Hart woke with a start. He looked down at his watch, brushing the LCD display and angling his wrist at the softening light from the window. 17:07, halfway there.
The carriage was still empty. He’d slept through a couple of stops, but he imagined that commuters boarding would have woken him. He was a light sleeper. The train was moving at top speed now, racing down the tracks towards London. In fact-
He looked at his watch again. 17:08. They’d be hitting the Rugby tunnel soon. All tracks into London were covered now, a security precaution. Hart smirked. ‘A precaution against men with ill intent towards the Empire’. Men like him.
Right on cue, the train carriage was thrown into pitch darkness as it entered the tunnel. A beat later, the fluorescent tubes embedded in the ceiling above flickered to life. Hart was glad he woke before the ‘city flash’, he knew from experience that it was an unsettling transition.
Knock. Knock knock knock.
Hart looked out into the aisle. The noise was coming from in front of him. A smiling man stood behind the door to the carriage. Hart gestured to enter, and with a nod, the man did so. He was tall, strong and smartly dressed for the city. He had no luggage, except for a leather briefcase held casually in his left hand. With his other hand, he gripped seat backs as he made his way down the carriage towards where Hart was sitting. As he got closer, he smiled again, and gestured to the seat facing Hart and his table.
Ever polite, and somewhat intrigued by the man’s strange approach, Hart nodded, and made movements towards his portfolio.
“Not a problem, not a problem,” the man said, sitting down and placing his briefcase on the floor of the empty seat next to him. “Do not adjust your belongings on my account, sir”
“No, I just, I-”
The man smiled again and reached out a large, manicured hand.
“Bartlett. John Bartlett. A pleasure to meet you.”
Hart shook the hand. The man had an accent, but one unfamiliar to Hart. American? It wasn’t New York, or-
“Virginia,” the man said, chuckling, “Every time I meet a new Englishman, he makes the same face you’re making at me right now. Trying to place me. It’s not an accent you hear much in the movies that make it over here. It’s also softened, over the years I’ve been here.”
“I’m sorry, I-”
“Not another word on it, friend. What’s your name?”
“Hart.”
He laughed, “How romantic!”
Hart resumed fiddling with his portfolio, if only to distract himself. Ensuring the papers were stowed flat, the zip shut. The man from Virginia was making him nervous.
Bartlett leant back in the seat, crossing his arms across his chest and looking out the window at the motion-blurred brick of the tunnel. The fluorescent light glinted and danced in his eyes as he turned back to Hart.
“What brings you to London?”
“I’m an artist, I’ve been commissioned for a portrait.”
“Oh. Must be of someone important?”
Hart didn’t answer. The name stuck in his throat.
Bartlett felt the moment of discomfort, so much so that he pantomimed a shiver across his shoulders.
“Oh, a very important someone. No need to illuminate me any further, Mister Hart.”
He winked and let the moment hang between them. And it did, until punctured by a compressed chime from Bartlett’s pocket.
“My apologies,” he said, whisking a mobile phone from his chest pocket. He tapped at its rubber keys and grimaced at whatever he’d been sent, “I just got this device, and it already rules me with an iron fist.”
“You got a text?”
“I did.”
“Bad news?”
Bartlett locked eyes with him.
“Confirmation.”
The carriage rocked. Probably a twig on the tracks. The rattle punctuated the Virginian’s sentence, and seemingly knocked him towards his purpose.
“Don’t do it, Hart.”
Hart pulled back, instinctively sweeping his portfolio off the table and upending it, a makeshift shield between them.
“Don’t do what?”
“You know what. Don’t.”
Every muscle in Hart’s body tensed. He did indeed know ‘what’. The ‘what’ was in his duffel, cold and explosive. He strained against his instinct to glance at it. Bartlett smiled.
“I get it, I do. I empathise, even. More than you know. He deserves what you have planned. More than any man who has ever walked this earth, he deserves it.”
“How do you-”
“It doesn’t matter, none of this does. This conversation is a courtesy. A final exit before the ride you’re looking to climb onto. Walk away. Or better yet, get off at the next station and head back to sunny Stockport.”
Bartlett drew up and opened his briefcase, took out a ticket, and placed it on the table between them.
“I assume you didn’t bother buying a return ticket. English frugality at its finest. I hope you don’t mind me taking the initiative.”
Hart looked at the ticket. It was tempting. It was definitely smart. Whoever this man was, he knew. Which meant others knew.
“I’ll leave you with that. You’ve got a couple stops before London to change course. Heed my words. Consider them. Know that others want the same things you do. We just operate on a more pragmatic schedule.”
He locked his briefcase back up, and stood, reaching out his hand again. It hung there, Hart was too shaken to play at politeness. The hand withdrew.
“You’re a smart kid, Hart. I hope you make the smart choice. Unfortunately, I’ve been at this a long time, and smart kids tend to make the very dumbest choices. I want to see you survive into the next millennium.”
With that, Bartlett tapped the ticket on the table twice for emphasis, then left, walking out the same door at the front of the carriage.
Hart collected himself, still clutching the portfolio to his chest. His mind was racing. Tears began to build in his eyes. The man was wrong. There was no choice. He would not be changing tracks, or walking away. He had a job to do, and only this one chance to do it.
Half an hour to London. He closed his eyes again, but no longer to rest. He closed them to keep the scream in.