The Crazies
An OtherWhere story
By Garry Grierson
Copyright 2011 Garry Grierson
John Bedford stopped his car at the far end of the busy station parking area. He locked the door and turned to look at the wasteland which bordered the station grounds. A neglected tangle of overgrown shrubbery and wild-grass, it was separated only by an unkempt hedge and a rusty old gate. He stared into the wasteland and waved at the man who wasn’t there. The man who wasn’t there smiled as he waved back.
The station was old and, like so many others, had recently been automated. John walked to the end of the cracked concrete platform and stood in the same spot as he always did and gazed around the station. It had been allowed to crumble. “People have no pride in the past anymore,” he whispered to the wind.
The train screeched its way into the station, as he glanced at his watch. The train had arrived on time today. A small smile crept over his lips. His changes appeared to be kicking in.
The last carriage door slid open as he approached and stepped over the gap between the platform and the train. A blur of movement caught the corner of his eye, and drew his gaze down to the old track. A scurry of motion disappeared between the rails and grimy platform wall before he could identify any shape.
“Probably just pigeons,” he said, hoping it wasn’t rats or mice, which could be more problematic.
The door closed with a loud clunk as he boarded the train. The carriage was empty apart from a man reading a newspaper and a teenager sleeping across two chairs.
He stepped inside to take his usual place at the end of the carriage.
The train shook as it trundled forward, smoothing out as it picked up speed. John settled into the seat, ready to stare out the grubby window as the world rushed past. He pulled his organiser from his pocket and switched it on. It beeped out Beethoven’s Fifth, as it flashed today appointments at him, another security meeting at ten, then lunch with the area-manager at twelve…
“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?” said a voice over his shoulder.
John looked around. A small, thin woman stood in the walkway. She looked to be in her early thirties and attractive in a ‘college librarian’ way. Her clothes were neat but the floral dress and herring-bone coat were several years out of fashion.
She pointed to the empty seat beside him, occupied by his briefcase. He looked round the carriage. There were many other free seats. A thin smile spread over his dry lips.
“No,” he said, and moved the case onto his knees, wondering if his library books were overdue.
The woman sat down and pulled a bundle of crumpled papers from her large handbag. The bag was made of brown leather and appeared full of papers. It looked old, possibly even antique. The woman thumbed back and forth through the papers, mumbling.
A smile broke over her thin makeup-free face as she stabbed her finger at one of the pages.
“Gotcha,” she shouted. “I’m Mary, by the way,” she said in a more moderated voice, looking him full in the face.
John shifted in his seat. “John,” he replied, and smiled.
“Course you are.” She winked. “Must think I’m a crazy or something John? Well, Mary the crazy bag lady is very pleased to meetcha, John.”
Mary stretched over him to look out the window, seemingly unaware or uncaring of her chest brushing against his arm. His heart beat faster as he drew his briefcase closer to his chest. His face was hot and clammy. A large dry lump clogged his throat. His head touched against her shoulder as she lent further forwards, breathing in her perfume. She smelt of wildflowers and books.
“Nasty little nothing, scurrying all over the place. Did you see it when you got on?” Mary asked.
He looked at her, shaken by her voice. He hadn’t been this close to a woman for some time. Her long mousey brown hair dangled in unwieldy strands, resting on his shoulder. He swallowed hard, thinking it a shame she’s probably quite mad.
The dry lump in his throat bobbed around. “Sorry?” was all that escaped from his dry lips.
“Oh, you may very well be sorry, John. But that doesn’t really answer my question now, does it?”
Her chest brushed against his forearm again as she moved away from the window, only this time she noticed and looked down. Her mouth hung open as she gawped at him, wide-eyed.
Her face reddened as she grabbed her bag and stuffed the papers in. She stood up, straightened her clothes, and began to walk down the aisle without saying a word.
She only looked back as she gripped the carriage door handle. Her knuckles whitened round the handle as her lips twitched.
“See ya later then, John,” she said, as the door slid open.
John settled down in his seat. “Just some loony on the train,” he whispered to himself, as he closed his eyes. The smell of her perfume still lingered in the air.
John was a creature of habit, of routine. As his mother always said ‘A routine keeps things in order’, without order there is no control and without control things can run wild.
His thoughts turned to the rusty old gate. It lay half-buried in the large hedge separating the disordered wasteland from the neat parking zone and was the only entrance. The wasteland looked innocuous enough at first sight, but it was out of control. Small dust eddies blew between the unkempt clumps of tangled grass and weeds. The unruly tendrils from the thick hedge swayed in the morning breeze. A faint whistle of wind could be heard rushing through the twisted metal of the burnt-out car.
Any casual passer-by could see behind the hedge with a simple glance, but John often wondered what’s behind the hedge, over a wall, or behind a closed door before people looked. He listened for the rustlings of hidden things, for the unseen cause of the clanging on the gate, for the source of the whispering wind through the burnt-out car on a calm day. He longed for a glimpse of the magical land that he had once seen, so long ago, to talk to the man who wasn’t there again, just one last time.
The train shuddered and screeched as it pulled into the next platform, shaking him from his thoughts. The sound of voices drifted over him as more people entered the carriage.
The commuters settled down as the shrill sound of the guard’s whistle filled his ears and the train began to move. He glanced out the window and saw a lone figure standing on the platform. Mary waved at him, a large smile lit up her small face.
John still held his case close to his chest, shielding himself. As he put the case down he noticed a small piece of neatly-folded paper stuck in the vacated seat.
He plucked the paper from the crease and read the type-written text. ‘What fills the spaces in the places you can’t see? Ever wonder what’s around the next corner before you get there? What’s over that hedge or behind the wall? Be careful, don’t wonder too hard. That's what the Crazies did.’
A hand written message was scrolled underneath the type, this read ‘I’m talking to you John Bedford. I’m smiling.’ The signature read ‘Marmalade.’
John put the paper down, staring at the name. He never told her his full name. The though of the crazy bag lady being a stalker brought a shiver to his spine. His head throbbed as clammy sweat covered his skin. “Why would anybody want to stalk me?”
His eyes felt heavy as the train rumbled on. He let the motion rock him to a shallow sleep.