Train Man Read online

  Michael wondered why he’d spoken. All he’d meant was that at close to ten o’clock the boy was going to be late: a simple statement of fact. He was fourteen at the most, and dressed in the burgundy-coloured blazer of the academy one stop down, so it was safe to assume he wouldn’t get there until half past or so. On the other hand, it wasn’t safe to assume he was late, because there were many possible reasons for him missing the first two hours, and Michael realised he couldn’t possibly know the facts and therefore shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. The boy’s parents might have arranged their son’s unavoidable absence. They might have come from the doctor’s, or the hospital – the boy might have been visiting a loved one who had just had an operation, though surely visiting wouldn’t take place in the morning unless it was urgent?

  The boy had moved on. He was now checking his phone, so maybe it had been urgent.

  ‘Who is it?’ Michael wanted to say. ‘Is it someone close?’

  ‘My gran.’

  Just a moment of connection.

  The boy’s eyes were filling with tears. The bike was gone, and he was beside Michael on the bench.

  ‘Don’t talk if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I do want to, mister. I feel like I’ve got to.’

  The boy was himself, of course. Michael found he was nodding again, and he slipped an arm around his younger self’s shoulders. Where was his friend, though? Where was dear old James? Because they’d caught the train together most mornings. Michael, James and Luke, who got on at the next station – they’d been close, with fine biblical names like three young disciples. Yatin was the fourth, whose mother and father were dentists. Four friends, inseparable in their smart blazers, black rather than burgundy: they looked out for each other, fighting off the bullies and getting into scrapes – what larks they’d had, learning about the world.

  ‘Did you do the maths?’

  ‘God, it was hard.’

  ‘It’s not in until Friday, is it?’ It was probably James who’d said that, for he was just that little bit disorganised.

  ‘Maths is today, James! The deadline’s today! Copy mine…’

  Now Michael sat alone, saying nothing to the child beside him. He passed him a segment of tangerine, and the silence went on. James wasn’t coming to school today, perhaps: he was ill, and would miss period three, with Mr Trace. James was his own age now, if he was alive – which he should be. You shouldn’t die at fifty-six, after all, unless you were unlucky. No James, and the whole platform was suddenly empty. A few people waited on the one opposite, though. A woman looked up and thought, That kind man is supporting a child who appears to be in distress. It’s a moment of connection.

  ‘Why did he do it?’ said the boy quietly. ‘It was horrible.’

  He looked at Michael, and Michael saw the tears in his own eyes – for the station lights were coming on, and the winter was always bitterly cold.

  ‘He’s dead now.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So it’s over. He won’t ever do it again, and we must pity him. We’ll feel better, perhaps, if we pity him. There’s no going back, is there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, we have to go forward. We have to forget, and move forward.’

  ‘How, Michael? I want to go back.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s like anything and everything. The pain goes away, and we can be stronger. We’re survivors, aren’t we? Remember the good times! Remember that afternoon, in the Scouts. You and James, on the ferry – me and James…’

  ‘Where was Luke?’

  ‘Not there.’

  Michael smiled, and his young self leaned against him, so Michael hugged the child harder, getting both arms tight around his narrow shoulders. That was the way to make him invisible, and there were just five pieces of orange left. They were blurred as he counted them, and there was another announcement.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ he said – and then he said nothing, because he was thinking of Elizabeth.

  Had he spoken aloud? His left hand was touching his nose, as if he had a nosebleed – bent forward, staring at the platform floor.

  ‘But will we?’ said the tiny boy, curled inside his jacket. ‘What if it’s never fine? What if this blights my life, and I’m lost for ever in the woods, and the caverns of despair? What if, despite all the years I’ve had to build things, I end my days alone? Alone in a small flat, where the letters continue to arrive as the invoices did at the council, and opening them becomes unnecessary?’

  ‘I have missed too many payments.’

