fixed

When I left school, it was like the string had been cut on a tight, swollen balloon. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Days became free-floating fusions of dark and light, of my blistered feet slipping off street corner curbs, of watchless wrists jammed into fluffy wet pockets, of feelings crushed and crumpled like empty crisp packets. They don’t make single adult DayRover tickets anymore, but when they did, I used to buy one every other day, and get on a train, and go somewhere, and then either stay on-board, or get on another and go somewhere else. Sitting there, head pressed against clanking glass, houses, factories, railside scenery gushing past, I used to wish I could slip out of the window and become one with the movement of the land.

Sometimes things would happen during those pointless journeys. Kids, mainly my own age or younger, would pump more sweltering air into the bulging muddle that was me. My later childhood had been one of repressed anger; of gritted teeth, of turning the other cheek, of watching, without control, the weakest being beaten and twisted. Now, I was sitting on top of a bloated rug, hiding the stains of past-pain, the cries of lost mates, the compulsory teachers’ abuse. Standing on crowded platforms in the rain, I felt like a walking grenade, begging every well-groomed face to pull the pin.

One day in March a conductor scraped his nails along my fragile skin. I was facing the wrong way, the world was blurring backwards, flickering behind trees. Bridges and walls were hushing past like shadows blown by a breeze… "Well now matey, where’s your ticket, eh?" The man, young, dark, leaned against the two seats in front of me, glanced over his shoulder, aligned his hat and chewed gum. "You’re a real train-surfer you, aren’tcha. Where you’re goin today, eh?" / "Nowhere," I said, but I don’t think he heard. / "Come on, see your ticket,"

I poked two nervous fingers into my inside pocket, slipped out the ‘Rover. The conductor eyed me some more, then snatched it off me, chewing faster. He didn’t look at the ticket, but at my face, neck, chest; dark holiday tan to pallid blotchy skin; big white teeth to a closed-mouth-frown. "Just make sure you gerroff at Leeds," He spun the ‘Rover back at me. "Go any further on this train and you’re outta bounds, you got that?" I nodded. The conductor ventured another peep over his shoulder, before coming even closer, as if he wanted to whisper something in my ear. His was breath warm and minty, his eyes like melted glass. "What are you anyway, you a boy or what? Eh? You got a dick or a fanny?" He sniggered, chewed once, lifted himself away and carried on up the train.

I spent the rest of the ride staring at pen marks in the fold-up table, at bogey stains on the windows, at my dormant reflection as the carriages thundered through the tunnels.

Later, I got off at Leeds and lingered on the platform, waiting for the conductors and drivers to swap. Rail engineers in bright yellow jackets, men with flat caps and ticket machines, drifted in tides, shouting above the hiss, pointing at the train. Until at last, he disembarked, and somebody called his name… "Oi, Darren, you shifting to four-A? John wants a word."

Darren. Darren. One day I’ll kill you, Darren.

It hurt but it wasn’t new. Youths on trains had attacked me before, and they’d always taken the piss back at school. I probably didn’t have anything between my legs, they said, like Action Man, just a smooth, plastic patch, no lump or hole. A new lad, not in my class, once saw me across the yard, thought I was a girl and tried to feel me up. Grabbed my balls, screamed with disgust, broke my nose and threw me into the bins behind the canteen. I guess he must have been pretty disappointed.

Knew it was true. Used to experiment with my mum’s make-up and clothes. Made my chest stick out and my bits bend back. Once, I even had the guts to walk out onto a local street wearing a skirt and tights. Occasionally, I’d do myself up so well I’d get a hard-on and watch the girl I’d created do a slow strip-tease… Then, I’d either masturbate wildly, or drag everything off, crying, and lock myself in the bathroom.

Arriving at Bradford, moving on to Pudsey to Bramley to Leeds, back to Bramley to Pudsey to Bradford and back. All the time, carrying a rucksack with lipstick and knives. Randomly staring into people’s eyes. Silver quiffs and bird’s nests poking up above seats. Giggling kids taking the piss across litter-splashed tables. A walkman on full playing dance against the clank of the wheels. Drown-ing time. Just a speeded up film of lives going by as mine stood still. Rocking aimlessly back and forth, ticking off seconds, minutes, hours. Aching to chime.

One night in mid-April, after ringing an old mate’s number in desperation and getting no answer, I came downstairs to get a drink of water. Found Mum asleep on the sofa, clutching a Vodka bottle by the neck. Nose pointed at the roof, she was wearing a tight white tee-shirt that had been torn down the middle, and dusty blue jeans, unzipped. On the table in front of her, there was a note I’d written for when she came home from work, about being depressed, about wanting to cry all the time because I missed Dad so bad - and about trying to apply for college.

