Train Man Read online

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know.’

  He had nodded, and he nodded on the platform bench – because Matt was right. Matt would have been sitting in his sister’s kitchen, most likely – the two-bedroomed house that Michael had moved into for a little while, and then out of. He shuttled between her place and his own, so he left clothes and personal items there – items he would never see again, because she would get rid of them.

  Had that been malicious, or appropriate? Because he had always contributed to the gas and electricity bills. He didn’t help with the water or council tax for some reason, but he had bought things and invested in the relationship that way – even though he had to be so careful with his dwindling, disappearing stack of money. He had less money than she realised, which was another lie: he’d always avoided admitting just how dangerously poor he was.

  He had lied about how he came to lose his job.

  He had misled her about the loss of his first house, though he couldn’t blame the council for that – that had been his own stupidity. He’d lent money to his brother, who’d failed to pay him back: when the council let him go, the mortgage was suddenly unaffordable. He’d sold up. He’d bought the flat, but now that was unaffordable too – which was one reason why he couldn’t keep changing his mind and getting off the train.

  No, to tell Amy the truth would have left him weak – and he couldn’t do it because he’d made so many bad decisions. It was easier to pretend, so he pretended to be not affluent, but comfortable, paying for a new toaster and a fancy microwave, and – using one of the credit cards he should have cut into pieces years ago – he even bought her a bigger television.

  Why had he done that when he hardly watched television?

  It was really for Amy’s youngest daughter, as a way of persuading her to join them downstairs in the evenings, when all she wanted was to stay in her room. He had paid for the carpets to be cleaned, and he’d picked up a succession of plumber’s bills when the boiler stopped working. ‘Helping out’ was what he called it.

  ‘You’ve got to let me help out,’ he’d say.

  ‘You’re not rich,’ said Amy. ‘You’ve got your own place, too.’

  He still had it, just about. He had a key to the front door, and a second to his own tiny upstairs hall which led to the one bedroom, which was all he needed as he had no children, and no old friends who rang to say they were passing, could he put them up? A guest room would have been just another fiction, and Amy was the last of his too-many fictions, or so he hoped: he would learn his lesson. Matt had called him a shit, twice – but that was a word from the playground, and it didn’t even scratch the skin. Amy’s words cut deeper, and he had to stand there with his ear to the phone as they sliced and burned.

  ‘How have you kept it going?’ she said. ‘For so long?’

  Her voice had a deeper register than normal, as if she’d spent the afternoon shouting or crying. He was about to reply, when her voice suddenly got louder and it was as if the woman’s mouth was right up against his ear, forcing the words inside like little stones. ‘How, Michael? How have you let it get this far? Is this your…?’

  She paused.

  ‘Is this what you like to do? Because…’

  ‘No,’ said Michael.

  ‘How serious are you? About… cancelling? Is this – what? Is this you postponing, or saying you want some time? What are you doing?’

  ‘No, Amy. Listen—’

  ‘Michael, listen to me. You are throwing something away here. Have you any idea how much upset you’re causing, to both of us?’

  He nearly said it.

  He nearly said, ‘But I just can’t talk to you. What I have to say isn’t worth saying, but I still can’t say it – and I do want to be with you, sometimes. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, when I ache – but that isn’t a good enough reason, Amy. I can’t talk to you!’

  He had one hand over his face.

  He held the phone away, and the voice became a furious buzzing that he knew he had to endure until she grew tired, or realised there was no reaction to be had. The assault would be over, probably soon: Amy needed to savage him, and Michael would sit there in silence, offering a handful of safe and meaningless words. The apparatus of lies was collapsing, and they were free of one another. They were both happier, ultimately, and definitely less doomed.

  ‘I just can’t do it,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yes. So terribly, terribly sorry.’

  That had triggered more scorn and more rage. Eventually, Amy used up her fuel and the anger faded to tired, bitter contempt. Michael had listened, thinking how simple it was to move to the next phase of the relationship: total separation and wounded silence. That was what he’d been longing for, perhaps: silence was what he most wanted – and solitude of course.

  But he had made love to her.

  On every occasion he had done so with his eyes closed, and he knew what he’d been doing: he’d been trying to imagine she was someone else, which was the most appalling admission and it made him go cold to think of it. He wondered whom she had been imagining, for the idea of her finding him attractive or desirable in any erotic sense seemed ludicrous. They had met at an amateur choir, and held each other out of fear – two ugly, lonely people. Surely they’d both had their eyes closed, terrified that not making love would be an admission that something was fundamentally wrong. That was what normal people did, after all: they went to bed and fucked, and that was the playground word. It still swung like an axe: ‘Fuck me. Fuck you, you worthless fucker.’

  ‘Hey, Michael?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  He was clenching his teeth, and there was yet another announcement, breaking in and scattering his thoughts. It was a woman’s voice this time, and she was talking to him, slowly, word by careful word as if he was a child of five.

  ‘Report anything suspicious…’

  He would, of course – why wouldn’t he?

