The Platform Guard
The Platform Guard
Midpoint
The Platform Guard
A Short Story
by
Phil Armstrong
Published by
2Promises Publishing House
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Title and Copyright Page
The Platform Guard
Phil Armstrong
Published by Phil Armstrong at Smashwords
Thank you for downloading this free eBook short story. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form, with the exception of quotes used in reviews. Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Thank you for downloading this free eBook.
Copyright 2012 Phil Armstrong. Discover other titles by Phil Armstrong at www.2promises.com
ISBN 978-0-9877284-0-1
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The Platform Guard
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Drawn from my experiences at Keighley Station, West Yorkshire, England.
The Platform Guard
Where help comes from unexpected places.
It was a miserable day; the wind lashed the unyielding rain towards her face, stinging her cheeks. She tugged hard at the seam of her hood, trying to shield her eyes from the driving rain. She had suffered through a restless night; she'd cried herself to sleep. Sleeping through her morning alarm, she needed to leave the house in a hurry. She grabbed a cereal bar and dressed quickly. She didn’t have time to check the weather forecast this morning. As she hurried to the bus stop, she cursed to herself loudly. The blue and white colored bus was quickly ascending the hill far in the distance; it was now gone. She resigned herself to being late. Her boss would be livid.
Her attendance had been spotty of late and she knew this would result in a lecture, possibly worse. She’d have to take the train if she were to make up the time. The train was a luxury she could ill afford. She needed to get out of the rain; the dampness had started to seep through her light overcoat. She cursed again; she wasn't dressed appropriately for this weather. She decided to run. Running along the deserted street she reached the covered walkway, which sloped down towards the ticket office. She knew her timing was tight. She ran to the office, hastily retrieving her credit card from deep within her purse. She approached the ticket counter in a breathless state. She gasped for air and managed to blurt out instructions to the ticket issuer. “Single ride, all the way, on the 16A train please.” She pushed her credit card under the glass screen and the issuer typed furiously into his terminal.
He leaned forward into his microphone; the speaker embedded within the glass divide crackled into life. “We’ve had a delay on this train. It’s due in two minutes, but it won’t arrive for another fifteen minutes. This’ll give you plenty of time to get down to the waiting room. We’ll announce its arrival for you on platform six.” She nodded gratefully as the issuer pushed her ticket, invoice stub and credit card, under the glass divide. She signed the invoice stub and pushed it back to the issuer. She turned, and catching her breath, calmly walked towards the stairs leading to the waiting room on platform six.
Accounting for a fifteen-minute delay, she would still make it to the office on time, avoiding an unpleasant discussion with her boss. The rain bounced off the tin canopy covering the stairs. The noise reminded her of a drum beat, steady and true. She tucked her credit card safely into her purse and carefully placed the ticket deep within her overcoat pocket. She walked towards the dry waiting room. The train station was a small local station, built in Victorian times. Today it served a handful of commuters, but the rail traffic through this platform was exceptionally light. For most commuters the bus was cheaper and ran on a more frequent basis. With her alternate transportation arranged, her thoughts turned to last night.
Tears began to drip down her rain soaked face. The rain provided a convenient veil to disguise her obvious distress. In Victorian days, the waiting rooms were segregated. The Men’s waiting room allowed you to smoke; the Women’s waiting room was scented, and located between these rooms was the Family waiting room. Each room had a dedicated entrance, adorned with the appropriate signage. The heritage people had insisted that the station remained true to its original roots and the signs remained. Due to the lack of passengers and the changing times, only the Women’s waiting room remained open to the public. It was situated next to the stairs and provided the nearest shelter from the constant rain. She approached the heavy wooden door and pushed the weathered brass handle. The door swung inwards, making a loud creaking noise, as it swung on its hinges. She stepped inside and sheltered from the rain. She closed the door, leaving the cold, wet, wind, behind her. Inside, it was a larger than she had expected.
The waiting room was oblong in shape, with richly stained wood, providing warm accents. It looked old but still in great condition. Alas, public spaces were not decorated this way anymore. The walls were painted hunter green and were covered in old, framed pictures. They showed steam trains, leather luggage and people in smart uniforms. Some of the guards wore pillbox hats; they sported uniforms from a bygone age. Around the edge of the room ran a bench, made from polished wood. It was still in great condition and she could tell the bench was original. The wood was worn, showing its signs of age and service. The room smelled of lemon and she was finally alone. She placed her bag on the bench and sat quietly. She held her head within her hands and began to weep openly.
