As soon as I devour the last syllable, I tear the sheet in half and drop it, watching as it floats to the floor, one sheet swaying left into the platform’s shadows, the other to the right and towards the track.
“Why?” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose and shaking my head as tears swell in both eyes. “Why tell me this? Why leave me with nothing but more questions?”
I stand up and step away from my seat, but immediately sit down again, blood coursing through my body. Nothing but mystery to add to a box already full of it. Half-truths, with the hope of what? Sympathy? Help? Understanding?
How can I help you, B, when I don’t even know you? Still no apology. Still no acceptance that you’ve destroyed me, altered me and left me alone in the rubble. You chose to leave, fine; one day I’ll get over it and forget you because that’s what we do. But why write me and cling on to me, and keep me on your string? You chose to let me go, so why won’t you fucking let me go?
And written from this train station, my train station. This isn’t yours, B. You’ve taken everything else, so the least you can do is leave me this cold, reverberant hell hole. You can’t have it. It’s mine. It’s where I come to read you and hate you, not wonder if you’re sitting on a bench like this one, or sat on this exact one yesterday…or the day before…or sometime last week.
I close my eyes and stand up, lost in this blustery station with its consuming white noise. I feel each crackle and pop of distortion as I bubble with pain and utter desperation.
“Excuse me,” says a voice to my right.
It isn’t there. It isn’t real. I’m alone. I have to be. I can’t be around others, not now.
“Excuse me, son,” says the voice again, coarse and husky. “Are you okay?”
I open my eyes, the light bright and my head dizzy.
“Come on, let’s grab you a seat,” says the man, guiding me down into the mesh-mettled bench.
“I’m fine,” I say, not looking at him. Not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to look at anyone.
“That you should be. Young lad like you. It’s old men like me who need help into chairs, not the other way round.”
I shrug. I want to be alone, curled up in a corner with my guitar in hand, away from the world and its unrelenting pressure. Yet I want to be held and touched, comforted by someone I love, but who’s left? My mother, a woman I haven’t hugged in what seems like years? My father, a man I haven’t spoken to in weeks? Joey, who needs comfort far more than me? Who else? For years, I’ve placed all my eggs in B’s basket, forgetting about other people, other circles and other possibilities.
“I don’t mean to pry, son, but when I see a young lad like you stand up, mutter to himself, and tear a piece of paper in half, I feel obliged to offer a helping hand. We’ve all been there.”
I choke a laugh, gritting my teeth as I do.
“A girl, I presume?”
I bite my lip and clench my eyes shut.
“Oh, yes,” says the man, his face still a mystery. “Only women have that sort of power. I know they say we can’t live without them, but we spend most of our lives doubting this.”
Arching my chin, I face the track, the wind’s icy chill biting my nose and cheeks. “Yeah,” I sigh.
“I’ve been married to my Sheila for thirty-five years next time around, and there isn’t a day goes by I don’t bite my bleeding lip.”
I twist and look at him, catching his face for the first time. His grey, fluffy hair recedes around his forehead, and his blue eyes hide behind wrinkled cheeks.
“Still, compared to the rest…” he trails off, laughing and showcasing his white teeth stained through a lifetime of living. “Now, I presume for you it isn’t a wife we’re talking about?”
“No,” I sigh, shaking my head again, trying to rid the last five minutes from it. “Spent a long time thinking she would be, though,” I mutter.
“Well, that’s the problem right there, you see. They make us believe they’re the romantic ones, with their rom-coms and Valentines and wedding day fantasies, but it’s us poor souls who get carried away and fall head over heels in love with them. If there’s one thing guaranteed to force a guy into making a stupid decision, it’s spending time with a girl he loves.
“We can’t handle it. We’re not good at multitasking, you see. We can’t both love and make rational decisions at the same time. It’s one or the other, I’m afraid, and unfortunately for us, it’s usually the former.”
I choke a laugh, following his aged neck down to his blue pinstriped shirt that peeks from under a battered beige fleece top. “Sounds like you’ve done okay.”
“Why? Because I’ve been married to my Sheila for nearly thirty-five years?”
I nod.
“I’m an old man, son. I didn’t meet her until I was nearly thirty-five. I went through a lot of collateral damage before she came along.”
“So, there’s hope yet then?” I say, sinking back into the metal bench.
