by Sarah Bourne
‘No, it was fine. Well, not fine, obviously, that someone died, but I wasn’t late for my appointment.’
‘That’s good.’ Tim didn’t know what else to say but Ray kept looking at him, so he stumbled on. ‘Do you work in London?’
‘No.’
Tim watched in horror as Ray’s face seemed to collapse and tears welled in his eyes. ‘I came to see a specialist. A doctor,’ he said.
‘Oh. And–’
‘I have cancer. Inoperable cancer.’ Ray frowned and squirmed in his seat, pulled out a hankie and wiped his face. ‘Sorry. You don’t want to hear about it. It’s just that it’s been rather a shock.’
‘You talk if you need to,’ said Tim. It seemed to be his destiny today, to have people needing to talk to him. Not that Brian had done much talking. Perhaps he could help this chap more than he’d helped his friend.
Ray had pulled himself together. He gave Tim a bleak smile and got up. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ he said, and left.
Tim watched him go. Maybe a cancer diagnosis was enough to make you want to top yourself after all.
By the time he thought that and wondered if he should do something, the other man was nowhere in sight.
Tim didn’t know what to do with himself. He still wasn’t ready to go home, but he couldn’t sit in the busy café any longer. It was as if something was compelling him to stay near the station. He wasn’t sure if it was because he felt the need to be near trains and the familiarity of the place or if it was more about being around people. There was an energy about stations he never found anywhere else.
He was concerned about Brian and now also worried about this man with cancer. His gran had always said he was a sensitive sort who absorbed other people’s feelings. Today, he’d quite like to put them down again and work out what he felt about the whole suicide thing. He grabbed his jacket and edged off the stool. He knew quite a few of the station staff but he didn’t want to see them and have them asking questions about what had happened. Instead, he went and sat in the park outside and pulled out his sketchbook again. Drawing helped him work out what he was feeling and then find a way to deal with it. Another thing to thank his counsellor for. Tapping his pencil against his teeth, he thought about what he wanted to draw and turned to a new page and starting doodling.
The doodles turned into a woman standing in front of a train. There was a tightness in his chest.
Stop thinking about it. It won’t do any good. It won’t change anything. He scribbled the image out and shut the book.
He watched two pigeons fight over a piece of a polystyrene food container, then looked around, pulling up the collar of his jacket against a rising breeze and made himself smile. Be grateful for what you’ve got.
The wind scuffed litter along the ground, and all around him people were rushing to and fro. Behind him on Marylebone Road, cars, buses, lorries, and motorbikes were streaming along trying to find a small advantage in the traffic. And here he was, alive, healthy, and sitting in the middle of this great city. He took a selfie, planning to make a painting from it later, then closed his eyes for a moment, imagining himself on a stage talking to people about his art and them applauding him for his great and exciting talent.
He opened his eyes when he felt someone sit on the other end of the bench. He glanced over, annoyed he’d been disturbed. He looked again, stared. It was the girl from the train, the one he’d watched from the other end of the carriage. She was wearing make-up now and she’d changed her clothes but it was definitely her. Her eyes were a bit puffy, like she’d been crying but she was still beautiful. She was unaware of him, staring at the ground in front of her and playing with the handle of her bag, folding it over and over, letting it go and folding it again. Her nails were bitten, he noticed, and the skin of her hands dry and raw like she washed them too often. His gran’s hands had been the same.
Looking away, he tried to calm down. Should he go? He was always uncomfortable around beautiful girls. Even when he and Tess had been going out for months, he was sometimes tongue-tied around her. It was as if her beauty had made his words sound stupid and unworthy.
He was just about to leave when the girl let out a sob and buried her head in her hands. Tim stayed where he was. He wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder, to offer comfort but she might take it the wrong way, so he pulled out a tissue – his gran had told him always to have one with him – and held it out to her. When she didn’t take it, didn’t notice it, he gently pushed it into her hand.
She blew her nose noisily and said thank you without looking at him. Tim edged back to the other end of the bench once more.
