say.

  Yotta narrows her mooth and sucks in air, makin a whistlin sound.

  ‘Fur future reference,’ she tells me. ‘Ah find breakin yer fall wi yer hawns works better. But each tae thur own. Gottae be careful these days though. Dangerous world we live in. Ah heard some lassie got knocked doon by a car at that taxi rank at Central Station. It’s lit a zoo at this time ae night. Gottae be careful indeed. But thur’s iways order in this world, even when it disnae seem like it.’

  A laugh escapes ma mooth and ah tilt ma neck tae look up at Yotta.

  ‘Order?’ ah say. ‘Surely ye don’t believe that. Thur’s nae order tae any ae this. The world’s chaos—jist random hings happenin aw the time.’

  ‘Mibbe ye’ve no been lookin hard enough.’

  ‘Ah’ve looked plenty. As long as people urr inconsistent, the world’s gonnae be inconsistent.’

  ‘Agree tae disagree. But let me ask ye an important question, Daisy.’

  She crouches doon next tae me.

  ‘Huv ye been a gid girl this year?’

  ‘Who urr you meant tae be lit, Santa?’

  ‘No quite, but ah ken him.’

  She smiles and her wrinkles glow. Aw ae her glows really. She seems brighter than the lamp. Ah cannae take ma eyes aff her.

  ‘You know Santa, dae ye?’ ah ask her.

  ‘Oor paths huv crossed. Though fur a man that only works wan day a year, he’s a hard fella tae get a haud ae. And he’s no as jolly as these fulms make him oot tae be. Jist ask Mrs Claus.’

  ‘Mrs Claus?’

  ‘Ye’re right, it’s no Mrs Claus anymair, is it? She went back tae her maiden name McCormick efter they split.’

  Ah wonder whit this wife’s daein workin fur the subway. They’ve got her on the late shift on a Friday night in Cowcaddens station when she shid be daein children’s parties.

  Yotta pulls a bag ae Maltesers fae her pocket. She scoops a hawnful intae her gub, then offers me the packet.

  ‘Naw, ah’m awright,’ ah say. ‘If ah eat anyhin right noo ah’m likely tae whitey.�
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  ‘Your loss,’ she jist aboot says through the chocolate smeared ower her teeth. ‘Ah fuckin love these hings. Youse don’t appreciate bein able tae buy these any time ye want.’

  The darkness is startin tae make me uneasy and ah decide it’s time tae go. Ah reach intae ma bag and search fur ma phone. Ah’ll need tae try and catch up wi Frances, hopefully jump in her taxi. Thur’s nae sign ae ma phone though. Ah must’ve lost it somewhaur between the pub and here.

  ‘Ah better be aff,’ ah say. ‘Get masel hame.’

  The Maltesers urr finished. Yotta delicately folds the packet and places it in her pocket. Her tongue swirls roond her mooth lookin fur remnants.

  ‘Ye’ll no need a taxi,’ she says. ‘Ah telt ye. Thur’s a carriage due any minute noo.’

  Ah gesture tae the screen, whaur it remains the same. NO FUTHER TRAINS.

  ‘Look,’ ah say. ‘That’s them done fur the night.’

  ‘Listen, lassie, who works here? Me or you?’

  She points tae the screen. In the few seconds ah took ma eyes aff it, it’s changed. Noo it reads, in flashin letters: OUTER APPROACHING.

  Then, a faraway rumble. A faraway rumble that’s gettin closer fast. It’s comin fae the outer line.

  ‘How did ye dae that?’ ah ask her.

  ‘Ah’m no quite sure,’ she says, inspectin her hawns. ‘Ah’m new at this. Worked though, didn’t it? Right, quick. How many days dae ye reckon?’

  Ah raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Fourteen days?’ Yotta goes on. ‘That’s two weeks, gid round number. But is it enough, ah wonder? Fifteen days might work, wan day fur each stop.’

  ‘Fifteen days?’ ah ask. ‘Whit dae ye mean?’

  ‘Gid shout,’ she says. ‘Ah’m furgettin aboot the secret stop under the river. Pretend ye didnae hear that. So… sixteen, then. Sixteen days. That’ll be plenty ae time. Aye, sixteen days shid dae nicely.’

