Henry

The station was unusually busy for 10am on a Wednesday which threw him off slightly, he had forgotten it was school holidays damn it. Irritated, he jostled with crowds of families surging towards the exit, and moving against the tide of bodies made his way to platform 12a. It was a crisp winter morning and the collective breath from passengers hung as an eerie mist above their heads.

Craning his neck he could just about glimpse the familiar café windows, now completely steamed up, and his shoulders relaxed somewhat. He quickened his step. Condensation ran greedily down the panes to ledges below which were adorned with colourful bobbing Christmas lights, sparse lengths of red and gold tinsel and sprigs of cheap, plastic holly. Eager little faces peered over the tops of their hot chocolates and through the clouded glass at an infinite sea of people, most laden with shopping bags and all rushing and pushing to get where they needed to be.

At the centre of the chaos, stood Henry – expertly still but for the fingers on his right hand which twitched rhythmically in time with the train gathering speed out of the station. He had paused just metres from the café door, allowing himself a moment to take in his surroundings. The festive season in London was something truly unmatched, and although he didn’t make a habit of celebrating Christmas, he enjoyed the feverish rising akin to electricity which charged through the population at this time of year, energised the whole capital.

Energy was just what he needed right now, he had a big day ahead of him. His last day in fact. It’s my last day on earth he said to himself; it didn’t seem real. Taking a deep breath, he strode forward, grasped the long, cool brass handle and pushed open the café door. Competing aromas of coffee, lasagne, spiced apple, hot pastry and a faint undercurrent of cleaning products blasted him warmly in the face as he entered – it was comforting to him that this place always smelled the same, had done for the past 20 years. It was important that he came here today, back to where it all started.

Straight away his eyes locked on Susan’s mass of blonde curls – she was hunched over behind the patisserie counter, carefully manoeuvring a slice of Victoria Sponge onto a plate whilst chatting animatedly to the waiting customers. She rose and the papery, freckled skin on her nose wrinkled, eyes sparkled as she noticed her old friend in the doorway; it had certainly been a while. Henry had a way of commanding a room just by his sheer presence and today was no different, the snaking queue parted allowing him a direct path to her, “Long time, no see Mister. The usual, to go?” Henry missed a beat, cleared his throat, “No. Today I’ll get a slice of chocolate cake and a black coffee, and I’ll sit in the window,” he gestured to one of the few seats left in the corner of the café. It was a code they had come up with almost 20 years ago, on the very first day they had met, though after such a long time he had come to believe he would never have to use it. Susan swallowed heavily and her eyes became dull and hard, but ever the master of disguise, her smile didn’t falter, “Coming right up, take a seat.”

Saying the words had had a profound effect: Henry had never experienced anxiety in his life but guessed that it was what he was feeling at that moment. The floor swirled beneath him and people around him appeared closer and yet simultaneously farther away than they really were. He ran a thick index finger around the rim of his collar, finding clamminess and a throbbing pulse. He made it to the ledge and once seated, leant forwards on the stool and brought his right hand to the glass, slowly wiping a clear circular window in the condensation. The coolness of the surface calmed him and he felt his heartbeat returning to normal. Glancing sideways he could see others had had the same idea, remnants of smiley faces, love-hearts and initials hastily drawn with greasy fingers littered the first two feet or so of the windows, and he forgot for a moment what he was here to do.

In the background he heard Susan's voice and instinctively his left hand was drawn to the sagging inner pocket of his overcoat. So far he had avoided touching it, disturbing it unnecessarily. But now he could not help but slide inside the pouch to finger the smooth, neatly wrapped brown paper of the small square box. So unassuming, he thought to himself, it could be anything: a birthday present, an engagement ring. He had tied a ribbon around it, a last minute addition, Susan would appreciate that. Speak of the Devil, she appeared beside him now, “I’ve got 15 minutes, that’s all.”

They talked, mostly about nothing at all for the first ten minutes: how they had been, how their children were doing at school, how their partners were, plans for the holidays, how the Tories were ruining the country. Trivialities. Henry knew the time had come when the cup of coffee separating them stopped emitting steam, that’s enough now, down to business. He reached into his coat and delicately pulled out the box, “Happy Anniversary, Susan” he held her gaze whilst setting it down carefully on the table between them, an insidious little thing tied up in a yellow bow. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. She smiled, he thought sadly, but he could never be sure with her, “My favourite colour, you remembered.” And then she deftly plucked it from the table and secreted it away beneath her apron. It was as though it had never been there at all.

With the transaction made and the loop soon to be complete, there was nothing left to say. His coffee was cold, the cake untouched, whipped cream atop it already stiff and yellowing at the edges - how quickly things soured. Suddenly Henry could not stand to be there any longer. He stood and clasped her shoulder, “I’ll be on the 11.13am to Walthamstow. It’s due in early today.” Susan nodded and her eyes flicked to the Grandfather clock behind him, “Then you have about 8 minutes. Goodbye, Henry.” She turned and without a backward glance was gone.

The next few minutes, his last few minutes were all a blur. Henry felt as though his feet were barely touching the ground as he bounded up the steps and marched with purpose towards the end of the platform. People afterwards would remark how the man had been smiling just before he did it, an unusually cheerful commuter. Henry Moorhouse stood stock still waiting for his moment, blood gushing through his veins, his body light as a feather, fingers twitching to the rhythm of the freight train thundering towards him. Right on schedule, he leapt forward, soaring through the air and into the next life. It was all as it should be.