Train Man Read online

  The Americano was perfect.

  It took him back to the county council office where he would sometimes interfere with the percolator to create a stronger brew, and he found himself shunted back to his desk as he remembered the day he emptied its drawers, never to return. The house, however – Casa Elouisa – had been even more perfect. He and Elizabeth had set off on the second day to the nearest big town, and that’s where they had found the Museum of Torture.

  Why would anyone go to a museum of torture?

  Why would anyone remember going to a museum of torture, and remember it now, just as happier thoughts were needed? And who had dreamed such a place up, and obtained funding? In fact, Elizabeth didn’t go in. It was a hot afternoon, and they hadn’t gone out looking for the place: they simply strolled past it on their way to a terrace so overgrown with bougainvillea that the flowers looked like an eruption. Two espressos, hot and bitter – and across the road a sign in red and yellow, painted in both Spanish and English: Galería de la Inquisicion!

  ‘You want to go in, don’t you?’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘No. It’s shameful. It’s sick.’

  ‘You go, and tell me about it. I’m happy here.’

  She was, because she had an Agatha Christie novel in her bag, and Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple would be working out who was to blame. The museum, meanwhile, was cool, with several large rooms inviting him to use his imagination as he contemplated other people’s pain. There were thumbscrews and hammers. There were slides that would run you onto lacerating blades, and seats with spikes – there was one that let a kind of spear up between your buttocks, slowly. Michael found a grenade with a little handle on the bottom. Pictures revealed that it could be pushed into your mouth: when the inquisitor turned the handle sharp metal leaves opened and cut through your gums and cheeks. It was a punishment from some bizarre, hideous cartoon – except it was real. The thing had existed, and it even had levers to break your teeth, all from the inside. The explanation was in three different languages, and Michael learned that the item could also be inserted into the anus or the vagina.

  That was the museum of inquisitional torture, and he had ended up inside it – how? There were several people strolling through, and they all went from case to case, presumably thinking similar thoughts: What ingenuity. What cruelty. What disregard for human rights, and what pleasure in pain – what sadistic delight and what confidence! What relish for the tearing of flesh – so much more creative than simply throwing someone under a train! Of course, the implements came from a very different age, when people were heretics and traitors. That was the age when heresy and treason mattered, and when the mangled body dangling in the city square was a true deterrent. ‘See what will happen to you if you break the rules!’ In any case, perhaps people didn’t feel pain as acutely in the old days? Perhaps they felt so much that they were numb. Michael wondered if agony could reach a peak beyond which there was no feeling. Would you end up in ecstasy? He’d heard that the art of the torturer was to ensure that peak of pain was never reached.

  He’d walked through that museum nearly thirty years ago. Elizabeth waited on the terrace, and he left the place feeling shabby. She was deep in her novel – but they’d kissed, and he’d held her tight, blonde hair drawn back and tied with a band, her face very slightly cat-like and her dress so simple. Green and red diamonds, cool in the heat – shapeless, and perfect for her fine, slim body. Days later they were driving out of the town to the little village of somewhere, in search of the casa that a woman called Elouisa lived in and rented out – the name of the place had long since faded from his memory. Narrow, turning roads, rising up into the hills – Elizabeth nervous at the wheel, with him navigating. The higher they went the hotter it got, and they knew they were lost moments before they came to the church they’d been told to look out for, for the place was hidden in a forest of volcanic flowering shrubs and the only sounds were the occasional clunk of a goat’s bell, and a bee.

  ‘I don’t see a slaughterhouse,’ said Elizabeth softly. ‘It’s paradise.’

  ‘Where’s she live, though?’

  They were still braced for disappointment, because they knew they shouldn’t be lucky any more – there was something dangerous in the wonders the gods were offering. They walked past the church, and down the steps, and turned right as they had been instructed. There was a row of cottages, but Casa Elouisa was further down the hill, on its own – it was a pair of huts that the owner had knocked into one. When she had guests, she withdrew into a couple of rooms, and the guests took over the lounge, bathroom, balcony, bedroom and – best of all – the roof terrace, with its view over Eden. When the sun went down the hills turned pink and blue, and the moon came up just like a balloon.

  The wine was cheaper than bottled water.

  The fridge was old, but powerful: they chilled the white so it hurt their mouths, and they would eat and finish with warm red. Michael had returned, once, on his own. The village was as beautiful, even without Elizabeth. Elouisa was still there, and she remembered him – or claimed to. She had asked if they had married.

  ‘No,’ he said, wishing they had.

  But they hadn’t, and it had been right not to. She had touched him one day, and realised he was all wrong. She must have felt whatever it was that was broken, and thought the logical thing she had to think, for isn’t it the engine that drives the species on? I will not have the children I want with this man, because he doesn’t want to have sex with me. We can be friends. We will stay friends, but we will not marry.

  ‘We do love each other, don’t we?’ he probably said, at some point.

  ‘We’re not lovers, though.’

  ‘No. Everything is perfect, apart from that. We’re not lovers.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Michael?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  You don’t mean to, I know – but you make me feel so very unattractive.

  She hadn’t said that: she had written it down, in a letter.

