Waiting, turning his ticket in his fingers, glancing nervously out along the dusty dirty dreariness of a stretching train station platform; making inconspicuous movements of the lips, muttering unheard entreaties to nothing, for what is there? Sat in the cool dry light, but never comfortable, thinking deeply as cheerful people in cheerful white suits ambled to and throw with and without coffee; they appeared thinking yet not wise; passing but going nowhere. Hans muttering soft curses feeling a tearful aching he pondered this and in his mind, something stirred. Odd was the day, something peculiar nagged at his mind yet impatient as he was for the arrival of the train, he turned his attention to the flowers beside him. The purple and blue perianth glimmered sweetly, it was a good day indeed to wait for the train.
He was waiting for the train, yes of course. In an attempt to force the unseen locomotive to tangibly materialise fifteen minutes sooner than time tabled he looked at his watch. It suddenly occurred to Hans Von Der Bondaveld that he had a ludicrous name, with menace and intent he tossed the ticket to the station floor, it landed accusingly beside his feet. Sudden flashes of disapproving eyes bit bee like into his nervous muscles, venomous panic stung his breath short. Neither glancing up nor down not to the left or right, he ashamedly lunged at the evidence and squirreled it away inside his deep trouser pockets, maroon faced and sweating he nonchalantly crossed his legs and inspected his fingers. A single pigeon stood stern before him, peering curiously up at him, Hans Von Der Bondaveld ignored it, yet to his astonishment the pigeon skipped forward an inch, peering still yet with an impatient air. Hans had experienced this sort of thing before; once whilst crossing the road, he had had the most peculiar sensation of being crushed by an oncoming vehicle, yet upon reaching the other side – he saw there was no vehicle to be seen at all for miles. Hans Von Der Bondaveld was a pragmatist, which meant simply, he ignored anything and everything that perturbed him; it was a most satisfactory technique.
-You may as well speak to me, it will save us a great deal of bother, you know!
Without a single flicker in his eyes, or twitch in his facial muscles, Hans Von Der Bondaveld remained quiet and still, for no matter how one looked at it, Pigeons did not talk. Thus since no other soul was about at that time, it was logical to assume nothing had been said, thus nothing could be heard. Hans shifted his weight slightly and edged gently along the bench. It was then that he spied the cloud, above the wooden roof of the station, he saw it – it struck him as odd because upon entering the station the cloud in the sky had caught his eye. It reminded him of a face he used to know, with sad doubt and gulping sorrow he had deliberately and until a moment previously successfully ignored the offending cloud. However it struck him as most abnormal that despite the refreshingly cool breeze, the cloud should hang there at all. Once again he peered at the cloud, and the sense of face returned, as did his distrust, remorse and distress. “Baby” he muttered reluctantly, suddenly flushing with memories he had subdued for so long, he shuffled to the very precipice of the bench.
-Oh I see, your one of those are you – well damn it, we could be here all day, and I am very busy sir!
With a noticeable flicker in his eyes, and half a dozen facial twitches Hans Von Der Bondaveld’s composure and pragmatism fell from him like a flimsy gown from a floozy in a hustle. Angrily, inspired now by memories of lovers labours lost, he turned upon the pigeon with the intention of telling it to – hop off! However something very powerful, a force ingrained and maintained through years of deliberate avoidance prevented him from addressing the irritating little bird directly. It was perfectly irrational to admonish a pigeon, even if the pigeon was addressing him directly. Hans ferreted in his jacket pocket and found what he was looking for. In times of insurmountable confusion and stress, he did what his grandmother always did, sucked a mint. Sucking with all the grateful smug satisfaction of a loud man in a quiet place, Hans felt a great deal more confident, the train! He was waiting for a train, people did this sort of thing a lot, it was a normal day. Hans peered out towards the fields, that rolled turning and curling upon the hills outside the station, in the hazy, almost sleepy sunlit distance; littered with greens, yellows and myriad hues of all heated wonders; he could spy people dancing about a pergola, with gossamer strands of multifarious cloth, a great warmth raised goodness inside his very intestines. He stretched out his hand and pretended to squash them between his thumb and forefinger. “Get a bloody job you hippies” was the first and most appropriate thought to cross his mind.
-My name is Peridot, your name is Hans, now please you really must stop this charade, what you would call time, I would call short there of, now Mr Bondaveld shall we? said the truculent pigeon as it motioned with its right wing to a large oaken door a little away form Hans's bench.
Hans Von Der Bondaveld’s long held observance to the laws of social pragmatics faded swiftly. He turned to face Peridot, who stood as before (if not a little closer) it appeared to Hans that Peridot had his wings clasped behind his back, in the same way his school masters used to, when he had difficulty with an apparently simple equation. Impatient yet kind, firm but deliberate. It took Hans some time, breathing deeply, thinking only of the sweet cooling properties of the mint, gathering all his wit and sagacity he replied in immovable brilliance.
-Oh piss off!
(Silence)
-Well, I never, I’m here to help you sunshine, and that’s the thanks I get. Most people laugh, some faint, but you are the first to crudely insult me! Me with my cold ears an all, even here of all places (Peridot spread his left wing, to encompass the neat station, and the brightly burning, tremendously twirling, glorious green fields beyond) well Hans me old sausage, if you are still in this station when the second train arrives, you are in for it!
Something in the pigeons tone of voice caused Hans to pause and peer along the gloomy line, toward the ominous looking tunnel, which he knew the train would come from, chugging along in a slapdash fashion, as trains are want to do on Sundays. The arch over the tunnel made Hans shiver, he pulled his jacket about him, their were inscriptions above it in a crude horrible hand, Hans turned from it. Something like sound, and akin to horror gasped from his lips and he murmured some inarticulate cry. Turning pale he glanced down toward Peridot, who stood as before (if not a little less cheerful looking) Hans shifted his weight and shuffled closer to the pigeon.