The house was silent but for twitches and snores and the delicate patter of rain. I have never felt so alone. "I hate you Mum," Tears down my cheeks, blood sticky in my fists, I considering going in with one of my knives and killing her.

Next day in town, six tubs of paracetamol drifted along the conveyor belt in Superdrug, metal rim in front, NEXT CUSTOMER PLEASE behind. And maybe it was a shadow that shifted across the eyes of the checkout woman as I handed her the money. A flicker of concern or curiosity, a jagged-blip in the flow-chart of normality, mused over/talked about at lunch-break. Could they all be for me, all those tablets - tonight? "That's fifty six pence change, sir. Thank you very much, bye."

I went straight to the station, spent hours surfing the trains for Darren. The more I couldn’t find him, the more I didn’t want to. Before long, I was resting my head against glass.

Hiding behind seats at seven fifteen, a few random heads dotted about down the rows, I ducked in front of a make-up mirror, put lipstick on. Untied my hair, inched my bottoms under my arse, peeled them off, bagged it all and sat there, heart-beat thumping in unison with the wheels. The horn blared, the nightscape lifted, the windows blanked – a new dimension emerged, where I was a girl.

"Ladies and gentleman, this train will shortly be arriving at Bradford Interchange. Bradford, the next station stop." Movement. Bags rustling. A child laughing. A stinging in my chest. I swept my arm across my lips, smeared off pink, snatched out my bottoms and fumbled to put them back on. Heads turning and talking above the tops of the seats. I froze, one leg in - bag slammed across my lap – both hands cupped over my mouth.

"Hey… Excuse me, oi, you alright, lovey? Somebody hitcha?" Didn’t see who it was. Just shook my head, eyes closed, and then shook it again. The train came to a slow, moaning, wretched halt, and people got off.

When all had settled, I dressed and cleaned myself up in a rush. Later, I pulled the table down, dug into my bag, and arranged six plastic tubs in a line. The train started moving again; station lights and gawping faces cruised out of sight. An internal door opened at the top of the carriage… "Tickets from Bradford…" Beating, beating, beating, I scraped the tubs back into my bag, fastened it up and wiped my mouth. Waited… Until the man came round.

"Erm, excuse me sir," I held up my hand, one finger bent, like at school. The conductor, bald and thin with an earring, half-way past my chair, nodded and stepped backwards. / "Y’all right mate, what’s your prob?" / "Erm… Do you know Darren?" / The man bit his lip. "Mmmmaybe. Which one, Hillman or Smith?" / "Erm, I don’t know… Tall, dark." / "You mean Hillman. Yeah," He nodded. "Why? Why joo ask?" / "Erm… Is he working today?" / "Oh aye, he’s workin. I saw him at lunch-time in Leeds. Why?" / "Erm,.do you know where I could find him?" / The man blew out his cheeks. "Poooh, bloody hell, God knows, mate. Errrr, I think he might be on the last train from Blackpool North, but to be honest…" He shrugged. "I don’t know. I’ve gotta go, alright, bye."

I got off at Sowerby Bridge at about eleven o’clock, fifteen minutes before the last train was due from Blackpool North. Found myself a shadow, explored my pockets and finished off a Twix I’d started eating on the train. The station was dark, wrecked and dripping like somebody’d screwed it up and pissed all over it. A row of dirty, rectangular lights – glued to the roof on the other side of the platform – blinked randomly and made weird buzzing noises as if they were about to explode in one long chain. Every window was boarded up and painted over, every doorway a dead-end entrance into ruins. Crickets chirped like they couldn’t be arsed. Nettles and bracken thrashed around beneath the wind and rain.

There was a young woman with bright red hair trimmed almost as short as her skirt standing on the platform. She’d clattered hypnotically through the subway from the other side, stopped between two benches and lighted a cigarette. Mouth and chin hidden behind my zipped raincoat, I peered up through the framework of the roof at swollen sky… And then down, slowly, towards the woman. She was pacing briskly up and down, taking drags from her smoke, kicking litter and glancing at the time. "Joo know when there’s a train to York?" she called. / "Erm. No idea." I lied. / "Ant you got a time table? S’all I want’s just one of those little… Time table-jobs. You’ve got one I bet, somewhere, will you have a look?" / Touching the pin. Teasing the skin. I pulled my bag a little closer. "There’s a time table on the wall over there," I pointed. / "A fuckin know that, I’m not thick." / "Well… Why don’t you read it then?" / "Cos I can’t fuckin see it," She threw her fag down and stood on it. "Don’tcha believe us? Fuckin have a look." She turned away. I unfastened my bag and slipped a medium-sized knife up my sleeve. "Well go on then," She turned back and looked at me again. "You havin a scank or what?"