“Sure,” he says. “So long as you accept a life of biting your lip and questioning your sanity.” He keeps his gaze on mine for a second, a straight-laced face that can’t hide his cheeky grin. “I’m kidding. Kind of. Love’s hard. There’s never a period where it’s easy, just like having kids isn’t. But all the same, I couldn’t imagine a life without it.”
“I think I can,” I say, pushing my hands into my pockets. “I think it’s safe to say I’m retired.”
Laughing, he slaps his thighs. “That’s a good one. I think I retired ten times before I hit twenty-three.” He straightens his back and brushes down his blue corduroy pants. “You going to tell an old man what happened?”
“Long story.”
“Didn’t you hear? Old men love long stories.”
“I doubt anyone could love this story.”
“I doubt you can tell me anything I haven’t gone through myself.”
I choke another laugh.
“We have a doubter, I see.”
“Let’s say I hope you haven’t gone through what I have.”
He smiles, enticing me into more.
“Look, it’s been an awful few months. That’s all. B and I were together for a long time, she did some dreadful things, and now I’m trying to get on with life.”
“But you don’t know what life’s about anymore, right?”
“Exactly.”
“And the letter? From her, I take it?”
I nod.
“Always the worst, when they refuse to let go. I’ve been on both sides of the fence in my time. I’m not proud of stringing certain lasses along, especially knowing how painful it is when you’re kept on their leash. Either way, it doesn’t tend to end well for anyone.”
“Do you ever escape it?”
“The leash? That’s for you to decide,” he says, his cheeky smile on show once more. “The thing is, you can choose to blame them, or yourself, or someone else forever, but it doesn’t fix anything. At some point you have to forgive, because until you do, it’s impossible to forget.”
“Are some things not unforgivable?”
“Sure. But is anything worth imprisoning yourself over?”
“Maybe. If it protects you from it happening again.”
“Prison doesn’t protect you, son. It imprisons you. That’s it. That’s all.”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Look, I don’t know what she did, but I can imagine it hurts like hell. I once fell in love with a girl named Bethany, by far the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. On the outside, that is. On the inside, it was never right. But, boy, I loved her, and for two years I thought we were happy. We got engaged and everything. I looked after her, because that’s what we did back in those days. I was ready to dedicate my life to her, and then one afternoon I came home from work and caught her in bed with my friend Jimmy.
“I may not look like much these days, but back then I had a reputation. I used to box and play rugby, so Jimmy didn’t walk for a while afterwards. But as much as I batt
ered him, she battered me worse, and for a long time I didn’t think I’d find anyone else. I didn’t want to. I mean, if you can’t trust the girl you love, and one of your best friends, who can you trust?”
“How did you?”
“Move on? I suppose I didn’t. Not consciously, anyway. I just kept getting up each morning, going to work, and one day it no longer hurt. I remember seeing Jimmy a year later, and didn’t feel much. I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to say anything to him. I saw her a few years later, too, with another guy. I smiled at her and walked away, because she no longer had any power over me. So long as they have that power, you hurt. You cling to it. You blame it for all the bad things in your life, but what’s the point in blaming? It’s up to you to live and make something of yourself.”
“So you forgave her?”
“I suppose so. It’s not like I intended to or decided to, but time’s a great healer. And when you least suspect it, life tends to introduce you to a maze of opportunity.
“Take my Sheila, for instance. I didn’t meet her for another decade, and to say I fell in and out of love in the meantime is a damn understatement. Sometimes I was the one who caused the pain, and sometimes it was them. It hurts either way, but one thing I learnt is it’s better to love than to sit at home alone, even if it’s short lived. Life is so static and slow without love, but flies past in a colourful blur of chaos with it. Take it from an old man, you don’t want a black and white existence, son. You need colour. You need chaos. You need love.”
I look at my shoes and consider how slowly life’s ticked by recently. Compared to the fast-paced existence of school and university, this year feels more like a lifetime than a few hundred days.
“It isn’t as easy as that,” I say. “You can’t just decide to forgive and forget, can you?”
“Of course you can. This is your life, son. It isn’t easy, but nothing about anything ever will be. When you find your own Sheila, it won’t be easy. The journey you take until you find her won’t be easy either. But so long as you make sure it’s colourful and chaotic, who cares?”
I take a deep breath, but he cuts me off.
“Look, I remember how I felt during those low times when I was a young lad like you. I remember what it was like, waking up, going to work, going through the motions. You don’t realise how many precious seconds you waste. When you get to my age, you appreciate time’s value. You also appreciate what’s worthwhile, and what isn’t.
