The Other Room

by James Everington

  The train plunged into a tunnel, and the loss of sunlight defocusing his eyes. By the time they’d adjusted he’d lost his place and flow; the words had lost their rhythm and didn’t sit sensibly next to each other. Liam sighed and put his Penguin Keats on the dirty table in front of him. The girl opposite was engrossed in Trainspotting, her eyes intent on the page. Her headphones scratched and hissed audibly; Liam could just hear the singer Chinese-whispering under all the noise, but he couldn’t catch the words. He knew he knew the song but he couldn’t work it out, not even which group it was. He glanced at the display on the girl’s I-pod on the table, but it was turned partly away from him - he could see a T, the top of an R or possibly an O… He realised the girl was staring at him, as if he had invaded her privacy. He felt his face prickle, and hoped he wasn’t blushing visibly.

  Liam turned to the window just as the train leapt from the tunnel, and the low riding sun blinded the scenery from his eyes. The silhouetted landscape was without detail or character. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was - somewhere south of Birmingham and north of Oxford. He hoped. But he was becoming increasingly sure he was on the wrong train, a suspicion that had started when they’d left the concrete labyrinth of New Street. It should have been a direct train from York to Oxford; but stuck to its windows were details of a change of route and final destination. He hadn’t noticed the sign in his dash for the train, deaf to his friend’s farewell. Now, sitting in the carriage, he had to try and read the back to front writing, which was growing dimmer as the sun set. He could see the big-print final destination of elooP was crossed through and replaced with - what? Many other stations after teertS weN were crossed out too, but he couldn’t tell which ones. When the ticket inspector had castrated his ticket he had spoken, but Liam, listening to his own music at that point, hadn’t heard him. He’d assumed it must have been, “Have a nice journey,” or some such; but what if it had been, “You know you have to change at New Street now?” And the Tannoy speaker in this carriage just blurted out white noise, with the remains of a voice perhaps buried somewhere within, so that was no help. None of the other passengers seemed worried, so maybe Liam shouldn’t be. But he was.

  He thought vaguely of the creative writing competition he had signed himself up for – three thousand words by Friday. He’d written stories, on and off, since his teens, with ease if not flair. He had bought a notepad onto the train, expecting the usual, smug flashes of intuition. He had the plot worked out; it was just the style, the tone he needed. And he found he couldn’t start; he couldn’t find the words. He looked round the signs and slogans of the carriage to see if any of them could prod the story out from under its rock. But they were all fragmented and nonsensical and of no use: Virgin Trains invite you…. Seat Nos.… Nike, Would passengers please… elooP… Trainspot… tnempoleved citeop…

  Liam forced his eyes to the window. It was rapidly turning into a mirror, as it got darker outside but remained just as light inside. He could just see the dark shadowy trees, the motorway, marked out orange, curving away in the distance… but mostly he could see the reflection of the interior of the train. And in the reflection’s windows a reflection of the reflection… A symbol of infinite narcissism, he thought, somewhat automatically. The train whisked past a graffiti scrawled wall. Piece it said. Liam frowned. Piece? Shouldn’t it be Peace? Obviously the guy didn’t have time to finish, he was probably going to write Piece Of Shit or something equally eloquent. Or maybe, he thought with a flash of over-academic inspiration, the graffiti artist had meant true Peace was impossible… But probably he had just been thick or - what? Liam frowned. The word was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t dislodge it. A medical word, someone who had problems reading and writing…

  The word wouldn’t come, and Liam became irritated. It was stupid, he knew the word! But it wouldn’t come and he gave up trying, assuming it would reappear in his vocabulary if he stopped thinking about it. His thoughts briefly pulled at the story again, but the words still wouldn’t reveal themselves. He picked up his Selected Keats, turned to the start of the ode, and tried to read it again,

  My heart aches, and Fuck, what was that station?