  He finished his coffee, and watched James and Luke serving someone else. Then he checked the electronic screen – his train was running three minutes late, and would arrive at platform three, on its way to Birmingham. It was going all the way to Nottingham, in fact, having come from Cardiff.

  ‘Thank you!’ he called cheerfully – but both baristas were involved in their work. The first was talking to a customer, and Zara had her back to him. In any case, the noise of the coffee machine would have prevented her from hearing his voice. He left the café and used the toilet. Then it was back towards the barriers, and up the steps of the footbridge where he paused to watch a freight train coming through. There would have been an announcement, warning everyone to stand back: ‘Stand well away from the edge of platform two. The approaching train is not scheduled to stop at this station.’

  He knew the voice.

  They used a man for that particular announcement, and it was still the old-fashioned received-pronunciation type of voice. He sounded just like your teacher controlling the scrum at the tuck-shop window: ‘Stand back! Wait!’

  Don’t get caught in a vortex of air, and be sucked down onto the tracks. Stand behind the yellow line, and hold onto your buggies. Press yourself against the wall – link arms with anyone nearby, just in case you’re drawn to the edge and lost. There are no Steves here with a garden rake, so hold on tight!

  The engine smashed through beneath him. Every wagon it drew clanked and heaved, for they were all made of iron and steel. Every one carried the same sort of container: the long, hard-edged metal box of sheer weight, bearing down on those severing wheels – he felt the bridge-floor vibrating under his feet – and he could have jumped. It would have been a quick movement, over the vaulting horse at school – he could do it now if he hoisted himself and rolled.

  The containers flipped by beneath him, one by one, and his legs were too heavy. He watched them, recalling the sequences in films when
the hero – or the villain – would drop from above, to make his getaway. Light as a cat, he would drop neatly into a crouch, steadying himself before running along the whole long length of the train. How many movies used that stunt?

  Michael found that he was smiling again.

  It was quite ludicrous. If anyone dropped onto the train below, he would be clipped by one of the hard edges and thrown upwards. A man would somersault, and end up either flat on the platform or broken on the tracks – unless he fell between the containers themselves, of course, and slid down under the wheels where he would be rolled, and chopped and dragged by the axles. His clothes would be snagged on bolts and hooks, and ripped clear of the flesh, which would be cut again and again, minced up and mashed. Someone would then have to make dry remarks about needing a bucket.

  ‘He won’t need a coffin,’ someone would laugh. ‘A couple of carrier bags will do for that one.’

  ‘Who was he? Here’s a shoe, look at this! There’s a card inside…’

  ‘Silly fucker.’

  Somehow, in all his fifty-six years of life, Michael had never broken a bone – so he walked on, carefully, and went down the steps. The freight train was gone, and nobody was hurt: there was a rag on the line, but it wasn’t a ripped-off, bloody shirt. Everyone had obeyed the teachery voice: ‘Stand well back!’ Like children, they had obeyed, and – as a result – they were able to continue with their lives.

  No ambulances were needed, and there was to be no cordoning off.

  No trains would be delayed just yet: the horror was going to take place later, at Crewe – and it would be screened by trees. The general public wouldn’t see.

  At 12.36 his train rolled in, and he was relieved to find that it was the type he liked most. It was a stopping service, and the fact that it had eight coaches meant it wasn’t too crowded, off-peak. He hurried to the carriage he’d chosen and waited for the door to hiss itself open. He stood back, then, for a lot of people were getting off. Some were in a rush, and some weren’t. There were more men than women, and one elderly man delayed everybody because he had a stick and had to climb down carefully.

  Fourteen people disembarked – Michael counted them, knowing he would never see them again. They all had one thing in common, he thought: they all had business in Southampton. Whether they were visitors or residents, and whether they were in the middle of a journey or at its end, they were all using Southampton’s facilities in some way – except that this was Gloucester or possibly Salisbury, and he was getting confused. It was Gloucester, of course, and they had all been brought together in this tight little clump, easing through the neat little door: they had all arrived, and were almost touching, obeying the rules of courtesy, for if the man with the stick stumbled someone would catch him. If the old lady’s bag was too heavy, someone would lift it down for her, and if the pushchair teetered men would leap to support it, laughing and smiling.

  ‘That was close! What a handful! Rather you than me! Are you okay, now? No, not at all. Have a good day.’

  ‘Have a good day, a better day! Hey, you? Have a fucking good day.’

  Michael smiled at a man who said nothing but smiled at him – then he joined the cluster that could now board. He found himself walking down the aisle behind someone with a snooker cue in a box – another man, who put it up into the luggage rack and took his place at a table. Michael squeezed into the seat further down and smiled again – a smile he hoped was amiable and innocent, for he must have more whisky now: he had delayed too long, and he needed to drink properly. Crewe was just over two hours away, via Birmingham – getting closer.

  The passenger opposite looked at him.

  ‘Two minutes late,’ said Michael. ‘Not bad.’

  7

  This man was older, and heavier.

  He said, ‘No. They’re not too bad, normally. They let me down a few months ago, but by and large they run to time.’

  Michael settled into his seat, and put his bag beside him.

