Train Man

by Andrew Mulligan

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you board the train without a ticket?’

  The boy shrugged.

  ‘Did you not mention this to anyone at Birmingham? The fact that you’d had your ticket stolen?’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘I just want to get home,’ he said quietly. ‘I just… I just got the train.’

  ‘Were the barriers open?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘You see, I understand that, and I can see you’ve had some trouble. But the problem is, son… boarding a train without a valid ticket is an offence. So I have to charge you a penalty fare, and—’

  ‘How much is it?’ said Michael.

  The guard looked at him.

  ‘We’re not travelling together,’ said Michael. ‘But I can help. What would the fare be, please?’

  ‘From Birmingham to Newport…’

  The guard looked down at his ticket machine, and the boy looked out of the window.

  ‘With the penalty fare, it will be… I can tell you in a moment.’

  He pressed buttons and checked a piece of paper. Everyone in the carriage was working so hard to ignore what was happening – it was a collective effort, and Michael felt the torture of embarrassment as he waited to hear the figure.

  ‘Forty-three eighty.’

  ‘That’s with the penalty?’ said Michael.

  ‘No. We’ll do it as a single, but I can’t emphasise this enough – if you lose a ticket, you’re best off talking to staff at the station where you board, and they will try to help. You can’t travel on a train without a ticket.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  Michael presented his card, and there was another fifteen seconds of suspense as the connections were made. At last, the transaction was allowed and the guard gave him his receipt.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘Do you know why we’ve stopped, by the way?’

  ‘Red signal. Service from Worcester coming through.’

  ‘Right.’

  Then, as if they hadn’t spoken, the guard moved on.

  ‘Tickets, please, all tickets,’ he said – and Michael pushed the one he’d bought over to the boy, who said nothing at all.

  Michael remained silent, too. He was wondering who the boy lived with, and what might be waiting for him when he finally got home. He wanted to know who had assaulted him, and why – but he couldn’t ask.

  ‘We have to work,’ he said quietly.

  The boy ignored him.

  ‘We can’t not work,’ he said. ‘We cannot throw ourselves away.’

  He wanted to say more. He wanted to say, ‘We might meet again. We might bump into each other some time in the future – it’s not impossible. Will you have recovered when we do, and moved on? We can, surely… but what if we can’t?’

  He wanted to take the boy’s hand, but Morris was staring out of the window.

  Michael wondered if he dared write his number down and hand it over.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ he could say. ‘But it seems to me you need someone. If you need more help, I will help you – because you’re young, and something bad has happened to you. I don’t know what you’ve done, but nobody deserves to be beaten the way you’ve been beaten. That doesn’t mean I can help, because maybe I can’t – but you can trust me.’

  He went to speak, and then thought better of it.

  Inside his bag was a pen – but he couldn’t make the move. To pass on his number would be too much like a proposition, or the act of a mad evangelical who was saving souls. On the other hand, who was looking out for this one? Who was waiting for this poor, injured boy, worrying about him – longing for his safe return? What if there was nobody?

  Michael set his bag on his knees, and opened it. The pen was there, in a pocket – but still he didn’t dare.

  ‘I’m alive, Morris,’ he said. ‘I want to live.’

  Morris turned and looked at him.

  The left eye was all but closed, while the right one seemed to gleam. The train was moving slowly forward again, and Michael pulled out the pen and the first piece of paper he could find. It was the leaflet that had guided Maria to Higher Lee Ridge. As he removed it, he saw a flash of bright orange. There was a tangerine left after all, and it had lodged itself beneath his spectacles case.

  He put it on the table.

  As for the leaflet, he had laid it out on Maria’s dressing table to dry, and she’d been about to throw it away. He had saved it. It was torn, but he wrote his phone number carefully beside one of the pictures, and below that he wrote his name.

  His name was Michael MacMillan, and he underlined it. Then he thought of Terry, who was in Bristol at the marina. He thought of Percy, which was short for Percival: he would be in a classroom, or on a playing field. His grandparents had not revealed their names – unlike Scottish Graeme, Sunita, Jo, Tim or Tom, and all those old colleagues at the council. There was Steve, and the HR woman – Jean. There were lots more whose faces had faded, but they could all be in the next carriage – they were following him, in a way. What about the wise Pakistani in Accrington, in a house with seventy people who had gathered around his father? What about the woman on the bench, way back where his journey started? Had she made it to wherever she was going, and met up with her daughter? An anonymous steam-train enthusiast had saved his life, and he’d met himself at the vending machine – that nervous boy, who might be telling his friends about the madman on the station even now. He would be checking vending machines for the next year, recalling his find for the rest of his life. As for Bromsgrove’s war dead, Michael couldn’t remember a single one of them. Not one of those brave, frightened young soldiers had lodged in his memory, unlike Maria’s six children. He could name each one: Roselle, the baby. Next to her was Roxanne, and then Miguel. Max was the oldest, and Lucas was one year younger. Nikko was the monkey. As for their father, his name was Jao.