He found beautiful women terrifying but he found a woman in need almost irresistible. It was like a knee-jerk reaction; she needed something, he provided it. Leaving was no longer on the agenda. So he sat and waited, every so often glancing in her direction.
‘Thank you,’ she said again after several minutes.
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘But you haven’t run away screaming either,’ she said. She’d raised her head but hadn’t looked at him.
‘No, I’m still here.’
‘So you don’t think I’m a loony then?’
‘Should I?’
She smiled, still staring straight ahead. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I am.’ She turned and did a double-take. ‘You!’
‘Me.’ Tim blushed.
‘You’re the guy on the train.’
‘And you’re the girl on the train.’
‘Yeah, but you ignored me. You didn’t even look at me.’
‘Oh yes I did.’
She smiled, but tears started spilling down her cheeks.
‘What’s the matter? – it can’t just be that I didn’t look at you when I checked your ticket.’ He made a puppy-dog face.
‘No, although it did break my heart.’ She gave a little laugh that turned into a sob that caught in her throat. ‘I just made such a tit of myself and watched all my dreams go galloping out the door.’
Tim moved a little closer. ‘What happened?’
‘I had an audition for The X Factor and I screwed it up big time. I mean, I was so bad they asked me to stop before I’d finished the song.’ She started folding the strap of her bag again.
‘Oh.’ Tim sat quietly, waiting to see if she wanted to say any more. His gran had always said if you give people the space, they’ll tell you everything. But the girl didn’t go on. She wasn’t crying anymore but she was taking deep breaths as if trying to stay calm.
‘What did you sing?’ asked Tim eventually.
‘Doesn’t matter. It was shit and I’m never singing again.’
‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you,’ said Tim. ‘I mean, you must love singing and be good at it to get an audition. Be a shame to let one setback get in the way of a dream.’
She looked at him but didn’t say anything, so he went on.
‘I do a bit of painting and who knows, one day I might even sell some, but everyone has setbacks. I’m sure even Beyoncé has bad days. Would’ve been a tragedy if she’d quit at the first hurdle.’ Tim had never told anyone about his dream of selling his work before. Perhaps this girl had a gran who told her about giving people space to talk, thought Tim.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Alice.’
‘Alice what?’
‘Alice Cooper. Why?’
‘Any relation to Alice Cooper?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘No. It wasn’t even his real name.’
‘I know. He was Vincent Furnier. I prefer Alice Cooper.’
‘Why’d you want to know my name anyway?’ she asked.
‘So I can listen out for you on the radio and say, “I met her once, before she was famous. She’d just been turned down by The X Factor and now they’re regretting it”.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t give up, Alice Cooper.’
Alice laughed. ‘You’re the loony, not me. But thank you. You’re sweet.’
Tim bl
ushed more deeply and held his breath. Suddenly he was aware of her again as the girl he hadn’t been able to make eye contact with on the train. And here she was, calling him ‘sweet’, sitting right next to him on a bench on a summer afternoon in London. He wanted to draw her, or take a photo so he could paint her later. Anything that meant he didn’t have to focus on actually being there now.
‘So, Mr Ticket Collector, do you always sit here in the afternoons in case someone comes along and needs cheering up?’
Tim swallowed. ‘No.’ His suddenly sweaty palms seemed to have drawn all the moisture away from his mouth, which was as dry as a pub in a brewery strike. Come on, Tim, he thought, say something funny. Or not funny, just say something, or she’ll think you’re a jerk. ‘I was drawing,’ he said. Oh, God, I’ve mentioned it again! What a stupid thing to say. She’s either going to think I’m bragging, or she’s going to ask to see it. Or both. Shit. ‘Normally I’d be on my way to Manchester now,’ he said, hoping she’d ignore the art bit.
‘But not today. Is it because of what happened this morning or do you have magical powers and you knew about my potential suicide this afternoon? Sorry – that was a pretty off thing to say.’
