BY MARK HUMPHRIES
Copyright is held by the author.
1
HAROLD STANCE drained the dregs of his pint glass and sat in a baffled silence.
He had arrived early at the station, hesitated at the long queue for the kiosks (knowing it would eat into drinking time) and opted for a self-service machine. After several heavy presses on the greasy screen, he had hit the sweet spot, managed to activate his selection, and released his ticket to Sandmire. He had checked his watch — 50 minutes until departure — and shuffled over to the monitors. That was when his confusion had begun. Stance glanced at the bar, considered ordering another beer and decided against it. He needed a clear head. He was chugging along unfinished tracks. His attention returned to the orange card in his pudgy fingers. Sandmire was clearly marked on its shiny surface. He replayed the last 10 minutes in his mind.
He had looked up at the departures, found his train and scanned the list of towns on its route. All the stations had been there. Except Sandmire.
At that moment, a rail employee had walked past. Harry had reached out and tapped his shoulder. He asked, “Excuse me. When’s the next train for Sandmire, mate? I can’t see it.”
The other man paused. “Sorry, where?” Stance repeated the destination. The rail employee frowned and asked, “Can I see your ticket?” The assistant scratched his balding scalp. A light dandruff shower followed. He coughed, turned the ticket over in his fingers and appeared to scrutinise the fine print.
There was a long silence, and the man looked at Stance and the card numerous times. Harry heard him mutter, “It doesn’t look fake.” and his patience began to slip.
Harold Stance reached for the ticket and said, “Well? When is it?”
The rail assistant stared at the would-be traveller and replied, “There is no Sandmire. There never has been and I’ve worked up and down these lines for donkey’s years, mate. You can try the kiosk but . . .” An announcement swamped his final words.
Harry felt his face flush. He asked, “Is this a wind up?”
The other man shook his head and replied, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
At that point, Harold Stance had realized how much he needed a drink.
2
Harry took back his ticket. The woman at the desk repeated the same three sentences through the smudged glass. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve checked the computer. There is no Sandmire.”
He mumbled, “This isn’t happening.”
The woman said, “You can register the card on our website for a refund.”
Stance stumbled away and stared at the monitors again. There were fifteen minutes until the usual train to see his parents.
His back was wet, and he was thirsty. He hurried back to the bar and ordered a second pint. He gulped back half the frothy ale and had an idea. He grabbed his phone and dialled his parents’ landline.
His mother answered, “Hi love. Are you on the train? I can’t really hear you.” Stance held the phone at arm’s length, burped into his arm and answered,
“No mum. This is gonna sound really weird but everyone’s saying there aren’t trains to Sandmire.”
There was a pause on the other end. She replied, “Sorry, I didn’t hear, love. Is it a strike? Or what’s the other thing they say?”
Harry offered, “Engineering works? No. They reckon Sandmire isn’t a station.”
There was a longer hesitation this time. There was a muffled conversation on the other end. Then his mother was back on. She said, “You sound funny. Have you been drinking?”
“No, bloody hell!” He glanced at the screen. Five minutes until the train. Maybe he could get off at the station before his town and catch a bus for the last leg. He stifled a belch and asked, “Are you in Sandmire now?”
The answer was querulous. “Harold, you’re worrying me and your dad. Are you taking drugs?”
He had to restrain himself from shouting, but his voice squeaked. “No mum. I’ve got to go.” He added, “I might be a bit late.” and hung up.
He downed the rest of his pint and hurried to the next obstacle.
3
The barrier spat out Harry’s ticket as he bounced back from the gate. He pushed it into the slot. The same outcome.
He farted and glanced over at the rail staff. They were chatting between themselves.
He scanned the platforms and spotted his train. Agitated crowds were already boarding.
He turned his ticket round and attempted again. No luck.
Stance hoisted his holdall over one shoulder and turned to approach the assistants. Then stopped. If they didn’t recognize Sandmire either, he would waste time and miss the train. It was his mother’s 70th birthday. All his brothers and sisters would already be there.
