Train Man

by Andrew Mulligan

  ‘Don’t be,’ replied Michael. ‘I have nowhere to go.’

  ‘You do, sir – surely. You have a ticket to Scotland in your wallet.’

  ‘But I have no schedule, and I want you to know that I understand. Trains will be late sometimes – I have the imagination to understand that.’

  The manager’s eyes would fill with tears.

  ‘We do our best,’ he’d say.

  ‘That’s just what I mean, sir!’ Michael hissed.

  He leaned on the rail for a moment.

  Sir, he thought quietly. Sir or madam. Person in charge. I know you do your best, because we all do. You’re trying to help me go north, but look at the network spreading out of this town – look at the rails – and look at all the things beyond your control. You have electrical problems. You have wear and tear. You have to deal with vandalism, while thoughtless people like me fling themselves under your wheels. How can you hope to get it right, ever? If a train gets in on time, we should line the platform, cheering the miracle.’

  Michael breathed in, and smiled again: Glasgow had ceased to exist.

  The Highlands were suddenly a fiction of someone else’s past – he would never reach them. No, not now: for he had a new plan. He would take the little purple train because it was there, close by – he could see it, and it was real. It was short, neat and noisy and he wanted suddenly to know where it went. If it went in a circle, he’d stay on it for as long as he could, and if he couldn’t die on the tracks perhaps he could die more comfortably, in one of its seats? He’d met someone, years ago, who told a story about travelling on the Tube in London – the Circle line, in fact – and discovering that the man he’d sat next to was dead.

  He was sitting next to an actual corpse.

  ‘So what did you do?’ Michael said.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ said the somebody. ‘I didn’t want to get involved, so I got off at the next stop.’

  ‘Did you report it?’

  ‘No.’

  How long had that solitary former person been going round and round on the Circle line? How many passengers had decided not to get involved, and when had it slumped so far forward that it couldn’t be ignored? Perhaps it had rolled onto the floor, and people had still stepped over it? Another dead person, dammit – where’s the guard?

  He reached the purple train, and climbed on board.

  No, no, no: he would never get back to the Highlands, because they were in the past and this was a train to the future – where it was actually going he still had no idea. Someone would tell him, or the destinations would soon start to scroll endlessly across the display panel, for you couldn’t avoid knowing where you were bound for very long. At that moment he was happy to sit, uncertain whether he’d be taken forwards or backwards. His ticket might be valid, but it was equally possible he’d have to buy a new one.

  So what?

  He chose a seat, and closed his eyes. Meanwhile, elsewhere, Morris closed his – and he was hungry, too, for he had reached Birmingham and still hadn’t eaten. He’d got through the station barrier, but he wasn’t bound for Preston because he had no business there. He was wishing he was home in Newport and, like Michael, he’d lost all sense of purpose and direction. Yet again, his phone wasn’t ringing as he waited for a call he knew in his heart just wasn’t going to come. He was supposed to meet this man, Aziz, for just one hour – but unfortunately, Aziz had changed his mind.

  Aziz had forgotten the arrangement he’d made just minutes before, so he didn’t call Morris to tell him he was no longer wanted. He didn’t call to say he wouldn’t be calling – for Aziz was a busy man with hardly enough time to call even his heavily pregnant wife who had been trying to reach him for an hour, in floods of tears.

  His phone was turned to silent. Why? There was a good reason, and it was because the substance he was using was so pure it had just lifted him into a different zone, and inner-city Birmingham had become a paradise of dancing, weaving cars – his gums were tingling, and he was feeling finer than he’d felt all year. His own vehicle seemed to throb and hover, powered not by petrol but by smooth, loud music, and it felt like a boat. Lights were coming on, each one opening bright as a flower, so the thin young boy in the park was far from his mind. Aziz didn’t want a boy ever again, he was past all that: instead, he would go straight to the restaurant which overlooked the canal, and he knew that tonight would be the best night since they’d opened.

