One thing occurred when I gråsnöig evening sitting on the train from Stockholm.
It actually began in height at Sodertalje South, in the huge arches and ice, starting as a kind of concern in the carriage. It was not really quiet. The conductor – a gray and light-rounded man with carefully twisted mustache – came and looked at the tickets and he has to with their routine and their safe flair have like sniffed out that something was strange.
It should have been a kind of professional intuition.
We then had two riders in the cart.
Or rather, it was strictly only a stowaway, for they shared on a ticket.
There was a young couple . The woman had long red hair in an Irish bestseller. The man had a kind of crochet skullcap huvudet.Vid ticket visa he had been to the bathroom.
Now, he came out and sat beside the girl. I looked across the aisle how she gave him the ticket. So she went ahead of the train.
After a while the conductor came back and then showed the man the ticket.
Then the girl came back and was hanging in the lock off the wagon and at Katrineholm batter she quickly into the bathroom.
All this advanced choreographed performance of spot replacements, quickly locked the doors and quick exits broke through Winter Sweden in the 130 km / h, while the small communities that just seemed to consist of station building, grill bar, railway booms ( and as an extra option: Jehovah’s witnesses, or a small industry in a metal box) for passing.
It was not one of us passengers who entered them for the conductor. He asked us not. There was an unspoken agreement: it would have been against the rules of the game.
After an hour, the conductor took out a little loose stainless steel handle and unlocked the bathroom door. He made a call and strangely there appeared another like man with a mustache and SJ’s a bit too tight vest. This double mustache ring on a half-empty kvällståg between barns and spruce brokered an almost glamorous impression of the international express. The new railway functionary was even a tad wider than the conductor.
It was undramatic: the man let himself quietly busted. The woman took her purse off the shelf; and as they followed, the waddling single file, for now spread train careening out over the old cultural districts and the plains.
I wondered where they had been. Was there some kind of custody on board?
After a while I went to the bistro carriage. In one corner sat all four. Fripassagarna were trapped on one side by a floor solid plastic table and, on both sides, railroad men skilled stomachs.
In a small place – let’s say it was Skovde – got two police officers on the earflap hats and gloves. The one the police led stowaways off the train. I saw them through the window. They stood on the platform. The police lit a cigarette.
He invited stowaways on each tag.
The policeman in the café carriage slowly removed his gloves one finger at a time and put a small folder with an A4 sheet of paper on the table and began filling in a notification.
– train number. Your name.
The railway men answered impatiently. The policeman said:
– I can gladly take some coffee.
All passengers would get off or on the train in Skövde was now finished. The doors were closed. The trains on the ticket called speed trains – and with astonishing vitality fought through the forests almost in line with the timetable – now stood quietly in Skovde, while a police officer was drinking coffee.
After a while came the second policeman from the platform.
Not surprisingly, you could then through the window to see how the two detainees used the opportunity to run up a flight of stairs and disappear. Orange tiles could be imagined. One of the men said rail (collectively, lightly censored):
– But what in the world …
Police at the protocol drank coffee. He said, with the security that thirty years of experience among Västergötlands småbovar and alcaponer and still semlestunder on Conditori North Pole in Vara, donates a professional:
– It’s a quarter past nine in the evening. It is minus ten degrees. This is Skovde. I guarantee that we will find them.
train arrived seven minutes late to Gothenburg. When I would get off, I saw a man put away an unopened pack of Marlboro remained at stowaways table.
Ps. Do you feel like you’ve read the Chat before? It was featured in Wednesday’s paper newspaper but which had the very last sentence fallen away ..
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