There was only one option.
Harold shuffled close behind a gaggle of young girls and waited for his moment. The teenager in front, inserted her ticket, the gate swung open, and he shoved through the narrow gap with her. For an instant, the barrier trapped the corner of his bag. He swore, yanked the holdall free and staggered into the group of girls. One screamed and dropped her Smirnoff Ice. It made a loud smash as it hit the floor. Another called him a pervert.
Head down, Harry muttered an apology, spotted rail workers ambling over in the corner of his eye, and scurried for the platform.
Ignoring their calls, he forced his way into the commuter-wedged, first carriage. The doors slammed shut behind his sweat-soaked back, the train lurched forward, and he was moving.
He exhaled, wiped a coat sleeve across his wet forehead and thanked the train’s delayed departure.
Stance sighed, “I’ve made it.”
He spoke too soon.
4
Harold decided to ask the passenger standing beside him. He ventured, “Excuse me, is this the train to Sandmire?”
The woman grimaced as Stance’s boozy breath wafted over her phone and smothered her face. She replied, “No. I don’t know the place.” and jerked her head back into the glowing screen in her pale hand.
Harry frowned and listened to the announcements. Ginwich then Bowbury. His hometown was normally between the two. He clawed a beer can from his holdall, snapped it open and took a large swill, ignoring the woman’s disapproving glower. He suppressed a burp, leaned back against the train door, and fished his phone from his pocket. His mother answered on the second ring.
“Hi mum. I’m on the train.” Stance hesitated. “Is everything alright there?”
There was faint laughter in the background. “Sorry love. I can’t hear you very well. Are you in a tunnel?”
Hills and trees flashed past Harry’s back. The connection was fine at his end. “No. I can hear you OK. Is everyone there . . .” He added, “. . . in Sandmire?”
There was a high-pitched cackle and Harold flinched. He held the handset away from his ear. The tinny screeching continued. He felt other commuters’ irritated scowls. He lowered the volume and returned the phone to his ear.
Stance swallowed and tried to speak over the piercing laugh. “Mum . . . mum! What’s going on?” There was a loud rustle and a grunt.
Harold heard his father’s voice next. It was very . . . monotone.
Stance senior enunciated every syllable. He said, “I advise you to stay on the train, son.” The background noise had stopped. There was only his father’s voice from deep within a vast emptiness.
Harry’s head swirled as he gripped the phone.
Harold’s father said, “It is very cold here, son.”
And the line went dead.
5
Stance stared at the blank phone screen. He finished the can in two large gulps. There was a loud beep behind, and he jumped aside as the doors opened. Passengers fled the train, and there was a moment’s reprieve, before more exhausted commuters flooded in. He dragged his holdall to the other end of the carriage and slumped in a corner.
He dialled his parents’ number again. And again.
There was no dial tone. And no one picked up.
Harry remembered his mother’s maniacal cackling. And then his father’s detachment. His automated voice had emerged from a void.
Stance shivered.
The next station was Ginwich. Time to get off.
6
“Where to, mate?”
Harry peered at the bus driver and paused before replying. “Sandmire?”
The other man tilted his ear to the glass partition, “Sorry. Where?”
Stance didn’t persevere. He paid for a full journey to the end of the line and sat down near the back of the bus.
He reached inside his bag for another beer and changed his mind. He picked up his phone but put it down. Restless, he wiped condensation from the window and let his focus drift over the static rain-swept traffic.
He looked up at a road sign and his heart thudded. He knuckled his eyes, but the image remained. Like a partially developed Polaroid.
A panel indicated the two miles to his hometown.
But the word, Sandmire, had been erased.
7
The bus followed its usual route. Harold Stance watched the TESCO flash by. Then the lake where he had fished as a boy. Then the pub where he had bought his first underage pint. Then the park where he’d played football with friends and fumbled with girls’ bra straps.
He settled into his seat and felt the tension easing from his shoulders.
