JEN
I press the button to open the doors to the train and step down onto the platform. As I walk towards the sign that says ‘Way Out’ I notice a figure standing there. It can’t be. I squint my eyes closer together. It must be someone who looks like her. With each step closer the fear I’d felt the night before takes repossession of my body. My skin feels cold. My chest begins to tighten. My breathing is shallow, like a hunted animal. She’s followed me. She’s here.
I’m about to turn to get back onto the train when the doors close and lock. I look around to see if there’s anyone to help, but the commuters have long left for London. I bite the inside of my lip. I have no choice but to face her. Perhaps this is for the best, perhaps an honest conversation could end it all here. I just need to be brave.
As I approach I realise there’s something wrong with her. She’s standing too near the edge of the platform. She’s got her arms crossed and she’s rocking back and forth. Her face is fixed on the tracks in front of her.
‘Bex?’
She doesn’t answer. It’s almost as if she doesn’t know I’m here. I say her name again and she turns her head slightly towards me.
‘Are you okay?’
Her only response is to step a little closer to the platform edge. I look up at the display. There’s nothing due for another ten minutes.
‘What are you doing here?’
Big fat tears form in her eyes and begin to spill down her cheeks. The tracks on the line begin to crack and in the distance I can hear the rumble of a train approaching.
‘Bex – talk to me. It’s me, Jen.’
The sound of my name seems to rouse her.
‘Jen?’
‘That’s right. I’m here.’
She looks at me like a little girl. ‘Are you angry with me? Please don’t be angry with me.’
I am furious with her, of course, on many levels. More than furious. I can’t tell where anger starts and fear begins. But now’s not the time to tell her that.
‘Why would I be angry with you?’
‘I c-can’t carry on.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
Again she falls quiet. She’s fixated on the tracks, seemingly hypnotised by their hum.
I’m scared now. I look up at the display. An announcement flashes up to say that there’s a fast, non-stopping train that’s due to speed through the station in a minute. ‘Bex. You need to snap out of this.’
Her body is shaking now and she rasps out the words. ‘It’s— too— late. I know I’ve h-hurt you. I didn’t tell you the truth.’
‘What didn’t you tell me?’
Panicking, I look around me to see if I can see anyone in a hi-vis jacket. But apart from a mother with three young kids, one in a pram, standing at the far end of the platform, there’s no one around. I think about shouting down to her.
‘Bex. You need to tell me what’s going on.’
The hum of the tracks rises to a rattle and is fast approaching a scream. The train is due any second. I don’t want to frighten Bex into making any sudden movements and so I take a small, almost unnoticeable step towards her. If I had to, I’m confident I could launch myself towards her and grab her. I’m primed, watching her every movement, ready to save her. Even though I’ve got my suspicions about her – questions swarm around my head like a mass of trapped wasps – I can’t let her do this.
‘I promise I’m not angry with you.’
Finally, she turns her head so her eyes – red, raw, sad eyes – meet mine.
‘I thought you’d—’
Just then the train whooshes by at what seems like two hundred miles an hour, a violent, thundering machine that would have crushed Bex in its path. I can feel its shuddering impact vibrate through my body. The noise is terrible, all-consuming. My hair erupts into a mad frenzy, dancing above and around my head. The tunnel of wind forces Bex back and she collapses onto the platform. And then, once the train has passed, the station is left silent again apart from the sound of sobbing.
I bend down so I’m at her level and take her in my arms. I hold her for what seems like an eternity, until the sobs lessen. I tell her to take some deep breaths and finally she’s able to look at me again. I help her up onto a nearby bench.
I find it hard to contain my anger now. ‘What were you thinking? Bex – talk to me!’
She wipes her nose on her sleeve and through yet more tears she begins to explain. Her confession comes in fragments, as if she’s incapable of speaking fully-formed sentences.
‘He was a boyfriend – I knew him, Daniel, I mean – I know I should have told you. He was sweet back then – I was older, more experienced. He was the younger brother of a friend – she’s in Australia now, a waitress, haven’t heard from her in years. Dan was jealous back then too, had a temper. We went out for a few months. But I couldn’t bear him watching over me, always asking whether I’d seen another bloke, constantly on my back. I finished it. He was devastated. Had some kind of nervous breakdown, I think. I had to do it for the sake of my own sanity. I wasn’t sure about my safety. I had to move away. You see I had to be careful. I was … vulnerable, you see. After what happened to me. I couldn’t tell you because – because it would risk bringing everything else up too.’
I wonder if I can risk asking her a question. ‘About your parents?’
She nods and is silenced by another wave of crying.
‘I’ve read about what happened, Bex. It’s okay – you know you can tell me.’
‘You won’t hate me?’
I shake my head.
‘My family – my birth family – was a mess, I mean a real mess. Mum drank. Dad was … violent. They say children don’t know any different when they’re young, they accept whatever goes on because they think it’s normal, they’ve got nothing to compare it to. But not with me. I knew what went on wasn’t … right. It all got so bad for Mum – the beatings and everything else – that one day in 1990, during a horrible row it all got so much worse. Dad pushed Mum’s hand … He pushed her hand into a frying pan. I still remember the smell of that burning flesh.’
She breaks off to cry some more. I squeeze her shoulder to show that I’m here for her. ‘If it’s too much for you—’
But she cuts me off. She tries to smile, more for my benefit than her own, and she continues. ‘That was seared in my mind for ever. Anyway, Mum reached out for something to stop him and she … she took hold of the closest thing to hand. A kitchen knife. She … stabbed him to death. And then … Mum used the same knife to kill herself. I tried to stop it all, but I couldn’t. I was scared. I wasn’t strong enough. I still feel it’s all my fault.’