  He didn’t need anyone.

  Morris needed him, but they would never connect. Morris had found the park, and sat on the bench getting colder, even as Michael peeled that second-to-last tangerine. He sat, and his phone just wouldn’t ring. His hood was up around his ears, and he was at that stage when he had to calculate very carefully whether or not to stand and walk for warmth, or stay in his seat to save energy: not a deadly stage, of course, but an uncomfortable one, and what he longed for most was a burger, or a cigarette. A joint, a burger and a ticket back to his sister’s: all of that was obtainable for less than fifty pounds, which is what he didn’t have unless Aziz paid him the agreed seventy, plus expenses. He checked his phone for missed calls, and the cracked screen only reminded him of his sister’s boyfriend’s temper. Two sausage rolls! And he’d known they weren’t his.

  He had known they belonged to Morris.

  There were things Morris knew, and things he didn’t. One thing he didn’t know was who Dorothy and Ken Trott might be, and why their names were written on a plate by his left shoulder. Morris hadn’t noticed the plate, and he’d never seen the Trotts who used to sit in this very park at this very spot. He’d never shared their pleasure in the roses, or been even loosely connected to the moment when they made a big decision: that on their deaths a certain amount of money would be left to Birmingham City Council so that this very bench could be dedicated not to the prostitutes who cruised around it every evening, but to their years of tender love. In memory of Dorothy and Ken Trott, who loved this view: that’s what was written just below Morris’s neck, as he sat getting colder, waiting for Aziz who didn’t want him. And he didn’t know that he’d been spotted until it was too late.

  When the young man sat down next to him, he got the very strong sense that it would do him no good to run. He would do much better talking his way out of the park, and right out of Birmingham – for it was definitely time to go.

  That was when his new friend spoke to him.

  ‘All right?’ he said.

  Morris said, ‘All right.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Morris.’

  ‘Where you from?’

  He paused, then decided to be truthful.

  ‘Just outside Newport,’ he said – and his mouth was dry, because there was someone else now, leaning on the back of the bench, and he could hear him breathing. There were three of them, in fact – and there was a boy his own age just down the path. They had surrounded him.

  ‘Newport?’ said the man quietly. ‘What’s a Newport queer doing in Birmingham?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Waiting. For a friend.’

  The man laughed, and leaned in close. He spat, then, full in Morris’s face – and someone grabbed him by his hood. They wouldn’t let him fall to the ground: it was easier to keep him on the bench, for they could use their fists and their feet, and take it in turns. When they were ready, they rolled him onto the path, and stamped on him.

  CONNECTION

  17

  Maria caught the 15.58 and it was on time to the second.

  She reached Preston at 17.10 and she got down carefully, for the rucksack was heavy on her shoulder. She still couldn’t understand how she had left the bag on the table, for without it she felt incomplete. Why hadn’t she noticed, when normally she checked so carefully? She stood in the café doorway and saw a young woman waving. The next moment the handbag was in her hand, and she simply started to cry.

  ‘You’re so good,’ she said. ‘You
sit here all this time – that’s so, so kind.’

  ‘Do you want to check what’s inside?’ said Ayesha.

  ‘Yes. No! Thank you.’

  She was laughing, too.

  ‘Well then, what do you want to drink?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you.’

  ‘Have something with me. Just… relax for a moment. Do you want tea or coffee?’

  ‘Just… tea, please. Thank you.’

  ‘Herbal? Mint?’

  ‘Honestly, no. Just… everyday tea. Breakfast tea.’

  Ayesha had found a corner table, and her brother’s guitar was propped against the wall. Maria sat down, the rucksack beside her – and she wiped her eyes. She couldn’t stop smiling, for the bag looked and weighed the same. She held it to her chest and unzipped it. She removed the passport first, and then she took out the wallet: there were all her cards and train tickets, and there were the banknotes. Everything was safe again: order had been restored, and the temporary separation had already started to seem less important. Her bag had had an adventure of its own, but now it was back where it belonged. Incredibly, their journey together could continue, and her family need never know. When Ayesha returned, she was carrying a white china cup, and the string of the teabag trailed over its edge.