Tim didn’t know how to answer. Yes, it was because of the morning incident, no he didn’t have magical powers, and yes, he agreed it was a pretty bad joke – or at least he hoped it was a joke. He looked at her in confusion and wanted to kick himself. How often did he meet girls he fancied these days? And here he was, fucking it up because he was so shy he couldn’t talk. He wanted to scream. ‘Want a drink?’ was all he managed.
He felt his skin burning under Alice’s scrutiny. It seemed to take hours for her to decide. Hours in which Tim had plenty of time to imagine her laughing at him, asking why on earth a girl like her would want a drink with a guy like him, point out that she was worthy of far better, could have, in fact, anyone she wanted, and had no need for a nobody like him.
‘Yeah,’ she said finally. ‘That would be nice.’
Which Tim heard as, ‘Yes, I haven’t got anything better to do until my train leaves.’
Tim looked back with longing at the pub he had just left. Not the pub, Alice, who was still sitting at the table. She was the first chick he’d met since Tess that he really wanted to get to know. She was hot, but it was more than that. She interested him with her mixture of self-confidence and self-doubt. Sure, he would like to see her naked, he couldn’t deny it, but he also wanted to unravel the mystery of this Alice Cooper.
He shrugged himself deeper into his jacket. The temperature had plummeted with the sun going down. He turned his thoughts to Brian. He’d been practically incoherent on the phone. Tim had found it difficult to understand what it was he wanted, and was dismayed to find it was him. A friend to talk to now Nina had gone and the events of the day were hitting him. Tim couldn’t let his mate down; his gran had always said, a friend in need is a friend indeed. Or was it in deed? He had no idea what it meant either way, but he did know friends were important and you didn’t ditch them for a bit of skirt. Not that Alice was that.
He hurried through the estate past teenagers sharing a joint who jeered at him and got back to their puff.
A woman stepped out of a doorway. She stood under a dim light, her bleached hair glowing either side of the darker strip of her parting. ‘Ten quid for a blow job,’ she said, in a raspy smoker’s voice.
‘Not tonight, thanks.’ He hugged his jacket tighter and quickened his step.
At Brian’s door he paused. Part of him wanted to run back to the pub to see if Alice was still there, if she was real.
He knocked. The door was ajar. Tim pushed gently and went in.
‘Brian, it’s me, Tim. You there?’
No answer.
The lights were off and Tim couldn’t find a light switch. He left the door open so the landing light shone in weakly. He looked into the bedroom but there didn’t seem to be anyone in there. From what he could make out, the bed was still made. He felt his way along the hall into the kitchen which was lit in strobes by a blinking street light.
‘Shit – what the–?’
Brian was slumped over the kitchen table, vomit pooled around his face. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t making a sound. Tim rushed over and felt for a pulse, leant down and listened for a breath.
Shit, he thought again, and pulled out his phone. He dialled 999 and asked for an ambulance. He found the light switch and noticed Brian wince as the light came on, but his eyes didn’t open.
‘Come on, man, wake up.’ Tim patted him on the cheek. He moved Brian’s face out of the puke and cleaned it as best he could, talking all the while, telling him what he was doing.
‘I’m here to help. Let’s get you looking beautiful again.’ He almost gagged at the smell of vomit and alcohol fumes.
Where was the bloody ambulance? It had been at least fifteen minutes since he’d called. At last he saw the blue-and-red flashing lights reflecting on the ceiling. He opened the window and called out, relief replacing his anxiety. Now someone else would take responsibility. Someone who knew what they were doing.
‘What’s the story here?’ asked one of the paramedics as he came in.
‘I don’t really know. He’s a train driver and someone jumped this morning. He called me earlier and said a friend was here and they were having a drink. He called again about forty minutes ago. I came round and found him like this.’
‘Just alcohol? Does he take any drugs you know of?’
‘Nah. No drugs. He’s dead against them.’
