Characters
- Daniel — early thirties, restless, carrying a small backpack. Quick, nervous energy.
- Michael — mid-thirties, quieter, carrying a coat and a folder. Calm surface, turmoil underneath.
Setting
Platform 4, Crewe Station, just before 11 p.m. A bench, dim platform light, distant tunnel. It’s the night’s last southbound train — the 22:58 to Birmingham New Street, stopping at Stafford, Wolverhampton, and Birmingham.
(Lights up. Daniel paces, checks the digital board. Michael enters, sits down at the bench’s far end. Daniel notices but doesn’t speak at first.)
Daniel:
Sorry — this is Platform Four, right? For Birmingham?
Michael:
That’s what the board says. Unless it’s lying.
Daniel:
Wouldn’t surprise me. Feels like these trains lie for a living.
(Michael gives a half-smile. Silence. Daniel finally sits at the opposite end of the bench.)
Daniel:
You waiting long?
Michael:
Since half nine. They keep saying “delayed.” Which is just railway for “don’t ask.”
Daniel:
Yeah. (beat) Where you headed?
Michael:
Birmingham. And beyond, maybe.
Daniel:
Same. Though I haven’t decided if I’ll get off there.
(Pause. The PA system crackles.)
PA (off):
The 22:58 service to Birmingham New Street is running approximately ten minutes late. We apologise for the delay.
Daniel:
“Approximately.” They say it like hope’s a measurement.
Michael:
Or a trick.
(Beat. Daniel digs in his bag, pulls out a half-eaten bag of crisps. Offers it. Michael shakes his head. Silence. Then—)
Daniel:
I’m not supposed to be here, you know.
Michael:
Me neither.
Daniel:
I was supposed to be at my sister’s flat in Hackney. Surprise birthday thing. Balloon arch, prosecco, the lot. I walked out when they started singing.
Michael:
That’s bold.
Daniel:
That’s cowardice. What about you?
Michael:
Rehearsal dinner. King’s Arms in Stockport. My fiancée’s dad owns it. Everyone was raising glasses, telling stories. I excused myself to use the loo and just… didn’t go back.
Daniel:
Jesus.
Michael:
Exactly. That’s the word someone shouted when they realised I was gone.
(Pause.)
Daniel:
So. Both running away.
Michael:
Seems so.
Daniel:
I mean, I told myself I was just catching a train. But really it’s the same thing, isn’t it?
Michael:
Depends if you get on.
(Silence. A gust of wind. They both glance at the tunnel. Nothing.)
Daniel:
If the train comes, I’ll get on.
Michael:
If the train comes, maybe I won’t.
Daniel:
What’ll you do? Sleep on this bench?
Michael:
Could be worse. Could go back to the pub and give a toast about love like it’s a bloody business plan.
Daniel:
Yeah. My party was like that. Colleagues clapping like they were approving a quarterly report. I can’t breathe in rooms like that.
Michael:
Neither can I.
(Beat. Daniel looks at Michael’s folder.)
Daniel:
What’s in there?
Michael:
Wedding paperwork. Guest list, menus, deposit slips. My life in bullet points.
Daniel:
Burn it.
Michael:
Then I’d have to explain why. I’m tired of explaining.
Daniel:
I’ve got a jumper in here that doesn’t fit me. Keep meaning to throw it out. Haven’t. I like the version of myself that would wear it.
Michael:
Does that version get on trains?
Daniel:
Always. Never asks where they’re headed.
(Pause. PA crackles again.)
PA (off):
Update for passengers waiting for the 22:58 service to Birmingham New Street. Due to a signal fault near Stafford, the train is currently suspended between stations. Further updates to follow.
Daniel:
Suspended between stations. That’s poetic.
Michael:
That’s exactly what we are.
(A silence, heavier now. Then—)
Daniel:
We could wait together. Not… anything else. Just not alone.
Michael:
All right.
Daniel:
If the train comes, don’t let me chicken out.
Michael:
If the train comes, don’t let me be brave by staying.
(They almost laugh. A faint rumble grows. Both stand instinctively. But it’s just a freight train thundering past on the far line. Wind tears across the platform. They stand, coats flapping, until it’s gone. Silence returns.)
Michael:
Not ours.
Daniel:
Or it was, and we missed it standing perfectly still.
(They look at each other. Not romantic — recognition.)
Michael:
We don’t have to be the people they wrote down.
Daniel:
We can be the ones who missed this train.
Michael:
And catch — or not — the next.
(Pause. The clock flips to 23:04. They sit a little closer on the bench. The PA hums.)
PA (off):
The 22:58 service to Birmingham New Street is expected… shortly.
Daniel:
Shortly. That’s generous.
Michael:
We could take it literally.
(Daniel offers his hand, palm up. After a long moment, Michael lays his palm on it. Brief, steady. They breathe.)
Daniel:
Then—
Michael:
Then let’s wait for the next one.
(Blackout.)
Author’s Note
Last Train Out began, quite simply, with the image of two men waiting on a late-night platform. That image carried with it a paradox: a station is both a place of leaving and of waiting, of movement and suspension. Dramatically, it seemed the perfect place to trap two characters who are themselves caught in the in-between: one on the verge of adulthood but suffocated by expectation (Daniel), the other already folded into responsibility and about to make a choice he cannot unmake (Michael).
The play is, at heart, about hesitation — those moments when we almost leave, almost stay, almost confess, almost connect. The train, of course, is the most obvious symbol of escape, but it never arrives in the way they want it to. Instead, the play is less about destination and more about the pause before motion. The men don’t know where they’re going; they only know where they cannot remain.
I chose Crewe Station and the 22:58 to Birmingham New Street because specificity grounds the piece in lived geography. Crewe is a major junction — trains split north, south, east, and west. That gave the play both realism and metaphorical weight: at Crewe, you can go almost anywhere, but first you have to decide. Setting it on a late train also allowed the stage world to be quiet, slightly eerie, a liminal hour where decisions feel starker and more irreversible.
The two characters are deliberately not romantic foils. Their connection is profound but not sexual; they are witnesses for each other. Both are running from situations shaped by love — a birthday party meant to celebrate Daniel, a wedding rehearsal meant to celebrate Michael — but love expressed as coercion, obligation, or spectacle. They meet in flight, and what they offer each other is not a solution but solidarity: the ability to look at another person and say, “Yes, I see you running. I see you doubting. I see you wanting out.” That alone is enough to alter them.
Stylistically, the dialogue leans toward poetic realism. Everyday phrasing sits alongside small lyrical turns (“Suspended between stations” / “We don’t have to be the people they wrote down”). The aim was not to create heightened verse but to suggest how ordinary people sometimes think in elevated rhythms when pressed into a corner. The silences matter as much as the lines: the play depends on breath, on waiting, on the way words are offered and withheld.
As for performance: I imagine a bare stage — a bench, a lamp, the distant rumble of trains — with light and sound doing the work of space. The play should feel cold, metallic, slightly exposed. Both characters should be played without self-pity. Their humor is dry, their weariness real, their encounter accidental but vital.
Finally, the ending is deliberately unresolved. When they agree to “wait for the next one,” it is not clear whether they will get on that train, or any train, or whether they are simply learning how to pause without collapsing. The play is not about the journey but the moment just before — the fragile instant when lives could tilt one way or another.
In a ten-minute slot, nothing grand can be resolved. But I hope Last Train Out shows that even in suspension, even in delay, there can be recognition.
And sometimes that is enough.