“You,” she called.
“You,” she called again at the distant pale green bundle below.
“You,” she shouted.
Nobody heard Mary.
Nobody saw Mary.
Mary saw Martin John.
Him. She told herself. Him. Again. She knew he’d come again. She’d warned him that time he’d grabbed her hand if he ever did it again she’d cut it off him. But he’d come back often and they’d talked about the Bible and she felt he was making progress.
The train standing at Platform 5 is the delayed…
The train standing at Platform 9 is the train for Crewe. Always keep your luggage to yourself. Unattended baggage will be removed and destroyed.
Trains are backing up. Mary does not like the train at platform is the delayed… People drift. Stop to look. Cops cop on. A white man with a skinny, misshapen head is moving into position with his loudhailer. Some white men have the weirdest heads, thinks Mary watching him.
“Please move away from the area,” Head intones. The more he please move aways, the more people come closer and escape around him, determined to get into the train, determined that the train will depart because they have somewhere to go, no matter there’s a man wedged underneath it.
“What happened?”
“How’d he get down there?”
“Did he jump? He must have jumped.”
“Did he go out the wrong door?”
“Probably a pissed-off train driver.”
“What happened?”
“Is he pissed?
“No, he’s mad.”
“He’s not mad. He’s lonely.”
“Crap. He’s not lonely. He’s mad.”
“Everyone’s mad these days.”
“Some are madder than others.”
“What’s going on?”
“Oh my God!” A woman says. “Look, his gown is open. Eww. His bum. That’s disgusting.”
“Cover him up.”
“They should cover him up, that’s not right.”
This shifts a few people away. A third woman paddles off stating to no one in particular that this has got to stop. Whatever is up with these people has got to be stopped and Irish bombers cause it all. She’s going to stop it. At the word terrorist, the other two women abruptly depart.
“I know him,” Mary says.
“Who is he?”
“Just a guy. Hangs around inside where I work. He’s harmless.”
A policeman loudhails in her right ear.
MOVE PLEASE. EVERYONE MOVE. WE NEED YOU TO CLEAR THE AREA.
“I work here,” says Mary. “I’m not moving. I know him.”
She knows him, the passengers endorse.
“I know how to get him up. I can get him up. He’ll listen to me.”
No one accepts that Mary can levitate Martin John the way no one accepted Jesus could heal the sick. No one accepts the Lord because they have not found the Lord. Mary has. Mary knows. Mary, wearing her apron, will galvanize this crowd of lugs to repentance. It’s bigger than a prayer meeting. Any prayer meeting. Anywhere. Ever. Jesus has called her at Euston.
Utters a curse does Mary. Acts like she intends to move back and comply. Retreats to the giant parked bin. Mary has had enough. They are in her way and her train home is threatened. For each time she has not been seen, for every rude and disgraceful customer, for every extra minute spent not being compensated, for every evaluation endured by that annoying supervisor and for the hundreds of times she has struggled with this intractable, smelly bin — Mary has had it.
She observes the backs of the police muttering, mithering and moving matters no place. She pushes past them with the rubbish bin ahead of her.
HEY!
STOP!
Mary protests, while pushing deftly on, that she works in the station and is just doing her job.
Mary walks steadily. She lifts the handles of this impossible wheeled skip up above her shoulders. She about-turns the contraption, checks left and right for people in her path and parks the bin near the top of Platform 4, where the reformed croissant perv is crunched below on the rails opposite. For now there is no train between them. Down she kneels by the platform edge, camouflaged by the giant bin.
“You!” she says. “It’s me Mary. Mary from inside.”
He bunches his body up further.
A slight roll away from her, he folds his arm in and puts his hand between his legs.
“You know. Me from the bakery.”
She has some idea about negotiation. She heard an interview on the radio with Terry Waite seven years ago. “Cast off Satan and get up here now,” she whispers. The bundle moves. He may be moving. Is he going to look at her? This has prospects if she’s rapid.
“Look, whatever sin took you down there, let it bring you right back up! Come on. Rise!”
Rise curls him up noticeably tighter. He pulls his knees up. Stay calm, thinks Mary. Let him know there’s help.
“Talking can help. At least talk to me…”
Alleviate hopelessness, thinks Mary.
“Everyone feels like shit. It’s Monday. It’s pissing rain. We’re all miserable. Come back up and be miserable.” He has not spoken. But he also has not moved. This is better.
“Fasting can help. I’ve been fasting. Devil gets nervous when you’re fasting. He can’t reach you if you’re not full of food…. ‘And Jesus asked… what is thy name? And he said Legion: because many devils were entered into him.’ Luke, 8:30, remember?”
“We’re all sinners. Devil’s on the loose. You’re just the biggest sinner right now in this station. But in five minutes there’ll be another sinner. It’s what he does. He hops, he spreads, he congeals. So release him. Bust him out! Let others take the burden. Do not hold him in. Share!”
Behind her, the wheels of an arriving train make tightening, ever tightening, whuh whuh vrrrar va-vrrar sounds. Sounds that close in on her, metal-on-metal registering in the roots of her teeth, a screech that forces her to raise her voice. Passengers will descend. Passengers will see her down here. Passengers could sink her progress.
“You think you’ve gone too far, right? You think it’s all impossible. But you haven’t gone far enough. That’s the problem.”
At this, his body, unfortunately, shifts to join his bunched-up legs. He’s gone. Completely obscured under the train. Damn. She can’t see him. Damn. They’ll blame her. Damn. Damn. Damn. Behind her, train doors open. Passengers descend. Passengers are looking at her queer, down on her knees pleading with the bottom stripe of paint on the train opposite. The sudden spread of passengers conceals her though, offering vital negotiation time. Police are flooded: she can hear them diverting, directing, declaring.
“Don’t make me come down there.”
“DUE TO AN UNFORESEEN INCIDENT WE ARE EXPERIENCING DELAYS. UPDATES WILL BE POSTED ON THE BOARD.”
“That’s it. Up here now or I am coming down to get you up.”
“DUE TO AN UNFORESEEN INCIDENT WE ARE EXPERIENCING DELAYS. UPDATES WILL BE POSTED ON THE BOARD.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Get up here now.”
“DUE TO AN UNFORESEEN INCIDENT WE ARE EXPERIENCING DELAYS. UPDATES WILL BE POSTED ON THE BOARD.”
If I miss my fucking train because of him… she thinks. The combination of fury and hunger push Mary further to the platform edge, but she cannot see a thread of him. Down she lies to squint. Where is he? The concrete presses on her breastbone and squashes her mammaries. If she could just see how far under the train he has gone. Maybe poke him decisively. Grab him by the arm. Then he’d move. She’s getting ideas. The Lord is giving them to her. She’s never been this motivated to deliver salvation unto another before. He needs disturbing. She can disturb him. She has mere seconds before they rumble her. Mary slides down the wall a little bit, the way you might dip your foot undecided into a swimming pool then retrieve it. Part way down, she changes her mind and tries to tricep back up, but her hand slips, which lurches her forward, feet stutter-shock onto the strange pick-axed-apart-looking stones. A left-inclined tumble to crunch, ouch, fuck as she planks onto the side of her left hip, elbow smacking off a rail. Ow! What in the shitting hell of mercy is she doing down here? This was a very bad idea. How’s she going to get back up? No way she’s going over there. She immediately strikes to clamber back up onto the platform, but her too-tight pencil skirt impedes her. Left knee scrapes ugly against the wall. Very pissed off, she turns, squats, to emit a final yell.