Tim looked around and saw an empty bottle of vodka and a nearly empty one of bourbon. There were several beer and cider bottles by the sink. ‘I’d guess it’s that,’ he said, pointing.
‘Best get him to hospital for fluids then,’ said the paramedic to his colleague. ‘You coming?’ he turned to ask Tim as they manhandled Brian onto a stretcher.
‘Well – okay. Yeah, sure.’ How could he say no? He wondered what Alice was doing. He was sure he’d never see her again, not leaving the way he had. Resentment flickered and died. What was the use? He had to help his friend, no two ways about it.
In the ambulance, he gave Brian’s details as best he could. He had to guess his birthdate and didn’t know his middle name, had no idea who his next of kin was, nor whether he had any existing illnesses. He wondered if he should tell them he was a recovering alcoholic, but in the circumstances, it didn’t really seem to matter; there wasn’t a lot of recovering going on right now.
At Ealing Hospital the paramedics wheeled Brian into a corridor and left to find a staff member to hand over to. His eyes opened momentarily, unfocused. Saliva stretched down his chin. Tim looked away. Brian wouldn’t want to be seen like that.
He waited, leaning against the stretcher in the absence of anywhere to sit. The light immediately above had blown, leaving him in a pool of shadow. In the distance, he could hear voices, the beeps of machinery, a squeaky trolley being pushed along the lino floor.
He jumped when Brian gurgled as if he was going to puke again, but he just mumbled something and settled back into semi-consciousness.
Tim thought again of Alice. Perhaps she was waiting for him to call. He pulled his phone out and found her number in his contacts. There she was. He tapped the screen and heard her phone ring. His heart started beating faster.
A doctor in a flapping white coat parted the plastic doors at the end of the corridor and approached. Tim ended the call before she answered – would she have answered? – and slipped his phone back into his pocket.
‘Alcohol poisoning? Were you there? How much did he have to drink? Has he vomited at all?’
Tim was about to answer but the doctor glanced at the paperwork in his hand and said, ‘Oh, yes. I see. Terrible shock he’s had, although drinking himself into a coma isn’t the best way to deal with it.’
Tim agreed and was about to say so when a nurse arrived and strapped a hospital band onto Brian’s wrist and started
pushing the stretcher back the way they’d come.
‘Should I come too?’ he asked.
They didn’t reply, so he followed. At the plastic doors, the nurse turned to him and pointed to a seating area on the right.
‘You can wait there.’
‘How long will it be?’
Again, no response and then they were gone, the sound of their voices retreating down the hall. One said something and the other laughed. Tim was annoyed. This was no laughing matter.
In a corner of the waiting area was a TV showing a shopping channel, the sound turned off. A sign next to it said For the comfort of all, DO NOT TOUCH the television. Tim wondered what not touching the TV had to do with anyone’s comfort, and then lost interest and looked about. An old man was coughing into his hand, the younger man with him eating a family-size packet of crisps. An Indian couple were cradling their children on their laps. Tim couldn’t tell which one of them was ill or injured. A mother and son sat talking quietly, his thickly-bound ankle resting on another chair. That was it; early Monday evening in A and E. Tim thought it would probably be busy later with the drunks and the sick who hadn’t made it to their doctor during the day. He looked at his watch. Alice was probably halfway home and he’d never see her again. He knew it had been too good to be true. Chicks like her didn’t go for guys like him. He swallowed his disappointment and sat, hands in his armpits, staring at the floor.
He was nodding off when his phone rang.
‘How’s your friend?’
‘Alice?’
‘Yeah, it’s me. I’m still in London. Didn’t know how long you’d be.’
‘Alice – you’re – Alice!’
‘Course I am. Who else would I be? Are you okay? What’s happening?’
Tim told her about finding Brian and waiting at the hospital.
‘Want company?’
Tim smiled. ‘You’d come here?’
‘Sure. Why not. Got nothing else to do except go home, and I don’t really want to yet.’
Tim’s smile faded. She was bored, and hanging out with him was marginally better than going home.
