Lost Property - Part 1

LOST PROPERTY - Part 1

11:05

On a wet Tuesday afternoon at Manchester Piccadilly railway station, a medium-height, stockily built man walks quickly through the station’s main front doors, hurriedly approaching the station concourse towards the platform gates. His heavy rucksack, loosely fitting on his back, bounces up and down on his sweating body as he picks up the pace and then into a light jog, weaving between people on mobile phones, eating fast food or just on the move to their own destinations. The station is busy today.

Finally, he arrives at platform 3 unaware that the 11:15 to London Euston has changed platforms. In his haste to catch the platform, he didn’t pay attention to the status of his train and the platform change on the station’s electronic board.


11:07

A smartly dressed employee at the platform 3 gate informs him about the change of platform. His train will now be leaving from platform 7. Frustrated, under his breath, he spits out a terse “thanks” to the girl. He turns around and makes his way to platform 7.

The entrance to platform 7 is crowded. With less than 10 minutes to go before the train leaves, the man starts wrestling in his pockets, searching for his mobile phone that contains his electronic ticket. Finally, he has the phone in his right hand. Frantically, with his thumb, he slides it up and down the screen looking for the app that contains his ticket. Finding the ticket he places the phone face down on a small glass plate so that a red laser beam can read the square, cryptic image that will allow the turnstiles to open, giving him entry to the platform and his waiting train. The gate fails to open. He tries again. And again.


11:10

Five minutes to go. He has to be on that train. A young, tense-looking employee dressed in a grey and red suit comes to his aid. She checks his phone and places the phone, screen down onto the same glass panel. The little red laser beam scans the phone again, and in an instant, the turnstile silently and quickly opens.


11:12

The man now has to find his coach. Coach D. The platform is wet, and in his rush to find the carriage he loses his footing, only slightly, but just enough for him to lose his grip on his phone, which is now released from his hand and is sliding across the wet platform floor towards the edge and to a drop onto the rails. It stops just short of the platform edge.

“Shit”, he curses out aloud as he picks up the phone, and wipes it clean on the leg of his jeans before jamming it firmly into his front pocket.

“Coach D. Coach D”, he mumbles to himself. Sweating and out of breath, he quickly makes his way along the platform, scanning the half-broken pixelated signs on an electronic display screen on each of the train doors.


11:13

“Coach D. Coach fucking D”, he curses breathlessly. Found it, and with a sudden leap, he lunged his whole body through the open doorway of coach D just as a piercing beeping sound signifies that the doors are about to close. Suddenly, the gentle whirring sound of a motor is heard, and the door slowly slides closed with a reassuring clunk.


11:15

Hot, sweating and breathless, he shuffles down the aisle of the train carriage scanning the tiny green fluorescent displays above the seats looking for his allocated seat. 32B. Aisle. Table seat, in the opposite direction of travel. He finds his seat and can now release the heavy rucksack from his back. Unzipping it he removes the contents from the top. A brown paper bag which contains a stale looking, beige coloured pastry, and a handful of paper napkins. He places the rucksack in the space behind his seat and the seat behind him. The bulging rucksack just about fits into the space behind him. Taking his seat he removes his phone from his jeans pocket and places it on the table in front of him. He winces as he wipes the screen with his finger, only to discover a crack across the glass screen. He sits back in his seat with a long sigh.


11:20

5 minutes late, and it’s started to rain. The rainwater runs down the window. The beads of raindrops racing each other down the pane of dirty glass. It’s getting heavy.

He buries his face in his hands, rubbing it vigorously with his sweaty palms and over his closely shaved head to the back of his neck, and back again. Pushing his fingers deep into his eye sockets. He sighs and breathes out deeply. He needs a wash, or better still a shower, bath, anything to clean the sweaty grime from his aching and sweating body. Too late for that now. He needs to get a move on, and fast. He’s been up since 5 this morning preparing for this trip, a trip that just has to happen. A trip that has to happen now. It may already be too late.

He spreads his fingers across his face and then removes his hands to reveal a very attractive, slim female in a black suit standing before him carrying a small bag and a cup of coffee. She places the coffee carefully on the table.

“Hello. I’m sorry but I think you are in my seat”, she says in a soft Eastern European voice. “It’s okay this seat is free, I’ll just sit here”, pointing to the seat opposite the man.

“Sorry luv. Are you alright? Are you sure? It’s no bother for me to move”, he says in his heavy Mancunian accent. He was startled by her appearance and started to fidget to make himself look a little more presentable.

“But of course. It’s no problem. Please. I prefer to sit in the direction we are going anyway. Makes me feel sick going backwards. A horrible feeling”, says the female in the suit. Her voice is soft and very precise. Her skin is flawless. He looks up at her but only fleetingly as his eyes nervously move between her and the heavy rain stained window. He checks the time on his watch. The train is late. Christ, this train is so late.

She removes her jacket and starts to fold it carefully, stretching up to put it on the shelf above. In doing so she clips the coffee cup on the table which is now tipped over. The lid pops off, and the contents of the coffee cup quickly spread over the table.

His reaction is delayed. Looking around quickly for something, anything, to clean up the spilt coffee.

“Bloody hell!”, he yells.

“On no. My god. I’m so sorry”, she responds and starts to fluster, trying to find a way to clean up the coffee, which is continuing to slowly spread across the table. In her panic, her mobile phone falls from the pocket of her jacket and lands with a dull thud on the dirty carpeted floor. Grabbing a handful of the napkins, he starts to dab the table mopping up the messy liquid, while the woman stoops down to recover her mobile phone, which has landed next to his rucksack between the seats. She has to stretch, deep under the seat to get a grip of her phone. It takes time for her to recover it.

“Oh it’s okay. Don’t worry luv. It’s alright. Here I’ve got it. Yer alright”. With the napkins, he quickly mops up the rest of the coffee, and within seconds the table is dry, apart from a pile of pale brown coloured napkins now at the end of the table.

“There we go. All done. Yer all good. Relax, sit down. It’s all good. Don’t worry about it”.

“Oh thank you so much. I am so very sorry. I’m so clumsy sometimes”, she says glancing and typing frantically into her mobile phone before placing her neatly folded jacket on the rack above. She extends her long slender hand.

“Elena”, She says. “My name is Elena. How do you do”.

He nervously extends his hand towards her. It’s soft to his touch as his thick fingers cover her very white hand.

“Tom. Nice to meet you, Elena”.

“So Tom. Are you going all the way to London today?”, she asks easing herself cautiously into her seat while eyeing the pile of coffee-sodden napkins.

“Yeah, too right I am. Need to get away from this miserable place”, gesturing towards the window as the rain becomes heavier.

STATIC

Lost Property - Part 2  (18+) Part 2 - A chance meeting on a train that leads to a double cross and death. #2324957 by Bill Whyte