  ‘We have to write to you, because the train now approaching is approaching. We have to tell you we have handed the debt to an approaching agency—’

  ‘And I appreciate that.’

  ‘You have to stand back, now. If you don’t come to an arrangement with us, you will lose your home – stay well behind the yellow line.’

  Michael’s head was in his hands again.

  ‘I always do,’ he said quietly. My flat is lost, and it doesn’t matter, because I don’t need one any more. I’m in a tight spot, you see. There are two cards I can’t use, because I abused both. They were violated, so I only have one left. That is how I bought my ticket to Crewe, and I will never return to the flat where even the curtains tell the world, or anyone interested, that only the worthless live here – only those who will be found several days after their deaths, perhaps, when Ryan finally notices there are more flies than usual, gathering in the hall.

  Michael could give the boy with the bike his watch, except that he was at the far end of the platform – and Michael wasn’t wearing it, anyway. It was with his phone. He was surprised to find tears in his eyes. His hands were over his face properly now, the orange peel still on his lap. He was shaking slightly, and the 10.13 had arrived – early, perhaps? The driver had put his foot down, eager to get ahead: it had sailed in from nowhere, like a magic train. It was getting ready to leave, and a whistle blew so cheerfully. People had to stand away now, and let the doors close, for it couldn’t wait for ever – it was full of people itching to get to the future, going forwards.

  Why had the boy wheeled his bicycle to the end of the platform?

  He had boarded, and Michael watched as the train blurred and left the station. Nobody was watching him. If someone was staring at the CCTV images what would they think? He remains behind because he is waiting to meet someone. He is not a man who needs our attention, so we will not lead him gently to the exit, and urge him to sit down quietly on a different bench, with a cup of tea. No, he is a man to be respected, and left alone.

  Michael took two deep breaths and smiled.

  His objective was to be in Crewe for lunchtime, and there would be another train soon – at 10.23 in fact. He stood up, and the 10.13 gathered speed. He waved to the passengers as they slid away up the line, hoping people would think he’d just seen someone off. He was smiling more brightly than ever now, wondering if he should take his first nip of whisky – which he didn’t feel like drinking. He had seventy-five centilitres, decanted into a fruit-juice carton, and he even had a glass because he couldn’t abide plastic cups. He needed to be drunk, he was sure of that.

  He wiped his eyes, and checked the bag between his feet. The thought of malt whisky in the morning made him feel sick. Another tangerine was the answer, and he’d try to wash it down with a few good gulps. There was a packet of mints somewhere, because the last thing he wanted was to be taken for a sad, empty-headed alcoholic who couldn’t even walk straight. Michael was determined to get onto the track and stay upright. Then the rails would guide him, and it was only 10.14. He still had time, as long as there were no cancellations, and as long as he held his nerve.

  There was no need to feel sad, for everything would be resolved at Crewe.

  He turned, and looked at the vending machine.

  Behind him, another train came in, serving the opposite platf
orm: its ghost moved across the glass through the treasure trove of sweets which dangled precariously, asking to be bought. Someone must have recently refilled it, just as someone had designed, built and installed it – and what was the result? The result was that he, Michael MacMillan, need never go hungry or thirsty again. The world was looking after him, offering him Twixes and Twirls, and even Maltesers: that most shareable of treats. There they hung, bright and tantalising, and as he put his nose closer his reflection smiled happily back at him. Confectionery could do that: it could always make you happy.

  COMING SOUTH

  4

  The girl’s name was Ayesha.

  She was travelling with a guitar, and Michael would not meet her because he was travelling north. It was a conspicuous piece of luggage: a hard, grey case, standing on the seat right next to her. In fact, she was wondering if she ought to wedge it onto the overhead luggage shelf, because the train was getting busier, and the platform was crowded. The last time she’d been on a train, a young man had freed up some space by doing just that, finding a gap for his rucksack above the man sitting in front of him. Ayesha had watched him do it, thinking it was really too big and heavy to be safely stowed – but the owner seemed to know his business. It took him a while, standing with his arms upraised, the sweat patches clear and dark as he turned the thing around and forced it in. Satisfied, he took his seat and it wasn’t until a good ten minutes had elapsed that the bag worked itself free and fell onto the head of the passenger under it.

