It wasn’t even a decision to stop, it was a need to stop – even if the 15.41 was almost out of sight. After he and Elizabeth had split up – which was after how many years? Did it matter? After they went their separate ways, he had found himself in an airport chapel. They had split up for good in Newcastle, because it had become clear that there was no point meeting again, and he had to stop chasing her. He was no longer simply visiting her: he had accidentally started chasing, like one of those persistent dogs who wants to carry on running for a ball you’ve got tired of throwing. She was on a course, and he had insisted on visiting her at her hotel – she’d invited him, for sure – but he was unaware that he’d become an obstacle. Had he turned thirty? Whatever he was, she was two years younger and she needed to get round him and move on. She was too polite, though, and so scared of causing him pain. It had come to a head, somehow, and he had left the same evening and found himself in the city centre, walking, as the solitude soaked in and changed the very temperature. He walked across some massive, mighty bridge looking down at oily water, and he’d found a cheap room somewhere. She didn’t text him, and he didn’t text her, for she had found a way of saying, ‘Michael? Stop.’
He hadn’t taken the train home, because an airline was experimenting with cheap flights – you could fly for a pound. He’d taken the bus to the airport, and before long he had exchanged his seat on that for seats in various waiting areas – then it was a seat that rose up into the air, and there was England way below with all the roads and railways laid out like a map. For a while you could see the intersections, and the loops and curves – and then it was covered over in cloud. He smiled about it now, but it was the only time he’d ever been on a plane hoping it would crash. How selfish! But he remembered that hope so vividly, because even as he felt concern for the other passengers, he was wanting a nosedive to oblivion.
They landed softly and safely.
He came into the arrivals hall feeling sheepish, and aching with the knowledge of what he’d lost. She was right to bail out, and he would never ever doubt that: Elizabeth had saved herself, as he’d saved Amy. In the lift he saw that there was a chapel in the basement, so despite his annihilating disbelief in all gods, Christian or otherwise, he decided to find it – and it wasn’t easy to find. It was beside the lost-property office, neat and tiny, and knowing he was the only one there he let himself go for a moment. He sat on yet another chair with the tears plopping onto his trousers, sobbing as hard as he’d sobbed on the platform at Bromsgrove, perhaps – or maybe harder. He was back in school, sobbing his twelve-year-old heart out, and did it matter?
No. A hand had been placed on his shoulder, and it was the minister – whom he hadn’t even seen. He’d thought he was alone, but the minister had appeared out of nowhere for the once-a-day service and put a gentle hand on his shoulder, just like Mr Trace. He stood behind him, and the hand was warm.
‘Lay down your burden,’ said the minister quietly. ‘Come unto me, and lay down your burden.’
That was all he said, and Michael remembered the infinitely soft, unassuming tone of love. He had held the hand for three or four seconds, and then let it go.
Now, he needed to get more drunk – it was the only solution.
Back he went, towards the barriers, and when he saw schoolchildren he realised it was later than he’d thought and that the day was disappearing. There were about twenty of them, girls and boys – and they were all in green blazers, though some had coats over the top. Three in particular caught his attention, because one was standing on a bench in a striking pose. He had high, sharp cheekbones and startling eyes – he was a warrior. The second was sitting down, without a jacket – and Michael realised it was James. The third was himself.
They didn’t notice him, and he turned away quickly.
His twelve-year-old self was on the bench again, and there was a vending machine close by. Michael stopped and looked back: the boys hadn’t moved, and he knew he had to be quick. He would do something that he had never done before, or even thought about doing – it suddenly seemed like a simple, lovely gift, but he had to be brave. His feet seemed welded to the platform suddenly, and he had thrown himself forwards, overbalancing almost.
‘Sorry!’ he cried, for he’d almost collided with someone. He had to take a step back and start again, focusing on the big metal machine.
He got there, checked that it took both coins and notes. Change was given, but he didn’t want change – with trembling hands he fed one of his three precious twenties into the slot, and then made his selections. He was smiling now, for there they hung: all the chocolate bars you could ever want. He lost count of the items he chose, and they all fell silently into the tray at the bottom. He pressed more buttons and down they came, one after another. They piled up like treasure: twenty pounds’ worth of sweets.
Nobody was watching, but he still lost confidence. He was gripped by a fear that what he was doing would be caught on camera, and that an official somewhere was standing up from his seat in disbelief. There was a man, behaving suspiciously! What was he about to do? He was going to offer sweets to innocent, vulnerable children – the most obvious prelude to something vile.
‘If you come in my car, son, I’ll give you some sweets.’
‘You give me sweets, mate – I’ll cum in your mouth.’
That was a joke from his grammar school.
‘If you come in my car, son…’
It was too late, though – for the machine’s tray was full, and the thought of everything being wasted was as unbearable as the misunderstanding, and the hard eyes of the transport police.
