Train Man

by Andrew Mulligan

  ‘You come here, uncle,’ said Nikko.

  ‘Where?’ said Michael.

  ‘You. Come here, Philippines.’

  ‘Come to the Philippines? To visit, you mean?’

  He laughed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  The little boy put his nose closer, and Michael found he was looking into a pair of huge, dark eyes again, behind a sheet of hair. Fingers lifted the hair away, and the eyes were too much – they were Maria’s eyes and her husband’s eyes. Eyes you could look into all day, for in a dazzling moment he realised how a child’s eyes could nourish you. These were the eyes of one you would protect with your life – with your sword and shield, as the clouds unfolded and Jerusalem rose up out of the rock. Never would you be separated, unless some terrible cruelty tore you apart and put you on the other side of the world. For a moment all Michael wanted was to help protect this boy – his brothers and sisters too – and keep them safe. He didn’t know them, and they had nothing to do with him: but that was all he wanted.

  He needed a sword and shield, and Maria was holding him.

  ‘You come Philippines,’ said Max gravely. ‘We wait you here.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Not easy for me.’

  ‘Yes! Very easy.’

  ‘You come,’ said Lucas.

  ‘You come here,’ said Nikko. ‘Promise, uncle? Promise!’

  And for some reason, Michael lost his composure completely, and started crying again – and that made Maria cry. They sat together in the sun as the children laughed at them, and the car horns blasted outside. Michael and Maria looked through the little tablet, holding it in their hands – gazing at a world so far away, but so close they could feel the heat and smell the fumes. At last, Maria put her hand on the screen, and the children touched her fingertips. She made Michael do the same, and he realised that was the signal for God bless, goodnight, goodbye – we are apart, but close. Goodbye – we are touching… I love you.

  Maria ended the call, and they were alone again.

  They dried their eyes, and they stood up. Then, slowly and carefully, they walked all the way back to the hotel.

  NORTH AND SOUTH

  32

  Michael’s things were behind the reception desk.

  He had forgotten that the room was only available for one night, and the staff had been obliged to prepare for the next guest. They were very kind. They found him a sleeping bag and even a mattress, so he had supper with Maria and slept on her floor, squeezed between the bed and the wall. The next day, they caught the bus to the station, where the 10.12 to Blackpool was only one minute late. They boarded together, and got down at Preston.

  Maria was heading north, so Michael took her to the platform. Her connection was eight minutes late, and there was an apology because the person speaking knew that there would be inconvenience. Another train came through but this one didn’t stop. Everyone was advised to stand behind the yellow line, and it crashed through in a hurricane of silver and red. Those last eight minutes seemed extra-specially precious – a little gift from the railway company.

  He kissed her on the cheek when they parted.

  She held him very close for a long time. For a moment he worried she might miss the train, but she let him go at last and he stood back. The doors closed, and he then had the wondrous experience of watching her choose her seat quickly so that she could sit down and wave. They waved to each other until the distance made waving absurd, but he carried on anyway in case her eyes were better than his. He turned, aware that people had noticed him and might even be envying whatever relationship he had with the woman they’d seen board the train. He was aware, too, that he really had been waving to someone. He had not been pretending.

  He crossed back to his own platform, and passed through Crewe just after twelve-twenty. He got back to his flat shortly before six. His room was still his room, and when he saw his own two hands setting his bag down on the bed, letting go of the strap, he stopped for a moment and stood motionless – catching his breath – for the note he’d left was unopened. His clothing was there, and his phone was on the bedside table exactly where he’d left it, next to his watch.

  There was one message, from Maria.

  All good??? it said.

  He could hear a television coming up from the flat below. Now and then came the cough he recognised as Ryan’s. He texted back, All good. You?

  Yes. Work tomorrow.

  He put the phone down and opened the drawer of his desk. He took out all the letters and started to open them, one by one, throwing away the envelopes. Soon, the contents lay in orderly piles and he carefully punched holes so as to transfer them to a ring-binder. Everyone wanted his money, it seemed: the council, the water company, the various banks who’d sold on his debts – they were queuing up to prosecute him. There were letters from solicitors and bailiffs, and they threatened, so politely, to take everything he owned. In fact, there was only one thing they couldn’t take – and that was his life.

  In the morning, he would have to talk to them.

  There had been one encounter on the train south.

  At Birmingham New Street he changed trains, and as the service was busy he found himself sharing a table with a young man who’d got on board just ahead of him. He was a boy, really, and he was hunched and slow, and as soon as he took his seat he put his head on the table. Michael found himself looking at a grey hood that was stained by grass, and fingers that were wrapped in a splint. There was an unpleasant smell as if he’d wet himself, and the part of his face that was visible was heavily bruised.

  They travelled in silence for several miles, and then the door behind slid open. A clink of bottles followed, and a woman appeared pulling the refreshments trolley.

  ‘Tea, coffee,’ she said. ‘Anything to eat or drink?’

