Train Man

by Andrew Mulligan

  ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘Shall I call you tomorrow?’

  ‘Not tomorrow—’

  ‘What about the weekend?’

  The kitchen designer had pursued him, too, as had the supplier of solid-wood worktops, and even the carpenter who was going to fit them and didn’t seem to have many people needing his services. Everyone worked hard, trying to do business as the profit margins shrank and Michael asked for indefinite thinking time because now he had no money. His phone number had been sold on to so many people: so many new friends, all chasing business. Everyone hoped he’d need this service or that – he tried always to be polite. He could not bring himself to be abrupt, because rudeness was an assault and always left him shaken. His phone network wanted to talk to him about changing his contract, or taking advantage of deals the company was doing because it had seen an opportunity to save him money – why did the company present itself this way? It infantilised everyone, Michael most of all as he sat with the phone clamped to his ear.

  ‘With the friends-and-family coverage, everybody wins. It’s insurance for you and for your loved ones. I’ve just bought a policy, and I have to say I can’t believe I waited so long. It really does do what it says, you know? And if you take out a direct debit…’

  But he couldn’t, for there was no money left.

  If they had known he had so little, would they continue to call? A stupid question, but even when he told them they’d insist that credit was available and the price might go down if he were to ‘avail’ himself – if he were to ‘take advantage of’ – and sign up to whatever it was… you got the impression sometimes that if you weren’t spending, and taking on debt, you weren’t really alive. Michael had given in, taking out small loans and then larger ones – and he’d paid some off, while others had simply grown secretly, tumour-like, until they couldn’t be confronted. It meant more paper in the drawer.

  Vines was a nice place to buy wine, and if the women noticed that he drank too much it wasn’t their place to say so. His mother had known, and told him – then she’d died.

  Amy had tried to train him into drinking more water. A glass of water for a glass of wine, and with her he’d been able to spend some evenings completely sober. Then she’d get depressed, and order a couple of wine-boxes, which meant you lost all track of how much you were consuming. Two days ago, he had left Vines for the very last time, and he felt he was saying goodbye to family. He wondered if the woman who’d served him had thought about him as he pulled the door shut. She might have watched him go, before saying to her partner in the office, ‘That was Michael’.

  ‘Michael again – really?’

  Perhaps she would ask an affectionate question: ‘How was he?’

  ‘He didn’t look too well,’ the first woman would say. ‘He looked… sad. He said goodbye very seriously, and shook my hand.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s a sensitive man, and I think he is sad. He’s the kind of man we…’

  What?

  ‘… the kind of man we ought to be friends with. He’s intelligent and honest. We should invite him for dinner. We should ask him if he’s thought of joining our cycling group, or better still – more reasonable and practical – the tasting circle.’

  Michael smiled.

  He often bought their wine of the month, but on that last visit he’d surprised them by investing in a bottle of Tomatin malt whisky, from the Highlands. It was behind their heads, high on the rack, priced at fifty-three pounds seventy-four… and he used his untouched, special credit card, to check it was working. He’d withdrawn the sixty pounds cash afterwards, so the whisky was the first transaction. The woman didn’t show any surprise at his purchase – why would she? She was too professional. In any case, surprise was not the word: mild curiosity would be more likely, along with appreciation.

  Perhaps they had been secretly stunned.

  ‘I just couldn’t believe it,’ the one who’d served him would say.

  They were in bed together – the lamps turned off.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Michael MacMillan.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Why would he buy Tomatin malt whisky? He’s never done that before.’

  ‘Some celebration?’

  ‘I wish I’d asked. I wish I’d said, “What’s the occasion?” I’m not going to sleep now, am I?’

  ‘You can ask him next time. Or I will.’

  ‘Tomatin malt – he knows his whisky.’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘Sensitive.’

  ‘Deep.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s enjoying it with the one he loves, eh? Where’s he drinking it, the old soak? Mystery man!’

  They would giggle, and then they would hug. They would get on with whatever they did in bed, which was beyond Michael’s imagination, and he hated himself for both failing to imagine it and trying to – what did it say about him? What would a judge say, if he was ever on trial for being so stupidly sordid? What would a jury think? Twelve men and women shaking their heads, astonished that people such as Michael still existed.

  ‘You have displayed in this courtroom only self-pity.’

  The judge was pitiless, and his voice would have to be loud and fierce.

  ‘For those you have hurt, wounded and insulted you show nothing but contempt – and for that you will pay. You poke your nose into other people’s private lives, wallowing in your sad, primitive adolescence – how have you failed to develop, man? Take him down…’

  Michael smiled, for there would be no trial, and he would never know what his friends at Vines had thought, said or done. What he did know was that the whisky he’d chosen was fabulous. He took the glass out of his bag again, and set it on the arm of the bench. He allowed himself another measure, so as to stay happily, wistfully drunk – it was a kind of topping-up.

  Anyone watching would assume he was sipping healthy juice, so he sat back and the bench seemed ever more comfortable. The station roof was remarkable, and Crewe itself seemed the right place to be. The drunkenness was gorgeous and warm – it was like the central heating coming on.

  He poured again, but kept the measure small.