The boys would never forget it. He remembered what it was like, after school. You never had enough money. You never could buy the sweets you needed, and gorge on them – and sometimes you had to gorge. You deserved to after the routine horrors of the day.
He plucked up all his courage, and walked towards the bench. They were all sitting down, and the one who’d looked like himself still had the same hair and the same frightened eyes. The one in the middle had provoked him, and Michael saw the f-word on his lips even as the other two howled with laughter. Then he was in front of them, and it was too late to turn back.
‘Boys,’ he said – and they jerked to attention.
They were staring at him.
‘Listen carefully, please. Don’t speak. You see that machine over there? The vending machine?’
They looked, and so did Michael. Nobody was using it, so he still had time. The boys were silent, and you could almost smell the apprehension, for some inviolable code was being broken and they were just on the edge of panic.
‘Be quick,’ said Michael. ‘It’s out of order, and there’s so much stuff, just… lying there. Hurry.’
He turned at once and walked away. He kept walking, making it obvious that he didn’t want any further contact and therefore couldn’t possibly be dangerous. He was a harmless, drunk stranger who had spoken and gone. He only dared look back when he’d returned to the far end of the platform, and the boys were just visible. They were at the machine.
They appeared to be on their knees, reaching through the flap: they had found the treasure, and they would never forget him.
Michael sat down on the nearest bench, and found he was shaking. He was hot and cold, and out of breath, but the boys would never forget the moment. They would never forget him – just a man with earnest eyes, stopping to pass on a bit of wondrous good luck. Young Michael would never, ever forget that day – so he took the whisky from his bag and poured another drink. Could he go forwards now?
He allowed himself to smile, and then he started to laugh. The 15.41 had come looking for him, in a way. It had even changed platforms, hunting him down! And he’d still managed to miss it.
He was obstinately, utterly alive.
STUCK
11
Her wallet was gone, as was her passport.
So was her tablet, her phone and her tickets… the horror was
taking hold even as she watched the last coach get slowly smaller and disappear. Her bag was sailing away all on its own, and her plans had been wrecked in an instant. Her bank cards were gone, as was the cash she’d withdrawn – and even the directions she’d been given. That meant her trip was at an end, but more importantly it meant she would probably have to pay hundreds of pounds to get replacement documents – if she could get replacements, and what if she couldn’t?
It got worse, because she wasn’t insured. Someone could use the cards, and she might be liable. The phone she’d lost was a cheap one, but it held all her contacts and it wasn’t backed up. How much cash had she been carrying? A hundred pounds at least, because she’d used the ATM just outside the station. As for the tablet, it was the tool she used most to keep in touch with family. It was laden with photographs and videos, and there was the dongle that went with it. As for the passport, she didn’t want to think about it because that was simply priceless.
She struggled to breathe. The tablet could be replaced, but the passport was the thing you didn’t lose – almost as precious as life. It was the product of countless hours in labyrinthine queues designed to crush your very soul: you inched through them, working out what bribes you could avoid and what bribes you’d have to pay. Inside was her work visa. She could get a duplicate, probably, but at what cost and with what complications? How long would it take? Her husband would be too angry to speak, as would her sister! ‘We’re supposed to be saving money,’ they’d say. There would be no sympathy because in the end this was something you just didn’t do: you had to be truly, truly stupid to do it. You did not leave your life on a train.
She closed her eyes, unable to move. People moved round her, but she didn’t notice them. Lost property was never returned, and her bag would be with someone else already. Why would it be handed in when it could more easily be slipped over the passenger’s shoulder, and taken home? If the woman with the guitar had picked it up, nobody would challenge her. Of course, she might be honest and alert the train crew, but there was every chance they’d have a scheme of their own for dividing up the spoils, and even if they were honest, and took it to the right desk how long would it take to get back to her? Where would she have to go to claim whatever was left? The train was going way down south to London.
A man in uniform was standing some way off, and she managed to take a few steps towards him. More people overtook her, crossing from right to left and left to right – for a moment she wondered if she’d ever reach him, and he was helping somebody else anyway. He was laughing, as if the world was a funny, entertaining place. The customer was laughing too.
‘Yes, love?’ he said, turning towards her.
She said, ‘I’ve left something on the train.’
Her voice had changed.
‘Which one?’ said the man. ‘The one to Euston?’
‘Yes. The one that just left.’
‘Something valuable?’
He was old, and he looked experienced. He looked kind, too – and she knew she was about to burst into tears.
‘Very valuable,’ she said. ‘Very, very valuable.’
Her mouth was dry. She was feeling dizzy. Somehow, she described the bag and listed its contents, and – as she did so – the tears started and she had to stop talking.