  Michael said, ‘Yes. Thank you. Could I have a coffee?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He couldn’t place her accent, but it sounded Eastern European. Her uniform was just a little tight, her hair drawn back from her face emphasising a nose that was long and sharp. The efficiency of her movements dazzled him, and he wondered if she was being timed. There was so little space on the trolley, for it was laden and she needed not only a tray and wallet for cash, but also the little machine for cards. She was a magician.

  ‘Anything to eat?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘Could I have a sandwich? What do you have?’

  She had to stoop to see into the sandwich shelf, and she went through the list briskly.

  ‘Egg mayonnaise. Chicken tikka. Tuna and sweetcorn and… that’s it.’

  ‘Could I have the egg, please?’

  ‘Egg mayonnaise. Brown or white bread?’

  There was even a choice of bread. The egg mayonnaise sandwiches had clearly proved unpopular.

  ‘Brown,’ he said quickly.

  She put the box on a paper plate, with a serviette tucked under it. She placed a lid on the coffee cup, and used another, smaller one for milk tubs and sachets of sugar. She inserted a wooden stirrer, and set it all down carefully, close to Michael’s hands.

  ‘Biscuit?’ she said. ‘With the coffee?’

  ‘No, I mustn’t,’ he said.

  He was about to say, ‘I’m trying to be careful,’ when he decided not to. The woman didn’t need any further information, and she had many more carriages to serve before turning around and dragging the whole apparatus back again. How many responses like that could she tolerate?

  ‘I’m being careful. Don’t tempt me! I’m sweet enough, thank you.’

  She was working out his bill when he noticed that the boy in the sweatshirt had turned his head. It was still resting on the table, but he’d opened his eyes. Both were swollen, and the left one was so damaged it would hardly open at all.

  He had a drowned look.

  Nonetheless, he was staring at the sandwich. She had placed it quite close to where he’d been resting, and Michael s
aw that the skin round his ear and down his neck was a mixture of livid crimson, yellow, black and violet. The right side of his mouth was slightly open, because his lip was torn.

  Michael handed over his third and last twenty-pound note, and took his receipt and change. The woman thanked him, and he thanked her so she thanked him again and moved on. Michael rearranged what she’d given him, putting the coffee by the window.

  He said to the boy, ‘You don’t look well.’

  He spoke softly. There was no idiot jauntiness, because the face was so badly marked it was upsetting him – and he found a quieter, gentler tone.

  The boy, however, just grimaced – Michael saw his nostrils twitch and the lips effect a kind of sneer. Was it a smirk? Or a wince? Maybe it was just that quick, animal reaction to warn off a predator? He looked no more than fourteen – he had so much growing to do, but he looked lean and starved and the skin that wasn’t discoloured was unhealthily pale. His clothes would have fitted someone so much bigger: it was as if he’d put them on and shrunk.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Michael.

  ‘What?’ said the boy.

  ‘You don’t look very well. I think you need a hot drink.’

  The boy raised himself up, painfully. He sat back in his seat, and looked out of the window. That meant he was as far away from Michael as he could be, and his shoulders were up round his ears. The hood of his sweatshirt put his whole face in shadow, but the injuries were still visible. Conscious of them, he put his left hand up to his nose as if to wipe it, but kept it there. His eyes drifted towards the landscape again.

  ‘What would you like?’ said Michael.

  The boy didn’t look at him.

  ‘She had coffee. Tea. Hot chocolate.’

  ‘No money,’ said the boy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No money.’

  ‘I’m going to buy you one. You need a drink, all right? What do you want?’

  The boy said nothing. He shook his head, and his arm moved higher so his whole face was covered. He settled lower in his seat, as if all he wanted was to sleep, undisturbed.

  ‘I think you should have a hot chocolate,’ said Michael quietly. ‘Wait there.’

  He got up and walked down to the trolley – it was almost at the doors, because nobody had made a purchase. He placed his order and bought a KitKat. Then he bought a chicken tikka sandwich, and made his way back to his own table. The boy seemed to be dozing, and Michael set the items down in front of him.

  There was no movement.

  Michael climbed back into his own place, and busied himself with his coffee. He got the cardboard carton open and removed the first of the egg sandwiches. Then he reached over and opened the chicken, as if the boy might struggle with the seal. Minutes passed, and the train sped through fields. At last, the boy huddled forward and took the hot chocolate. He sipped it, and Michael saw again that his right hand was bandaged.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  The train was slowing down, and it was like watching a bird come a little closer, to take a crust. He was like a mongrel dog, or a rat, even.

  ‘Have you had an accident?’ said Michael.

  The boy shook his head, but again it was a flinching movement.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Silence.

  ‘Home,’ he said at last.

  ‘Where’s home?’