  ‘How did they let you down?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, the usual thing. They cancelled the last train. No, they didn’t – they shortened the journey. I wanted to get to Bromsgrove, and they were stopping it early. I said to the guard, or… not the guard – the information woman. I said, “How do I get to Bromsgrove? I’ve paid to get home – I’ve given you twenty-two pounds. That’s a contract, isn’t it?”’

  Michael went to respond, but he wasn’t quick enough.

  ‘She said, “Take a cab,”’ said the man. ‘“And charge the rail company.”’

  He laughed, and Michael’s eyes widened.

  Again, he went to speak, but the man got in first.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I mean, there was no way the rail company would reimburse me for a taxi – but that’s what she said. I said, “Can I have that advice in writing?” Because I thought if that’s the advice you’re giving out, someone needs to bloody educate you.’

  ‘Did she write it down?’

  ‘Of course not. She was suddenly too busy, and… you know. You lose the will.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About getting home to Bromsgrove.’

  ‘I got a taxi. Thirty-seven pounds. I phoned the company next morning, and they asked me to fill in a form.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve had that.’

  ‘I said, “You cancelled the train, and you know you did. You’ve got a customer here, telling you he had to fork out extra to get home. Do something for me,” I said. I said, “If you can’t reimburse me, send me vouchers. I’m not lying to you, am I? I’m out of pocket by thirty-seven pounds.” This was some… I don’t know – it was a call centre, presumably. How bright do you have to be to work in a call centre? How many exams do you have to fail to get a job like that? “You need to fill in a form,” he said. “I don’t want to,” I said. “I can send you one if you like.” I just hung up.’

  ‘I’ve had similar experiences—’

  ‘You know what they’re going to ask you. Dates, times, proof of purchase. Attach your ticket or receipt. Where did you purchase the ticket, what’s your date of birth, what’s your shoe size? I can’t be bothered with it – not for a few quid. Life’s too short.’

  Michael took out his carton of juice.

  The man’s hair was dark and thin. He had combed it back from his temples emphasising the fat round oval of his face. He didn’t wear glasses, and he had the kind of fleshy eyes that goggle slightly: there was a ring of shadow round both sockets, caused by the creases of the flesh, and Michael thought they looked almost removable, as if he was trying out a new pair. His mouth was a permanent frown, and whilst he was clean-shaven the stubble on his upper lip stood out like dust or a smudge – you wanted to reach over with a handkerchief and clean it. He was taking his coat off. He should have taken it off before he sat down, because it was awkward now and for a moment he was wrestling himself, tugging an arm free and breathing heavily. At last, it was off and on the seat next to him, and Michael was looking at a patterned, V-neck pullover and a sky-blue shirt. He wore a dark blue tie, but the knot was pulled down allowing the collar to sit wide open – and his frowning, frog-like mouth was open, too, as if his jaw muscles were tired.

  At school, he would have been made to tidy himself up. Mr Trace would have taken him aside for a quiet word, for the boys he liked received special attention: he would fasten their top buttons for them, forcing them to stand helplessly prone, with their heads back.

  Michael took his spectacles off, wondering how best to clean them. The cloth he liked to use was in the case with his other pair, and that was in the bag. He needed his glass, too, but he didn’t want to be delving for that.

  He sat still.

  ‘You never win,’ said the man. ‘They have the power, you see. They have the systems in place. I travel by train as rarely as possible.’

  ‘You prefer to drive, do you?’ said Michael.

  ‘Not really. Drivi
ng’s not a pleasure any more, is it? You try getting out of Bromsgrove at five o’clock. Or getting in, for that matter.’

  ‘Is it solid?’

  The man was now a talking blur.

  ‘It’s appalling,’ he said. ‘They had a consultation some time ago, the council cretins. “How to Alleviate Congestion,” and you didn’t have to be a genius. You didn’t need fifty thousand pounds a year with an index-linked pension – you needed a bit of common sense so as to stop people parking where the bottlenecks are, and widen the bloody road where the… you know, the junction by the superstore – that’s where the congestion comes from. That’s why it’s gridlocked.’

  Michael said, ‘I hardly drive at all now.’

  ‘I used to do twenty-two thousand miles a year. This was when the roads were less cluttered, needless to say. I could do Bromsgrove to Hereford in an hour. I could do Bromsgrove to Shrewsbury in one and a quarter. From Shrewsbury, if I took the A5, I could be in Oswestry in twenty, or less. Stop in Wrexham for lunch, and be in Chester soon after two. You could do your job, and get home of an evening.’

  ‘What was your job?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  The man paused, as if the question had surprised him.

  ‘I was wondering what job you did, that involved—’

  ‘Tool hire.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Expanded that into plant hire, and ended up with a business that spread all the way into Wales. I didn’t want to expand it, but I didn’t have a choice in the end. I had so many orders, and… demands, that it got impossible. I had a customer in Denbigh – he was a contractor for a quarry – and he told me that there was no reliable plant-hire service in the whole county. He virtually begged me. “Set up something here!” So that’s what we did.’

  Michael nodded. He took out his handkerchief.

  ‘You must have been busy, then?’ he said.

  ‘You know what stopped me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Heart attack.’