Fuck it was hot.
Hart looked up, over the rims of his glasses, at the burning sun above the train tracks. He should never have agreed to a summer sitting. Not that he’d really had a choice.
“Fuck it’s hot.”
The old man sitting next to Hart coughed, then pulled out a flask, pressing it to his chapped lips.
“You goin’ to London?” he continued, spluttering, offering the flask.
Hart refused, attempting to hide his disgust.
“I am. On the four ten.”
The old man nodded, satisfied by their brief conversation. He took another swig, then returned to the book he’d been reading. Hart couldn’t see the cover.
Stockport railway station was modest in size, four public platforms, one private. A small stand served room temperature coffee and shelf stable snacks. There was a fridge, but it contained nothing of interest to Hart. The station had one redeeming quality; it was convenient. The small house he shared with five others was less than a half mile away, and the train itself would take him directly to the city.
Hart looked at his watch. Four o’ seven. He was excited for the shade of a train carriage and the breeze of an open window. He stood up, walking to the platform edge. Looking to his right, he could see the train far off down the tracks, approaching at speed. It was jet black, the solar panels on its cupola glinting like the carapace of a beetle. He smiled, and stepped back behind the yellow line.
The train pummelled into the station, blowing a gust of hot wind past Hart, and flapping the pages of the old man’s book. The first few carriages, first class, were gone in an instant, disappearing down the platform. Hart imagined the judgement of their occupants, seeing the common men through their tinted windows and veil of disinterest. As the train slowed, the coaches of Hart’s class, standard, pulled up beside the platform. The old man started to stand, but struggled with his book and assorted bags. Hart stepped back from the platform edge to help, but was shooed away. Instead, he stood to one side as the man, now embarrassed and angry at his embarrassment, stepped through an open door.
Avoiding the man’s tempest, Hart moved a little further back down the train, walking briskly along the platform to the next carriage. As the whistle blew, he jumped aboard, whipping his large portfolio forward as the doors slammed shut behind him.
—
The carriage itself was empty. Not unusual at this time of day. Hart welcomed it, after the odd conversation on the platform. He chose a seat, facing forward, and placed his portfolio flat on the plastic table before it. His other bag, a large duffel, he put upended on the seat next to him. The train began to move with a discordant hum.
He exhaled, allowing himself a moment of quiet. For Hart, this was only the first step down a long path. He was nervous and excited in equal measure. He was also, somehow, already exhausted. The heat! He opened the window next to him, allowed the hissing wind to blow down the carriage. And there he sat, in his own little wind tunnel down to London. Peace.
Hart closed his eyes. Allowed himself to fall back into the cheap woollen seat, through it almost. He didn’t want to sleep, couldn’t, yet. But he brought two things back from his national service: the duffel bag, and an understanding that rest must be taken whenever it is available.
He chuckled at that. At the absurdity of comparing his current outward profession to that of a soldier. He could think of many dangerous men who would take offence at the implication.
After a few minutes, Hart opened his eyes and leant forward in his seat. He had left home in a hurry, and wanted to check over his things. First, he unzipped the portfolio, leafing through the papers contained therein. He had more than enough for his work, and was sure that others could be sent for if needed. A few stray pencils had fallen down to the crevices of the portfolio, which he had not consciously packed, but were an inevitable flotsam of his profession. No matter.
Next, he reached into the duffel. His usual stock of clothes for a short trip (a couple of extra pairs of socks, another habit picked up in service) and a pair of smarter shoes than the ones he was travelling in. A toothbrush, a bag of crisps and a bottle of water, which he wished he’d remembered packing back on the platform.
Beneath those generic and anonymous items, buried, were the two most useful items he was taking to London today.
The first was a beautiful mahogany case, filled with his charcoals, the tools with which he rendered his first sketches and studies of a subject. He of course would require a full set of oils, canvases and palettes for the full piece; they would be provided after a couple of sittings by his client. But these charcoals, his charcoals, were a point of pride and specificity that he brought with him to every job.
The second item was buried even deeper. Hart didn’t want to take it out, not even in an empty carriage, but he felt its cold, plastic surface as his fingers explored the bottom of the bag. The smile on his face, the peace earned in those first few minutes on the train, slowly drained. Months of planning, months of preparation had put this final item in Hart’s bag, and the enormity of that investment, the scale of its repercussions, vibrated through him as he held it, gingerly, in his hand.
It was a bomb. A bomb that could explode an empire.