  It was like stepping out of the wind into shelter. It was like turning to find the one you love has waited for you after all. It was like being allowed into your mother’s bed, when something had frightened you as a child, or you’d simply felt the ache of being alone and awake in a house where everyone else was asleep. It was like getting home when you’d missed the last train, and had to walk through the rain – the whisky was his home.

  He looked at his ticket.

  It was invalid now, of course, for he had accomplished that journey whilst avoiding its climax. Obviously, he could go anywhere – if he didn’t want to stay where he was.

  Obviously, he could do exactly what he wanted, and the live rail was available if he didn’t want to walk up the tracks. He had a limit of six hundred and fifty pounds on the card, and had spent one hundred and ten. He could spend the rest however he chose, and they would have to write the debt off – because he had no guarantor.

  Would they try his brother, or even Amy? They’d have no luck.

  He had a vision of himself in a comfortable, first-class carriage, and now that he was drinking the fine old malt it seemed right. He would wait until he was truly, uncomplicatedly happy, and it would be easy then: he would step out onto whatever station it might be, and do the business there. He would put good old Crewe behind him, and keep going north. It would be easier not to know which train was going to kill him. It would be easier choosing a platform and line at random, and setting out between the rails.

  He would wait for the dark. The darkness would be intense on the track, and he would plod on until whatever train it was kissed him goodnight and sliced him into however many pieces ninety-six wheels would cut you into – if it was a twelve-coach train, of course. Crewe had helped him make a better decisi
on, so he opened his mints and put one in his mouth. Then he cleared away the little pile of orange peel, and set the carton and glass back in his bag. He walked through the barrier to where they sold tickets.

  The schoolchildren were long gone, but they would talk about him tomorrow.

  ‘We should write that man a note,’ said his younger self. ‘We ought to thank him.’

  ‘Where would we send it, though?’

  ‘We could tape it to the vending machine. Or to one of the pillars – we could make a card…’

  ‘We should tell the police, Michael. They’d protect us.’

  ‘Do we need protection? From what?’

  ‘From Mr Trace!’

  ‘But he’s dead. We’ve been through this. He’s ash and dust – he’s gone…’

  Michael found himself at the sales counter, frowning.

  A man of his own age stood staring back, ready and willing to serve. The glass between them was thick, but there were microphones. He wouldn’t have to shout, and he was still completely alive: his legs were working and his spine was keeping him upright. His hands, too, were behaving exactly as hands should – resting rather neatly on the shelf whilst cradling a wallet, which they opened so efficiently without even a tremor. His fingertips would have no problem easing the card from its little pocket, and presenting it.

  ‘I’m going further north,’ he said carefully.

  ‘Very good. Which station?’

  The man’s voice was made thinner by the tannoy, but he was friendly and he even looked interested.

  ‘Glasgow.’

  ‘Okay, there’s various options for Glasgow. Have you decided on a route?’

  ‘I haven’t, no.’

  ‘You’re going today?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The man studied his computer.

  ‘I was wondering about first class,’ said Michael. ‘And ideally, I think I want “any route”. A bit of flexibility in case I change my mind.’

  ‘I can sell you an anytime ticket,’ replied the man slowly. ‘But it’s usually cheaper if you book a particular train. There’s not that much in it, actually. You’re travelling now?’

  ‘Yes, please. Today and tonight.’

  The man peered harder at what must have been very small print.

  ‘All the cheap fares are advance fares, I’m afraid. You want the next service?’

  ‘If possible. Yes. That would be great.’

  Why didn’t he just say ‘yes’? Why did unnecessary words extend everything he said?

  ‘The best I can do, first class, is two hundred and seventeen – and that’s via Preston.’

  ‘What’s standard?’

  ‘Standard is one zero nine.’

  ‘I think I’ll go standard.’

  ‘I would. But I can’t book you a seat, I’m afraid. You should be all right, though – it’s not the school holidays.’

  ‘Thank goodness. It will be soon.’

  ‘Don’t say that – they’ve only just gone back.’

  They talked for another two minutes. They talked about the East Coast line, and the speed restrictions that were still in place because of the old, crumbling infrastructure. Ultimately, though, the transaction ended. The card worked, and the tickets were there before him.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘You made that very easy.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Should he now write to the train company, and express his appreciation? He wrote so many letters in his mind, so the phrases were always ready: The service I received today was, by your standards perhaps, merely professional. For me it was outstanding.

  He liked to avoid hyperbole, but he wanted to share his humble gratitude.

  Your salesman couldn’t have known, or, Your saleswoman no doubt meets people like myself every day. However, may I say the interaction I experienced… the friendly and courteous service, as if I was the only customer that mattered, as if finding me that particular item was his or her most important duty – I find it astonishing that your staff routinely treat people with such… What?

  He could not write or even say the word ‘love’ because it wasn’t, and his own idiocy silenced him again.

  ‘Bye now.’

  The man nodded.

  It was love, though, in a way. It was a generalised love, which focused specifically on him just for a moment. Impersonal, except it was received so personally.