  He read his own name again: Michael MacMillan. He pushed the leaflet across the table, and weighted it down with the last tangerine.

  ‘Contact me, Morris,’ he said. ‘If you want to.’

  The train rolled into a tunnel, and came out again. He thought about Elizabeth, and then Monica. He thought about Amy, whom he’d hurt so badly, and closed his eyes.

  FAR EAST

  33

  When you land at Manila’s Ninoy Aquino Airport, your first impression may be negative. The walk through the terminal is a tiring one, and there are usually eight or nine long queues in the immigration hall. You inch forward, and the Filipino officer in the booth will only give you the most cursory glance, because he or she sees so many different versions of you every day. He or she isn’t likely to see you as an individual: sadly, you have come to seem the same as the last and the next. Your visa will be stamped into your passport, though, and through you will go. You have permission to enter the Philippines.

  Michael entered and stood beside the carousel.

  The bags were appearing, one after another, and in a short while he saw his own.

  He picked it up and checked his instructions. They were printed in a large, clear font, because he didn’t want to go wrong at this crucial stage:

  Go through customs, out of the building – walk across the road past the yellow taxis, go past the hotel meeting point, the way goes left and right: GO TO THE RIGHT!!

  He did as he was told, handing a form to the man at the customs desk. He turned left past a line of banks, where a young woman urged him to take an airport limousine.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said – and the woman smiled at him.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ replied Michael. ‘I’m meeting someone, I think.’

  ‘Mabuhay. Welcome to the Philippines.’

  He stood still and looked at her. She seemed completely sincere.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and moved on.

  A pair of glass doors opened onto a dark roadway, and he felt damp hea
t. It was nearly midnight, local time, and the air was unnaturally warm. He was frightened now, for he was leaving the protected zone and the world was suddenly full of crawling taxis. They were yellow, and their engines were reverberating: the road was actually a concrete tunnel, and he could hear the constant squeal of tyres. Ahead, he saw the hotel meeting point, so he crossed with the crowd. His new manager had asked him where he was going.

  ‘Somewhere nice?’ she said. ‘Winter sun?’

  He’d told her that he wasn’t sure, and that he had no definite plans. It was a lie, but he hadn’t wanted anyone to know the truth: the trip felt like a private adventure, and he couldn’t believe it would actually happen. He couldn’t even imagine getting to Heathrow airport, and the idea that you could simply sit in a succession of seats, and end up on the other side of the world – that seemed absurd.

  So much had changed.

  He had lost his flat, because his polite appeals for more time had fallen on deaf ears. He’d given in to a compromise: repossession was avoided, but he’d had to sell quickly and take the first serious offer. Now he had a new doctor, and was on a waiting list to see a counsellor. He worked in a supermarket, and his job was not so different from the DIY centre: he unloaded stock and shelved it. He took turns on the tills, and had completed a short course that allowed him to supervise the self-service area.

  He emailed Maria and Jao every week.

  The airline he’d chosen was the one that they always used. It catered for those determined to economise whatever the inconvenience, so – as a consequence – he had been awake for the last thirty-six hours and his eyes felt raw. He’d flown via Kuwait, and the plane had been full of cheerful overseas workers who were returning home – he was the one white face amongst them, and they cheered the captain as they came in to land.

  A man had turned to him:

  ‘Hey, Joe!’ he’d said. ‘Welcome.’

  Joe was the friendly name for a Westerner, it seemed.

  Now, Michael stopped.

  He’d come through a short pedestrian subway, and he was in the open air. There was a solid stone wall in front of him, so his fellow passengers streamed left and right, manoeuvring trolleys as quickly as they dared. Some were running, and he realised how the exit system worked. If your name began with any letter between A and L, you went to the left: that’s what the sign said. Everyone else – M to Z – went right, and it was a simple way of spreading the arriving crowds out safely, to avoid a crush. Both channels took you down broad concrete ramps, which curved around a floodlit meeting area. Those waiting for their loved ones positioned themselves at the appropriate exit, and looked up in expectation. It meant there was less chance of a stampede.