  He would enjoy doing so, in fact, for everything could be made safe if you were vigilant and reported things. There was no need to be afraid – not when you could phone, or text or speak to a member of staff – the transport police were there to save your life. He waited for silence, and when it came at last Amy was beside him, and she sat there as if they were married. She could almost take his hand, and offer him a mint – and yet how had he ever thought marriage would be better than solitude? How had he believed that, when he recalled the relief as he finally rolled back onto his side of the bed, having learned nothing and given nothing because he didn’t know what to give? After sex, they would adjust the duvet and sleep privately, dreaming separately – the touching was over. He felt wretched, but he’d done the right thing for her as well as himself – just as he would do the right thing at Crewe.

  ‘Crewe is the next station-stop.’

  Someone on a train would say that, soon enough.

  ‘We are approaching Crewe. We will shortly be arriving in Crewe: be sure to take all your personal belongings with you.’

  The voice might be male or female, and it would be as reassuring as the one he’d just heard.

  ‘Mind the gap between the train and the platform.’

  That was the announcement he loved most, for the man who said it always sounded slightly frightened, as if he thought passengers had tiny legs. He seemed to think Michael was about to trip or slip, and find himself wedged helplessly as the train rolled on and slowly crushed his pelvis. All these people wanted was to keep him safe: they wanted him to drink water, and buy his tickets online so as to make savings. They wanted him to plan his journey so as to avoid delays, and claim compensation should anything ever go wrong. When he got up to leave the train, they wanted him to stop and take that extra moment to check he had his bag. In this unpredictable, unknowable world, they could protect him.

  Amy had gone.

  The woman next to him was still busy with her phone, and her headphones sat
neatly in her ears. The summer was definitely back, and Michael breathed out, relaxed and relieved. He had his own refreshments – they were in a bag at his feet. There was no need to worry, really, about the absence of a trolley service. In any case, he only had three to four hours left, depending on the progress of the 09.46 – if that was the train he caught. He had flexibility, and he knew what he was doing. There was no better place than Crewe: that, at least, was a decision. The platforms were long, and they let you onto the lines gently. Nobody would notice you walking along the tracks.

  He took his spectacles off, and cleaned them with his handkerchief, breathing gently onto the lenses as he had done since boyhood. He exhaled again, and slowed his breathing down.

  Then he widened his smile and closed his eyes.

  2

  What she wanted was not what he wanted, but he’d tried to want it and believed for a time that he did.

  So what?

  Yes, we will live together and share a bed. Yes, our lives will be full, and we will be like everyone else opening a bottle of very reasonably priced Bordeaux that’s surprisingly good, sitting on the sofa we’ll soon be paying for month by month because Amy got an interest-free deal that was too good to miss – she went for the more expensive fabric because the children are older, and the dog is well trained. We’ll sit on that sofa, he’d thought – you’ll even be in my arms, Amy, sometimes – and we’ll look at the picture on the wall bought shortly after your sister’s boyfriend had a stroke and needed a new hobby. It was a startlingly awkward picture, because he painted by numbers, copying photographs like a child as people encouraged him to keep using his left arm. It is a good picture, because the little cottage looks like a little cottage, and the sky is an interesting blue – and we know who painted it. Are there better reasons for buying pictures, and putting them on the wall? Probably not.

  In fact, Amy would sit on the sofa more than Michael. He would sit in the armchair, where the reading light allowed him to see the words on the page.

  ‘Michael,’ she would have said – had they married, some day in the future. ‘You know that job you had before I met you – working for the council? You didn’t resign, did you?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Technically you did,’ she would say. ‘But something you said—’

  ‘What are you asking me?’

  He’d put down his book. He’d remove the glasses from his face and hold them still – if people really spoke to one another like that. ‘What are you asking me, Amy?’ The question would sound absurd, because it would have to be accompanied by a turning of the head, and a pause before her inevitable reply.

  ‘I want the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ he’d say.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I resigned, love. That’s the truth.’

  Yes, it was and always would be – but only because they were about to take disciplinary action, Mr MacMillan. You resigned because you were about to be sacked, sir – it was the easiest way out. And that’s why you don’t have much of a pension, and that’s why – after buying the toaster and the microwave and the big-screen television – you have nothing left, except debts. Here you are, with next to nothing, and you’re probably about to lose even that. You can’t say you haven’t been warned: the letters in the drawer implore you to stick to whatever payment plan you last agreed, or call the helpline. Why weren’t the station announcements urging you to do that?

  ‘Attention, please!’

  What voice would they use for that?

  ‘Always try to pay your mortgage, because if you don’t – your home will be taken from you. Don’t make yourself homeless.’

  Michael laughed quietly.

  ‘You’ll lose it,’ he said. ‘And who’s to blame?’

  ‘Mr Trace,’ said a voice, and Michael laughed again.

  He touched his wallet, and there were his bank cards, safe and sound. Two had accumulated so much debt they were almost warm to the touch, but card number three still worked. He should have done the right thing, and cut it in half – but it was a lifesafer now, and here it was in his pocket, and it would get him through the next few hours. He’d tested it, withdrawing sixty pounds in cash. Three brand-new twenties had emerged, unused and fresh, and he’d felt like a child again, with money to spend. A letter of explanation lay on the pillow, sealed. And here is a curious thing: you have taped a fourth card to the inside of your shoe, with parcel-tape. Haven’t you? A debit card that expired last month, and you did that last night.