  The people in retail were genuine servants, and he loved them because they probably didn’t realise how many lives they saved every day. The smile, and the encouragement to have a good afternoon – or the quiet, tender ‘take care’ offered by boys, girls, men, women… it brought tears to his eyes.

  He had once been in a pharmacy, and an elderly woman had tripped and fallen. She’d come crashing down because of a shallow step, and he had been the one to help her, and comfort her, and call for a chair. He had shown her love, because she had been so vulnerable, and terrified that she had broken a bone. She feared she’d ruined Christmas, which was only a few days away. She feared her family would be furious because she’d had such a stupid, avoidable accident. Michael had crouched in front of her and turned himself into a doctor, and a counsellor. He’d become a husband, or a son – he’d been Jesus.

  ‘You ought to go round to your GP,’ he’d said.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she insisted. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You say that now, but it could be a fracture.’

  ‘It can’t be. It mustn’t be.’

  ‘Listen to me. Let me call you a taxi…’

  He had been both husband and son, as loving as he had tried to be to his own mother – and it was funny how the taboo of touch simply disappeared. For some reason he had the right to put his hand on the old lady’s arm, and crouch so he was almost pressing against her. Years ago, some colleague in the council office had joked about how to deal with members of the public who were upset. You offered comfort, and that was the time ‘to slip it in, while they’re distracted’.

  People had laughed.

  Michael thought about it now with horror, ambushed again. When you were comforting someone, this colleague said – if a member of the public was upset and needed your support – that was the time to get your arm round them, and ‘slip it in’. He meant have intercourse with them, while they were vulnerable – that’s what he’d meant. Roars of laughter at the inappropriateness, the sheer daring of the wag that could joke about sexual assault – ‘to slip it in and do the business’.

  Sex, again – like the smell of your own sweat. You could never get away from it, and the letters in your head never got written. They would be conceived after half a bottle of wine, and for thirty minutes they would exist, charming the violent world into something tearfully peaceful, for the recipient would no doubt read his prose and be transfixed in wonder. It is worthwhile, they would think. We are appreciated. Soon, the letter became a misjudgement and an overreaction, the outburst of a drunk who won’t let you go: ‘I love you. I fucking love you, mate.’

  Where he lived, people got drunk in the street.

  Drink turned them into needy children, or aggressive children. The young man in the flat below his – Ryan was his name – seemed quiet and stable for days on end, and then he’d turn into pure paranoid menace. The booze hardened some, and softened others, and left everyone so ashamed they had to drink again.

  Amy was a drunk, really, which meant they would have been married drunks.

  But the man who had sold him his ticket did absolutely not need his love. He was only doing his job, and was probably as capable of being vain and difficult as anyone else – why turn him into a saint? What if he went home to humiliate his wife, and make her miserable? What if it was worse, and he was tormenting a child? Michael groaned, for he couldn’t stop the vision. The man was suddenly in his stepson’s room, and he was demanding something too horrible to contemplate. He’d paid for a new school uniform, and the boy owed him – or was it a girl? Let it be a gir
l, and it was her trip to France, or state-of-the-art phone – and at the end of a long day in the ticket office it was payback time, behind closed doors. Michael tried to stop thinking, but on it went like a film and his eyes saw the images even when they were closed. The girl turned back into a boy, and it was himself, and the man was holding his head gently, stroking his hair.

  ‘Try it. Just try it.’

  Lunchtime, and the other boys screaming in the playground. The blinds were down, and the little bolt drawn for privacy. Caesar’s Gallic Wars was there on the desk, and the hand was applying just a little more pressure. Michael’s hand was shaking, and he couldn’t get his brand-new ticket into the slot, for he was hot in his blazer. He could not write to the station man, because any letter from Michael would give him an affirmation and a confidence that might prolong the suffering, even if he looked so kind. You never could tell, for kind-looking men did bad things. They showed love, only to slip it in and do the business.

  ‘Let’s talk at lunchtime – bring the translation.’

  The barrier gates snapped open, and he was through.

  What had his mother told him, years ago? As a little girl she’d been ‘touched up’ by the lodger – and she’d told her own mother, Michael’s gran.

  ‘He touched me up, in his room.’

  ‘Don’t go into his room, then.’

  That’s what she’d said, and there was an unchallengeable logic to the advice. ‘Don’t go into his room. Walk away.’

  Michael found a bench.

  He was on the wrong platform, so he walked down the subway and back to number five. There, he found another bench which looked across the divide to the one he’d just left. He wasn’t on it any more, of course: he’d moved, so he couldn’t see himself. As for young Michael, he’d be home by now, unless he’d stopped off at James’s house. Some afternoons they did their homework together, working through the Latin, and the science and all that French vocab he’d forgotten.

  He smiled.

  The apple-juice carton looked so innocuous. The glass he had brought was opaque. The whisky was warm. And it came from a tiny Scottish town, and he knew that because he had visited the distillery with Amy, to whom he would now be married if he hadn’t written that dreadful letter. What he wanted to remember, though, was his Highlands holiday, and how he’d hoped she’d let him do that particular tour on his own, because he knew she wasn’t interested in whisky. Why had she insisted on coming with him? Hadn’t she realised she was spoiling it?