“I was an angry kid. I was an angry young man. I got into fights, I made trouble. I spent far too much time hating people, but those who know me today would never guess it. Sheila finds it difficult to hear my old stories, because she can’t comprehend how I used to be like that.” His face softens, the cheeky smile no more. “You don’t get your time back. Hate is such a pointless emotion, and it brings no respite whatsoever. Just more hate. More pain. More slow, tedious, boring moments you never get to re-do.
“Now, I don’t know what this B girl did to you, and I’m not saying she deserves forgiveness, in my experience, they rarely do. But this isn’t about her life. It’s about yours. The longer you hold on to her, and hate her, and cling to the pain and sadness and longing, the more time she steals from you.
“Let her write those letters. Let her be the one who refuses to let go. Read them, burn them, throw them away, it doesn’t matter. Take control of your life and choose to live it. This city’s a playground for a young lad like you, and I don’t mean to sound like some old cliche, but you have your entire life ahead of you.”
In an instant, I’m cold. “What if I don’t know how to let go? What if I’m not ready to?” I whisper, my upper lip quivering.
“Do you want her back?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t. Not after everything she did.”
“Then you’re ready. It’s never easy to let go of someone you love, but let me ask you this, has the last few months been easy? Has hating her made you feel any better? Has it helped you move on?”
“No,” I whisper.
“It never will. I speak from experience, son. I’m a foolish old man who took far too long to figure life out. Thankfully, I did in time to meet my Sheila, and more importantly, allow myself to appreciate her; to fall in love, not just with her, but our life together. She drives me bat-shit crazy, but I wouldn’t re-do a second of it.”
A slow and growing rumble rattles down the tracks, clunks turning to clashes, which finally transform into squeaks. A large carriage skids to a stop in front of us, matted in dirt, dust and grime.
“Are you waiting for this train?” he asks.
“No. I don’t have a train to catch.”
He nods, leaning forward and struggling to his feet. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, smiling. “I know it’s hard to see life’s magic when you’re stuck in its mud, but it’s there. It’s always there. Do your best to keep your eyes open and forgive. With forgiveness, you forget, and when you forget, you eventually move forward.”
He brushes down his beige fleece and walks towards the track as a group of strangers descend on the platform.
“Thank you,” I say, but he continues without looking back.
As he steps onto the train, a few other bodies join him, but within seconds I’m alone on the platform again with only the whistling wind and icy chill; the ding-dong announcements and echoed conversations from nearby platforms; the squeaks and thunders of shoes on concrete; and the rumble of a train engine, a train that houses a man whose name I don’t know but whose life story I do.
A few feet in front of me rests a piece of paper, and on it are words from a girl I once loved.
DECEMBER 13th - JOEY’S PLACE:
Jerry Douglas plays over the speakers, his festive-esque tones mixing with the twinkling lights on our fake Christmas tree. Joey refuses to play mainstream Christmas music at any time, in any place, under any circumstance. Each song goes through a strict process of validation, with the hint of a Christmas number one thrust into the cold night.
Each year I shake my head as I discover the money he turns down for DJ gigs and party sets.
“It doesn’t matter what the venue is, or how cool the people who go are - once you get past December 10th, people lose their minds,” he said a few days ago, his friend John confused as to why he would turn down over a thousand pounds. “After a certain point in the night, people request Cliff Richard and shit like that. The venue owners want it, too, because people drink more, buy more, and lose more of their goddamn minds.”
It’s hard to argue with his reasoning, especially considering I hate the majority of Christmas songs too.
“I can’t wait until tomorrow night,” Joey says, sitting beside me with a bottle of beer in hand. “You sure you’re okay to play?”
“As far as I know I haven’t forgotten how to play the bass.”
“You sure about that?” he says, pushing his bottle into my arm. “You were never that good to begin with.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep. I foresee you failing on epic levels.”
“That’s one way to build my self-esteem. Good job.”
Laughing, he wraps his ape-like hand around my thigh. “You know I love you. I’m serious though, I can’t wait for this gig. I never want to go so long without playing alongside you again.”
“Oh, stop, you’ll make me blush.”
“I’m serious. Playing without you sucked. That Dean kid was plain awful.”
“Dean’s an amazing bassist.”
