Literature

Broadland Street
The Key
The Perfect Christmas
In One Brief Moment
Platform 15
Mrs Sanderson
The Release

'Platform 15'

He was a nowhere man, a snivelling piece of excrement, a no-good, low-down bum and a fagot to boot. He walked the sidewalks from dawn to dusk, played the traffic and silently mingled with London's finest. Turning right, he followed the shadow towards the lonely subway, it was Friday night, late and the cold, dankness ate into the madman of the moon. The city gent, in contrast, was austere, full-of-face, if you know what I mean. I mean shit, he was a pompous arse, of rich blood, with loaded pronouns and ragged character; one could not fault his breeding. He was in his early fifties with pallid colour, chilled and sour at the prospect of another twenty minute wait; a passing stranger would never be ignored.
"Excuse me".
The figure stopped, but the nowhere man did not answer. It was not his place to feed the worthy.
"Say, are you deaf? I said, are you deaf?".
The bum shuffled off along the track-side, oblivious to any well-meaning rapport. There was a loud screeching and hissing of brakes. With this the midnight truck pulled in early. Mr posh stepped aboard. He moved to the first carriage, wiped the seat and sat lightly down; piles hurt like hell and the poker-like pain stabbed right through his buttocks. He couldn't make out the wreck of a stranger anymore, no-one was in sight, there were no other passengers only the glowing neon warning signs that hummed, begging to be read.
The train moved off, gently at first, then it fell into the familiar, un-fluid, jerking motion that always forced him into a lucid sleep. Time ticked by, stations passed, night bore on and he rolled open an eye for a brief moment. The guy was back, the weirdo from earlier, Mr deaf himself. He was hunched up into his seat, coat done right up, hat pulled low on his brow and it looked like he was bleeding. A long red streak sank its way down into his collar, welling up over his stained shirt. The corporate mind thought he would try again.
"Say, I fell asleep, have we passed Armatidge yet?".
This time the old fellow heard and turned his head sideways. A coarse voice struck out.
"You're not late".
"How do you know?" the city man exclaimed with admiration at this seemingly impossible talent.
"I know, because I follow you".
"You what? You follow me?".
"Every night".
"I didn't see you last night".
"I was here, as always".
"I didn't see you!".
"I was here".
"Are you going to Armatidge?".
"No!".
The train was heating up now, there didn't seem to be as much air, it was stuffy, humid even and the well-heeled man felt tied.
"I say, I think you are bleeding!". The old man didn't answer and the monotonous drone drove the turgid passenger back into his welcoming sleep.
"Last stop, Platform 15". He woke with a start. Platform 15? was that near Armatidge? - had he missed his stop. God it was hot, darkness had stolen every last splinter of light and he felt a twinge of anxiety. The waster had vanished again, probably for the best though, he stank and didn't make for pleasant conversation. Mr smart stood up. How had he never noticed anyone of that repute following him night after night? He walked laboriously to the carriage door. They were still moving, although the train was obviously slowing now. He was here every night? The regular juddering eased and gave way to a screaming blast, the doors opened and confusingly, the blue-collar worker stepped out onto the platform. It was cooler, but the light hit him hard, blinding in its intensity. Through the illumination he could just make out the station seating. There was our friend, the nowhere man once more, sitting next to a brazen, semi-naked lady and two children. Above their heads was the platform name, 15.
"Hello" said the smallest child.
"Hi, say where are we".
The other kid giggled and cuddled his Mother. The wino turned towards him.
"Wherever you want to be!".
"Armatidge?".
"Armatidge, sure buddy, you can be at Armatidge".
Puzzlement - now the bum was mocking him. He swung round as he felt the soft caress, into the arms of a honey, so sweet and warm, she melted any challenging concerns. The dame did not speak, but that wasn't necessary, not anymore. He pressed against her lips, so delicately moist. How satisfying that his long evening should end like this, how dreamingly, marvellous; he was a lucky son-of-a-gun. As the mellow crescendo hammered into his soul, words, lifted high on the air by the early morning breeze, scorned one last time. They were the ramblings of a wizened protagonist, a madman in the flailing moon. "Armatidge, boy, you sure are dumb!".

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