Eleven

The ice-­cold chill in the air was making Mark’s bones ache again as he entered the Central Station from the underground connection. Snow lay heavily on the ground and a Metro tram had broken down earlier that morning, with resultant chaos for early morning commuters. After his talk with Dr Aynsley, Mark had felt better than he had done for months. But the compulsion and fear remained and obstinately refused to be rationalised. The ticket barrier still remained the focus of the strange inner drive which he could not placate.

He bought a newspaper from the stand, scrutinising the barrier as people pushed through. It was like a psychological mine field with an invisible no-­man’s-­land around it. He fought the compulsion to move towards it. Yes, I’ll try again, he told it. But not now. I’m not ready for it. He headed for the cafe, remembering the look on Joanne’s face when he admitted that he had spent most of yesterday morning at the station. She had said nothing, but Mark could see it all written on her face: Oh God, Mark. Not again.

The cafe was fairly empty, as it normally was at this time of the morning, and Mark ignored the look of unabashed curiosity that the woman behind the counter gave him when he bought a cup of coffee and took it to his usual seat. She should be used to him by now. After all, the schizo was a regular customer. He had been coming here now for almost six months. Christ, six months! thought Mark. At first, after his recovery, he had only come once a week, but in the last couple of months it had been every weekday. And even then, the compulsion nagged him at weekends when he was with Joanne and Helen. He reminded himself of a hopeless junkie, deprived of his daily fix and suffering withdrawal symptoms because of it. But there was hope now. If Aynsley could unravel his mental block under hypnosis, if he could find out what had happened to Mark on that damned train, then perhaps the fear and the Impulse would be gone. He could brave the ticket barrier, pass through onto the platform, perhaps even board the train again and kill this phobia, this obsession, once and for all.

Further thought was vanquished as the Impulse to get up and head for the barrier seized him again. And, at the back of his mind, the cold unreasoning fear warned him not to attempt it.

Mark finished his coffee and walked stiffly back to the cafe entrance, aware that the woman behind the counter was watching him. He ignored her and moved outside into the cold, standing just by the entrance. He looked out across the station, watching the milling passengers, trying to divert his thoughts from the inner battle within him. He tried to guess the occupation of a young executive type; a tall, good-­looking woman; a man and a woman with suitcases . . .

Come back.

A teenager with a duffle coat and college scarf; a young couple pushing a luggage trolley, looking bemused; a pensioner with a poodle . . .

Pass through. Enter.

No . . .

Two men in business suits engaged in animated conversation; three children dashing noisily into the newsagent to buy comics . . .

And then Mark saw the man in the black raincoat standing in the newsagent’s shop, watching him. Mark looked away instinctively, but when he glanced back again, the man was still watching. Only now, he had seen that Mark had noticed him and was moving away, pretending to be engrossed in the newspaper he was holding. Mark was taken aback by the intense look of sombre scrutiny on the man’s face. He was middle-­aged, stocky and with hair greying at the temples. But there was no mistaking the fact that he had been watching Mark with a keen and intense interest.

The stranger moved out of vision as Mark turned back into the cafe, bought another cup of coffee and returned to his seat, puzzled. Perhaps he was imagining it, after all. God knew, he was all to hell since the accident. Perhaps he was imagining now that people were watching him, another symptom of his emerging schizophrenia. What was it Dr Aynsley had said? . . . a paranoid obsession that people are talking about you behind your back. Perhaps that would be the next step . . .

Get up. Walk to the ticket barrier. Show your ticket to the inspector. Pass through.

Mark finished his coffee, rose creakily to his feet and saw that the woman behind the counter was drying cups on a ragged towel, watching curiously for his next move. He gave a small, rueful laugh as he left the cafe again. His new suspicions seemed to be proved right. The woman continued drying cups, shaking her head sadly.

Mark’s stomach was beginning to knot as he headed directly for the barrier, hoping that a line of passengers would not form at the last moment. If that happened, and he had to wait he knew his nerve would break again. The walk from the cafe to the barrier seemed interminable; the methodical click-­click-­click of his walking stick as he moved seemed somehow amplified over the crowd noise. There were no passengers at the Platform Nine gate. This time he would do it, this time he would . . .

Turn back. For God’s sake, turn back.

Go on. Pass through.

Turn back. Turn back.

Oh, my God, my God, my God . . .

Come back . . .

I can do it. It’s easy. If I do it, then I’ll break this damned thing. It won’t have a hold over me any more.

And then Mark saw the stranger again.

He was standing underneath one of the arches, just off to Mark’s right, and scrutinising him as intently as before. The sight sheared through Mark’s resolve with devastating effect. He was four yards from the gate, in no-­man’s-­land, and the terror which stalked there had found him again.

Get away. Get away.

His nerve gone, Mark turned sharply and headed for the exit, feeling the stranger’s eyes boring into his back. The hope which Dr Aynsley had instilled in him seemed a distant and bitter memory. Mark had been wrong. Things were not as black as they had been before. They were worse.