It seemed these days that nothing was going right for her. She thought Craig was the one, her Mr. Right. They’d been dating for two years and it was getting better. She felt comfortable with him, in all situations. She trusted him and he respected her. They'd vacationed together and their closeness was growing. He was sensitive but not a wimp. He was slim and worked out. He was employed by a large bank and seemed to be upwardly mobile. He came from a good family and was intelligent. She really liked him and didn’t want to pressure him too much. She wanted to move in with him but refused to raise this subject. Her girlfriends had warned her against pushing a guy into this decision. She knew he would make up his own mind, when he felt the time was right. Craig had a great appreciation of style. He wore nice shoes and always dressed for the occasion. He looked great in a suit and he could pull off a jeans and sweater ensemble. He always looked good. He was the one.
She’d made him his favorite dinner that night; pasta with julienne vegetables, edamame beans and a spicy arrabiata sauce. The dinner was pleasant enough and she was half expecting him to stay the night. When he showed up without his gym bag, which would normally contain a change of clothes, she felt disappointed. She had candles, wine and ice cream for dessert. Craig had spent the last two weeks away on training and she'd missed him terribly. A few late night phone calls, full of empty words, were not enough to satisfy her. Tonight was going to be special; she wanted to show him how much she'd missed him. After a tiring few weeks she reluctantly understood that he needed an early night. Craig skipped dessert and excused himself, citing an early meeting that he needed to prepare for. In his haste to get away, he'd inadvertently left his cell phone on the dining table. She noticed it when she started to clear away the remnants of dinner. She placed the phone on the counter and began to load the dishes into the dishwasher. She carefully folded the lace tablecloth and finally relaxed, stretching out on her favorite chair.
An unfamiliar buzzing noise invaded her apartment. She raised h
er head and pointed her nose in the direction of the sound. She quickly recognized the vibration of his phone, which jumped along the counter top. It would be Craig, calling his cell phone to see if he’d left it in her apartment. She leapt from her chair and bounded over to the phone, looking forward to hearing his tired voice again. The phone had illuminated into life, proudly displaying a text message. She read the message and blinked rapidly, as if her blinking would make the message fade away. A stream of texts, which continued to paint the picture, quickly followed.
Jenny was Craig’s ex-girlfriend, but she’d moved to Tokyo on a three-year business assignment. Craig had broken off their relationship before she'd moved, and insisted that he’d not kept in touch. Jenny's excitement was palpable. She described how much she'd enjoyed his company over the last two weeks. He’d lied. The texts got progressively worse, as she teased him and cited intimate details of their time together. She was looking forward to seeing him again. She went out of her way to mention that she'd bought that “thing” they’d been talking about. Her mind raced, until she stopped herself.
Her blood boiled. This was not a random text, inadvertently sent to the wrong phone. She knew who Jenny was. Jenny had named Craig specifically within the text prompts. What should she do? Should she ignore this and wait to see what Craig says? How could she, she had his phone? Craig’s phone was locked, so she couldn’t respond to Jenny. It would be obvious to Craig that she’d seen these texts.
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She wiped more tears from her eyes, as she adjusted her weight on the uncomfortable wooden bench. She glanced upwards to ensure that she was still alone. The waiting room was empty.
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The shrill cry of her apartment doorbell had interrupted her feverish thought process. In a trance, she'd opened the door and was instantly shocked back to reality.
“Hey love, I think I forgot my phone. Sorry to disturb you again, but I’ll really need this tomorrow.” She couldn’t look at him. She averted her eyes and motioned for him to enter. He casually walked into the apartment, unaware of what lay ahead. She slammed the door closed; which caused him to spin around sharply. He flashed a look of surprise. She stood before him, staring wildly into his eyes. Her posture was erect, aggressive and stern. She thrust out an arm. His cell phone was placed carefully upon the palm of her upturned hand. The phone was carefully positioned where he could see a string of text messages. Attached to each text was a thumb-nail-sized picture of a smiling redhead. Below the picture, in bold white letters, was the label, “Jenny.”
Craig snatched the phone from her hand. He stared at the messages and in a fit of rage, moved towards the door. She yelled at him in a primal voice that surprised her. “Where are you going?”
“I won’t be back,” he said, grabbing the door handle.
“So that’s it?” she screamed, asking for an explanation.
“That’s it,” he said, slamming the door.
Craig had gone and she knew he wasn’t coming back. Her last words had been, “That’s it?” and in her heart she knew – that was it – for that relationship. She was on her own again; she hated being on her own. She’d invested two years, what a waste. The feeling welled up again and it swept over her like a familiar wave. It started deep in the pit of her stomach, rose through her chest, and seemed to stream from her eyes, causing her nose to run. She sniffled, making an echo within the waiting room.
