by Sarah Bourne
He tucked himself away in one of the loos for a few minutes and called Brian to see how he was.
‘I’m still at the police station, man,’ he said, sounding agitated. ‘I’ve given my statement, but they want me to see a counsellor before I go. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, you know? What damn use is a counsellor gonna be? I just want to go home.’
‘Not long now, I’m sure. You’ll have to see the company counsellor – tell them that and they might let you go. After that you can get home and take a bit of time for yourself. If you need anything, call me, okay?’
‘Yeah. Ta, man.’
Tim leant against the hand basin and sighed. He knew all about counsellors. When he’d let slip to one of the teachers at school that his mum had left after one too many bashings, they’d hauled him in to see a psychologist. He hadn’t wanted to. Only pussies saw people like her, but over time it had helped. Gran had been great at the day-to-day stuff, but the psychologist was the only person who actually listened to what he said and helped him make sense of what he was feeling. Which was sad and empty, angry and confused, and then just angry and in the end sad again, but not the bone-shattering sadness he’d started with, more a dull ache that increased to an acute pain every now and then – birthdays, Christmases, school events where parents went along. All those times when he realised afterwards he’d been holding his breath, hoping this time she’d come. She never did. He wondered where she was, what had happened to her. His father had banned any mention of her and Tim remembered all too clearly what had happened last time he’d asked. The knuckles of his left hand were still stiff and two of his fingers misshapen from the pounding he’d got.
They’d been sitting in front of the telly, the dinner trays still on their laps. EastEnders had just finished and his dad was going on about how in TV shows everything got sorted out in the end, everyone knew what was happening, as if it was a bad thing. It was the day after Tim’s twenty-first and he still had the knot of pain in his stomach from yet another birthday passing without his mum so he asked, without thinking, why she’d gone.
As soon as he said it the sadness was replaced by anxiety. He wanted to eat his words, swallow and silence them.
‘Sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean it.’
But it was too late. His father was on his feet and coming at him, steak knife in hand. He’d had a few drinks before he got home and several more since, but his hand was steady, his eyes fixed on his son. Tim felt a shiver of fear but stood to face him, still holding his tray. Tim didn’t know whether to brace for a punch or watch the knife. Not that his father had ever done more than threaten when he had something in his hand but this time felt different. He took a step back, his calves hitting the chair.
His father never said a word. When he thought about it afterwards that was what stuck with Tim. The quiet. The only sounds came from the falling of crockery and cutlery and the thwack of fist into flesh and Tim’s groan. He reeled but remained standing, dazed. The next punch doubled him over and he fell to the floor and drew into a foetal curl. He saw his father’s heavy work boot swim into view and heard the crunch of his hand underneath it before he felt the pain.
He’d taken himself to the hospital, his hand wrapped in a tea towel. After the surgeon had put several metal plates in to hold the bones together, Tim asked to see a social worker. She’d found him temporary accommodation. He hadn’t seen his father since.
No wonder his mother had left.
The door handle rattled and Tim heard an impatient hrmph from the other side. He ran the tap, slicked down the bit of hair that always seemed to stick out no matter how much product he put in it, took a deep breath and opened the door.
‘Sorry, sir. All yours,’ he said.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
‘Hey, Timmy – Gavin. I’ll be taking this blood-soaked bucket to Euston for you.’
Tim’s heart sank. Gavin may drive a train okay but he was the last person Tim wanted to see right now. He’d never heard a serious word come out of his mouth, and today was obviously going to be no exception. He was the kind of bloke who, when someone was going through shit, would make jokes about refugees or people shagging sheep. A class act.
‘Hi, Gav. Glad to be in your capable hands,’ he said. ‘Are we clear to go? Shall I let the passengers know?’
‘’Nother few minutes. Boiler suits are still scrubbing the train down. Trust Brian to flatten a girl. I’ve only had men.’
‘What’s that meant to mean?’ asked Tim, bristling on behalf of his friend. ‘He’d never willingly hurt anyone and you know it.’
Gavin laughed down the phone. ‘All right, keep your hair on. Didn’t mean anything by it, just making conversation.’
‘Yeah, well, it was a bloody stupid thing to say, okay?’
Gavin was known to have been back at work the day after he’d hit someone, making jokes and laying bets on who’d be next to slam on the emergency brakes.
Tim sighed, rolled his shoulders a few times and made his way to the intercom to update the passengers.
Twenty minutes later they were on their way again, the rain-sodden fields blurring as they gathered speed. Tim started down the train checking tickets, making small talk with the passengers so they didn’t get a chance to ask any more about the suicide. He found it repugnant that people wanted the facts in all their gory detail. Repugnant. What a good word. Someone had told him the other day he thought President Trump was repugnant, so he’d looked it up, wondering if he’d ever use it. And here he was.
When, finally, they pulled into Euston, Tim let out a sigh of relief. The cleaners boarded the train but not before he’d done a quick check to make sure there was no lost property. As he walked the length of the platform towards the station staffroom, he avoided looking at the front of the train. It was probably clean as the proverbial whistle and he didn’t need to check.
