BooksBarbecue
Back Platform Seven Save as PDF
Chapters (42)
  1. Cover
  2. Landing Page
  3. Platform Seven
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Contents
  7. PART ONE
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. PART TWO
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. PART THREE
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. PART FOUR
  20. 10
  21. 11
  22. 12
  23. 13
  24. 14
  25. PART FIVE
  26. 15
  27. 16
  28. 17
  29. PART SIX
  30. 18
  31. 19
  32. 20
  33. PART SEVEN
  34. 21
  35. 22
  36. 23
  37. 24
  38. 25
  39. Acknowledgements
  40. About the Author
  41. By the Same Author
  42. Copyright

I hear a shout from the direction of the old platforms, and turn to see Dalmar across the tracks on Platform Five. At last. The man has his back to him but Dalmar has spotted him and can see across the tracks that he is far closer to the edge of Platform Seven than anyone should be. Poor Dalmar. He is rooted to the spot. He is nearer the ramp than the stairs and must know there isn’t time to race up and across the covered walkway and back down the ramp again before the approaching goods train comes in. He will have used his radio to put the call in to Tom to get a block on the signals, but I can hear the thunder of the freight train getting louder and louder – it’s a fast one, with a full load, passing through – who knows if the signal block will come in time or if the driver will be able to brake if it does? Tom’s hands will be shaking as he makes the call. Doesn’t this man realise what he is doing to them, never mind his own family?

In an act of desperation, Dalmar puts both hands either side of his mouth and bellows. ‘Hey! Sir! Sir, you, over there!’

The man does not turn around.

Dalmar waves his arms from side to side, miming the action of pushing the man away from the platform edge. He cups both hands around his mouth again and shouts once more. ‘Hey! Sir, over there!’ I can hear the pant of desperation in his voice, the crack at the end of the phrase, and I imagine him at the inquest describing later how he yelled across the tracks, thinking it was the only way to get the man’s attention, only to feel racked with guilt that it prompted the man’s action. It didn’t. I’ve seen three men come close to it now – their legs shaking and their teeth chattering – and seen them pull back at the last minute. This one is different; beyond feeling, beyond thought. This one has decided.

I turn back to the man just as the train thunders towards us, the metal bulk and roar of it filling the cold air, rust-red containers heaped with tons of grey gravel. The man tips forward with his body unnaturally straight, as if he is a tree that has been felled. He doesn’t teeter, not for a moment, but stays completely straight, passes through me and onto the tracks just as the train rushes into the station. Gravity takes him. He doesn’t so much as flail an arm as he falls.

2