  Ayesha had glanced up in time to see it connect.

  The victim’s skull had been as hairless as an egg, so the blow seemed extra cruel – it had been a neck-breaking crunch that had made him and the woman sitting next to him cry out together. The owner of the bag leapt to his feet, and apologised, but his main concern was for his luggage: he hadn’t seen the man’s head snap to the side as it took the impact, so he probably didn’t realise how much pain he’d caused.

  And it had, after all, been an accident.

  If anyone was to blame it was the designer of the train, whose priority seemed to have been the aerodynamic appearance of the carriage rather than storage capacity. Or had the designer been responding to a brief created through fear? Ayesha wondered if the train company was frightened that a larger luggage rack would end up being the perfect hiding place for an explosive device? Anyway, the man who’d been hurt spent the rest of the journey rubbing his neck and working his shoulders. He muttered to his wife, and she muttered back: both looked furious, but there was soon nobody to be furious with, because the young man took his rucksack off at the next station, and everyone watched him hurry towards the exit barriers without a care in the world.

  ‘A musician?’ said a voice.

  Michael might have asked the same question, but he was a long way off, just leaving Bath. It was a man sitting opposite, and Ayesha realised she had made the mistake of staring into space, unoccupied and open to conversation. She would normally curl up with her headphones in her ears, and the journey would be an opportunity to catch up on the music a college friend regularly sent her. Now she was obliged to smile, make eye contact, and reply.

  ‘Not me,’ she said.

  ‘Whose is it? It’s not lost property, is it? It’s not a… God forbid—’

  ‘No, no. It’s mine, but it belonged to someone else. I’m just delivering it.’

  ‘Acoustic?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have one myself. I even had lessons, years ago.’

  Ayesha raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I gave up,’ she said.

  The man was sitting back in his seat: thirty-five to forty years old with soft, neatly cut fair hair and a slightly boyish, sunburned face. He wore a neutral grey suit over a black shirt, and the distinguishing mark was his white clerical collar. He was slim, and his features fell naturally into a friendly, easy smile. She saw that his eyes were soft blue, and he had no anxiety about looking into hers. He didn’t seem to blink.

  ‘I probably should have done,’ he said. ‘Given up, I mean. I embarrass everyone now, especially my wife. Are you going far?’

  ‘Preston,’ replied Ayesha.

  ‘Not a town I know. I don’t think I’ve ever been outside the station.’

  ‘You’re very wise.’

  ‘Oh, poor old Preston. It’s as bad as that?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s got nice parts. It’s just…’

  ‘You’ve never found them?’

  ‘I’m still hoping.’

  ‘Don’t give up.’

  They laughed.

  ‘I’m off to the Lakes myself,’ he said. ‘Windermere. Do you know that part of the world?’

  Ayesha shook her head.

  ‘You should explore,’ continued the man. ‘I went there a couple of years ago, and it’s sensational – it’s Wordsworth country, if you like him. We have a retreat there, so… yes. It’s a beautiful place.’

  There was a silence, and Ayesha wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  If she produced her headphones, that would be the signal he was probably expecting: he would know the conversation was over. If she spoke again, he’d assume she was happy to spend the whole journey chatting.

  ‘So your family’s in Preston?’ said the man, before she could decide. ‘My name’s Paul, by the way.’

  ‘Ayesha.’

  ‘And do shut me up, if you have work to do. Or… I don’t know, things to attend to on your phone. I’m just putting off reading some papers. The retreat’s a kind of conference, so there’s preparation to be done – which I can do tonight. I’m not looking forward to it.’

  ‘Papers for what?’

  ‘For the retreat.’