It was only just past ten but he could have killed for an ice-cold, numbing shot of vodka.
Tim started shaking when he got to the staffroom at Euston, nearly two hours later than usual. His boss had been called and he’d been given the rest of the day off but only so long as he agreed to see the staff counsellor the next day. Sandra from the food shop and Brian the driver would have to go, too, it was company policy that all staff on the train were debriefed and counselled in the event of a suicide or other incident. No ifs, buts or maybes.
He decided to go and see Brian, who had been dropped home by the police after giving his statement. At East Acton Station he looked along the road. The day had turned out warm. Tim unzipped his jacket and wondered if he should buy Brian something. He didn’t know what people did in these situations; Brian wasn’t ill, but he’d had a shock. Fags? A car magazine?
In the end he bought nothing and thrust his hands deep into his pockets as he walked through the housing estate, trying to remember which block Brian’s flat was in. There were too many kids around for a school day and Tim wondered why no one cared, why there weren’t adults out there herding them to school, reminding them they’d never get anywhere without an education. His gran had made him go to school. She’d also made him join the local youth club run by the church. He’d protested at first, but made new friends and enjoyed the activities. He’d never thanked her for it at the time but later, when he saw his schoolmates begin to drift away and get into trouble, or start on drugs, he knew she’d been right. Not that he’d done too well, except in English, art and woodwork, but at least he’d finished.
Rounding a corner, he recognised Brian’s block. Red brick, graffiti tags all over it, paint peeling from the wooden window frames, outer door splintered. Tim was dismayed the council did so little for its tenants. Couldn’t they imagine what it would be like to live in a place so run-down and depressing? No wonder the kids didn’t bother going to school, their whole lives were lived in this shitty place where nothing made them feel worthwhile or valued. They grew to match their environment, their horizons as limited as the bo
undaries of the housing estate. You could grow up to become a drug dealer, a teenage mum or a car thief. They should pay him to do a mural on the walls, cover over the mindless graffiti and paint something inspiring. Although he couldn’t think what that might be in a place like this. He’d hunt for Banksy images when he had time. Or Warhol.
He took the stairs to Brian’s door two at a time and knocked.
‘I don’t want to see anyone, go away.’
‘Brian, it’s me. Tim. Just came to see how you are.’
He heard shuffling and a lock being pulled back. Brian had changed into a grey tracksuit, old and shapeless. The knees bagged and made it look as if his legs were bent, and the bum hung down. The curtains were drawn, making the flat gloomy and uninviting. Tim wanted to pull them back and open the windows, let the light and warmth in but it wasn’t his place. Brian led him into the kitchen and slumped into a chair.
‘Want tea?’ he asked as an afterthought.
Tim realised that if he did, he’d be making it. He filled the kettle and plugged it in, went through the cupboards to find tea, sugar, mugs. Brian stared into space, not caring or perhaps not even registering what was going on around him.
Tim put a mug of strong sweet tea in front of him.
‘Get that down you,’ he said.
Brian lifted his head and looked at him and Tim saw the shock still in his eyes, the disbelief. And something else – an edginess, fear, as if he’d been caught doing something bad and didn’t know how to make it right.
They sat in silence for a while. Now he was here, Tim didn’t know what to do.
Slowly, Brian seemed to relax. He pulled his tobacco and papers out of his pocket and took his time to roll himself a cigarette. His hand shook as he struck a match to light it and he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. ‘What am I going to do?’
Tim shifted in his seat, unsure how to answer. Unsure exactly what the question meant. He sat, waiting.
Brian opened his eyes again. ‘I can’t drive a train again, not after that.’
Tim nodded. Not because he agreed, but because he understood that was how Brian felt right then.
‘I mean, shit – I killed a woman. It could happen again.’
‘You didn’t kill her, she killed herself. You just happened to–’
‘I saw her too late. She looked right at me. Right in the eye. And then she stepped onto the rails.’ He shuddered and closed his eyes again as if it would stop him seeing her, stop him reliving the moment when the woman took that fatal step.
They lapsed into silence again, occasionally lifting their mugs to their mouths, placing them down again quietly. Outside, a car screeched to a halt, a man shouted, a woman responded. The car drove off. Tim looked towards the sounds but Brian seemed not to hear them, caught in his own drama.
The clock ticked loudly. Tim washed the mugs, running the water for longer than necessary. When he turned round, Brian was standing.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. ‘It was good to talk.’
‘Sure,’ said Tim, feeling guilty he was so ready to leave, that Brian felt so bad and he couldn’t make it better for him.
At the door, Tim squeezed Brian’s shoulder and was surprised when Brian pulled him into a hug. Tim felt the shuddering of his friend’s body as he wept and held on to him. When Brian stepped away he couldn’t look Tim in the eye.
‘Thanks again,’ he muttered, opening the door.
On the Tube Tim sat picking at the skin around his thumb. He’d become a nail-biter after his mother left, a difficult habit to break but he’d managed to get it down to this one finger. He was proud of his willpower. His gran had always said he should count not only his blessings but also his good points, because no one else would count them for him. Sometimes it made him feel big-headed and other times he was hard-pressed to find anything positive about himself at all, but he thought that overall it was a good thing to do.
