thank the brave children who spoke out, who trusted me, because without their courage, without their willingness to tell the truth about what happened to them …’ God, she was convincing. Yes, those children were brave indeed. She would have sacrificed them without hesitation for her own glorification. They really had no idea what she was like, did they, those people who’d rewarded her? I wanted to silence her, I couldn’t bear to hear her voice. I would make her disappear. A cross in a red box. Click. Exit. Now you see her, now you don’t. Simple.
13
Spring 2013
Buried beneath the earth, deep underground, at least thirty feet between her and natural light. Catherine isn’t alone: there are scores of others like her. But are they really? Is he here? Is she here? She clutches her bag to her stomach and snatches a look behind her, to her right, to her left. Eyes meet hers then flick away.
… she felt a gentle stroke across her back and turned around. A sea of faces met hers, but she wasn’t interested in any of them. She glanced up at the platform indicator and saw the train would be arriving in three minutes – what she didn’t know was that it was also announcing how long she had left to live …
She begins to panic. This was a mistake. A foot treads on her. Someone trying to trip her? She pulls her own foot away and glares at the owner of the trainer, who mumbles an apology and stares ahead, eyes on the prize, wanting to beat her on to the train, not to push her under it. Breath on her neck, the smell of aftershave to her left; she holds her breath, can’t breathe in that nauseating smell. Steals a look. A man, taller than her, leers down. Shit. She should have taken the bus. Fuck it, when she’d left the house she’d been determined not to let that book cripple her, and the bus meant three changes, too long to get to work. Too difficult. Catherine the brave, that’s who she is, not a whimpering coward. She is trying to be Robert’s Catherine. Since her late-night book-burning he has started to believe in her again. He has been so careful around her, so considerate. She kept her promise and made an appointment with the doctor and Robert has seen the small yellow pills that sit beside her bed. They help her sleep a little, and help him believe she is getting back to her old self.
They are pushing her and she cannot allow herself to be pushed closer to the oncoming train. She has inched forward each time a train has passed, moving a little closer, ready for the next one, but not too close. She has discovered a new respect for the yellow line. Her body twitches with the fear that a psychopath will pick her out at random and push her on to the track. It has happened to people before, and she believes it could happen to her too. Except it wouldn’t be random. She would be chosen. It would look like an accident and Catherine knows how easy it is for accidents to happen.
She fixes her eyes on the track, and sees parts of herself splattered on to it. The train arrives, she stands her ground and pushes forward. Her turn to go over the top. She makes it. The doors close. No seat, but for once she is grateful for the bodies pressed around her, keeping her upright. Eight stops and she will be there.
Eight stops and she gets off and up out into the street. She keeps walking, doesn’t look back. Onward to work, onward to the desk which she needs to get behind. The closer she gets to it, the safer she feels. She almost forgets that, a short while before, she had suspected perfect strangers of watching her, waiting to push her. Not now though. Now she is safe. She swipes her pass, goes through security and joins the few already waiting for the lift. They know her here. And she knows them.
‘Hey, how was the move?’
Catherine smiles at Kim, lovely Kim, lovely, young and vibrant Kim. She dumps her bag on the desk with a thump and takes out the ugly metal lump she’d won and holds it up in self-mocking triumph,
13
Spring 2013
Buried beneath the earth, deep underground, at least thirty feet between her and natural light. Catherine isn’t alone: there are scores of others like her. But are they really? Is he here? Is she here? She clutches her bag to her stomach and snatches a look behind her, to her right, to her left. Eyes meet hers then flick away.
… she felt a gentle stroke across her back and turned around. A sea of faces met hers, but she wasn’t interested in any of them. She glanced up at the platform indicator and saw the train would be arriving in three minutes – what she didn’t know was that it was also announcing how long she had left to live …
She begins to panic. This was a mistake. A foot treads on her. Someone trying to trip her? She pulls her own foot away and glares at the owner of the trainer, who mumbles an apology and stares ahead, eyes on the prize, wanting to beat her on to the train, not to push her under it. Breath on her neck, the smell of aftershave to her left; she holds her breath, can’t breathe in that nauseating smell. Steals a look. A man, taller than her, leers down. Shit. She should have taken the bus. Fuck it, when she’d left the house she’d been determined not to let that book cripple her, and the bus meant three changes, too long to get to work. Too difficult. Catherine the brave, that’s who she is, not a whimpering coward. She is trying to be Robert’s Catherine. Since her late-night book-burning he has started to believe in her again. He has been so careful around her, so considerate. She kept her promise and made an appointment with the doctor and Robert has seen the small yellow pills that sit beside her bed. They help her sleep a little, and help him believe she is getting back to her old self.
They are pushing her and she cannot allow herself to be pushed closer to the oncoming train. She has inched forward each time a train has passed, moving a little closer, ready for the next one, but not too close. She has discovered a new respect for the yellow line. Her body twitches with the fear that a psychopath will pick her out at random and push her on to the track. It has happened to people before, and she believes it could happen to her too. Except it wouldn’t be random. She would be chosen. It would look like an accident and Catherine knows how easy it is for accidents to happen.
She fixes her eyes on the track, and sees parts of herself splattered on to it. The train arrives, she stands her ground and pushes forward. Her turn to go over the top. She makes it. The doors close. No seat, but for once she is grateful for the bodies pressed around her, keeping her upright. Eight stops and she will be there.
Eight stops and she gets off and up out into the street. She keeps walking, doesn’t look back. Onward to work, onward to the desk which she needs to get behind. The closer she gets to it, the safer she feels. She almost forgets that, a short while before, she had suspected perfect strangers of watching her, waiting to push her. Not now though. Now she is safe. She swipes her pass, goes through security and joins the few already waiting for the lift. They know her here. And she knows them.
‘Hey, how was the move?’
Catherine smiles at Kim, lovely Kim, lovely, young and vibrant Kim. She dumps her bag on the desk with a thump and takes out the ugly metal lump she’d won and holds it up in self-mocking triumph,
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