Date: Sun, 28 Feb 2010 17:43:47 +0000 From: paxos@hushmail.com Subject: The 16.02 from London Victoria PART ONE (m/b) The persistent rain sleets and squalls over London. Slick streets reflect taxi headlights circling the railway station. Buses lumber through pothole puddles, sending scattering plumes of water over the pavement. Pedestrians hurry, heads bent, umbrellas dueling under the grey sky. Charles Fox steps carefully past a sheet of water, protecting his leather shoes as best he can. His suit trousers are wet around the ankles from the angled rain. He bumps into a tourist who stops unexpectedly to consult a sodden map. "Excuse me." He reaches the brightly lit entrance to the station and steps out of the rain. He pauses for a moment, putting down his briefcase so he can flap the wings of his umbrella. Victoria Station seethes. His glasses steam up as they adjust to the warm fug. The departure board clicks and whirs as it cascades destinations, watched by the crowd below. The 16.02 is not his usual train. He checks the board. Platform 18. He moves briskly, in a straight line, so that others weave around him. "Excuse me." He passes his ticket through the turnstile and marches past the humming fumes of the locomotive. First Class has seats available. Entering the carriage the hubbub of the station is immediately muted. He makes his way towards the middle and selects a window seat. He pulls papers from his briefcase and sets a slim silver pen on top. He decides against the newspaper. The briefcase joins his umbrella and his coat on the rack above. He settles into the upholstered seat. A reading lamp pools a soft light over his papers. At this time of year dusk is still two hours away, but the lowering sky has cast a darkening gloom. He adjusts his cuff-links. Outside on the platform, the passengers hurry past First Class to try to find seats. A whistle blows somewhere. Doors slam. The lights flicker and pulse. Two more short blows of a whistle. Shouting. The train tugs and starts to roll. Charles Fox rests his hands on the table in front of him and picks up his pen. He taps the end against his papers as he stares out of the window. Outside the station the train edges slowly across the city. Raindrops haze and streak against the glass. The false twilight has been met with lights from offices and goods yards. Tail lights pulse as traffic slows in the teeming streets below. They cross the river at Battersea, and above the Thames a lighter patch of sky. The train gathers speed and beats a familiar rhythm on the tracks. They cross points. They clatter and shake. They settle. Charles puts down the pen. He is not going to look at his papers. London is too mesmerising in this drab grayness. Everywhere lights trace the outlines of the city. Brightly lit office workers flash past in their boxes. Headlights flow like blood down arteries. The glittering darkness of the river. Domestic life behind windows. Too early for curtains to be drawn. The city unselfconscious, and the train unnoticed as it slips through the suburbs. It slows. Terrace after terrace slide by. Each lit window offering a glimpse of myriad lives. Charles enjoys the casual voyeurism and from time to time turns his head to follow a woman at a sink, a light turned on, a television set flickering in a living room. Charles Fox sees a naked child standing in a window. Arms out in the shape of a Y. A boy. He turns his head to follow. The boy is looking at the train. Turning his head as they pass. And gone. Charles Fox has his cheek to the cold window. He straightens up, putting his hand to his cheek. The man opposite casts a glance his way with indifference. Charles Fox's heart is pounding. He takes off his spectacles and puts them with his pen. He puts his head back against the seat and closes his eyes. Out of the darkness and blustering rain. Out of the pulsing city of light. Out of an upstairs bedroom window. The naked Y is etched like a tattoo on his retina. His head is swimming. A trolley is at his elbow. "Tea, coffee, sandwiches, alcoholic beverages?" He never buys from the trolley. He looks up at the face above the uniform. "Do you have a scotch?" --- Charles Fox makes a habit of sitting on the same side of the train. He silently curses if all the window seats are taken. He no longer feels awkward to ask his fellow travelers if they would mind swapping with him so that he can be by the window. He doesn't care about their mild irritation to be asked. Charles Fox never takes either his papers or his newspaper out of his briefcase. He is irritated if the train is too slow leaving the city. He is irritated if the train is too fast through the suburbs. He is starting to learn the route. He knows that the curving cul- de-sac is followed by a terraced row. That past the third bridge there is another terrace. He knows that there are thirty two stretches of terraced houses that are candidates. But he does not know which. He counts. He notes with his silver pen. He sees one woman at her sink repeatedly. One house where a black dog always stands at the french windows to watch the train pass. But there is no boy in an upstairs window. Never. Not on the 18.02 from Victoria. He changes his routine. To the consternation of his staff, he now arrives at 6:30 in the morning and leaves promptly at 15:45. His PA changes her hours. Staff who want to impress him arrive before him in the morning. They describe 15:45 to 17:00 as "Happy Hour". A month after changing his routine, with his pen checking off the rows of terraces as they pass, the train slows due to signal failure. The boy, naked, stands in the window. Arms out. The train is at a crawl. Charles Fox is forty yards from the boy. He has tunnel vision. He puts his hand flat against the glass. The boy makes an obscene gesture. Jumps down. The bedroom light snaps off. The boy's ghostly face reappears at the window. Charles splays his fingers against the glass. Gone. Charles looks at his pad. The twenty fourth block. Three before the bridge. He knows where to look now. But he has no idea where this block is in relation to the city as a whole. --- Charles Fox purchases an iPhone. He keeps it in his briefcase. His friends bore him in the pub recommending applications to him. He has no interest in any of them. But he has spent hours looking at the mapping application. He dropped a marker pin when the train passed the twenty fourth block, the house with the window in the twenty fourth block. --- At 15:10 Charles Fox is parked on a terraced street in south London. He can hear the rumble of trains passing behind them. In his rear view mirror he can see two schoolgirls in blazers. At 15:23 he sees a boy in a blazer. He recognises the shock of blond hair. He lets him pass the car before opening the door and stepping out. "Excuse me." The boy turns, surprised. "I didn't mean to startle you." The boy is younger than he had expected. Thirteen perhaps? He is not good with ages. Twelve? "I have a letter for you, and then I'll be on my way." He holds out an envelope. "A letter?" The boy speaks with a south London accent. The boy has swung the back-pack off his shoulder and is holding it in one hand. Charles thinks he is short for his age. Perhaps his growth spurts are to come. The boy's eyes are green and wary. "I've seen you from the train and I have this letter for you." The boy's pupils dilate with adrenaline. His hand grips the back- pack. "You what?" "I have seen you from the train and I have this letter for you. Don't worry, all I want is for you to take this and I'll leave." "Fuck." Charles steps forward smiling. "Nothing to worry about. Go on take it." Small fingers take the edge of the envelope as if it were about to detonate. "What's your name?" The boy is looking at the envelope. "Dillon." "Nice to meet you Dillon. I'm Charles. And I'll go now. Read that when I'm gone." Charles turns away and walks back to the car. By the time he has opened the car door the boy is gone. --- Charles Fox knows that this is the last time he will take the 16:02. He is half an hour early and has to wait for the platform to open. He is first onto the train and chooses the window seat he prefers. He leaves the iPhone, his pad and pen in his briefcase. He knows exactly where to look. He takes deep deliberate breaths. The Thames coils around the city. Battersea Power Station is wreathed in darkness like an old castle. The city slides imperceptibly into suburban streets. Charles Fox is counting down the terraces. The train is picking up speed where it usually slows. Suburban windows flash past like the frames of a movie. His nose against the glass, Charles Fox, fixes on the light and turns his head rapidly as it tears past. Framed in the window: a small Y. Clothed. But in the shape of a Y. "Tea, coffee, sandwiches, alcoholic beverages?" Charles Fox exhales. "Have you got champagne?" ---- comments much appreciated: paxos@hushmail.com