  ‘You know you asked me something,’ she said, setting it down. ‘You asked me if the train we were on went to Burnley.’

  ‘Which train?’ said Maria.

  ‘The one we were on together, at Carlisle. You sat down, and asked me if the train went to Burnley. Well… I didn’t realise it, but you were on the right train. You didn’t need to get off.’

  ‘It was the right train?’

  ‘Yes. You had to come here, didn’t you? So as to change at Preston.’

  ‘Yes. So…’

  Maria thought hard.

  ‘Why did I get off?’

  ‘Because I told you to. By mistake.’

  Maria digested this, and smiled even more broadly.

  ‘I needed to come here,’ she said. ‘And here I am.’

  ‘That’s right. But that train – the one you were on – would have got you here faster. I just didn’t think quickly enough, and suddenly I opened my big mouth, and—’

  ‘I was getting down, running.’

  ‘You were getting down, and it was my fault. All of this is my fault, so the least I can do is buy you a cup of tea. Is there anything else you want?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  Maria started to laugh.

  ‘I am very lucky,’ she said. ‘Everything is okay, because of you. Look.’

  She opened the bag again and removed her passport.

  ‘My life,’ she said. ‘My visa and my work permit. I am so, so lucky – thank you.’

  ‘You must stop thanking me. If I hadn’t—’

  ‘You’re a very kind person. And I make you late! Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m nearly home. I’m not late at all.’

  ‘You live here?’

  ‘Close by. My parents do, anyway. I get a bus from here.’

  ‘You waited for me.’

  Maria was laughing again. She brushed the tears away and shook her head.

  ‘I just felt so guilty,’ said Ayesha. ‘Where are you going, by the way? Are you camping somewhere?’

  ‘Camping?’

  She looked down at the rucksack.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have a hotel. But everything is here, for walking. I don’t have a suitcase.’

  ‘It’s more practical. Easier to carry.’

  ‘Where are you going? You told me – your parents.’

  ‘I’m going to see them,’ said Ayesha. ‘I’m returning this thing… this guitar, amongst… you know, other things. I was going to see them anyway—’

  ‘You play guitar?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘My husband plays. I sing, he plays guitar.’

  ‘This belonged to my brother, but we’ve decided to give it to a friend. Is your husband meeting you, or…?’

  ‘Meeting me where?’

  ‘For the walking holiday. In the hotel.’

  ‘No.’

  She paused.

  ‘He is working. United Arab Emirates.’

  ‘And you’re from the Philippines? I’ve never been there.’

  ‘You must come. Are you Indian? Or… Where were you born?’

  ‘My parents are Indian. I was born in Bury.’

  ‘Bury?’

  ‘Near here. Not far.’

  ‘I worked one year in India.’

  ‘Whereabouts was that?’

  ‘Mumbai.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So noisy. Like Manila.’

  They sat in silence, and Maria blew across the surface of her tea and added sugar. Ayesha didn’t need to look at her phone to know the time, for there was a clock on the wall opposite, and a series of information boards. They were sitting, it seemed, on the site of a First World War canteen, where thousands of hungry, thirsty soldiers had taken refreshment on their way to the front. There were signs announcing this, and the writing was so big you had to read it: In 1917, every single day, three thousand two hundred and fifty men were served by volunteers.

  She looked at Maria, and they smiled at each other.

  Conversation had come to a natural end, it seemed, but the meeting was going to be prolonged by the same hot drinks the soldiers must have sipped, here in this very spot. Not that the delay mattered, for the buses to her parents’ house were regular and she’d called to tell them she had to meet someone first. In any case, she didn’t want to go home. She wanted to see them, of course – but seeing them was always so hard.