  ‘And what do you do on a retreat?’ said Ayesha.

  She knew, really. What she didn’t know was why she was asking such a silly question.

  ‘It’s an opportunity, I suppose,’ he said.

  Ayesha went to speak again, but he continued.

  ‘A kind of respite, from the world of work and all the… you know, the day-to-day stuff. It’s a chance to think.’

  ‘And how long do you go for?’

  ‘This one is five nights.’

  ‘Five nights of prayer and fasting?’

  ‘Oh, a great deal of prayer. Not too much fasting, I hope. Prayer is the… backbone, or the foundation – I don’t know. We’re discussing the Church’s response to homelessness.’

  ‘Doesn’t it have one?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It has a vigorous one. It’s not hard to know our Christian duty, because it’s hardly a… hardly a complicated theological issue.’

  He lowered his voice a little, though they still had the four seats to themselves.

  ‘Nobody’s going to stand up and dispute our theoretical duty,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit harder, though, when you live in a city absolutely inundated with homeless people, and you… Well, you don’t have anywhere to put them, frankly.’

  Except your church, thought Ayesha. Or your vicarage, perhaps – which is probably one of those large buildings with lots of spare rooms.

  She said nothing, because she knew that a remark like that would provoke a very long reply. If she suggested the Church could do more, he would agree because it was his job to agree. But then he would explain all the practical difficulties, and the need to balance different interest groups or abide by legislation. He would explain why the problem had to be managed carefully because it was complicated. Things were always complicated, unfortunately: there were no simple things any more. She found that she was looking him in the eye again, and he looked back at her with that gentle, friendly, confident smile.

  He blinked, at last.

  She thought, He is probably a wonderful vicar – if that’s what he is. Clergyman. Reverend Paul, helping people and strumming his guitar whilst laughing at himself and trying always to be positive.

  He no doubt wanted to be kind, and help people.

  ‘So who’s it belong to? The guitar.’


  ‘My brother.’

  ‘And how old is he?’

  ‘He’s…’

  The silence fell between them again, though there was noise everywhere. Behind her, she heard the internal carriage doors open and the distinct sound of bottles and glasses clinking. The train had picked up speed, and there was a low whistling as it swept along the track, flat fields on either side under an even grey sky. Two women were talking in the seats across from hers, though they were speaking over each other, not listening. Between Paul and herself, though, a silence had opened up that she couldn’t quite fill, because he had asked the question out of the blue and she wasn’t ready for it. A random question, as she idly pondered what the Church might have to say about homelessness, and what this very nice man might do to help people.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ she said.

  ‘Oh… nosiness. Train of thought. My own son is learning, so—’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘My son? Fifteen.’

  ‘My brother isn’t alive any more,’ said Ayesha. ‘He died, almost three years ago. I’m… returning the guitar to my parents, who want to give it to one of their friends’ daughters. I think it’s a daughter – it might be a cousin. Some relative, anyway. It… I think it needs new strings, probably, but it was a good guitar, so it makes sense.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He’d left it at my place, you see – and… I’ve just been looking after it ever since. Or not looking after it – it hasn’t been out of its case. It’s just been sitting there, so – now, finally… it’s off to a new home.’

  She paused, and allowed the man to say what she knew he’d say.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She smiled, trying to signal that there was no need to be because the world had moved on, and her brother was no longer at the forefront of her mind. She wasn’t grieving at this moment. It was some way off, because they had come such a great distance. There was another question, though, and she had experienced it so many times. Would he ask it? How close did this man want to come? As a clergyman he wouldn’t back off. Some people were simply silenced when she told them her younger brother was dead: she could feel their fear. Others went out of their way to insist that death was no obstacle in a conversation, and that her brother should be talked about as if he were alive – that was their way of honouring him, and honouring her. She had had such encounters so many times, and she never got it quite right. To not mention her brother, or his death, seemed like a betrayal. To reveal the truth forced people to the next question: ‘How did he die?’