Last Train To Nowhere

Prologue: Terminus

The Caledonian Sleeper, a train that charted a direct line from London, the beating economic heart of the South, all the way to the wilderness of the Scottish Highland, to Fort William, named so after William the Orange himself. A former military stronghold, now better known as a tourist attraction, beloved for hikers, climbers and motorbikers, which of course begs the question: why in the world was I headed to Fort William? For that, along with a great many other matters, I blame the internet. Yes, the internet.

See, before the global dominance of the world wide web, professionals were typically more localised. As a practical matter, it was inefficient for clients and services to be far apart, stuck with more cumbersome methods of communication, like the landline telephone or the fax machine. Email and smartphones changed all that, and every profession along too, lawyers not being exempt at all. In some ways this was good, for it meant that I was kept on retainer by a wealthy man from Singapore, with a ravenous appetite for real estate that meant I’d have plenty of work for many years to come.

On the other hand, it meant I sometimes got sent to the middle of nowhere, to remote towns like Fort William. There, I’d liaise with a local estate agency, tour the property with them, and generally ensure that everything was above board, and that my client wasn’t about to fall victim to one of the growing number of property scams around the world. So, with that bit of preamble out of the way, back to the crux of the matter.

The Caledonian Sleeper, as the name implied, was a sleeper train: a vehicle fully fitted with overnight accommodations, running the bulk of its route in the dead of night. Passengers embark from London Euston in the late evening, enjoy a refreshing meal in the specialised dining car or from the comfort of their rooms, before retiring for the night, waking up the next morning already well into Scotland. After freshening up, and a hearty breakfast, we’d all be ready to disembark at 10 o’clock sharp, well prepared for a good day’s work ahead at Fort William. A model of efficiency, and a way to convert the dead time of sleep into something productive, at least in theory.

In practice, the journey began far before this point, with a short jaunt across the London Underground, the Northern line to be precise, starting from my office near Bank. Never the most pleasant experience, but a particularly poor one during the evening rush hour, though thankfully, I just about survived the crush, to reach Euston itself. The station, too, was packed to the rafters, to the point where it took the best part of ten minutes to cross maybe a hundred feet. That got me to Track 1, the permanent home of the Caledonian Sleeper, and more importantly, the Club Lounge.

For those unfamiliar with the concept, the larger train stations here have lounges, similar to those found in airports, where elite travellers can relax, have some complimentary food and drink, and generally enjoy themselves, kept apart from the teeming masses outside. Is that worth nearly two hundred pounds more than the standard class fare? Absolutely not, but my firm was paying for all my travel expenses, so I was more than willing to splurge, all things considered.

So there I was, sat in a mostly empty lounge, whetting my appetite with some salmon on toast, and sipping from a glass of champagne. It was a little after eight in the evening, and the train had already arrived on the platform. A steward came into the lounge and collected my luggage: nothing fancy, just a single suitcase with enough clothes for a week away from home. I kept my smaller, handheld bag with me, complete with a few everyday essentials, like my laptop and a charger, toiletries and so on. From my seat at the lounge window, I watched the baggage be loaded, as staff ran to and fro, finishing up the final preparations before the platform gates opened at half past eight, and passengers began to board the train. So far, so good, right?

In true British fashion, that was the moment a loud bang was heard, coming from the electric locomotive at the front of the train I was meant to be taking. The wafting black smoke that followed didn’t inspire much confidence, nor did the sudden cluster of platform staff that were congregating at the scene. I went back for seconds, seeing the chance of a prompt meal on-board shrinking by the minute; working my way though far too much fish for one day as I waited with weary resignation for the inevitable announcement to follow.

“Train cancellation. The train on Platform 1, the 21:15 Caledonian Sleeper to Fort William, has been cancelled. A replacement train is being prepared, all passengers, please change to Platform 2.”

When the announcement came, it was actually better than my expectations, which had by now fallen to rock bottom. I’d been prepared for cancellation outright, and a sorry trek back home, before trying the same trip the next day. That the operator actually managed to scrounge up a second locomotive was surprising, something I honestly didn’t fully believe until I reached the platform and saw our baggage being loaded a second time. At a glance, this train had clearly seen better days. Paint was chipped, signage bent or broken, and windows glazed black in a manner that had not been the standard for many years now.

It was clear that this was an old unit, wheeled out from god knows where in an emergency. But that was fine, I reasoned as the gates opened, letting me onto the platform proper, half an hour after the original time to board. I could deal with substandard appearances, if it meant that the journey could proceed. Of course, if I’d had any inkling of what was waiting for me as I boarded the train, I’d have turned around and run home screaming, my manager’s complaints be damned.