The outsider by Steve Smith

The train rocked and juddered, transporting the city workers to their desks, their jobs and their daytime lives. Eyes flicked around, refusing contact, darting to the floor when challenged. Some read books, some read newspapers, magazines acted as barriers and others found interest in the weeds and bracken lining the track; every grass blade would be inspected and catalogued in their forty year careers. Heads moved in time with the carriage, each face covered with a cold plastic mask. The scowls behind every free newspaper intensified with each stop and new influx of people. An army of white collars invaded by one. He looked at the people but could make no connection.

A hunched man stood in front of a small door that led to the first class compartments in the slam-door carriage; a battered briefcase stood in between his legs, the Daily Mail in his chubby hands. The Outsider carefully moved around a smart black lady and a tall person with a small rucksack on his shoulder. The young man moved aside, making no eye contact, stepping into a small space between the legs of an older gentleman wearing a smart suit, forty inch trousers and a stylish red silk tie: a Christmas present from The Wife. The old man stayed behind The Times, making no effort to create any space. The Outsider stood before the hunched man, looking at the headline and a picture of a faceless politician. It lowered slowly as the reader's eyes appeared on its horizon; he stared at the man for a few moments, turning slightly to the door and back to the man. He mumbled an apology and tried to make room for the man to pass.

The Outsider drew back his arm before launching his fist straight through the newspaper and deep into the man's stomach. He held it there for a moment before withdrawing it, standing as before. The man gripped the newspaper, stooped forward, his mouth open, desperate for an air injection. The Outsider watched, before moving forward to hit the man's forehead with the bottom of his open palm, jerking it backwards, striking the door frame. The strong smacking sound and following thud made such an unusual sound that it attracted the odd glance from the packed carriage. The man angled his head and tried to speak but he could make no sound. The Outsider's hand still hovered near to the man's face; it moved forward and took hold of the nose, covering the mouth. The man convulsed. The Outsider pulled at the nose as hard as he could. The man found his voice, screaming from the back of his throat, the muffled sound not great in volume, its energy unable to pass through the hand in sufficient force.

People watched. The black lady stepped backwards, the young man stood inside the old man's legs without moving. A schoolboy sitting by the opposite window looked forward through burning and moist eyes at the Telegraph barrier in front of him.

The man's screams died away as he prepared for the worst. The Outsider removed his hand and stood before the man, now bent over and pushed against the side of the four seats. He took deep breaths, as if each might be his last, sweating profusely through every pore, his dignity stripped and tossed through the open window.

‘What are you doing?’ he managed to say above the sound of the fast-moving train.

The Outsider said nothing, cocking his head to the side, before swinging his fist under-arm, landing a punch on the man's jaw, knocking him flat to the floor. His hand came up to the impact point and he moaned. All eyes, bar the schoolboy, watched the man on the floor, frightened to look at The Outsider. Every shuffle of newspaper and movement of shoe could be heard above the sound of the train. The Outsider turned slowly, sending a double score of eyeballs to the floor; he reached and took the silver knob of the first class door and pulled. The stricken man blocked the door. He pulled again, hitting the man's ribs, making him yelp. He repeated his action, pulling ever harder, as if angry that the door would not open and that if he continued for long enough, the annoying snag would give, allowing him to pass. The man tried to move but did not want to crawl through or touch The Outsider's legs. The Outsider tried as hard as he could but the door would not yield. He let go of the door and it closed with a clunk. He frowned at his impossible problem, before lowering his attention to the floor. He drew back his leg and kicked the man in the head. The man's shaking arms moved up to cover any further attack, but he made no other effort to speak or move.

The train stopped at New Cross Gate; more than usual got off and only one replacement boarded: a very tall black man, stocky, almost chubby. He became aware of the tension in the carriage as the train pulled away: a mobile phone would ring and be quickly silenced, no loud voice following; there would always be at least two passengers talking, but today, nothing; and the rhythmic movement of bodies seemed strained and somehow mechanical. From his standing position in front of the schoolboy, he tipped his head to see what he believed to be a large bag spread out on the floor. He steadied his head and blinked when he saw it was a man. He looked away at the mirror above the seats, which being lower than eye level, showed his own chest. He glanced again at the figure on the floor. How strange, and how doubly strange that no one else seemed to notice! His eyes drifted down to the blonde woman sitting in front of him. He looked at her scalp. She was a real blonde. His eyes drifted further down to her breasts, which lifted up and down in a very pleasing way. The warm sun had given them a healthy colour and a hint of moisture; it gave him a good feeling deep inside. He wondered if she had a man, when he might have held and touched those glorious breasts heaving in front of him, whether it had been last night, or whether he had won a quick grope as she struggled out of bed, late for her train, this train.

The man on the floor moaned; The Outsider responded with a solid kick to the head. The black man turned to look, but all remained quiet and calm as before. He looked away, wondering if his imagination was playing tricks with him. He watched the breasts once more. They were moving even faster.

Arriving at London Bridge, the conductor warned the passengers not to open the doors until the train had come to a complete stop. Each passenger was to be responsible for removing their own luggage.

The train stopped; other parts of the carriage made the usual rush for the door, this section stood slowly in silence, taking extra time to retrieve their possessions from the overhead shelves. The Outsider carefully opened the door and looked back, turning everyone to stone. He turned back and stepped through the door. A lady in a business suit bumped him; he scowled after her as she disappeared into the crowd, before he made for the underground.

A thin old man, sitting next to the door, in front of the prostrate figure lifted himself from his chair, carefully placed his foot by the man’s head, reached for his briefcase, stepped over the man and went on his way.

The schoolboy left via another door and looked for a train that would take him back to New Cross Gate.

The tall black man looked carefully at the injured man as he followed in the perfumed slipstream of the blonde lady with the nice breasts; she thought she might buy an extra large coffee from Starbucks that morning.

The smart black lady knelt beside the man and asked if he was okay. He lifted his head, making her recoil at the sight of blood streaming from his eyebrow; he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The large older gentleman asked her if she knew what it was all about, but she could only shrug.