The Train by Sarah Bourne (fiction books to read txt) 📕

‘Er, I hadn’t thought about it. Just stretching my legs.’ He looked at his watch. They’d been there for over forty-five minutes. Surely it couldn’t be much longer. Not that he really knew; he’d never been in this situation before. Once, when he was still living in London, he’d been waiting for a train at the Tube and there’d been an accident at the next station. He remembered the platform getting more and more crowded and wondering why the staff didn’t stop people coming down the escalator – he was worried people would be pushed onto the tracks. He’d shuffled and pushed his way to the back of the platform and stood there, overheating in his winter coat until eventually a train came, and another and another. He’d finally managed to squeeze onto the fourth train only to feel so claustrophobic he had to get out at the next stop and take a bus the rest of the way to work.

‘I don’t suppose there’s a buffet car on this train, is there?’ asked the old lady next to the Chinese woman. ‘I’d love a cup of tea.’

Ray nodded towards the front of the train. ‘Yes, I think there is – a food shop they call it these days.’

‘I expect you’re right. They don’t call things the same as they used to, do they?’

‘Do you want me to get you a tea, Iris?’ asked the Chinese woman.

‘Would you mind, Mei-Ling? Only I’m a bit shaky on my legs.’

Mei-Ling smiled. ‘Of course. And I’d love a British Rail pork pie right about now! I bet they don’t make them anymore. Heart attack in every bite!’

Ray laughed. ‘Surely you’re joking. Those things could have been used as cannonballs in the Napoleonic Wars. In fact, they probably were.’

The ladies laughed. Ray excused himself and moved on. He wasn’t a regular commuter these days but he was struck by the fact that people were talking to each other. It wasn’t the norm. In his experience people were very good at maintaining their privacy in the tightest of crowds. They were champions at looking past the shoulder of the person they were crammed against, or of sitting next to someone on a train without ever being seen to take any interest in them. People who sat in the same seat every day for years and didn’t know even the tiniest detail of their neighbour’s life but who noticed them missing the minute they weren’t there. The mood on the train this morning wasn’t festive by any means, but people were talking to each other, pulling together in adversity. Perhaps this day, this suicide, would change things. Maybe the people here today would feel a greater sense of connection to each other from now on. Connectedness had become very important to him in his own life recently.

He entered the next carriage and looked around. A woman was snorting into a hanky, watched by a man who looked like he’d been knocked back into his seat by the force of the woman’s breath. A blonde woman and her daughter were chatting, as were a few others in the carriage. He shrugged. No, they’d probably all ignore each other again tomorrow. Not that he’d know, he wouldn’t be there. Tomorrow he’d go to work on his bike as normal. But would it be normal, or would today change everything for him? His heart thudded against his ribcage.

The doctor peeled off his rubber gloves and threw them into the special bin. Ray went behind the screen to dress and heard Dr Moncrieff flicking through the reports and images he’d given him. As he perched on the patient’s chair again in front of the imposing desk, the specialist sat back in his chair.

‘Well, there’s no doubt it’s cancer but I agree with Dr Adams’ approach to treatment. I can’t in good faith recommend anything different.’

Ray sat on the other side of the broad desk, concentrating on his breath. This was good news, the doctor told him. Congratulated him, in fact, as if Ray had achieved this surprising result through some specific action he’d taken. So why did he still feel panic rising? When he’d made the appointment he had thought of questions to ask but they’d all fled, leaving him with nothing to do but nod.

The doctor stood and offered his hand. The consultation was over. Ray walked out mechanically, told the sympathetic receptionist he didn’t need to make another appointment, and walked out into Harley Street and the blaring of a car horn as the driver shook her fist at the person who had pipped her to the post for a parking spot. He looked at his watch but barely registered the time. A thought nudged him. He had to get to his accountant. He’d planned his day in London to kill two birds with one stone – cancer and tax. It had seemed a good idea when he made the appointments but now all he wanted to do was lie down and pretend none of this was happening. Or go somewhere and get very drunk.

His feet seemed to decide on a course, however, while his mind was elsewhere. He started walking towards Marylebone Road. The tightness in his chest made breathing difficult. He needed to sit down, but he was afraid that if he did, he’d start thinking. So he kept walking along streets he didn’t know, passing strangers whose faces offered no consolation. He fantasised about Russell coming to get him, taking him in his arms and comforting him.

‘Get a grip,’ he urged himself, clenching his fists.

It was no use. Tears wet his cheeks and on he walked.

Somehow he found himself outside his accountant’s office. He almost smiled at the realisation he’d got himself there. Somewhere in the back of his mind the rational Ray still functioned.

He stood for a few moments trying to gather his thoughts. There were still none to be had. His mind was a blank, a