Trafika Europe 9/10 - UK in Europe

Not Near London

in naughty substances, probably. Or people smuggling. Or eating dope burgers. Or rutting in Rutland. The train is rolling her head from side to side as if she is saying No No No to everything that is coming at her and nothing can stop it while her finger is caught in the dial of the old-fashioned telephone and it will not rotate because it is ringing and she wakes up wondering where she is, just for a flash, to see Jasper texting and his lips pouted in concentration like he is cooling down hot soup or literally blowing his own tiny weeny trumpet. Toot toot. He’s texting her. That’s what he’s doing. Texting the bitch three rows up. She leans against his shoulder and cuddles up to get a glimpse. Oh. She’s

overthinking again. He’s just playing his zombie apocalypse game, thumbs flashing. Little boy in his bedroom. Cute. Now the train is slowing again, almost stopped, like it’s crossing a suspension bridge that’s a single link away from collapsing. Strike out north over the Humber. She looks into the darkness and what else she’ll show in the gallery just drops into her head. It would have to be in the next room. Because it’s a big posh gallery, not a vacant corner store in Donny or Rotherham or somewhere. Icebergs! Massive. Taken off the net, treated in Photoshop. Really bleached out and deep-grained icebergs. And in the final room it’ll be her own photo, repeated. Massive. The train is going to crash.

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