The Passengers Who Knew My Name

I first noticed the station because the trains were stopping there.

I was walking beside the railway line one afternoon when I heard a whistle. A train emerged from a cutting, slowed, and stopped beside a platform I had never seen before.

There was no station building, only a shelter, a bench and a sign bearing the name of a town I did not recognise.

The doors opened.

A woman stepped down carrying a bouquet of flowers.

She looked directly at me.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” she said.

I had never seen her before.

“That's all right,” I replied, although I had no idea what she meant.

She looked towards the train.

“Are you expecting anyone else?”

“No.”

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you might be.”

She walked along the platform and sat on the bench. The train departed.

I watched it disappear into the cutting.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Where have you come from?”

She named a town several hundred miles away.

“And where are you going?”

She looked at the flowers.

“I'm not sure. I was told to get off here.”

“By whom?”

She hesitated.

“Someone who said you would be waiting.”

I glanced around the empty platform.

“I think there's been a mistake.”

She smiled.

“Perhaps.”

I decided to leave.

There was a footpath leading away from the station, but after a few minutes it brought me back to the platform. I tried the other direction, with the same result.

The woman was still sitting on the bench.

“Are you still here?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“But I thought you were leaving.”

“I was waiting for you.”

I looked at the railway line.

Another train was approaching.

It stopped beside the platform, and a man stepped down. He was carrying a small wooden box.

He looked at me.

“Ah,” he said. “There you are.”

I began to feel uncomfortable.

“Do I know you?”

“Not yet.”

He placed the box on the bench.

“Would you mind looking after this?”

“What is it?”

“Something I was asked to bring you.”

He opened the lid.

Inside lay a small brass key.

I picked it up.

It was warm.

“What does it open?” I asked.

The man looked towards the cutting.

“That depends on where you use it.”

He stepped back onto the train.

“Wait,” I called. “Who asked you to bring it?”

He smiled.

“You did.”

The doors closed.

The train departed.

I stood holding the key.

The woman with the flowers had gone.

The wooden box remained on the bench, but it was empty.

I turned it over. On the underside, someone had scratched a date into the wood.

It was tomorrow's date.

I looked at my watch.

The hands had stopped.

There was a sound behind me.

A door opening.

I turned.

The station shelter had acquired a door, though I was certain it had been open on all sides a moment earlier. It was painted green, with a small brass lock.

I tried the key.

It fitted.

Inside was a waiting room. There were two chairs, a table, and a large mirror. On the table lay a timetable.

I picked it up.

There were several departures listed. Each was headed by a name.

The first was the woman with the flowers.

The second was the man with the wooden box.

The third was my own name.

Beside it was a time: eleven minutes past midnight.

I looked at my watch.

It had started again.

The hands showed eleven minutes past midnight.

I heard a train approaching.

Through the mirror I could see the platform. A carriage was drawing in, and a passenger was standing at the window.

It was me.

Not someone who resembled me. Not a reflection. I could see the small scar above my left eyebrow, the way I held my shoulders, the familiar expression of someone who had been travelling too long.

The passenger looked towards the waiting room.

Then he smiled.

I turned towards the door.

It was locked.

I tried the key, but it would not turn.

The train stopped.

The doors opened.

I heard footsteps on the platform, approaching the shelter.

Someone knocked.

“Are you there?” a voice called.

I recognised it.

It was my own.

I did not answer.

The knocking stopped.

Then I heard the voice say:

“Never mind. I'll wait.”

I looked at the timetable again.

My departure time had changed.

It now read:

WHEN THE OTHER ONE ARRIVES.

I sat down.

The mirror showed the empty platform, the train standing with its doors open, and a man waiting beside the carriage.

He was holding a brass key.

I looked at the key in my hand.

It was gone.

The man in the mirror raised his hand and showed me the key.

Then he walked towards the waiting room.

I stood up.

The door opened.

I stepped outside.

The platform was empty. The train had departed. The shelter had returned to its former appearance, with no door, no waiting room and no mirror.

Only the bench remained.

On it lay a small bouquet of flowers.

I picked them up.

They were still fresh.

A train whistle sounded in the distance.

I looked towards the cutting, wondering whether I should wait.

Then I noticed a sign beside the platform that I had not seen before.

It read:

THIS STATION DOES NOT APPEAR ON ANY TIMETABLE. PASSENGERS SHOULD ALIGHT WHEN THEY RECOGNISE SOMEONE.

I put the flowers down.

I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was expected somewhere.

I just couldn't remember who was waiting.