The Calling

The remainder of the bus journey had seemed to pass without any further complication and Francis cast his gaze around the busy terminal at North Greenwich as he topped up his oyster card with another ten pounds’ worth of money. He could still hear the slight whisper in his ear, but the image of the old man had apparently disappeared. He hoped this had been the produce of an over-tired mind and nothing more, it was bad enough living with the relentless whisper of the woman without visions of old age pensioners haunting him. He glanced around at the queue growing behind him and quietly moved away from the machine. He moved in tandem with the crowd as the people around him swarmed onto the station platforms. He paused in front of a large wall mounted map position close to the entrance and mapped out his journey in his head. He knew to reach France he would need the Euro-star and mentally noted that he would need tickets to travel into France. They could be bought once he reached his final destination of St. Pancras he thought as his hand reached into his pocket and subconsciously closed around his wallet. His eyes followed the silver line as it snaked along the map and joined with the black line as meandered along the map of the Underground system. It looked easy enough, and Francis knew that although it looked far; the journey along the Jubilee and Northern line would go at a quick pace.

He stepped onto the escalator and watched the various advertising signs pass as he slowly descended beneath the streets of London. At the foot of the escalator he allowed a throng of people to hurry pass as he once again checked the map on the wall and followed the line from North Greenwich along through Canary Wharf, Canada Water, Bermondsey until his destination at London Bridge. He sighed and hauled his bag upon his back and stepped out onto the station floor and stared at the electronic clock on the wall, slowly counting down its relentless march for the expected two minutes until the train arrived.

“Come to me...” the voice echoed in his head, even with the noise of the voices surrounding him. The sound of the voice seemed to press against his skull and he closed his eyes attempting to block put the noise around him. He never noticed the train stop at the station...or the doors open...or even his own movements as he boarded the train and took a seat. The faces around him seemed to blur as train sped through the long stretching tunnels. “Come to me...“, Canary Wharf sped past and Francis struggled under the scrutiny of his fellow passengers as he grasped at his head as the voice continued its mantra. He absently thought of France as Canada Water sped past...where would he start once he arrived, in Paris? or should he follow his instincts and travel where his heart or head leads. He sat back in his seat and attempted to avoid the stares of his fellow passengers as more people boarded and disembarked at Bermondsey...one more stop. The train pulled away from the station and forged a path through the darkness of the tunnel and Francis shifted in his seat pulling his bag tightly around his body as the lights blurred around him.

He could hear the sound of hooves in his head...the roar of battle...the smells of dirt and blood invaded his nostrils...London Bridge...the colour of a dozen standards whirled through is head...what the hell was happening? Southwark...where was he? Lancelot...call to arms...Francis stood to his feet and staggered under the sway of the train as it swept into Waterloo. He steadied himself against the side of the train and became aware of a voice beside him.

“Are you alright?” asked the concerned woman. He looked at her through the Perspex glass which separated them and stared into her ageing grey eyes and nodded dumbly. “Don’t travel well” she said nodding and smiled at him as he almost collapsed through the doors of the train and onto the platform of the station. Waterloo? He frowned as the crowds pressed him against the wall and he grasped at his bag and pulled it onto his back and breathed deeply the dank atmosphere of the tube system. He reached out and placed a hand against the tiled wall of the station to steady himself as dizziness threatened to overwhelm his senses and stared blankly at the opposite wall. The large black letters ‘WATERLOO’ stared back and mocked him as he struggled to remember the last stages of his journey. The sounds...the smell...when had he passed London Bridge? he placed his hand to his head and ran his fingers through his hair as the memories evaded him. He slowly picked his way through the crowds and stared at the map on the wall before him. He could still get the Northern line to St. Pancras from Waterloo, it would just mean changing at Euston.

“Come to me...”

“Shut the fuck up and leave me alone!” yelled Francis. He glanced around embarrassed at his sudden outburst and pushed his way past several people as he followed the signs for the Northern line. Passengers looked and stared as he forced his way impatiently past them, while others looked away embarrassed by his actions. The platform was just as busy as the one he had just left and Francis became increasingly conscious of the number of eyes on him. Follow your heart...that would be the way to go once he reached France he decided, follow your heart and trust your instincts and hopefully these voices haunting his mind would disappear. The doors of the waiting train stood open beckoning him into the bowel of the vehicle and Francis stumbled through the open gap and into the carriage. He stood watching the doors close behind him and watched as the tunnel blurred into darkness as the train thrust through the tunnel and onward. Stations whirled past, Embankment...Charing Cross...Piccadilly Circus...

“Come to me...” the voice continued and caused Francis to close his eyes at the sound of her voice.

“Leave me alone” he whispered, “I’m coming” his broken voice almost sobbed through her insistent urging. Almost self-consciously, Francis opened his eyes and glanced around the carriage and almost audibly sighed as he noticed no-one was watching him. He stood by the doors and regarded the people mingling around him. There was nothing especially significant about anyone in the carriage, no sign of the old man just several commuters probably heading into the city and students clutching heavy packs. A couple sat on the seats opposite whispering and giggling at unheard jokes while the floor was littered with bags, prams and bicycles. The train slowed and allowed several commuters to leave the train, while others stepped into the carriage...Oxford Circus came and went and the train copied its actions at Regent’s Park, then Baker Street.

Francis raised his head to study to map of the line above his head, but the glare from the subdued lighting blurred his vision. Marylebone...Edgware Road...Paddington...I’m here thought Francis and pushed his way out of the train and followed the herd of people as they cajoled and forced their way up the escalator toward sunlight. Advertising hoardings for private clinics and theatre shows passed as he stared up toward the pinnacle of the moving stair with an expectancy growing within his body. This was it...he thought silently. He moved with the crowd through the station and stood silently staring at the ticket machine. His hands moved unthinking over the screen as he punched in the information and placed his credit card into the thin slot on the machine. He blinked as the ticket slid from the device and retrieving his card he stepped from the machine and scanned the boards high above his head and frowned as he struggled to see the board for the Euro-star service. Paddington...a tiny voice in his mind was screaming at him...Paddington, but the voice was unheard as Francis stood stock still, eyes falling across the boards.

Birmingham...Manchester...Leeds...Glasgow...Newquay...York...where the hell was France? Newquay...his were drawn back to the name on the board...France? no Newquay...platform nine...he moved unconsciously toward the platform and crossed the vast hall of Paddington station. Faces and images blurred and swam from his vision as he moved through the station, he handed the ticket to the stationmaster who allowed Francis access to the platform and he glided onto the station floor where he could see the train standing patiently as though it were waiting for his arrival. The door of the train beckoned toward him and drew Francis toward the carriage. He stepped over the threshold and placed himself roughly down on the plush red velvet seat. A quick glance around the carriage revealed an empty train and slightly relieved at the lack of company, Francis allowed sleep to overwhelm him. He smiled as he settled to sleep...France...the last word to cross his mind.

An old man stepped from the shadows of the platform and watched as the train pulled slowly from the station and began its long journey West. “Soon...Francis we will meet” he said softly before fading from view.