  Why had she assumed Maria was single? It was because she looked so young, and the rucksack had marked her out as a student traveller. Her English was good but full of short hesitations, and her face switched between anxiety and open joy in half a second – the muscles were always at work. She had very dark hair, drawn back from a small, oval face, and it was held somehow under a denim cap. She wore a light pink waterproof, and a crucifix was just visible against her throat. She had small, fine hands that tapered to carefully painted nails, and she looked up from her tea suddenly so their eyes were locked together for a moment. Maria’s were almost black, and luminous. She smiled and her teeth were perfect.

  ‘Where’s your hotel?’ said Ayesha.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Some… very small place. I have a map, but first I get to Burnley.’

  She drew a ticket from the wallet.

  ‘Burnley Manchester Road. Do you know Burnley Manchester Road?’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because… Because I gave you the wrong information, earlier. You shouldn’t trust me.’

  Maria laughed again.

  ‘I see, you’re joking! – of course I trust you. But honestly… Listen. I take the C4 bus from the railway station. The C4 bus goes to the hotel, so they say. I hope it does. I hope it will come.’

  ‘You seem well prepared,’ said Ayesha.

  ‘I stay two days in the hotel. One long walk.’

  ‘And that’s holiday?’

  Maria nodded.

  ‘Very special holiday.’

  Ayesha smiled, wishing that conversations like this didn’t have to be interrogations. Why only two days? What’s so special? Will you be alone, and if so won’t you be lonely? Or is it an organised walking-adventure you booked weeks ago with friends? And why Lancashire? What is your job here, or was I right in my first assumption, that you’re studying? If so – if not – does your extraordinary beauty make your life difficult, and what is your experience of this strange, strange country?

  ‘My brother died,’ she said suddenly.

  Maria’s eyes opened wider than ever.

  ‘He died, and I’m taking his guitar back home – I can’t even remember why I’d been looking after it. He came to visit me, but I do
n’t know why he left it. He did, though – and it’s time it went somewhere else.’

  ‘He died?’ said Maria softly.

  ‘He was in an accident, just over three years ago. A road accident, and… it affected us all pretty deeply. Well, it would.’

  Ayesha smiled, and Maria stared at her. The passport was on the table still, and she had her left hand on it, as if she was worried it might be snatched. She was leaning forward, and Ayesha thought again how thin, small and frail she looked – the rucksack was huge beside her. Kristin’s guitar stood in the corner, and the case was dusty. Inside was the instrument itself, bought for his eleventh birthday, because he had borrowed a friend’s and learned a number of chords, so he clearly needed his own. He deserved his own. She had heard him once, at an early stage of the process, practising a song in his bedroom – his unbroken voice surprisingly sweet and in tune. She had made him record himself, and the recording… she had it, and could play it easily if she ever wanted to. So far she never had. The most unbearable thing, or one of the many most unbearable things, had been the disposal of his possessions – the shoes that had kept his feet safe and warm, and the coat with some particular shopping story attached… the coat he’d wanted and argued with his mother about, because it wasn’t strictly right for school, but he wanted it if only because it wasn’t strictly right for school. And he’d got his way – the indulged, spoiled, over-loved Indian son. Over-loved, and thus forever tempting fate. Don’t show your love, for the gods will be jealous of it. They will destroy it, out of spite. But how could you not over-love Kristin, who lived so entirely in the loving present? He brought electricity into the room, and left everything charged. She had under-loved her brother, whilst their gran had simply not been able to face the world without him. Without his love, there was no world, and it had slowly stopped spinning.

  Her own was darker now. It really was as if a light had been turned off, the switch removed from the wall.

  She felt a hand on her wrist.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Maria. ‘How old was he?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘Thirteen? Oh…’

  For a moment, Maria looked stricken, as if she couldn’t comprehend the horror of such a loss. Ayesha nodded, and the hand remained, its grip a little firmer.