  Yotta stares straight aheid. Her jaw clenches lit she’s concentratin. Ah huv an urge tae reach oot and touch her. Tae make sure she’s still real and ah’m really huvin a conversation wi her. Tae check ah didnae pass oot when ah decked it on ma way tae the subway.

  ‘Yotta, am ah meant tae understand whit ye’re on aboot?’

  She turns her heid and looks at me again. The colour ae her eyes seems tae be swirlin and changin lit a kaleidoscope. Ah’m hypnotised by it. Mibbe ah’m mair steamin than ah thought.

  ‘Sorry if ah’ve been a bit mysterious,’ she says. ‘But it’ll aw become clear soon enough. The question is… urr ye ready, Daisy?’

  Thur’s nae time tae respond as the sound ae the subway gets too loud tae hear anyhin ower. Rumblin and crashin roond the corner, it comes. The car seems tae be travellin at a speed faster than any other ah’ve seen afore. It screeches as it scrapes along the tunnel, makin sparks which fizz lit fireworks. Ah jump back and land on ma erse.

  Yotta’s voice broadcasts ower the tannoy system. Ah realise she’s disappeared fae the platform.

  ‘We wid advise aw passengers tae board the outer line. This will be oor last service ae the evening. And roond and roond and roond we go.’

  The three subway carriages huv come tae a halt and sit wi thur doors open. Thur’s no a soul on board as far as ah can see. Ah wait fur the driver tae poke thur heid oot tae check who’s gettin on. Naebdy appears.

  ‘Hullo?’ ah say.

  Ah walk toward the front carriage but suhin beeps and the doors shudder lit thur gettin ready tae close. Ah hop through the nearest door. It snaps behind me and the subway begins movin again.

  Ah collapse on the orange fuzzy seats. The broon flair is speckled wi orange and yella bits. A discarded hauf-drunk Irn-Bru bottle sloshes its way back and forth on the seats across fae me.

  The outer line goes in the opposite direction fae ma flat, so ah’m twelve stops away fae Hillhead insteid ae the three it wid’ve been on the inner. The train rumbles on and gains speed.

  We don’t slow doon as we approach Buchanan Street. We don’t stop at aw, shootin right through it. The station passes in a blur. Thur’s nae chance fur me tae get oot and check on the driver. Mibbe thur asleep at the wheel. Mibbe thur’s nae driver at aw and these carriages urr oot ae control. Ah keep ma fing’rs crossed the doors open at St Enoch. Or at the very latest, West Street.

  The lights in the carriage seem tae dim. The rumble ae the train starts tae soothe me. Ah rest ma eyes fur a minute. Ma lip throbs lit ma heartbeat is in ma mooth. Ah’ll jist let ma eyes close fur a second. Ah’ll open them back up when we get near Kelvinhall. Whit wis that Yotta wife aw aboot? She wis talkin some amount ae pish. Ah’ll jist let ma eyes close fur a minute. Ah’ll open them when we get tae Ibrox, jist tae be safe.

  Part Two

  Point of Origin

  12

  ‘Urr ye gettin up, hen? There we urr. Time tae wake up.’

  Ma eyelids feel glued thigether. Ah unstick them then unfurl them. A red-faced man in a bunnet stands ower me. Thur’s mair folk watchin on fae the other side ae the carriage.

  ‘That’s us at Buchanan Street,’ he says. ‘Thought it might be yer stop. Ye’ve been asleep since ah got on at Govan. And ye drooled doon yersel but ah widnae be embarrassed aboot that, ah jist wanted tae make ye aware.’

  Ah sweep ma legs aff the seat and peel a hair fae ma cracked lips. Ma mooth feels full ae moths. Ma heid thumps so hard ah hink ma eyes might pop oot ma skull.

  ‘Ah wis goin tae Hillhead,’ ah say, and ma voice sounds lit someone else’s. Ah dig ma fing’rs intae ma ears tae try and get them tae pop. ‘Ah wis jist closin ma eyes fur a minute.’

  ‘Hillhead? Ye’ll be quicker gettin aff and gettin on the inner circle, hen.’

  Ah say thanks and stumble on tae the platform. The driver makes brief eye contact wi me and looks glad ah’m finally gettin aff.