“The hell he is,” he says, slurring his words. “He doesn’t hold a patch on Ausdylan Elvis Ashford.”
“Cheers to that,” I say, raising my bottle and taking a sip.
It’s strange to consider normality becoming normal once again, but each day seems to bring it closer. My chance encounter on platform 10B opened my eyes, and I wish I could thank the old man with the cheeky smile. I at least wish I knew his name, for his words
did help. Although I’m not sure I’ll ever get over B or forget about this period in my life. How could I?
I loved her for so long and built so much of my hopes and dreams around a life we would spend together. She gave me a son before taking him away, and I still dream about him. Just a few nights ago, I woke up on this very couch, sweating, panting and shivering all over. I held him and kissed him, but I can’t remember what he looks like.
I hate thinking about him, and it’s him I fear I’ll be unable to let go of. Maybe time will heal my wounds and help me forget about B, but for a short period I was a father. How can you forget that? How can you let go? Why would I want to?
An innate part of me, one I sense I’ll never have control over, loves him and wishes to see him…needs to hold him. Yet I fear I’ll never be able to let go of his conception, and how he’s borne of lies and deceit. I’d gaze at him with love and longing, but part of me would hate him. I’d blame him.
I don’t know what happened with her father, or if it’s even true. Whether it is or isn’t, I’d hate to make an innocent little boy feel anything other than perfect. I couldn’t stand becoming that man, but how could I not if every time I saw him, I saw her…her dishonesty…the fact that whatever happens with the rest of my life, she put me through this pain.
She gave me a son, forced me to fall in love with him and need him, and all the while knew one day she’d take him away from me; she knew he was never mine to begin with.
“I shouldn’t get drunk tonight,” says Joey. “I have a busy morning tomorrow.”
“Don’t get drunk then.”
“But there are beers in the fridge with our names on them.”
“There are about thirty beers in there. We can’t drink them all.”
“Yes, we can.”
“We can finish them tomorrow night.”
“Nope. They have a best-before date.”
“Yeah, in like three years’ time.”
“That is your opinion. In my opinion, they go bad as soon as we give into sleep tonight.”
I laugh, still a strange sensation that feels foreign in my throat.
“Anyway, I can’t drink tomorrow night,” he continues. “I have a date.”
“Oh, yeah? Who with?”
“None of your business.”
“None of my business?” I say, placing my bottle between my legs. “Since when do you hide your love life from me? Even when I beg you not to, you share.”
“I’m a changed man.”
“Since when?”
“Since this beer,” he says, grinning at his empty bottle. “Speaking of which, I need another one.” He stumbles towards the kitchen. “What’s that?” he continues, pointing towards the door.
“I don’t know.”
“It looks like an envelope.”
“Really? By a door? How shocking.”
“Well, don’t you think it’s a tad late for them to do a mail drop?”
Shrugging, I rest my head on the pillow and stare out of the window. Leeds blinks below, twinkling lights fluttering in the wind. Darkness hides so much of its features, but it’s a city I know at street level.
“Aus?” says Joey, his voice softer and quieter now.
“Yeah?”
“I think you should take a look at this,” he says, walking towards me.
I focus on his hands and the envelope he holds. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not reading any more of her fucking letters. No way. Throw it away.”
He smiles, sitting on the arm of the couch. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. I’m not doing it anymore. She just writes them to feel better about herself, but what’s the point? She doesn’t apologise. She doesn’t explain anything. In two weeks’ time it’ll be a new year, and with it, a new life.” I glance at the letter again, her handwriting no longer as lovely.
“I’m proud of you, brother,” he says, rising to his feet and walking back into the kitchen. “And to mark this occasion, let’s burn the damn thing and open a new bottle of the good stuff. What do you say?”
“Fine by me.”
Slamming the letter on the granite counter, he sparks the oven to life. “Hold on a second,” he says, picking it back up. “There’s no stamp.”
“I don’t care. Burn it.”
“But there’s no stamp.”
“So what, Joe. I don’t care. I’m not reading another one of her pointless letters. End of story.”
“But if there’s no stamp, that means she was here. And recently. There was no letter on the floor when I came in an hour ago.”
My shoulders and neck immediately tense, like they have so often in recent months. The thought of her puts my body on edge, another unrelenting barrage of pain, questions and never-ending wonderment. “It doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “I don’t care. Besides, she could have had someone else drop it off.”
“Like who? She’s a ghost. Nobody’s seen her for months.”