-Are you mad? (Enquired Hans softly, imploringly; Peridot grinned momentarily and shook his head) but you are talking to me, pigeons do not talk!
-Well, if I do not talk, then you are talking to me, which makes you what?
-Of course, therefore you can not be talking! Replied Hans as he uncrossed his legs and began crunching nervously upon the mint, staring at some indistinguishable fixed position on the other side of the station train tracks. What he saw caused him to spit the remainder of the masticated mint all over Peridot, he groaned angrily frome below. Hans clutched wildly at his clothes, peering incredulously at the far side of the tracks. There in the grey pallor, beneath the sick tortured looking stone, which glumly stubbornly stood sepulchre style, lurked a host, a croud of seemingly perished things. Hans shook his head and leant forward, glaring wildly at the macabre sight. A host, neither great nor small of… “Dear Lord their people” gasped Hans out loud; he inspected their tired weakened faces, dirty some – half rotten others, with cheek bone showing, or hair falling in silent wind swept tangles away from the head and off into the gloomy rafters. Some were sat in stiff acceptance, arms folded inward, heads bent chestward, not moving. Many others frolicked in wild caprices, dancing in sick parodies of joy and still many more fornicated in wild tired mirthless pointlessnes, yet one such ghoulish apparition stood aside and alone from the laughing lovers and screaming fantastic horrors! Alone on the precipice of the platform, head slightly down, thoroughly isolated.
Suddenly Hans screeched himself. “Its her, Peridot its her (Before Peridot could warn him, Hans leapt to his feet, and began waving madly in joyous rapture, suddenly forgetting the dreadfulness of the scene before him) Victoria, hey Victoria!” He screamed across the gulf of track, with its rusted iron lines cursed with weed and litter, amongst the grey shuddering crowd, a lowered face raised its head – she was neither decayed nor sickly looking, but some grotesque knowledge clouded her eyes, it was this that stunned Hans, it was those familiar green eyes so tear bleary and pain stricken that caused him to collapse to his knees, Peridot skipped aside.
-What have you seen? (Enquired the bird nervously) you should not see anything, what have YOU SEEN HANS VAN DER BONDAVELD?! Demanded the bird sternly.
The apparition on the far side of the tracks stretched out a thin emaciated hand in a moment of sudden recognition. It was like all the days he had hopped off some train from some place to find her standing waiting for him at the station, all the long journeys to find her, spend hours walking hand in hand through forests of azure, sprinkled now and then with beams of dusty light from the splintered canopy, such memories like clouds passed through his heart; it appeared that she too remembered such things and a hint of colour returned to the ghouls wan features!
-DON'T DON'T - Oh Hans what havey yous seen, what have you done? Hans do not make her remember, truly if you love her, HANS! Squeeled Peridot wildly, Hans fancied the pesky pigeon even gave him a vicious nip on the ankle!
-Come get me, Baby!
Came the words, weak and lacking, as if they had travelled a distance greater than the few yards separating the two platforms. Hans imagined the ghoul of someone he had once cherished with a delirious lustre smiled meekly at his sudden appearance. Peridot seemed to sense exactly what Hans had in mind and he leapt before the straining bulk of the heroic looking Hans; firmly stretching out his wings to hold the stricken determined face.
-Too late, you damn fool, too late now! You can’t, that thing is not her, what you knew is long damned, that is another thing now, Hans listen to me!
-But its Victoria, I knew her Peridot, I know her –I loved her dear lord I love her still, I shall only be a moment! Hans stood and stepped forward slightly, Peridot flapped in wild panic into the air and perched upon the stations gas light pole.
-Hans, you fool, you have damned her to a fate worse than yours, they should never remember, that was the bargain they struck so long ago, you damn bastard, Hans turn away from her, Hans you dum bastard!
-But its my baby Peridot, why the crudeness old fellow, have you gone mad? I shall only say hello! Chortled Hans unknowing.
-No, that side is not for you; have you not understood yet? Do you not know what has happened to you both, you can not cross, no man can - no man ever has! You must make your way to the fields NOW! Growled Peridot sternly! Peridot glanced at the far side of the tracks and saw only a thick murky cloud, no faces or frolicks, merely a quiet fog; such as all should see who waited on the platform.
Hans imagined that the pigeon took on a greater dimension of strength and will, uncommon to that of a standard nervously pecking high street thing. Hans took anohter step forward, peering at the tired crestfallen mob on the other side; suddenly he feared he had lost her face. But out of the strange mist it appeared once more, yes it was her there was no mistaking the sweet smooth cheeks, the birth mark on the forehead, the hair once beauteous and thick, now thin and lacking, yet still the heart of man knows that which it adores, when it sees it. The heart is the only organ never to forget the things it promised and bestowed. A sudden wind seemed to sweep through the hoary suffering mob, yet to Hans it appeared more like a voice, some articulate command or warning – such as train station speaker systems, indistinct yet steeped in authority. The mob began howling, many fell upon their knees, in the brawling broiling panic her face vanished, lost to the seething insanity of hated horror.
A slow ponderous train with bleak steamy windows pulled into the station from the tunnel end, the ghoulish parodies of humankind on the other side, shrieked in maddening terror, clawing insanely at their own flesh, their own eyes. Hans wailed sadly, as he caught sight once more of her face, now on her knees he saw it through a tangled web of torn fabric and legs, both hands stretched out toward him. Suddenly she appeared as he had first seen her, beautiful, shy, wise and playful; there had never been a more beautiful sight in his life, as those curtains fell apart and she stood legs crossed and still hands clasped behind her back, looking up at a boy she did not know. Despite the echoing cries of Peridot, Hans lunged forward into the space between.