Then the bus trundled over the Sandmire border.
And everything changed.
8
Harry blinked and shielded his eyes as a glaring whiteness penetrated the insides of the bus. He felt a tug on his elbow. He glanced down and an old woman was handing him a pair of dark sunglasses.
He couldn’t see her eyes through her own black lenses. She said, “I always bring them for this bit. Don’t damage your eyes, love.” Her voice croaked and she lifted the offering to his face.
Stance squinted around at the other passengers. They were all wearing thick sunglasses while they looked at their phones or stared out of the windows. In the rear-view mirror, he could see the driver. He had also put on dark sunglasses. He was whistling as he drove.
Harold’s eyes were starting to sting in the extreme brightness.
He mumbled, “Thank you.” and snapped his attention back to the surroundings.
As he surveyed the landscape, bile rose in his chest.
9
Sandmire was a flat, barren, white wilderness. No houses, no shops, no pubs. Not a single building. There were no parks or trees. There were no people either. No signs of life. Like the road sign, it was an empty sheet of paper. A glowing nothing.
“What happened? Where is everyone? Where is everything? Why is it white?” Stance heard questions rapid firing from his mouth as if ejected by a bodily function. His legs and arms were twitching. His eyes were blinking through the heavy lenses. His teeth were grinding, and his lip was split. Blood dripped down his chin.
He heard the old woman whisper, “It’s the end of the line, love.”
Those words unplugged his mind.
Harry fainted.
10
There were whoops and cheers inside the small viewing room. The audience clapped as the curtains closed on the short film.
Harold Stance lay strapped to a gurney. Another man stood beside his inert body and bowed to the applause. He beamed as he waited for the ovation to subside.
When the excited chatter had relented, he adjusted his tie and addressed the crowd. He spoke into a microphone. “So, thank you for attending this first test screening, everyone. As you have seen today, this new technology will revolutionize reality entertainment as we know it.” He clicked his fingers and a technician in a lab coat shuffled onto the stage. He was wearing thick goggles. The suited speaker said, “Dr. Jenson, would you mind removing the chip, please?”
The new entrant leaned over Stance and poked inside a tiny hole in the motionless man’s head. With a pair of tweezers, he withdrew a miniscule metal tube and carefully placed it inside a shiny round box. He clicked it shut, nodded to the presenter, and exited the stage.
The onlookers were silent. From the darkness, their eyes trained on the speaker.
He said, “Mr. Stance is unharmed and has received a generous payment for his time. It’s a simple procedure, which will quickly heal. We implant the scenario, and the test subject lives it in his or her mind. We sit back and enjoy the images as they project onto the screen in real time.” He paused and surveyed the faces in the shadows. He added, “It’s really that simple.”
He grinned as he bathed in more applause.
11
Harold Stance had scanned his bank account and laughed when he saw the new six-figure sum. The experiment had proven a more distressing experience than he had anticipated, but seeing the zeros in his statement made it all worthwhile. The memories would fade. They weren’t even real recollections. The payment merited a few residual nightmares.
He wheeled his new suitcase up to the ticket machine. He had dispensed with his battered holdall and hummed as he selected a first-class return to Sandmire. He was already a little lightheaded from the champagne in the station bar.
He began to sing Soul Asylum’s Runaway Train as he approached the barrier. In one hand, he carried a large bouquet for his mother’s 70th birthday.
Balancing the flowers under one arm, he slipped the card into the slot.
It bounced back.
He stopped singing and frowned. He tried again. Rejected.
Harold Stance dropped the flowers.
And ran to the monitors.
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***
Mark Humphries works as an English teacher for refugees and asylum seekers but is happiest when writing. His stories have appeared in numerous anthologies including, Tales from the Moonlit Path, Stygian Lepus Magazine, Schlock! and Dragon Soul Press’s A Winter Kiss. Links to all his fiction can be found on his Facebook page. His speculative debut novel, Performance, is also due for publication with Nightmare Press. He lives with his wife in Leeds, England.