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Monday morning. Early, so early he can see his breath, has to wipe the liquid haze from the prefab's kitchenette window in order to even see out in to the carpark. But then this was how to get ahead, wasn't it. How to impress the boss, make your mark, all this working extra, working around the clock. So reliable and loyal and dutiful.
He glances up, peers at the white plastic dial ticking away above the doorjamb. Quarter to: Frank's due in by seven. In theory anyway. He flicks off the warmly ticking coffee machine, takes the steamed milk and teaspoons it out carefully across the caramel-hued crema, makes a fern shape on Frank's. A nice little personal touch. A sign hopefully of an employee doing more than the strictly necessary, a sign of an employee willing to go the extra mile.
At least this way, maybe he'd get one up on Michael, for once. Now wouldn't that be something. He can picture Michael's face now, the ugly fusion of fury and fear, deposed at last from his slimy throne, cast down from his position as the company's all-time number one buttkisser.
He snorts, and then shakes his head. What an attractive proposition. Honestly, the things you did just to get by.
The two hand-made coffees sit there on the formica countertop, steaming away in the chilly air. Threading his fingers through their handles to avoid the hot ceramic, he clutches the mugs together, and carries them into Frank’s office, sets them down on a writing pad on his desk—and then there it is. His fate. Writ casual in ballpoint, a half-scrawl, jotted beside the margin. Not even capitalised.
His name. Set there in blank ink, third from the top! April Terminations. All these years, all his loyal service, and he's that easy to set loose.
Two hand-made coffees, to share, steaming away. And there it is—his fate.

***

A drift of maple leaves blocks the station concourse's ramp. He kicks a swathe through, the eruption of dry leaves caught up by the wind and scattered across the asphalt, like massive flakes of dead skin.
Crash a train to keep his job. Not the world's most ideal plan, exactly, but given the time constraints, it seems it'll have to do.

Of course it needn't be anything too serious, too drastic. Just a little inconvenience, and wasn't the logic of the move irresistible? After all what could possibly result, when the train stops dead in Newmarket tunnel, in the dark, and gets hit by the next oncoming? What was the only logical decision the company's could make? Continue with the move to an electric, automated, low man-power system? Unlikely. Very unlikely indeed. No, how could they, they'd be forced re-think everything, re-think the lay-offs. He can see no other possible outcome.
The wind picks up, and pulling his jacket closer he moves faster along the ramp. This has all been a long time coming. It will not be the end though, not for him: he is a redundant ticket-collector with a plan! All cogs and gears, a grand old station clock's inner workings, all precision and calculation, ticking, humming, whirring. Ticking and humming and whirring like the fresh blood in his skull.
The concourse is almost empty, save for a couple of seagulls and one greasy-haired schoolkid. The kid's tossing broken doritos to them in between mouthfuls. What a life that must be, being a gull or something similar, just flying around all day, feasting on your pick of the choicest scraps lying round. Instead of being stuck down here, plotting to engineer a minor railway accident. Plotting deliberate sabotage, plotting to damage council property, maybe even put others at risk. What was the alternative though? No job, no mortgage payments, no house. What a prospect. He sighs and shakes his head, and then glances up as a figure appears from behind a shelter further down the concourse.
It's Michael. Leaning out from the side of the shelter, watching him curiously. No, not watching: staring. What was up with him? There was no way he could know, was there. Did he know, somehow, that this wasn't his usual train? The man is definitely acting odd, odder than the usual even. Something's up. This is not good. He grinds his teeth. Where was this blasted train anyway? The first row of little plastic discs presses against his feet as he leans over the yellow safety line, and peers down along the rails, squints into the misty distance, the early morning haze:
Nothing. A quick glance at his watch confirms it. Well, well. His final train is a whole ten minutes late. No doubt there'll be no more late trains now though, not with them all electronically controlled, each and every motion analysed and directed by a remote computer. He snorts. No late trains! Wouldn't that be something.
At last the thing rumbles and puffs into sight. Great dirty yellow worm, wheezing diesel. Soon enough the fumes wash over the platform, dark, sweet-smelling. And how will electric trains smell, he wonders? Of ozone? The ether?
No, it will smell of efficiency. What a pity a worker's family cannot eat efficiency.
Inside the train, the fabric-seat rows are filled almost exclusively with his co-workers and superiors. All heading downtown. For the big meeting, the big announcement; and for many, the big fall of the big axe. The big chop. It's quite surreal, seeing the carriage like this: so many matching blue-grey uniforms, filling the seats and rows, line after line, still, silent. All of them staring into the middle distance. Tin soldiers about to hit the firing line.
He snorts. How melodramatic, comparing this to the frontlines in a war! Maybe he is being far too rash about the whole thing. Maybe there were other options, better at least than deliberate railway sabotage. Surely there were other jobs a fifty-something ticket collector could do competently? He racks his brains for possibilities. In the end nothing comes to him, though it doesn't help that his mind will not quiet and focus: trains and tickets, passengers and parallel tracks, stations and speakers, pigeons and pig-iron—they all spin round and round. It seems all the known world.
A blast from the train's horn stirs him. Half-stifling a yawn, he shuffles himself upright. How strange, to doze off at a time like this... peering in the window's reflection, he straightens his collar and smooths a tuft of hair at the back of his head, and then darts a glance around the carriage. Did anyone notice him?
Well—Michael is staring, as baleful as usual, but apart from that, no one, nothing. Or at least if they'd noticed, they certainly give no sign. They all just sit there. The lot of them: neat and orderly in their matching blue-grey uniforms, faces vacant, gazing into nothing. How many of them knew? How many had any idea, even an inkling, that this could be their final trip? Of course he knew full well, didn't he.
Twin steaming coffees, hand-made, to share. And there it is: fate. His fate.
No. It's too much. They cannot be allowed to just get away with it—Frank, head office, the company directors—not so lightly. They must pay, and dearly at that. Or there is no justice.
Michael, naturally, is still at it, just staring and staring at him, like he's trying to communicate some psychic threat. He furrows his brow at the man. What was his game? Abruptly, a prickly sensation runs down his spine. Something wasn't right here. Had Michael guessed at his plans, somehow, from some clue, pieced it together? Or enough of it certainly to just sit there, watch him like a hawk this whole time. Hadn't he.
This was not good. How long now before the train enters the Newmarket tunnel, four, five minutes? Attempting now to employ his own psychic influence, he wills the train along towards the tunnel. Faster. Faster!
Michael frowns over at him, shifts his weight as if to get up from his seat.
The tunnel is almost ahead of them now. His eyes find the emergency brake, red-lit button behind its perspex shield. How easy it is! His back and shoulders tense in anticipation, rigid with a will of their own, until it almost feels he has no say in the matter and his arm stretches out—
"Excuse me..."
It's a passenger. A small girl, about the same age as his own youngest, who'd until recently been sitting with her mother in the seat opposite him.
He frowns, eyes flicking over to the glowing emergency brake and then back to her. "Yes?"
She hesitates, glances back across the aisle to her mother, who nods at her. The girl turns back to him. "You dropped this on the floor," she holds up a black leather wallet, his black leather wallet by the looks of it. "When you went asleep," she explains.
In reflex, he pats at his rear trouser pocket, despite the undeniable evidence hovering before his eyes. Yes. It is empty.
"Thank you," he accepts his wallet, smiles at the girl as she goes back her mother.
He forces himself back against his seat, away from the emergency brake. What was he thinking? What was wrong with him? Putting everyone here in danger, the whole carriage, this little girl. And for what? What could he really achieve, by bringing the carriages to a screeching halt? The train itself holds no power over anything. It moves on the strings the company pulls it with, same as the rest of them. No matter how he ends this ride, his job is gone. Electric trains are coming. Change: the one thing inevitable.