  Michael checked his paper again, and went to the right. As soon as he saw the masses below, he was filled with dismay. There were hundreds and hundreds of people, even at this time – midnight – and the noise was now deafening. Everyone stood in brightly coloured clusters, and most were gazing at the ramps, aching to get their first glimpse of mother, father, son, daughter, brother or sister. Some had banners, and others held placards, and the atmosphere was that of a sports stadium when the home team is winning. He could hear people howling as they waved and clapped, but what made the scene seem extra chaotic was that a line of buses was inching through the centre towards a subway. They were nose to tail, honking their horns. Some people were boarding and others were getting down – it was a constant flow of joyful, anxious chaos.

  He stopped.

  He had never seen such confusion, and his legs felt weak. He stared down, aware that a lot of people round him really were running, for they had spotted their families. The crowd surged as reunions took place, and he watched men disappear into scrums of women and children who hugged and kissed them, and wouldn’t let them go – he could see an old woman in floods of tears, her hands raised in triumph. He stood alone, wondering how he would ever find Maria, if she had actually managed to come for him. She’d said she would, but he knew the journey to the airport took four hours and she was bound to be delayed. In any case, they would never find each other. He should have insisted on taking a hotel, for he had never felt so overwhelmed. Every face was Filipino, and he was watching such personal, private rituals of joy.

  Why his eye alighted on a particular group, he didn’t know.

  Perhaps it was because everyone in that particular cluster was staring at him, and even at that distance he felt their gaze? Perhaps it was the fact that one of the children was on a man’s shoulders, waving her arms slowly in full circles? What he knew was that it had to be an optical illusion, for the woman standing in the middle looked so like his friend – and she was flapping her hands at him, calling something he couldn’t possibly hear.

  He knew it wasn’t her, because it couldn’t be – he deserved nothing.

  He felt his knees simply give way, and he clutched the wall for support. He was back on the ledge, in another storm, and the tears blurred his vision. He had to wipe them away fast in case the illusion disappeared – he had to clean his glasses. It was Maria, Jao and all of the children, and they were screaming his name. He did manage to wave, and they were frantic in their response – for a moment, he heard a howl of ‘Michael!’

  They could not come for him, for families weren’t allowed up on the ramp. They had to wait whilst he got himself together and walked on. They had to wait as he stumbled all the way down, on rubber legs. When he got to the bottom, he still couldn’t get to them – he had to go through a final cordon of airport officials, and he had to take more steps. He was like a deep-sea diver with a suitcase.

  At last he was through and somehow they were face to face. Maria’s husband was shaking his hand, whilst the eldest boy – this was Lucas – Lucas took the bag. He knew that Maria would embrace him, but what he didn’t expect was that the children wanted to as well. For some reason, all he could think was how late it was, and how kind they were to come all this way when they could have been in comfortable beds. Hands were reaching out, and he thought, You don’t know me. You don’t know me at all, so how can this be allowed?

  Roselle was placed in his arms, and he wasn’t quite sure how to hold her. Roxanne was presented next, and he did his best, still not sure what to do or what to say. He went down into a crouch, then, so as to greet the others – and he almost fell. They were saying things, but he could hardly hear.

  ‘Uncle,’ they said. ‘Welcome, uncle!’

  He heard their names, and he hugged first Max and then Miguel. Lucas still held the suitcase, but hugged him as best he could, and when he saw Nikko he went to pieces completely, for the boy leaned in and kissed him. He kissed Michael gently on the cheek and then reached for his hand – and Michael let himself be led. He was guided like a blind man, towards a waiting bus. The children helped him with infinite care, and the next moment they’d found seats and they were moving.

  ‘So,’ said Maria. ‘How was the journey?’

  Michael shook his head and laughed. There were absolutely no words, so he didn’t try to answer. Roselle was in his arms, and the family were squeezed around him as if they always sat together, in just this way. He kept nodding, realising that if he hoped to speak – if he was ever to find his voice again and say anything worth hearing – he would have to study hard and find a whole new language.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Train Man started on a train, and was meant to be a radio drama – but that didn’t work out, so I turned it into a novel. Michael is based on an old friend who killed himself years ago on a railway line. I don’t know if the Philippines would have saved him.

  My apologies to those who notice the occasional liberties I’ve taken with timetables and geography: sometimes you just need to get where you’re going.

  My agent, Jane Turnbull, was the first to read the book critically and suggest improvements. I’m deeply indebted to her. Clara Farmer helped enormously, as did my copy-editors Harriet and Mary. I’m grateful to Mike Smith, Maria Yambao
, Steve Lewis and Sam North.

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  Copyright © Andrew Mulligan ltd 2019

  Andrew Mulligan has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published by Chatto & Windus in 2019

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781473562332