1

It takes a little longer than thirty minutes to arrive at Riverbank Station from St. Arnold’s Walk.

Pretty little Polly Whitmore knew that only too well. She’d taken the train to work for as long as she could care to remember, catchin’ the 08:07 every mornin’, and arrivin’ at Riverbank Station thirteen stops later at twenty minutes to nine. By the time she walked to The Millerbank Hotel, where she was employed as a receptionist, her shift would be just about ready to start. And then, when the workin’ day was done, Polly would walk back to the station and take the train home again. Sometimes, she was lucky enough to catch the 17:21 service; but, more often than not, she would have to hang around for the 17:51, and arrive at St Arnold’s Walk a little after twenty past the hour. She’d be home warmin’ her feet by the fire long before the clock chimed seven times.

But on the night in which this tale is set, Polly had to work herself some overtime.

Why?

You don’t question how I know her daily routine, but you wanna know why she didn’t get outta work ‘til late? I dunno, maybe Erin the evenin’ receptionist was gettin’ her tubes tied, do I look like a fuckin’ psychic to you?

All I know is, by the time Polly Whitmore made it to Riverbank Station, the last train was just pullin’ in. Polly slides a note into the booth, snatches her ticket, doesn’t even take her change she’s in such a hurry. Shouts a breathless thanks, rushes her fine ass down the steps and jumps on the train just as the doors are about to snap shut.

2

She glances down the carriage; an old guy is fast asleep several rows down, his head restin’ back on the window. Someone else is sat a little further away. They’re wearin’ a long black jacket with the hood pulled over their head, concealin’ their face; the shape o’ their body tells Polly that it’s a woman, though she can’t be too sure.

She sinks into the nearest seat, sighs louder than she intends to, laughs silently to herself. Her stomach growls, cries out for that lasagne in the freezer, and Polly rests her hand on her abdomen as if to silence it. She feels her mobile phone in her pocket, so she pulls it out and sees that her boyfriend Chris has sent her a text message. Probably somethin’ smutty, if my knowledge o’ that prick serves me right. He used to work the till at the butcher’s shop, and whenever a lady went in to buy some goods, he’d communicate in innuendo with a wink and the smile o’ a fuckin’ pervert; asked my Emily if she’d like his sausage between her buns once. She said she’d like to pound his meat instead.

With a fuckin’ tenderiser. God rest her soul.

Anyways, whatever Chris’ text said, it made Polly giggle like a naughty schoolgirl. But then her smile fades when she notices a second text message, this one from her mother. Somethin’ along the lines o’: We need to talk. I’m coming over tomorrow. I love you. Polly’s smile returns; she’s waited so long to read that text. She finds Chris in her contact list and makes a call. It doesn’t even ring, it just goes straight to voicemail, and Polly realises the train has gone underground en route to the next station.

“Hey Chris, I just got your message, sorry but I’m not taking any pictures tonight. I’m on the train home, just worked the longest shift ever, Erin called in sick so I had to stay until late. So, I’ve got some bad news. We’re going to have to cancel our dinner plans tomorrow night. Mom has decided that she’s coming over to my place to talk things through. Call me crazy, but this just might be the talk that puts all bad feelings behind us, and I don’t want to pass that opportunity up. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I love you.”

She can’t do both, right? No protagonist can ever be in two places at once. Polly ends the call, remembers the argument she had with her mom last November, the nights she cried herself to sleep over the horrible words they’d exchanged. The way Chris had pulled her through, made her see that it wasn’t her fault; and then she damn near cries at the thought o’ her dear old mother sittin’ in her favourite armchair, the arthritis slowly consumin’ her body, wonderin’ if she’ll ever see her daughter again; swallows her pride, finds the courage to pick up the phone and leave a message. Polly pinches her eyes shut tight; fuck, she missed her mother. Needed her more than ever recently, what with the miscarriage and all.

3

Get to the point?

Are you fuckin’ serious? You boys paid an extortionate amount for that brandy; Riley knows his prices are through the roof, but as long as he’s gettin’ custom, does it look like he gives a fuck? And I’m sittin’ here, outta the kindness o’ my heart, makin’ sure you get your money’s worth, and you want me to fast forward to the good part? Fuck you! You’ll do well to remember that I’m the one tellin’ this story. And if the narrative devices that I choose to employ aren’t to your likin’, you don’t need my permission to be excused from the table. You’re more than welcome to go fuck yourself. This is all necessary exposition. You don’t care enough about Polly Whitmore for me to kill her off in spectacular fashion just yet. I want you to know her before she dies. Only then can this tale have the desired effect.

4

The train carries on its journey, bobbin’ and bouncin’ down the track like a snake with the shakes. A couple o’ times, Polly’s firm behind leaves the seat, and she panics briefly.

