Please Take Me Into The Storm
T. E. Brierley
Copyright © 2011 T. E. Brierley
Published by Winter Island Press Publishing at Smashwords
1.
I had no idea where I was when they got the note. I was being fired across the expanses of indistinguishable English countryside, my eyes persisted on scanning the horizon for some sort of landmark, something so I could pin point my location, ever since I was a child I'd always liked to know where I was, I was given a pocket atlas for a Christmas present one year and I clung on to it like a bible, its honest truths gave me a futile sense of stability and meaning. But now I had nothing. I knew where I came from and where I was going, my departure times where scheduled to the minute, but everything between was an absurd yet beautiful blur of colour.
The note was self absorbed and vague, a coward’s escape, but I had really no alternative. We had become jaded with our routine life but only I had the initiative to act up on it and I left them behind in a fumbling escape. Naturally they would be hurt when they read that I wouldn’t be returning but that would pass with time, as old emotions are replaced by the new, the vivacity of memories fade, time has a way of making everything insignificant.
Shortly after the train had departed I found myself on a seat next to the window, I disregarded the ones that had been placed around a table, and although the advantage of the extra surface would have been practical, they had a tendency to become occupied by people wanting to spend the next few hours conversing about nothing to anyone who’d listen, and that was not the way I wanted to spend my journey. I wasn’t against the idea of speaking with strangers, and to be honest I’d spent many evenings where that was the sole aim, but not now, not whilst I was alone. I needed to be with at least one other person before any of my social functions would appear and whilst sitting here unaccompanied, these inherent protocols would loose their priority, be replaced by independent thought and imagination, there was something about isolation that seemed to perpetually exacerbate itself, while groups of people could gather momentum and collect people, singular entities would slowly become more reclusive, absorbed and enthralled by the comfort of their own thoughts.
I took a notebook out of my bag and started to write down fragments of sentences; words that seemed fitting and still frames of the fast approaching horizon. I had tried writing before when I was younger, mainly after returning from drunken nights, but the scraps of paper I found screwed up on the floor sounded trite, awkward and contrived as I observed them the morning after, I had always seemed to get hung up trying to describe a feeling that I had never known. But now it was different, it was a desire that only flared once I was in motion, as soon as I was on any mode of transportation I dived into my note book and wrote sporadic bursts of words, feelings and ideas. I was leaving so much behind that I strove for some permanency, although that romanticised excuse was probably nothing but a ridiculously excessive description of too much time and boredom.
The train stopped at a regional station and several people boarded. A woman sat in the vacant seat next to me, I smiled in her general direction to destroy and conceptions of misanthropy she might have established, but quickly fixed my eyes away from her and out of the window.
“I sure hope this drizzle clears up.” She said after several minutes.
“I’m sorry” I said, purely out of a lack of an alternative response.
“The weather, its terrible for this time of year, spring should have defiantly set in by now.” She was overweight, spectacled and her voice was laced with a sickly benevolence. I smiled back at her but I knew the conversation would not end so easily.
“I’m going to visit my grandson. He lives with his wife down here.” She said with enthusiasm, she was under the ill informed guise the stating irrelevant facts constituted as a conversation.
“Sounds delightful” I responded. Several stops later she said goodbye and disappeared out of the automated doors into damp darkness that had lingered for most of the morning.
Not long after the rolling hills and farms made their retreat we were approaching one of London’s many train stations, I slipped off the train and onto the large open platform, and without even tasting fresh air I passed under a number of tunnels lined with construction boards and safety notices into another train station that was conveniently positioned adjacent. I passed through customs and displayed my identification to the accusing eyes that worked there, I made little impact to their daily procedures, I was nothing but a piece of official documentation, but the knowledge that every aspect of my observable character was being scrutinised, I quickly became very aware of the way that I walked and was overcome by a unfounded feeling a guilt. My mind was erratically searching for any reason for this, had I done anything wrong or unintentionally broken any laws? Did my face resemble that off a criminal? Would this be one of those stories of mistaken identity? I carried on walking looking for something in the officer’s eyes but their polished composure was faultless, I sat down in the waiting room on the other side and before long returned to my introverted contentment.
An ambiguous announcement was made and I guessed it was regarding my scheduled train; I followed a small crowd across the platform and boarded. This time the seat was already allocated and sat down without much thought. I ordered and overpriced miniature plastic bottle of wine from the trolley as it went past, I knew that it would be terrible but probably fit for its purpose. After a while the windows transformed into ghostly mirrors along the carriage, a warped reflection of many faces gazed out into the darkness and it stayed like this for about an hour as we passed under the channel. We were shot out in a glare of light and as my eyes started to adjust to the daylight I frantically searched for something but the differences were indistinguishable.
2.
The train creaked into the station and I got off. I looked for the first entrance to the subterranean tunnels of the Paris metro and descended into the swells of people below, waves upon waves, people flowing from one carriage to the next, I blended amongst them seamlessly and was taken away and propelled underneath the city. I had planned to stay with an old friend. We were close during our times at college but ever since his ex-patronisation our communications have become nothing more than a muted echo over the social networks. He seemed happy enough to help me out when spurted out my plans one evening over a drunken phone call but I felt that he never thought I would go through with it and the idea of me appearing at his door with everything I owned forced into a suitcase was more than he needed at the moment. I got off the metro and was pulled up the escalator and spat out into a wet square at the foot of Montmartre. I followed the vague instructions I was given and navigated my way through the winding streets.
I approached a large apartment block, pushed the door open and stepped into the hall, it lead towards a large stairwell where every surface was made out of wood, the walls, the floor, the ceiling and banister, all the same tone so there was no contrast for the eye to focus on. I creaked my way up and as I passed each door, the smells and sounds poured through the cracks in the frame and keyhole and grabbed me, number 23, a middle-aged woman was cooking for two young children, number 27, a young man was smoking a cigar while watching the television, number 32, empty. I arrived at the top floor, the floor where Marc lived. I thrust my fist into the door several times and waited for him to answer.
The door flew open with vigour and before I had chance to focus upon the figure in front of me a large hand grasped mine and shook it with confidence. I raised my head and I was met by a large beaming grin, it was Marc, somewhat larger than I had remembered but the youthful enthusiasm seemed to be still firmly routed in his personality.
“Jim! It’s fantastic to see you again.” His sentence transformed into a hearty laugh as it neared the end.