I shrug, curling my knees up on the couch and wrapping my arms around them.
“And look at this,” he says, bringing the letter back to me. “The handwriting’s all smudged.”
“Wonderful.”
“Teardrops. She was crying when she wrote this.”
“Could be rain.”
“It isn’t raining.”
“So? What are you getting at, Joe? Who cares if she was crying? You’re the one who said I shouldn’t read or reply to these letters in the first place, so what’s changed your tune?”
“Nothing,” he sighs. “But she wouldn’t just come here. I know she’s the devil, but what if she’s in trouble? I think…maybe you should read it.”
“Are you kidding me?” I yell, pushing my fingers into my forehead. “You, of all people, want me to read it? She’s crazy, Joe. There’s always going to be another letter, don’t you see? All she’ll do is play the victim and make us feel sorry for her, because she can’t stand the idea that we hate her, that I no longer love her, that I’ve let go of her. She won’t explain anything or apologise. She’ll just keep me on her leash for as long as I let her, and I’m fed up. I’m done. I refuse to be her puppet any longer.”
“I know,” he says, perching next to me. “I know. You’re right. I know you’re right, but—“
“But nothing.”
“But what if something’s wrong? Even after everything she’s done, she remains…look, I don’t know. I just couldn’t live with myself if she was in trouble.”
“Then you read it,” I say, running my hand through my knotted hair.
He unbuttons his top button and loosens his tie. “Maybe I should.”
“You’re unbelievable…” I mumble.
“Look,” he says, grasping my arm. “A pregnant girl out in the cold like this. Nowhere to turn…” he trails off. “I couldn’t live with myself, and I know you. I know you. You’d never forgive yourself, either.”
“Fuck,” I yell, clenching my bottle tight. “When does this end? Every time I think things might be getting back to normal, another one of these damn letters arrive. At some point we have to let go.”
“I know. You’re right, and everything you’re saying…I get it. But something about this doesn’t seem right. I’ll read it on my own, and if it’s nothing but the usual crap, I’ll burn it.”
“And what if it isn’t okay? What if something is wrong?”
“We’ll deal with it. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together.”
I say nothing, clinging to the music and the gentle strumming of Eric Clapton.
“Okay…just watch TV or something,” he says, sitting on one of the kitchen stools surrounding the granite countertop.
Hands shaking, I push my bottle to my lips, relishing the alcohol’s taste as it trickles down my throat. I stare into the distance, out of the window and at Leeds’ darkening sky. I focus on nothing in particular, whatever is in front of me, a blur, as my mind thrusts from side to side.
I consider the platform and
its icy chill, and the wise man with his wise words who encouraged me to forgive, because where there’s forgiveness there’s an opportunity to forget. I want so much to forget her and everything she brought with her. I know there were good times, but I don’t want them anymore. I wish to erase her completely: the good, the bad, and the in-between.
I can’t cling to the good times because they’re tainted with lies and deception. I never knew her, and I don’t want to know her. I spent years dedicating myself to her in a bid to understand her, all of her. A new year rests on the horizon, and with it, a new life with a new job, new dreams and new unknowns. Eventually, a new girl. A real life. Love, the kind of love my parents have, because I refuse to let her steal that from me.
Fatherhood, because like she said herself, I will be a good father. Not to him. Not now. But one day. To someone. Alongside someone special and someone who isn’t B. Whatever exists on that piece of paper doesn’t change that.
I’m over her. I have to be over her. I’m ready to be over her.
Taking a deep breath, I twist to face Joey, noticing his tears in an instant. Sparkling under the lights, his cheeks glisten. Pale and white, he’s fixated on the page.
“Joey,” I say.
Glancing to me, he closes his eyes and wipes his face.
“Joey.”
“I’m sorry, brother.”
“What is it? Is the baby okay?”
He says nothing, walking away from the counter to the huge room window. “I’m sorry, Aus,” he whispers. “You have to read this for yourself.”
“What is it?” I say, standing up and striding towards him. “Joey, what’s happened?”
He doesn’t look at me, instead bowing his head. “I’m sorry. I need to grab some air.”
Slumping off, he heads to the door and leaves without his jacket. I’m frozen, glancing between the door and the letter that rests neatly on the countertop. I edge closer to it, cautious and wary, because I don’t know what to expect. I’m over her. I have to be over her. I’m ready to be over her, but…