You know when your brain does that to you? Tells you that your train ride isn’t usually this erratic, convinces you that some terrorist has emptied a handgun into your driver and is about to waste everybody on board. You start to think o’ all your loved ones, tunin’ in to the news channel and hearin’ about a train crash, anguished faces realisin’ the possibility that you mighta been on that train, the frantic diallin’ o’ your mobile number, tremblin’ lips leavin’ heartfelt messages; flash-forward to your funeral, family members who haven’t seen each other in years, united to grieve at your passin’, and you’re so caught up in that image that for a moment you believe you are actually dead. I’ve seen my headstone countless times, witnessed loved ones lay flowers at my grave; but then I wake up right at this very table, and decide I’ve had enough to drink for one night. There’s solace in that instance; just like when the train slows down as it approaches the next station, and eases to a stop beside the platform. Polly’s heart quits racin’ as the doors slide open, and no one suspicious lookin’ enters the carriage.

I love that phrase. Suspicious lookin’. Makes you wonder what others define as suspicious, doesn’t it? Is it shifty eyes? A peculiar scar? The generosity o’ buyin’ a stranger a drink? I tell you what Polly found suspicious lookin’. The figure wearin’ the long black coat with the hood up. Hadn’t budged an inch. The doors slide shut. The train rolls on.

5

They go above ground; the sky’s been painted an eerie shade o’ black, the moon is swallowed whole somewhere up there, and if it hadn’t been for the sudden lashin’ o’ rain against the window, Polly woulda been forgiven for thinkin’ she was still in a tunnel. The water smashin’ into the pane startles her, and she loses herself for a moment in the movement o’ the droplets, slidin’ down the glass and formin’ as one at the bottom. For some reason, it reminds her o’ the first time she ever saw snow. Those individual elements fallin’ gracefully, and congregatin’ before her very eyes. Daddy helped her build a snowman. Promised he’d never let it fade away. Daddy often made promises he couldn’t keep. Said he’d always love Polly and her mother. Walked out on ’em both three weeks shy o’ her seventh birthday. It had snowed that evenin’, too. Polly made her own snowman, in the hope it’d bring her father back. It didn’t work. Polly never saw daddy ever again. And she certainly never made another snowman.

But there’d be times in years to come when she would hear her daddy’s voice sayin’ her name, callin’ to her from the foot o’ the staircase, and Polly would throw down her dolls and go rushin’ downstairs, only to be greeted by the sight o’ her mother consolin’ herself with another bottle o’ whiskey. Unopened bottles o’ pills, mommy couldn’t do it, not now, not yet, not with Pretty Polly around.

And then there is it again, her name, creepin’ through the air and curlin’ up inside her ears; once more, with greater prominence this time, and Polly is unsure if it is her imagination, or if she has heard it for real, right there, on the train.

You ever heard your own name on the wind before? That overwhelmin’ sense o’ fear and confusion when you turn to find nobody there. Well, that’s what Polly felt in that carriage. Her eyes are dartin’ everywhere for a sign, but findin’ none. Just an old guy fast asleep, and a hooded figure that still hasn’t moved. The lights start flickerin’ as the train disappears underground once more; then they blink out altogether, and Polly is plunged into darkness.

6

Polly had been scared o’ the dark for as long as she could care to remember. For a moment, her mind goes blank and she can’t recall why. She pictures herself in a very dark place; she knows it happened a long time before she was pickin’ out baby names for a child she’d never hold, but for some reason the metaphorical outweighs the literal, and she hears herself sayin’ “Rosa.”

“Any particular reason?” Alexia asks, sippin’ her chai latte and motionin’ to the waiter with her right hand.

“It’s my mother’s name,” Polly replies with a vacant smile. Alexia frowns.

“I didn’t think you and your mother got along?”

“That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving her. I never will.” She places her hands on her stomach. “I want her to be a part of this baby’s life; but she has to want that too. And for that to happen, she will apologise for what she said at dad’s funeral, and concede that she wants to be a part of my life again.” Alexia rests a comfortin’ hand on Polly’s forearm and smiles.

“I realise now just how long I have missed you for. Years have been stolen from our friendship, and yet they feel like only months at most. Every time you crossed my mind at the hostel, I told myself that we’d see each other soon, and that nothing would have changed. Today, I looked across the table and saw a skinny white girl with pigtails, burdened with a broken home, bullied by older girls, locked in broom cupboards, friend of a rebel outcast. Yet minutes later I see a beautiful young woman with a voluptuous figure, perfect blonde hair, and seductive caramel eyes that reveal no signs of the pain she once adhered to. And me? What have I become?”

“A Godmother.” And Polly sees Alexia’s face light up at the prospect o’ belongin’ once again. Her eyes grow wide in delight; but then the darkest reaches o’ Polly’s mind begin to distort that memory. Pupils dilate and consume Alexia’s face, and all Polly sees is black, and all Polly hears is laughter, cruel laughter, from behind the broom cupboard door; and she remembers then just why she is scared o’ the fuckin’ dark.

