Psychometry

psy?chom?e?try - The ability or art of divining information about
people or events associated with an object solely by touching or being
near to it.

---

clickety clack
clickety clack

Warmth in the darkness. Closeness. Together.

clickety clack
clickety clack

Breathing. Someone crying.

clickety clack
clickety clack

Movement. Feeling of motion. Swaying and slowing down.

clickety clack

~

The door slid open, the light from a weak winters day illuminated the
inside of the railway car. A few people shielded their eyes from the
rays. Others raised their heads, trying to peer outside, wanting to
know where they had stopped. A few flakes of snow drifted down from the
sky, quiet and peaceful. The sound of other doors opening reached their
ears. A harsh grating, sliding sound, as though they weren't used to
being moved. Ordered shouts were heard. The slow movement of people
shifting, trying to dislodge cramp and fear. The crunching of boots on
hard-packed snow. Nearing the car. People held each other, fingers
digging into numbed flesh.

A man stopped outside the car and looked in. He had a satisfied - smug?
- look on his face. People shifted in the gloom before him. He removed
his black hat, the deaths head on it glinting, shiny and new. He
appeared to sigh before he spoke, "Guten Morgen."

~

She sat where she'd slipped. Eyes open. Staring. She held, gripped, the
rusting metal - an electric hold. Knuckles going white.

She was beautiful. Blonde hair fell to her shoulders, it had spread out
as she went down as though trying to slow her descent. It was difficult
not to look at her. She held you in her gaze. Others were looking. The
few people who still worked here, a minor train station where
backpackers stopped off, waiting for the continuation of a journey. A
few people approached her. Asked her if she was alright. Mostly
American. She hadn't answered even though her lips appeared to be
moving.

When she'd gone down there'd been no noise from her. No scream. No cry
of surprise. A slight thump as her backside hit the pock marked cement
of the platform. Instinctively, as she fell, her arms had gone out,
hands grabbing for something to hold onto. Her right hand scraped the
wall, fingers curling over the lip of the bucket. Hold. Held. Pulled it
away from the wall, the bent nail slipped easily from the crumbling
brick. A slight metallic ding as it hit the surface next to her, a few
seconds after she'd, jarringly, stopped moving.

She appeared to be alone. You could tell some of the younger men,
leaving oversized rucksacks leaning against the walls, still carrying
their bottles of beer, laughing as they approached her, were only being
helpful because she was attractive, a quiet beauty.

What could they get from her misfortune?

A few of the older women looked on from the benches. Were they waiting
to leave or expecting an arrival? You could tell they'd been there
yesterday and would be there tomorrow. A routine uninterrupted by the
few foreigners milling around them.

Her lips were still moving. A silent mantra. No one could hear what she
was saying. Her breath misted just in front of her face, a mask of
smoke. One of the Americans knelt beside her, placed his bottle on the
ground, and leant towards her face. The scene was almost a romantic
interlude. A boy about to kiss the girl. Reassuring. Considerate. A
movie close up. The hero and the heroine. He placed his ear near her
mouth. The others, his friends, stopped laughing. Reverence. All
watched.

Waited.

A second passed. Then another. Snow flakes drifted.

The boy looked up.

"...water..." he said.

~

The man scanned the railway car. His eyes squinting, trying to pierce
the gloom inside. People tried not to look at him. Not wanting to be
picked. All were children again in class. Don't ask me the question.
Not me. I don't know the answer.

He raised his hand. Slowly. A half-smile flickering on his features. He
was creating a false tension, relishing in the power he believed he
had. His finger pointed at the first child. A small blonde haired girl
who tried to press herself further into the woman holding her. Not
wanting to look.

The man nodded his head, finger already moving onto the next
child.

The girl looked up at the woman. She nodded. The girl stood up. Others
stood up with her. Boys and girls.

The man picked again. And again.
He smiled when he looked at them, standing as he pointed at them. His
children. Toys to be played with, brought out on special
occasions.

When he was satisfied he turned his hand palm upwards and beckoned. The
children shuffled forward. Two more men appeared, one of them smoking a
hastily rolled cigarette. The other was laughing. As the children
reached the lip of the car they lifted them down, placing them
carefully on the snow. The children blinked, some of them started to
shiver.
They were made to line up. One of them turned his head to look back at
the rest of the train. Each car had a line of children. A break on a
school trip. All were silent. In front of them stood the uniformed men.
Guns held pointing downwards. Casual. Relaxed. A few more of them were
smoking.

A man in black walked along the line-ups, nodding his head as he passed
each one. The guards raised their arms in salute, fingers pointing at
the sky, straight and stiff, before obeying his silent command. They
pointed at the railway platform, a few people milling around on it,
watching quizzically, wondering. The children began to walk towards it.
A soft crump as each created footprints in the fresh white powder.
Soles connecting with the hard, packed, surface underneath. The people
on the platform formed a small group, not wanting to approach the
silent figures, murmuring amongst themselves. Not wanting to attract
attention.

The children reached the platform's edge and pulled themselves up onto
the rough concrete. Hands numbed by the cold and stiff from inactivity
and fear. A few of the older, bigger, ones helped the smaller ones. A
boy grazed his knee. A single drop of blood traced its way down until
is was soaked up by his socks.

They stood on the platform. Heads moved. Looking.

At one end stood a line of red buckets underneath a tap. A child, the
blonde haired girl started to walk towards them. She stopped. Turned
and beckoned for the others to follow. The group moved.
There weren't enough buckets for everyone to take back together. Some
of the children hadn't needed to come. They'd been given respite from
their confinement. A child smiled.

They organised themselves. Some filled while others carried the buckets
back. Water sloshing over the sides. Cold metal gripped in red raw
hands. Knuckles turning white. The guards were lined up waiting. Guns
now holstered. A mixture of breath and smoke fogging the air in front
of them. Faces obscured. Lips smiling.

The first child approached, half of the water had been spilt, now
frozen on the unused train tracks. A guard moved forward, towards him.
The child stopped, too small to get back into the train by himself. He
waited.

The others, still on the platform, watched. Waited. Some of them held
hands, sharing warmth.

The child looked at the guard approaching him, relaxed his grip on the
bucket.

The man stopped and looked down at the child. Someone laughed.

The man kicked out. Hit the boy's hand. Black on red.

Surprise, a reflex. The bucket....

~

...dropped from her grip. Rolled to the edge of the platform and fell
onto the train tracks. She blinked. Shook her head. The boy stood and
stepped back, bent down and stretched his hand out to her. She looked
at him and took hold of the hand. Smiled as he helped her up.

"Thankyou." She said.

The boy nodded and walked back to join his friends, a faint noise
making them turn.

She shivered. Wrapped her hands around herself.

The women stopped staring and went back to their muted
conversations.

Some of the others walked back inside the small waiting room.

The Americans picked up their rucksacks and waited. The noise grew
louder.

clickety clack
clickety clack