  Michael was nodding again, and his mouth was forming the words.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why have you done that, old friend? Lay down your burden.’

  Michael found his spectacles-case in his pocket, and set it on his knees. He would check his own itinerary again, and for that he needed his reading glasses – meanwhile, he could just feel the card in his shoe where the edges were rigid through his sock. It’s there for identification, just like the capitalised name you wrote in the collar of your shirt. It’s as if you were starting at school again, and some other boy might pick it up by accident and you’d need to prove it was yours as you stood bare-chested in the changing room, not thinking about Mr Trace. He could be erased so easily when there was so much else to think about. What is it, then? The fear of being left, alone in a fridge for however long it is they have to keep your remains. How long is it before some poor, overworked coroner can order the swift incineration of an unclaimed, unknown man? He didn’t want to be some poor run-over dog, or fox.

  They have to know your name, just to make the last phase as smooth as a last phase can be. Amazingly, he had a funeral plan and the paperwork for that was clearly marked in his filing cabinet. He hadn’t kept the payments up, but there was at least a thousand pounds. They would have to find his name, and he had been told by someone years ago that shoes always survived the impact, because they were knocked clean off the feet: the card would be found.

  He put on his reading glasses, and checked again. It was the through-train he wanted, and platform seven was used by diesels. There was no fear of electrocution. His train set off from Preston at 14.02 and it would roar through Crewe at – what? – about fifty miles per hour. That was enough to knock your shoes from your feet, and the brains from your head.

  3

  Amy was a truly good person.

  She had enabled him to escape from Monica, who was also truly good – though he’d never been physically intimate with her: they’d just known each other, and turned slowly into friends. When Amy arrived, she had allowed him to pity Monica for being so alone: Monica had thus become truly pitiful. Amy was so very different: different in size, shape and sound, and totally different again from the only other woman he’d nearly married, and that was Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth, Monica and Amy: his three main relationships, intersecting here and there in the strange scribble of life.

  ‘So you met Monica where, exactly?’

  ‘The council.’

  ‘Same department?’

  ‘No. We met at the coffee machine – she was in Parks and Recreation.’

  Amy, he’d met at the choral society – where he sang badly, and had found himself standing behind her one evening making very little sound. He couldn’t sight-read, so he had to familiarise himself with the tunes. There were always a few sections he could sing, and he waited for those and usually enjoyed himself. It wasn’t the kind of choir that demanded perfection, which was why it had welcomed him. It was a sing-along choir, really.

  People were cheerful, so he fitted in.

  Amy had stood next to him in the refreshment room once, and they had found themselves talking. Monica he saw just twice a week, but Amy came along and within a short time he’d stopped pretending to himself that she was a romantic partner: that was Amy’s new role, and she did become a kind of lover. She was stick-thin and wiry. She ate so little, and with a fuzz of curly hair there was something of a Peter Pan about her, except when she
wore dark glasses, which she often did because of a mild and gradual macular degeneration. Monica, on the other hand, was altogether heavier, steadier and slower, with a face that seemed forever tired.

  She had worked in the annexe.

  ‘You know, I still believe in public service,’ she said. ‘Is that old-fashioned?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Michael.

  ‘People need us, I hope.’

  He was thinking, They don’t need me, because I’m not doing my job. I can’t do it, Monica.

  She was more generous than he would ever be, but he had ended up using her. She was thorough, dependable and Christian, and helped out in a food-bank. She responded to appeals, and was positive that everyone could do something to make the world a better place. That was Elizabeth, too – but he liked to keep Elizabeth locked up tight in his memory, where she couldn’t be hurt or humiliated. His time with her had finished, long ago, and had been so rich and golden: the sun had blazed over them both, for a while. Elizabeth had ‘loved life’ – to use the phrase everyone reached for after a sudden death. She probably still loved life, since she hadn’t died.

  He had lived with Elizabeth, briefly – or stayed with her. He had travelled with her, but as for getting to know her, really? Never – and did it matter now?

  He shook his head, knowing that he could sit on the station all morning, thinking it through.

  He could sit on other stations too, missing trains. He’d been doing it for months, and he could sit on certain buses and miss his stop, because it didn’t matter. If you had a day-pass, it didn’t matter at all – and you could zigzag from A to B to C and come back by some other, circular route. You could head down the High Street, for example, and there was the library again. In you went, to join the old men who’d arrived earlier and were now staring at newspapers. Some researched local history, or studied maps. There was a stamp enthusiast, and the one with the wild, Karl Marx beard: they assembled like a club of silent bachelors, and Michael wasn’t a member just yet. He was only fifty-six and he still laundered his clothes carefully. The library men were older, and smelled of neglect and sweat – deodorant was a luxury they could ill-afford, or a nicety they’d long forgotten, and they sat there waiting for him. One day his washing machine would break down, and he’d lose his flat. Then he’d be one of them.