  He dropped Keats to the floor as the train swept unstoppably through an ill-lit station. If he could just see the sign he could find out where they were, if he was on the right train! But the sign streaked past him, meaningless, blurred black on white. Had it begun with a B? Banbury? Liam didn’t know. The train passed out the station, and the reflections sprang up the windows again.

  “Excuse me?” he said to the girl sitting opposite him. She glared at him, but grudgingly took of her headphones.

  “Yeah?” she said.

  “Do you know what station we just went through?”

  The girl stared.

  “What does it matter? We didn’t stop there.” She spoke slowly, as if talking to an idiot. Maybe she was. The words in his head withered before her smile-free face, and he mumbled and looked away. The girl put her headphones back on, and pointedly turned the volume up. She seemed to have taken a dislike to him right from the start, although he couldn’t have said why. The slight increase in volume meant her muffled music caught his attention all over again, but he still couldn’t understand the lyrics, and Liam shook his head as if to be free of them. Piece? he thought, someone who can’t read or write without the letters blurring.

  Where the hell am I? he thought, should I be on this train? (What the hell am I going to do with my life? What does an English degree train you for?) Maybe I should find the conductor… did trains have conductors? Or guards - trains had guards didn’t they? But that sounded too old fashioned… He frowned. What did he mean by that? He wasn’t sure he understood his own thoughts.

  A growing frustration spread through him as his mind boomeranged back to the story, still wordless and still nagging in his head. How could he solve all his other problems without getting rid of that nagging?

  The people sitting behind him were talking loudly in Hindi or Urdu or something, modified by a Brummie accent. He tried not to think racist thoughts but the two-way torrent of meaningless words filled his head, answering his questions with phrases he couldn’t understand. He became aware of the foreign words as mere sounds, noise, for they signified nothing, meant nothing to him. And their emptiness seemed to affect his own tongue, for the English words in his head seemed to detach themselves from their meanings - after all there was no reason why “train” meant train, no reason why “story” meant story, why “Liam” meant Liam, why “why meant” meant why meant, why…

  Liam stood up quickly, head rushing, causing the Trainspotting girl to stare at him. He ignored her. His thoughts seemed to be becoming ludicrous. He decided to go to the toilet even though he didn’t need it, just to get out of the seat he had been sitting in for three and a half hours. He glanced at the seatless passengers, who were staring hungrily in his direction now he had stood up. He looked at the girl again until she looked back. “Save my seat?” he said, his voice cracking slightly. She mumbled a reply he couldn’t interpret. He didn’t dare ask the surly looking girl to repeat it. Liam walked towards the toilet, muttering “excuse me” to part the crowd.

  It was cooler in the cubicle, and as he shut the door the conversations of the crowd grew duller, dimmer; but still present, invasive. The rattling and clattering of the train was even louder, as he was right above the wheels. Liam decided he might as well try and piss, now he was here. He stood with his dick out in the cold, and his thoughts gradually relaxed. He’d just started to feel a bit odd out there in that cramped carriage, but he was okay now. It was just tiredness probably. It could happen to anyone… Vague movements in his bladder told him he might indeed urinate, if he thought about something else. He looked back at his weekend. He’d been up to stay with one of his mates, but the real highlight had been a girl he’d met, one of his friend’s girlfriend’s friends… Liam frowned. He couldn’t remember her name. It was one of those stupid things, h
e’d last seen her the previous night, she’d done English too, he should remember her name; but he couldn’t. His bladder changed its mind - he didn’t need a piss anymore. What was her name? It was stupid, he knew it, it was, it was… He snarled out loud, frustrated. He could picture her, dark hair… But he found he couldn’t picture her, not very well. He knew he could have almost perfectly only five minutes ago. But now her name seemed to have been wiped from his mind it was as if the image of her had too, the memories of her, the very concept of her… He fell against the toilet wall as the train hurtled round a corner, fast and unstoppable, lit by its own light only now, going who knew where.