  The boy shrugged and gazed out of the window again. The train stopped but they weren’t at a station. Michael ate his own sandwich, quietly, and said no more. He finished the coffee, and couldn’t help but notice that the chicken sandwich remained untouched. He wondered if the boy was a vegetarian, or if his choice had been foolish: how could the poor soul eat spicy food with torn lips? It was possible that he simply couldn’t bring himself to accept a gift, of course, because gifts come freighted with obligations. He didn’t want to be in debt. All through childhood, thought Michael, we are told never to accept the approaches of strangers, for strangers will want something from us – the price will be too high. From Hansel and Gretel onwards, we’re told the same thing: never take the sweets.

  ‘If you come in my car, I’ll give you five pounds.’

  ‘Give me ten, mate – I’ll cum in your mouth.’

  Michael closed his eyes, but for some reason the joke now seemed simply crude and ignorant. Why had it ever alarmed him?

  He looked at the boy again, and the clothes made him feel sad. They suggested the cheapest of the cheap high-street stores – were they bought by his mother, still? Were they borrowed or interchanged amongst brothers and friends? Except he wouldn’t have friends. He would have ‘mates’, and Michael could almost hear them, because a pack always met up quite close to where he lived. You’d hear the mumbling and the sniggering – there might be a skateboard or two, or even a bicycle riding in tight circles. They always wore what this boy was wearing now: they conformed to uniform regulations as they must have done at school, but instead of shirts and ties it was now this: the costume of the unskilled, jobless poor.

  The boy picked up the sandwich and took a bite. Sauce immediately ran down his chin, and he winced. It stained the bandage on his hand, so he licked his fingers quickly, and Michael thought of rats again.

  He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t think of a single question or statement that would take them forward, and the train was obstinately still. They were simply stuck.

  The boy smelled worse now – the stink of urine was strong. Had people urinated on him, perhaps? He couldn’t be incontinent, but he might have been so drunk last night that he’d lost control. Was he coming back from a wild party? Was he actually the son of some wealthy couple? Was he at university, even?

  ‘How old are you?’ said Michael.

  The boy swallowed.

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your name. If you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘Morris.’

  There was a silence.

  Morris swallowed the last of the first sandwich, and went straight on to the second. He pushed it into his mouth and ate hungrily. Then he drank and wiped his lips, and started on the chocolate bar. He ate with total concentration and without pleasure – the eating was mechanical and fast. Michael didn’t want to stare at him, so he gazed at the wasteland outside, trying to ignore the reflection in the glass.

  He said, ‘A hundred years ago…’

  The boy made no sign of hearing or listening – but it didn’t matter. Michael wanted to tell him something.

  ‘A hundred years ago,’ he said. ‘You would have been off to France. I’d have been too old, I think – but a sixteen-year-old… I think conscription had started, but the other thing I read was that – this might surprise you – young men lied about their ages, because they were so keen to join up and fight. Twelve-year-old boys would walk miles, apparently, trying to find a… recruitment office that would take them.’

  The boy sipped the chocolate.

  ‘And I met someone yesterday,’ said Michael, ‘who had three jobs. She made me think I need to find work, because… I don’t do much any more.’

  The boy wasn’t looking at him.

  ‘What happened to your eye? Tell me.’

  The boy creased his brow for a moment, then looked away. He was about to speak, when the doors closest to them opened and a friendly voice said:

  ‘All tickets, please. All tickets.’

  The boy said, ‘Fuck.’

  ‘What?’

  He went to stand up, but winced as he did so. Then he seemed to lose interest in the movement, and slumped back down. In any case, the guard was at the table across from theirs, waiting as a man and a woman delved into their pockets and bags: there was no escape. Michael produced his ticket, and waited for what was now inevitable.

  ‘Thank you, sir – tickets, please?’

  The boy looked up, and the guard stared at him.

  ‘Stolen,’ he said.


  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I had my wallet stolen.’

  The guard looked at him more carefully.

  ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘Birmingham.’

  ‘Birmingham? What kind of ticket was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just a… return.’

  ‘Any proof of purchase? A receipt, or…?’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘Where are you going to?’

  ‘Newport.’

  ‘Long way. Do you have cash, or a card?’

  The boy’s head twitched again.

  ‘ID?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay,’ said the guard.

  He was a big man, with a very heavy stomach and a very thick neck. The train company had given him a uniform, but he couldn’t wear it smartly: the collar of his shirt was wide open and the tie was loose. His jumper was too tight, and standing in the aisle he looked hot and uncomfortable – but he was determined to be friendly. He was getting no pleasure from the boy’s discomfort, and it occurred to Michael how hard men like this must have to work to avoid confrontations. They were being scrutinised, too, and their conduct had to be faultless and professional: there was a camera just ten paces away.

  The man was not a bully.

  ‘The problem we’ve got,’ he said, ‘is that without ID we can’t do it on board. What I’m going to have to do, therefore, is ask you to get down at the next station, and they can take a few details there. Is that okay?’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ said the boy.

  ‘I’m not saying anyone’s telling lies, sir – I’m just saying—’

  ‘I’ve got nothing on me.’

  ‘Nothing at all? Did you tell the police?’