It was at that moment that she seemed to recoil in horror. A slight movement caught her eye and she realized that she might not be alone. A small thin door, disguised as a wood panel, had opened a crack. It bled a shard of light streaming across the tiled ceramic floor. The door swung open, revealing a small pantry. Her gaze fell upon a man's shoe; it was made of polished black leather and was slightly scuffed around the sole. She raised her eyes and saw a man wearing an old fashioned uniform. It was dark blue with a fitted jacket decorated with large gold colored buttons. His jacket had an unusual cuff design and sported epaulettes. He caught her gaze and smiled in a welcoming way.
"I'm sorry Miss, but you sounded like you needed one of these." He stepped out into the waiting room and handed her a paper tissue.
"That's very kind," she said, dabbing the tears away.
"I don't get many criers. Usually when a woman cries like that, it involves her Mother or a man. Am I right?"
She would normally tell him to mind his own business, but he looked kind and genuine. "Yes. Man trouble."
The shrill sound of a screaming kettle distracted him. "Excuse me for a second." He shuffled back into his small closet sized room and fumbled around busily. He soon emerged holding two steaming China cups. The smell of lemon tea permeated the empty waiting room. "When I'm upset, I always like to drink some lemon tea. It helps with the breathing," he whispered, handing her a steaming hot cup.
"Thanks, but I don't think I'll have time," she waved her hand at the platform, suggesting her train would be here imminently.
"It won't be here for a while, you have plenty of time." He pushed the cup closer to her and she could smell the lemon. She was cold, damp and upset. A strong cup of warm lemon tea actually sounded quite nice. She tucked the tissue into her left sleeve, at her wrist. She pushed it into the cuff of her sweater. With both hands free, she took the China cup being offered. She wrapped her hands around the cup, absorbing the warmth into her cold palms.
She watched him tilt the cup and take the first sip. "Who are you?" she inquired.
"How rude of me. I'm Sykes, the Platform Guard." Sykes smiled again. He had the most genuine smile. She felt very comfortable and safe.
"I'm Anne," she said, extending her hand.
Sykes shook her hand, "Nice to meet you Anne. Why would a beautiful young woman like you be crying over a man?"
"He cheated on me, after two years, he cheated on me." Anne couldn't help it. Hearing the words was like pushing a knife into the pit of her stomach. She burst into tears again. Sykes looked like he would be in his late forties. He had short graying hair and a little extra weight around his midriff. He sat next to her on the bench, clasping his cup of hot tea.
"I get to hear a lot of conversations in this waiting room and over time, you learn a few things about life. I think it was Scott Alexander who once said, all good is hard. All evil is easy. Dying, losing, cheating and mediocrity is easy. Stay away from easy."
"Thanks," Anne smiled. Nothing in my life, right now, is easy."
"Then you must be a really good person. Which also means that he didn't deserve you." He paused and sipped his tea. Anne did the same, mirroring his actions. "Cheating is despicable, but it's not worth ruining your life. You might not feel like this right now, but you have everything to live for."
Anne rested her empty cup on the bench beside her; she turned to face the Sykes. "He's a loser and you’re right, he doesn't deserve me."
"That's the spirit." Sykes sipped patiently.
"You're totally right. He's the one at fault, so why am I the one crying? They deserve each other; I'll find somebody better, someone just right for me." Anne was starting to believe her own words, starting to feel better. Most men today are pigs, they don't have the class of your generation."
"I would not send a poor girl into the world, ignorant of the snares that beset her path; nor would I watch and guard her, till, deprived of self-respect and self-reliance, she lost the power or the will to watch and guard herself."
"Your quoting Anne Bronte to me, I know that one."
"And why am I quoting Anne Bronte to you?"
"Because I need to be strong. I need to have self respect and above all, I need to like myself."
Sykes nodded at the end of each statement, to reassure her.
"No man is worth your self respect. You're strong, I can feel it." Sykes rested his cup on the bench and flashed that reassuring smile.
Anne was enjoying Syke's company, she would hate for the train to come now and cut this conversation short. "Are you married Sykes?"
"I'm too old for you dear," he said with a devilish grin.
Anne flushed with embarrassment, "No, I meant. No. I didn't mean it like that, I ...."
"Relax, I'm just teasing you." He laughed in a deep warming way.
The Platform Guard Page 1
