Ian Fleming

A short story

Mark was sitting on the train reading On Her Majesty’s Secret Service when he was punched in the face. The book was pulled down and the fist arrived in one motion. His head slammed back into the pole behind like a metal karate chop to the back of his skull and he felt himself slipping into the aisle as he also heard someone else – an old woman – cry out in shock and dismay and some laughter. He put a hand on the floor to stop himself falling completely and then pushed himself upright, his eyes refocusing and his brain sloshing in his head. He tried to stand up. The man was standing over him, a hand on Mark’s chest pushing him back into his seat.

‘You want another one, do you?’ he shouted. Behind him he could see the young man’s mates. One of them was holding up his mobile phone and the little torch light was on. They were filming this?

Mark’s hands were up in front of him.

‘Nah, I didn’t think so.’

And like that it was over. The young men carried on down the length of the train and changed carriage. Other passengers crowded around Mark. ‘Are you all right son?’ said the old woman, who was probably the one who had cried out.

‘You should call the police,’ a man said. ‘Fucking out-rageous.’

Two young women were taking care of the blood with wet wipes and one was holding his arm. The story of what had just happened was being told up and down the carriage and someone was calling the guard, but no one was sure if these trains even had guards anymore. Questions were being asked of Mark.

‘Did you know those guys?’

He was baffled and spoke through pain, ‘Never saw them before in my life. I was just sitting here.’ One of the women was holding his arm and whispering that he was okay and Mark felt very close to collapsing in tears. There was rage in him as well now.

When the train stopped, he lurched up. ‘I’ve got to… this is my station.’

A man in a leather jacket ran after him on the platform and gave him his paperback that now had drips of real blood on the cover to go with the fake ones that were part of the cover design.

As the train pulled out, it occurred to him the young men might also have got off at this stop and a panic seized him. They might be waiting for him or following him. He went through the gates out of the station and into a café next to the locksmith’s that was right by the station and run by a Greek family. Away from first-hand witnesses of the incident, he was now a man clutching a fistful of bloody tissues to his nose. Without immediate context, he was looked at warily.

‘Have you got a bathroom?’ he asked.

At first the man in the white t-shirt that stood up on a fine layer of curly body hair said, no but after a second changed his mind. Mark ordered a breakfast out of gratitude and went into the little ‘staff only’ toilet. He looked at his face. His nose was broken. That was obvious. He had to straighten it and that hurt. He started to cry, just out of pain and anger. He fucking hated crying. Why was he crying? He was a grown man. He washed his face careful. The blood off his chin, his lips. He carefully, again carefully, unpeeled a wet wipe where it had stuck to his nostril with a crust of black blood. He smoothed his hair down and brushed his shirt front. He checked his phone. He saw there was a missed call from Jill. He looked once more into the mirror. He wiped his eyes and let out a huge lip-flapping sigh, half raspberry. And then cautious chuckle.

‘Fuck,’ he said, long and deep. And shuddered.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

‘You okay bruv?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice suddenly weak and breaking. ‘Yeah. I mean. I’m good. Just a sec.’

He dried his hands and waited for the man to go away and then unlatched the door and went back out into the café. ‘Your breakfast is there kiddo,’ the man pointed to the table by the window. A large rubber plant teetered.

‘Cheers, chief,’ Mark said. ‘And thanks for the …’

He sat down and looked at the food, wondering if he wanted to eat. Actually, he suddenly realized he was famished. He ate with gusto but the hot tea made his nose bleed again and he had to stifle it with a pinched shred of tissue while thumbing a quick text off to Jill to tell her something came up and he was running an hour late. Maybe he should cancel altogether, but the alternative of going home to the flat and just sitting there was too horrible. He was already rehearsing answers to the inevitable questions. His first reaction was to joke: ‘should see the other guy!’ and to make it out like it was nothing. He could even lie. ‘Tripped over in the street. Paving round our way is appalling.’

‘You should sue the council.’

‘What happened to your face man?’ the café guy was over, wiping the Formica top of the table with a damp tea towel and swiping the empty tea mug.

Surprised into honesty, Mark began, ‘A guy on the train…’ but then had to stop as tears sprang into his eyes and his voice began to shake.

‘It’s all right,’ the man said, laying a soft hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll get you a top up, okay?’

Fucking hell. Was that going to happen every time?

He just needed some time. He needed to process this. It wasn’t something that happened every day, was it? You don’t leave the house thinking, “I wonder if someone is going to punch me in the face today?” It’ll take a moment to adjust to this new reality. Digest this. You can be punched in the face at any time without provocation for no reason whatsoever.

He finished his food and drank the fresh cup of tea. Then he got ready to go. When he went to pay, the man waved him away. ‘Forget about it, bruv,’ he said. ‘You get some bad luck, you deserve some good.’

Mark nodded his head in gratitude and smiled really tightly because he knew he couldn’t trust himself to open his mouth. He waved at the door.

‘I know, take care of yourself, kiddo,’ the man called as he turned up the radio.