West Bromide Albion 4

Breakfasted and cleansed Claude headed off for work. The city’s integrated transit system was running with its normal efficiency and the disgruntled passengers waiting on Catford Bridge station were standing six deep on the city-bound platform. The aged station Tannoy crackled into life;

“Will customers waiting for the transit vehicle to Charing Cross please note that due to technical reasons the 7.35 from Hayes has been re-designated as the 8.05 from Hayes. Albion Transit Systems plc apologise for any inconvenience caused. Have a good day.” Claude stood at the back of the platform and considered returning home and ignoring work for the day. He knew Wilkins would be keeping an eye out for him and would report his absence to Simmons but as he’d only taken three days leave this year he felt he could afford to take a sicky.

There was a rumble in the distance and stirring at the front of the platform. Claude looked up at the station clock and watched the digits tick over. A squeak of badly lubricated brakes, a loud hiss and the 7.35 from Hayes pulled in to the station on time. Putting all thoughts of a day off out of his mind, Claude started muscling his way through the crowd. He didn’t know which ruse to employ this morning; would it be the “Everything is all right, I’m a doctor” ploy? Or should he try the “Albion Transit System employee” gambit? No, looking at the faces of his fellow passengers he realised that tempers were far too frayed for that one. He scanned the platform for anyone who may recognise him, fixed his face in a suitably psychopathic scowl and decided on the “Police Officer in pursuit” trick; he hadn’t tried that one for some time so there was a reasonably good chance he would get away with it. Taking out his American Express card and holding it up in an authoritative manner he yelled at the top of his voice; “All right sonny. Stop right there!” Every face on the crowded platform turned to stare at him. “It’s OK,” he said to anyone listening, “I’m a Police Officer,” and flashed his card. Confronted with a pair of wild, staring eyes, a curious looking ID and a man wearing a grey mac with a large bulge under one armpit, the crush of travellers split in two, allowing Claude free passage to the train. He knew he only had a limited time to get on before they all realised he was a fraud and forced his way into the carriage, removed the rolled-up newspaper from under his arm and buried his face in it. The drama over, the rest of the passengers drifted back into somnolence, switched back to autopilot for the rest of their trip to work and boarded the train. Doors hissed shut and the train pulled out of the station with a shudder; and immediately ground to a halt. The more seasoned travellers, used to this sort of thing, automatically slipped into much-practiced routines. The man opposite Claude immediately fell asleep, his unread book slipping to the floor; a woman who had been complaining about the constant delays on the line relaxed, her point made and settled down her daily Sudoku. It could be like this for an hour or more, waiting in the commuter train as the French and Belgian Advanced Passenger Units tore past at mind-boggling speeds on the private track running parallel to the Albion Transit System. Each time one of the sleek monsters screamed by the whole carriage rocked on its aged suspension. One day, Claude knew, he would be in a train as it was blown off the tracks by a diesel powered bullet, built, driven and designed by robots. Somehow he found no reassurance in that thought. He settled down for a long wait and started counting the rivets in the carriage, the most he had ever reached before the train pulled away was 9,122 and that was last Wednesday morning.

Things were hotting up in Office of Education. The temperature was 35° and rising. Stripped to the waist the staff sweltered their way through the day’s business. Resplendent in a Day-glo pink one-piece, Mrs. E. wheeled her trolley along the many corridors distributing her wares. No matter what the conditions the contents of the trolley never changed and on days such as this business was slow for the septuagenarian tea lady. Of course she should have retired years ago but every time the annual redundancy and retirement clock tick-tocked she was somehow overlooked. She never seemed to age and even the longest serving member of staff couldn’t remember a time before “E”. The was a widely held belief amongst the lower orders that she was in fact a cyborg, created by the management to spy on them. Others thought that she was in fact the Minister in disguise; after all, the argument ran, had anyone ever actually seen them in the same room? Many a happy hour was spent in the basement office trying to catch a glimpse of the Boss and Mrs. E. together, but somehow, every time he graced the office with his presence, the tea lady was nowhere to be seen. It made you think. She very rarely blinked, that made you think too. In fact if you weren’t careful you could spend all day thinking and that wasn’t encouraged in the Office of Education.