‘Let’s get you sat down,’ said the man gently. ‘Let’s go somewhere a little bit quieter, okay? Give me your rucksack.’
He eased it off her shoulder, and took her arm.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Maria.’
‘Maria. I’m going to take you to the help-desk, Maria, and we’ll see what we can do for you.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Maria.
‘We all lose things – there’s nothing to be sorry about. You were in a hurry, were you?’
‘I was on the wrong train. Yes.’
He was holding a door open for her.
‘You go first. You left it on the table, or the seat?’
They entered a waiting area, where twenty chairs stood bolted together in two strict, back-to-back rows. The desk was at the far end – a raised counter, with a computer and a rack of leaflets.
‘Were there other passengers, sitting with you?’
She nodded. ‘It was crowded. Yes.’
‘In that case, it might have been found already. Your phone’s in the bag, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could we try calling it? Or is it locked?’
‘I don’t understand, sorry.’
‘Do you need a code for the phone, to unlock it? Or could somebody just pick up, if we called the number?’
‘I think someone could pick up. I’m sure they could, yes.’
‘Shall we try that first?’
‘How?’
The man smiled.
‘You sit down,’ he said. ‘You can use mine.’
Maria nodded and sat down. The next moment, his phone was in her hands and she saw the panel of digits. For a moment she had no idea of her own number: she had to close her eyes to think. It came back to her and she tapped it in. She misdialled, and had to start again. Her hands were actually trembling, and in the end he did it for her, taking her instructions. They heard a soft bleeping as a satellite somewhere received the transmission, bouncing the signal back towards a train that was miles away, hurtling south. The connection was made, and there was silence. Silence, so she put it close to her ear and there was a faint, hesitant ringing. She bent forwards slightly.
‘Please, God,’ she said quietly. ‘Please help me now. I will do anything.’
12
Michael poured another drink, then tipped it back into the carton.
He had decided not to use the waiting room, so he couldn’t see any screens. All he knew was that he had failed in his objective, first at Bromsgrove, and now at Crewe. Gloucester didn’t count, because he’d never seriously contemplated leaping from a bridge. Crewe, however, was an abject failure and he wasn’t sure what to do next.
The boys had been a distraction, as had the steam-train enthusiast. Every day was unpredictable, it seemed – but in such worryingly small ways. You never knew whom you would meet, and internally you never quite knew how the brain would deal with the wash of stimuli that came at it the moment you woke up. One smile could change everything, just as a sharp or impatient word could send you spinning off your own fragile axis. If the steam-train man hadn’t been there, would he be dead? The steam-train man had been there because of the steam train, so his being alive still was the responsibility of those who had organised its journey to Milton Keynes – and as for the three boys, why had they chosen that particular bench?
Things came together for no reason.
He lost his thread, and looked for a tangerine. There were three left in the little net but one had escaped – it was lurking in the corner of his shoulder bag, as if it didn’t want to be eaten. Another train was leaving as another arrived. There were twelve platforms in all, and how many trains per hour? They seemed to have been coming and going almost constantly, most of them stopping, of course – but some in too much of a hurry. Some shrieked through as if their drivers had lost control. Somebody, somewhere was in charge, and yet it seemed such a jostling free-for-all – a race! A three-coach train revved its engines and departed: Michael raised a hand to it, and knew he was properly drunk at last. Young Michael must be on his way by now, heading for home with chocolate round his mouth as he tried to account for his incredible luck.
He smiled, and sipped from the carton.
Drinkaware told him that he should have a maximum of fourteen units a week. Fourteen units was a bottle and a half of wine, or thereabouts, and he had learned to love wine with Elizabeth. That was over twenty-five years ago, and the love had blossomed time and time again – most recently in a privately run off-licence he’d found, called Vines. It was quite a walk from his home, but worth the journey because the two lesbians who owned it were so friendly. Th
ey were knowledgeable, too, and shared their knowledge joyfully. They indulged Michael, talking about vineyards and soils but cutting it short, because they were sensitive to his ignorance and knew when to stop.
This was reassuring, because he’d been trapped some years ago by a salesman who seemed to think he’d found a soulmate. He’d been working at the council then, so he had spare income and slow old Monica liked wine too. The man had got it wrong, though: he’d phoned Michael and tried to sell him wines that hadn’t been bottled yet, assuring him that the discounts available if he bought three cases would mean that he was paying next to nothing for some special grape from a south-facing valley – and Michael had listened, unable to interrupt except with questions, which invited more and more information.
‘I don’t know,’ he would say. ‘Let me think about that. That sounds good—’
‘It’s a really good deal,’ said the salesman. ‘I did something similar last year.’
‘Did you?’
‘It’s a no-brainer, really. You can’t go wrong, because the wine will be bottled and you get it so much cheaper.’
Train Man Page 13