He was worried about Brian but didn’t know what more he could do. He felt unsettled and wasn’t ready to go home and be on his own with all the thoughts whizzing through his head. He’d moved out of the boarding house the hospital social worker had found for him into a bedsit. He liked having his own place, not having to answer to anyone, but it was lonely. At the boarding house there’d always been someone to talk to, even if half of them were mad and the other half hardly spoke any English. Never a dull moment, he’d thought when he counted his blessings there. He changed onto the Circle line at Notting Hill Gate and sat in a corner going round and round the loop, trying not to think, until his stomach rumbled and reminded him he hadn’t eaten since five in the morning. He waited until the train got to Euston again and took the escalator to the concourse.
Euston was familiar. He knew the cafés and pubs, the hum of the station, the lay of the land. He could have gone to the staffroom to hang out but he didn’t want to talk to anyone. So he stood and watched the indicator board announcing the train departures for a few minutes, soothed by the normality of it, then got himself a coffee and a sandwich and sat watching the people going about their lives. He found himself wondering about the woman who had killed herself. What did she look like, how did she spend her time, did somebody love her? What would make someone feel so bad they wanted to be dead? Tim had had his share of difficulties but he had never wanted to top himself. He’d always believed that problems could be worked out, and even though he’d lost the two people in his life who’d meant the most, he thanked them daily for the influence they’d had on his life. He felt lucky to have known them. Of course, he’d prefer it if they were still around, but there was nothing he could do about it. He wondered if clever people were more likely to kill themselves because they tortured themselves with options and possibilities. Perhaps people like him saw things more simply and were happier for it. Or not. He liked the fact he had thoughts like that. Big Ideas his gran had called them and called him her clever boy. But they could be frustrating because too often there were no answers.
He got his notebook out and started sketching. He drew a woman. Was this what the dead woman had looked like? As he drew, he imagined a past for her. Her name was Mary and she had discovered her husband was having an affair. No, that wasn’t it; plenty of people got cheated on and didn’t get suicidal about it. He started again. She was Beatrix and she had just been told she had cancer. No, that wasn’t right either. People often got better from cancer these days, it wasn’t something worth killing yourself over. Her name was Jane and she had just discovered she was adopted at birth but her real parents wanted nothing to do with her. That might be enough to make a person suicidal, he thought. People felt betrayed by things like that. Unloved. He sat back. The sketch wasn’t one of his best, but he felt at least he had captured a sense of despair in the eyes. And then he realised they were his mother’s eyes and a lump rose in his throat.
His phone rang.
‘Thank you for coming round, Tim. You’re a good friend. The best.’
Brian’s voice was thick with alcohol, the words bumping against each other.
‘You okay, Brian?’
‘Yeah I’m fine. Nina’s here and we’re having a drink. I just wanted to say thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Anything else I can do, you call, okay?’
‘You’re a good friend.’ Brian hung up and Tim frowned. He was glad Nina was there, but not that they were pissed. Brian was a recovering alcoholic and he hadn’t had a drink in months. He’d never driven a train drunk as far as Tim knew. He thought perhaps he should have seen this could happen but what would he have done about it? He couldn’t tell Brian what to do. He just hoped it wasn’t a long binge and he got himself onto the wagon again quickly. But he couldn’t get rid of the feeling he could have said more, something that would have helped Brian understand it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t going to find answers at the bottom of a whisky bottle. He sent a text. Brian probably wouldn’t read it now but maybe when he was sober it would help.
You’re not t
o blame. Remember that. You’re a good man. Stay cool.
It was what his counsellor used to say to him, and he’d eventually accepted maybe his father’s violence wasn’t his fault, that as the adult his father should have been able to contain his anger instead of taking it out on his son.
He was about to put his phone away when it rang again. He looked at the caller ID. Head office. He didn’t want to speak to any of the toffs. They’d be checking to see he was okay, confirming his appointment to see the psychologist, sounding all concerned until they told him to be back at work as soon as possible. He declined the call and stuffed the phone into his pocket.
A man approached carrying a tray and asked if he could share the table. Tim looked around and realised the café had filled with the lunchtime trade. He nodded and moved his cup and plate out of the way. He thought he recognised the man but he often thought that these days, especially around the station. He saw a lot of people in his job. He watched as the man put his lunch on the table and leant the empty tray against the leg of his chair and started eating his sausage roll with a knife and fork. Tim watched, fascinated. Who ate sausage rolls with a knife and fork? The other man looked up, and Tim didn’t look away fast enough. He saw recognition dawn on the other man’s face.
‘You’re the ticket collector,’ he said, putting his cutlery down.
Tim nodded. ‘Guilty as charged, Tim Engleby,’ he said.
‘Ray Dreyfus.’ He put his hand out and Tim shook it firmly because his gran had always said you couldn’t trust a man who had a weak handshake.
‘I hope the – er – train being late didn’t inconvenience you too much,’ he said. God, he sounded like the announcements script on all the Virgin rail services.
