A man, well-liked inside, is capable of leaving prison with nothing but a duffel bag of economy rum.
“Here you are darling, hold it still,” he told the old woman. She sat mute, like all the passengers around her, as he made her grasp his plastic cup. Prisoners released from Saltmarsh Jail all had to take this train back to the world. Even the ones convicted for crimes of celebrated aggression.
It trundled through the bleak country, as it was known to some, farewell to the island through swathes of mud flats and across the bridge under which the rotting warships slumber. From there came the decaying suburban hollows, for the people contractually obliged to die.
The last dregs dashed out until the bottle was empty. The entire carriage was transfixed. He chased the liquor up the sides with a can of cola.
“Cheers love,” he swayed, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and stepped over the gentleman bleeding quietly from his ears on the coach floor. “Not long until I get off now.”