When I did nothing, she tutted, and wandered to very edge of the platform, where she made a bow, and peered each way down the line. I knelt, secured the knife, stood, had a quick scan round. "Which way is York anyway?" asked the woman, turning. (She was quite pretty, I thought. But not as pretty as me.) "Erm, that way," I said, pointing towards Manchester. / "Shhhhhit, you’re kiddin me, I’ve just come from’t other side! What time’s last train? They keep goin on till midnight, don’t they?" I shrugged as I approached the wall-mounted time-table. The over-head lights had disintegrated, all but a quarter of the second board was in shadow. I could only make out a few, random, meaningless numbers. "See what I mean?" she called, heading my way. I stiffened, let the blade slip down by two inches- three inches- four; squeezed the handle tight in my fist. "They’re fuckin useless these kinda stations, aren’t they." Her shadow covered up the final bit of the board. "Where you goin anyway? You goin to York?"

I turned to face her, quickly, beating, beating, wanting to see Mum! wanting to see Mum! but it wasn’t and I lost control; the knife slipped from my fingers, I tried to catch it, but it clattered like scissors on the ground. The woman and I stepped away from each other, startled. The knife, pointing at the wall, wobbled, glinted. Still edging backwards, she rubbed her neck. "What… What's that?" She glanced at me. Nodded at the weapon. "Wharrisit, what’s that?" / "Erm… Nothing, I…" (The night, the wind, the rain, the time.) / "Oh my God," She placed her hands on her cheeks. / I continued to step back. "Look, please, don’t… Don’t say anything." / "No… No, I won’t." she said, removing her hands, closing her eyes. "I won’t… Just don’t-" / "No. No, I won’t if you won’t-" / "Okay. Alright, just… " She opened her eyes again. "Just kick it away… Please, just- just kick the fuckin thing away." I hesitated – ("Just do it for God’s sake, just kick it away!") – I ran forward, slammed my shoe into the knife, sent it boomeranging over the edge. It went down in a shower of sparks, hit the lines with a distant clang. The station lights buzzed. The walls, pipes, shadows, dripped. The woman and I remained several metres apart, facing each other, silent.

"Listen, I-I’m… I’m empty!" I called to her, touching my head, my chest. "I’m nothing, I… I have nothing to do. Nowhere to go. I-I wouldn’t have done anything to you, I swear. I don’t have it in me. I’m just going insane, that… That’s all, I… Look, wait - wait there a second, please, just wait there." I skidded over to my bag, crouched down, opened it up and grabbed a handful tubs. Dropped one on my way back; let it roll away. "You-you see these? I was going to kill myself with these. I was going to take them all, the whole lot, today. I swear I just… I…" The tubs fell from my hands, exploded at my feet; containers and tablets, white as the Moon, zig-zagged, bounced, rolled. "Please… I’m…. I’m just empty…" The woman merely stood still, her thin legs slightly apart, arms crossed over her chest. I could see tear-trails on her skin, now. Delayed reaction - or pity, perhaps.

"You listen to me," she snarled, letting her arms flop down. "I don’t give a fuck how empty or… Or fuckin screwed up you are. I don’t CARE, joo hear?" She wrinkled with fury, pointed at me. Somebody else had arrived on the station now, was walking quickly at the other side. "You…" She swallowed, lowered her voice. "You just get yourself fixed, okay… Just… Go get yourself fixed, cos you need it…" / "I will," I nodded, glancing worriedly at the new arrival. "I will, I will I-I swear…"

Like a soldier, the woman turned on the spot, began to walk swiftly away from me. Before long, she entered a narrow slant of amber light coming from a gap in the fence - the exit from the station. There, she turned again, and shouted, "You just get yourself fixed!" She stepped into the amber glow and was gone. Coarse, wheezy laughter drifted from the other side of the platform… "Nowt like gerrin ditched in public, is there mate?"

A bright light appeared in the distance, like an enormous star, and continued to grow as I listened to the woman’s frantic footsteps. They faded into clatters, then clicks, then nothing. The lines began to pulse with energy. The light sprouted web-like strands and gave birth to more, with thunderous noises. The familiar clash of the wheels invaded my ears; I went back for my bag, picked it up and threw it over my shoulder. Adolescence, I thought (One day you’ll die, Darren.) is over…

© Andy J Campbell 1998

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