  Liam stumbled back into the carriage (fortunately remembering to do up his flies) feeling shaky, slightly panicky, unsure of old certainties. Tiredness seemed to be making his mind connect or jump in very peculiar ways. He remembered an old Twilight Zone episode about a man who’d had a worm or insect in his head, eating his brain, inch by inch, milligram by milligram. Right now he’d forgotten how the episode had ended. He’d always wondered if the man had been aware of the process, certain memories or capabilities just gone, eaten… That was almost how Liam felt now… But he was just being ridiculous! He was just tired, he’d not gotten much sleep over the weekend. That was what was wrong with him. Nevertheless he was sweating, his heart was nervous inside his chest. The train was full of talk now, and even the conversations in English seemed utter nonsense, pure babble.

  The girl had saved his seat and he sat down, grateful for small mercies. He tried to give her a look that said “thanks” but she wouldn’t look at him. If you’d just smile, he thought, you’d be so pretty. He remembered his poetry book and resolved to have another go at it, to try and counteract the meaningless that seemed to be seeping into everything. But where was it? Oh yes, he’d dropped it hadn’t he, when the train had gone through that station (was he supposed to be here, on this train..?). He looked on the floor but couldn’t see it. He gestured to the girl. She gave him a ferocious look, and took off her headphones again.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “Have you seen my book?” Liam asked.

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t hear you,” she said tetchily.

  “Oh sorry… Have you seen my book?”

  “Your book?”

  “Keats” he elaborated.

  “What?”

  “No, who,” he said, smiling. The girl stared at him, blankly irritated. “Not what, who,” he said, before his smile was burned away by his hot blushing. He looked away; this was useless… “Keats,” he repeated.

  “What? I don’t get what you’re on about!”

  Her anger made his tongue granny-knot itself and he looked at the floor again. The girl returned to her music and turned the volume up, muttering darkly to herself. Liam got on his knees to look under the seat for his book. The girl crossed her legs, as if afraid he would try and look up her skirt, as if Keats would be up there. He stared under his seat, his eyes watering as long restful dust rose up into them. Where the hell was his book? It couldn’t just have vanished! Had someone taken it? From under this seat, without the girl noticing? But then where was it? It had only cost a quid, but that wasn’t the point - it was some of his favourite poetry… But was it? On his knees looking for it, eyes watering, he found he couldn’t remember any of it, not a single line. What had been that poem he’d been trying to read? He couldn’t remember. He could remember one title, Endymion, but it meant nothing to him. It was Greek - wasn’t it? Latin? He wasn’t sure whether he should care or not. The dust started to make him cough, and his eyes squeezed out more tears.

  Suddenly Liam realised the train was slowing, the windows were filling with outside light - they were stopping at a station. He stood up quickly, and his head swayed dizzily for lack of blood. His vision was totally blurred and useless, he couldn’t read the sign that moved past the window. Panic threatened to overwhelm him again. His adrenaline was telling him to do something without telling him what. He tried to calm down and think: if the last station had been Banbury and if he was on the right train, then this should be Oxford. But if…

  “Is this Oxford?” he shouted at the girl. She glanced at him with contemptuous eyes, but refused to remove her headphones. His panic seemed to amuse her. Liam had been wrong - when she smiled she didn’t look at all pretty.

  The train slowed down quickly and people leapt up and moved forward, going for their luggage. He had maybe twenty seconds to decide… He joined the alighting people, trying to listen in on their conversations for a clue to his whereabouts. Someone nipped into his seat, exchanged pleasantries with the Trainspotting girl, and started to chat to her. Did it matter? Where was he? What the fuck was he going to do? Meaningless chatter, like the noise from a thousand headphones, filled his ears. Liam saw a conductor, or guard, or whatever on the other side of the scrum. He tried to get the man’s attention, to communicate, he cried out. The uniformed figure moved away, vanished, not hearing.