  Thur’s naewhere tae sit, jist they sloped benches tae stop folk huvin a lie doon. Dozens ae folk pile on tae the train behind me. This is the maist realistic dream ah’ve hud in quite some time.

  The stairs urr a challenge and ah’m gaspin and oot ae puff by the time ah reach the top. At the far end ae the station, daylight spills doon ower the escalators. Ah sneak through the barriers behind a lassie in a business suit who gies me a dirty look.

  Ah go tae the ticket booth and rest ma arms on the counter.

  ‘Excuse me,’ ah say. ‘Whit time is it?’

  The wife behind the glass checks her watch.

  ‘Quarter tae ten,’ she says.

  ‘Aw ye’re jokin.’

  ‘Fraid no, doll.’

  Ma legs wobble and ah catch masel afore ah fall flat on ma face again. Ah gie the wife a thumbs up and let the next person in the queue take ma place.

  The sweat’s oozin oot ae pores ah didnae even know ah hud. Ah’m gonnae get ma erse handed tae me when ah show up at work.

  Ah run up the escalator and the sensation ae spew gatherin in ma belly makes me slow doon. The daylight soaks intae ma skin as ah reach the above groond world once again. It burns ma eyes. This must be how Angel and Spike felt when they got caught in the daylight.

  Ah check ma pocket and it’s wan wee blessin that ah’ve still got the key tae open the shop. Unless any ae the managers came in early, the customers and staff will huv been waitin ootside fur ages. Chances ae Daisy gettin the sack: highly likely.

  The guy sellin the Big Issue is oot awready, in his prime spot ootside Sainsbury’s.

  ‘Don’t be shy, give it a try!’ he shouts.

  Ah smile and he smiles back.

  Sauchiehall Street stretches oot afore me. It’s niver looked longer.

  Ah’ve nae time fur anyhin. Nae time fur breakfast. Nae time tae splash water on ma face in the Maccy D’s bathroom. Nae time tae explain how ah slept fur ten oors straight on the subway withoot wakin up or gettin flung aff at some point.

/>   Boots comes intae sight. It’s open. Customers are goin in and oot wi thur last minute Christmas presents. Thank actual fuck fur that.

  In some form ae miracle, a Christmas miracle no less, somebdy wi keys must’ve got in afore me. Ah jist hope it wisnae this somebdy’s day aff and they got phoned in cause that lassie Daisy didnae show up.

  Ah push wan ae the heavy front doors open. If ah can jist slink in withoot bein noticed and get tae ma locker, ah can get a spray ae deodorant, skoosh ae perfume and pit ma emergency work claithes on afore anyone sees ah’m in last night’s dress. It’s niver a bad idea tae keep a spare pair ae Converse at yer work.

  ‘Imogen to the Manager’s Office, please,’ comes Assistant Manager Jennifer’s voice on the tannoy. Imogen workin on a Saturday? She’ll no be happy.

  Ah navigate through the quieter aisles. It shid be wan ae the busiest days ae the year but folk urnae oot in force lit ah wis expectin. Mibbe folk urr finally seein Christmas isnae worth the hassle every year. Oor Christmas gift aisle still looks full tae the brim.

  The Bruce Springsteen version ae Santa Claus is Comin To Town plays. Ah spy Manager Michael up the back left by the perfume cabinets, playin air guitar. It must’ve been him that opened up the place. He’ll be oot fur blood.

  Ah realise ah’m approachin Frances, who’s pittin oot a box ae the novelty Christmas soaps.

  ‘Ye survived then,’ ah say. ‘And ye look fresher than me fur once.’

  She turns her heid jist slightly and looks at me fae the corner ae her eye. Then she continues pricin the soaps. The printer whirrs as it produces a ticket.

  ‘Aw, don’t be lit that,’ ah say. ‘Sorry ah wis a bit ae a bomb scare last night. It wis the Christmas night oot, did ye expect anyhin else? Honestly, wait til ye hear whit happened.’

  Frances stands up and wipes her hawns doon the back ae her troosers tae get the dust aff. She sticks the scanner and printer under her arm. Her eyes inspect the shelves she’s filled.

  ‘Sorry?’ she says. ‘Do I know you?’