The Curious Incident at the Model of Wakefield City Outside Westgate Train Station (in the Day-Time)
Nigel Martin
‘It will be fun,’ they said. ‘You’re not getting any younger,’ they insisted. ‘Everyone does it these days.’ Sarah was sure her friends were full of the best intentions but, even though she’d been single the eight years since William died, she still didn’t think internet dating was right for someone in the autumn of their life. As the train neared Outwood she began to feel sick, not long now to Wakefield’s grand new station where she’d arranged to meet Ian, the man she’d been messaging these past few weeks. The lack of a photograph had been a worry but she was hardly in a position to complain given that she had neglected to put one on her own profile, deeming all the images she had of herself far too unflattering. Instead, being of a similar age and sharing a love of walks in the Dales would hopefully mean they’d have enough in common. Surely at her age it was no longer about looks anyway, more about seeking some company to break up the monotony of her dreary, daily routine. Wakefield Prison loomed into sight bringing the moment of reckoning nearer. I could just stay on until Doncaster thought Sarah. Go and see my sister instead. It would be a pleasant surprise for her. No. She’d come this far, she might as well go through with it, particularly as the thought of leaving Ian in the lurch made her feel guilty. As Wakefield was announced Sarah tried to recall the few snippets of information he'd given her in order to recognise him. ‘I’ll meet you at the model of Wakefield city at the front of the station. I’ll be carrying a blue bag. Can’t wait to meet you,’ was the last email she’d received that morning. Hang on, or was it a green bag? As the train came to a stop Sarah tried to recall what colour the bag actually was. Oh well, surely it wouldn’t matter. She’d be able to spot him regardless.
‘Right, here goes nothing,’ declared Sarah to herself, as she got off the train and made her way through the station, past the new fangled ticket barriers towards the exit. The station’s automatic doors opened giving her a clear view of the model of Wakefield city beside which stood an elderly gentleman, the absolute spit of Winston Churchill, with a green bag over his shoulder. He was even puffing away on a fat cigar. Sarah wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d made a ‘V for victory’ sign. Deciding that perhaps the single life wasn’t so bad after all, she kept her head down carried on walking, intent on getting as far away from the station as she could. The toxic cloud of acrid cigar smoke following her for much longer than she’d have thought possible. Sarah disappeared around the corner. In her haste to get away she had somehow missed a handsome gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to George Clooney strolling up to the model of Wakefield city outside Westgate station, holding a blue bag. He hoped his date for that evening was every bit as lovely as she’d seemed online.
A Room With a View
Nigel Martin
Through my window I can just look over Platform 2 of Wakefield Westgate. Whether it's a privilege or an added punishment, I can't decide. In the early morning sunshine countless commuters prepare themselves for the working day ahead, each one unwittingly driving my loneliness into me like a succession of punches. I’ll never get to meet them, speak with them, find out where they're going. Leeds most likely. To sit in front of a computer screen in an office, another type of prison. Would they swap our respective cells given the chance, just for a few hours? Perhaps they’re dreading a presentation to a room of strangers. Or they’re off to explain to their boss why the report so vital to securing that all-important contract isn’t finished yet. Sitting in here for the day might seem preferable. Oh God. The workers bring me down but it’s the others that really get to me. Those off for a day of shopping in York or a week with family in Plymouth. A dirty weekend in Edinburgh. Other times, after witnessing some fresh inhumanity in here, I relish the link with civilisation one hundred metres beyond these thick stone walls. Really it’s a world away. ‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime,’ the old saying warns. ‘Crime’. In my case, the absence of the plural is important. It sets me apart from the majority in here. The serial offenders. The real sickos. My lapse was a one-off, I’m sure of it. I imagine the authorities know I’m not like the others, that I shouldn’t be here. Not in this prison anyway. 'Monster Mansion' the red tops call it. Oh Jesus Christ. I spend most of my days watching trains come and go and the station has come to intrude my nights too. I dream I’m stood on the platform, revel in being able to move around, to read the timetables and look at all the potential destinations. A free man. No train ever arrives.
Recently she’s been there, sometimes older than I remember, sometimes younger. She’s alone, just as she was that day. When I try to approach she moves away, disappearing up the stairs to the footbridge or vanishing behind a pillar. Occasionally I'm able to get closer, within touching distance, but when I reach out I wake up. Like tonight. My eyes grow accustomed to the darkness and I become aware of a sound. I hold my breath. Where the fuck's it coming from? The cell is silent, and there is no sound coming from beyond its steel door either. I listen again. Nothing. I shut my eyes to sleep. I hear it again. A human sound. Coming from outside. Anger rising, I spring to my feet and look through the bars of my window at Platform 2 of Wakefield Westgate. In the twilight I make out a lone figure standing on the platform. It’s her. She’s looking up at my cell.
The sound I hear is her laughter.