Snap outta it! She wills herself awake, she is back now, on the train, in the carriage, but the laughter does not cease, it gets louder, and Polly realises then it is real, so real, and that evil is there with her. Fear grips her tight, like a noose about the neck, and she fumbles with her mobile phone, tries to illuminate all before her, only succeeds in castin’ faint shadows, panics her further. The lights flash overhead, make her jump, and then they come to life as the laughter dies, and Polly is breathless, frozen, stunned to see that the scene is not unlike before. Old man fast asleep, his chin now restin’ on his chest. And hooded figure, still ominously present at the end.

7

St. Arnold’s Walk is still three stops away, but Polly decides she’s had quite enough o’ this particular train ride, and figures she can get off at Mayuri Avenue and walk the rest o’ the way home, regardless o’ the rain pissin’ down. Gettin’ wet had always proven to be a far more pleasant experience than havin’ the shit scared outta her. Cautiously she stands, silently wipes her face with the palm o’ her hand, steps carefully towards the doors, doesn’t wanna attract attention. Sees the platform drawin’ closer, wants to hear a familiar voice upon leavin’ the train, finds Mom in her contact list and prepares to hit the dial key.

And then the train rocks violently; Polly goes stumblin’ forwards, and the old guy’s head falls back onto the window, and all Polly sees is this big fuckin’ void where his throat should be. She screams and steps away. The wound was so clean! There wasn’t even a drop o’ blood on the guy’s shirt, never mind his skin. Polly is hysterical; the hooded figure starts laughin’, the same malicious cackle, and for the first time Polly catches sight o’ their face. She had been right; it was a woman.

Well, as woman as an apparition can be.

Bright blue eyes stare out maniacally beneath a lightnin’ white fringe barely visible behind the hood. Lips, ruby red, part as the laugh becomes an almighty roar, barin’ jagged teeth still drippin’ with blood; the cleanliness o’ the wound becomes apparently clear.

“I never leave a drop,” the phantom snarls. And then before Polly’s eyes, she twists with such vehemence that she becomes a smudge, and then disappears altogether. Polly’s mouth hangs open, but no sound musters the courage to come out. The train stops at Mayuri Avenue.

“Hello?”

A voice crackles from the phone in Polly’s tremblin’ hands, and she glances down to see that she musta hit the button and called mom. Polly raises the phone to her ear.

“Hello? Polly, I do hope you can hear me. I made a terrible mistake the day of your father’s funeral. Of course you weren’t to blame for him leaving us. I miss you so much.” And she was cryin’ now. “I love you with all my heart, dear. Please find it within to forgive me.”

“Mom,” Polly whispers through tears. She turns to face the doors as they slide open. “I–” And then this ghostly fist slams into her face without warnin’, sends her soarin’ through the air. Her teeth shatter upon impact, mouth quickly fills with blood as shredded gums leak, and as her body lands with a thud at the other end o’ the carriage, a fountain o’ vibrant red spurts into the air as she fights for breath. Polly’s a fuckin’ mess; tears slidin’ into snot slidin’ into bloodied spit. She has enough time to weakly claw broken teeth from her mouth, before a foot connects with her jaw with all the force o’ a sledgehammer. Her screams o’ agony do little to conceal the sound o’ breakin’ bone that echoes in her ears.

She is dragged up by her hair, as though she weighs nothin’ at all, a mere marionette in a ventriloquist’s hands. Her feet, several inches from the floor, dangle almost lifelessly as she whispers one final plea; and then in one swift motion, she’s slammed into the carriage wall. Spine collides with metal at an alarmin’ pace, splinters like a twig. Polly drops to the floor, as good as dead, and this woman reappears, mutterin’ “I never leave a drop” obsessively, starts suckin’ up pools o’ blood from all over the carriage, laughin’ maniacally all the while. And Polly, well, she still has this brain workin’ inside o’ her, bless, she sees an opportunity. She starts spittin’ blood everywhere, knowin’ the spook wouldn’t be able to resist cleanin’ up before makin’ certain that Polly is dead. She waits for the right time to start crawlin’ with all her might towards the doors. And she can smell the night air, she can almost taste freedom, hands touch down on cold, wet concrete, and just as she dares dream that she’s made it, she feels a firm hand wrap around her ankle.

Fingernails scratch and break as she tries to dig them into the solid surface while bein’ pulled back on board. She can only kick her feet weakly, it’s no use, she succumbs. Her mother’s voice still crackles in her palm, tormented by the sound o’ her beloved daughter dyin’, powerless to save her. Polly places the phone to her ear. She wants her final words to set her mother free. The doors begin to close.

“Rosa,” she whimpers. “Just like–” The doors snap shut. The phantom screams with rage. Never got to finish feedin’; Polly’s blood decorates the platform. Her severed head bounces three times, then comes to rest beside a dustbin. Wild, empty eyes watch as the train pulls away with her body.

And what do you know? I guess a protagonist can be in two places after all.