Michael is still giving him the evil eye, but it means nothing to him now. Let him stare. The man is a toothless tiger, a neutered tabby cat. And at any rate, he might as well enjoy his final ride. Make the most of it. He sighs, relaxes a little in his seat.

Two hand-made coffees, steaming away. And there it is—his fate. Writ casual.
Lemony morning-sun drizzles his carriage window, lights up arcane glyphs of speckles and streaks—old grime and waterstains. This glass could definitely use a wash. But then of course, who would actually spend the time and effort, who would bother to clean the carriage windows of a train about to be permanently decommissioned? No one appears to be volunteering.
Still, the whole thing seems kind of unfair to him. Such a sub-par state for its swan song. Even if it was a relic, an exhausted, bad-smelling old diesel throwback.
Just before the tunnel his carriage trundles past the familiar pair of tall beeches, high up on their clay embankment with its apron of onion-weed and nasturtiums, tufts of fennel. The pair he always seems to find himself glancing up at, even now; the hundredth time at least. Above him leaf clusters like little emeralds dance in the sunlight. The beeches’ tall, wriggling trunks and and boughs, hoary and lanky, grasp for sun and sky. A stark and lonely duo: only the kneehigh weeds, the cinderblock flats opposite for company. That and the oily gravel and iron of the railway.
His reverie is interrupted by a loud scrape below the carriage floor: the hot metal belly of the train forced into an unscheduled halt. Typical! Just as he's resolved not to pull the emergency brakes, after all, the ancient thing breaks right in front of the tunnel anyway. His fingers wander to the bottom-left of his official ID-badge, to the laminate around the lanyard hole, slowly peeling away for years now. What was going on, what was with all the delays? No point putting off the axe any further. It's all been such a long time coming. Hasn't it.
There it is—his fate. Writ casual in ballpoint.
Eventually though there's an enormous metallic creak beneath his feet, and with a final squeal from the chassis, at last the thing's off again. It chugs enthusiastically down the tunnel, and on through to its final four hundred metres of track.
As they draw round the last bend a blackbird appears outside his window. It seems to fly in perfect tandem with his carriage window, matching the train’s speed and direction, until it seems almost immobile, a permanent fixture of the top left window frame.
And then something changes and it darts off sideways, vanishes into a copse of birches. While his train rolls on, approaching the final stop, chewing up the rust-crusted iron, the railway’s parallel lines.