  Liam was near the front door now, which had gasped open. He didn’t seem to have had enough time to make a decision. He grabbed his luggage blindly from the rack, in an attempt to keep his options open. He stared out the door. Was this his station? Grey architecture, red seats, everything else blotted out. Symbols everywhere, which his eyes wouldn’t decipher. What was wrong with him? Should he get out? The people behind him grumbled complainingly when he didn’t move. Liam turned to the man behind him.

  “Is this Oxford?” he said. The man spoke but Liam could only make out “Oxford.” He couldn’t tell what the man had meant. Had he been confirming it? denying it? questioning such a ridiculous idea: “Oxford?” Liam didn’t know. He tried to remember the last time he had interacted meaningfully with someone. His head ached with all the station’s sounds. The people were complaining loudly, wordlessly, like angry animals behind him. And, without it being a conscious decision, he got off the train.

  ***

  The crowd moved forward, and another crowd moved to meet it. Liam was caught between, wondering what to do, where to go. He was sure something significant had happened, in the last few seconds, but he couldn’t remember it. People pushed and shoved, causing him to drop his suitcase. Everyone around seemed to be communicating perfectly - so how come he, a third year English student and aspiring writer, couldn’t understand a single word? He craned his neck, spun around, looking for a sign. What had that other sign said, earlier? Was he in the right place? He had no idea, and the train was pulling away, its noise as articulate as anything else. I’ll never find that book now, he thought, whoever wrote it. He also realised, with a pang, that the vague presence of the story had gone, dead before it had even spoken to him. It’s as if something was eating away at my brain, he thought, without being sure where the thought came from. He felt unsure of everything, on shifting sand. What was he to do?

  Liam looked up at a neon sign saying Information…

  ***

  …which flicked off…

  ***

  Liam looked up at a neon sign flicking on and off above his head. What did it say? He couldn’t look at it without it hurting his eyes. Were his eyes still watering? Was he in Oxford? Immediately Liam’s brain turned on the word, making it ridiculous, Oxford, Oxford, oxford… He could feel the word, the place, his home now, slipping away from him, losing its meaning… What’s happening to me? Every thought seemed to end in a trail of dots… The station was…

  ***

  Liam frowned, jolted as if awakening. Had something just happened? The building around him was vast. He looked around - where was he? He grabbed a passing arm, not daring to look up at the owner.

  “Is this… home?” he said, vaguely aware that the words weren’t quite adequate to express what he wished; but he had no others. The person didn’t reply but pulled away, joining the crowd of everyone else. Even their body language was confusing - why did they all seem so tense and hostile? Liam fell back against the gibberi
sh of the timetables…

  ***

  Liam fell against the timetables. Time tables, tables of time… he thought. Used to do our times tables. People were looking at him, was he acting oddly?

  “Because it’s eating in my head,” he said out loud.

  He looked round the place he was in. Where was it? How had it got here? How had he? He didn’t want to stay, for despite its size he found the place claustrophobic, full of bubbling voices. Some, loud and distorted, seemed to come from the ceiling. Liam didn’t know if he should be doing something or not. Everyone else moved swift with purpose. “Work,” he said like a baby - then it was gone…

  He looked through his pockets for help. Some bits of paper, two pens - he threw them away from himself, not seeing anything useful there.

  ***

  It was happening faster now.

  ***

  His wallet contained many worded things, but nothing that he recognised. He dropped them too. He remembered something vague about a friend, he had met him, or was going to. Maybe he was outside? Liam went to the windows to see. He had another dizzy spell, and felt lighter the other side of it.

  Walking, he realised some of the larger panes of glass slid opened when people approached. He went near, they opened for him too. He still had some presence then. Liam went outside, into the cold, into the night.

  ***

  He went outside and seemed to leave something behind. He felt he had made a good decision. He walked forward into the black night. He wasn’t panicking now. I seem to have less and less words all the time, he thought indistinctly. But who needed words? Were they important? He was by himself. He walked down the road, no longer thinking about direction. A dog was watching him, a grey stray dog. That rhymed. I seem to have less and less words, he thought, deep down. The dog was grey. It walked up to him and sniffed his hand. It whined.