Across the Platform

I see her. She sees me. A glint of fearful intrigue ripples across the water, welling up in her eyes. She watches intensely as my gaze hesitantly drifts downwards. I see everything; the blood, the knife, the body it’s sticking out of…and the baby in the pram. She doesn’t move. I’m worried the baby (a half metre to her left) might not be alive. It’s a reasonable concern, given the scene before me, but he looks peaceful and pristine. It appears as though he is fast asleep, or so I hope.

We stand eerily still, staring at each other across the deserted train tracks separating us. It’s 2.49 am, the time flashes in orange on the sign over her head. The faint buzz of the station lights is the only audible sound. That and the rapid drum in our chests echoing through our eyelids. I know there are no more trains due until dawn. I assume she also knows.

For the first time, she breaks her gaze from me and looks toward the boy in the pram. Even from where I stand, I notice how she visibly, immediately softens for the little guy. It tells me she wants to protect him. Maybe she did this for him. Her eyes flicker back to meet mine; they are desperate now, pleading with me. She can’t reach me from there, not quickly anyway. It may be in my head but I can hear her internal voice begging me to turn around and walk away. I can’t help but consider it.

She is shorter even than me, couldn’t be much more than 5 feet tall. She is thin too, frankly too frail and in other circumstances my concern in seeing her would be focused on that. A handful of gold curls hang around her sunken, grey face. The rest is pinned loosely in a bun that is barely hanging on. I can see the zig zag outlines of the frizzy pieces backlit by the orange glow. She is wearing what used to be a frilly white summer dress sweeping across her ankles. Now it drips with crimson goo. The ends of her loose curls vanish into the red pool that envelopes her from her neck to her thighs. Droplets making contact with the gravel at her feet back into the pond surrounding the man. I think to refer to him as a victim but I stop myself seeing the victim hood painted across this woman’s face. Separate from the violent image she stands in, she looks fragile, contradicting all of it. That man, whoever he is, was certainly bigger than her. How could this woman have killed him? Did she kill him?

I have walked this path a hundred times, not normally at this late hour. I thought getting dumped by my idiotic boyfriend would be the worst thing to happen to me today, and I stand firmly corrected. Evidently, the dead guy on platform 1 had a despicably worse Thursday night. His eyes are wide and unmoving. His mouth hangs open as if caught mid-scream. A shiver crawls its way through my skeleton at the absence of the sound that should echo from his gaping maw. It isn’t even cold tonight, yet it's reminiscent of standing in the meat freezer at work. The blood fits that memory, too. Then again, never this much blood, it is so much blood. It’s a humbling gratitude check that mine is still inside my veins. Though frankly, I have to ask myself if it will stay that way as I stand there motionless, unable to walk away. Equally unable to call for help. For some sickening reason I want to approach.

She is so drenched in blood that I cannot determine if any of it could be her own. What if this was self-defence? Perhaps I should turn a blind eye if it saves my skin and prevents that baby from foster care. I withhold my display of emotion at the thought I could shout across to her, “I will keep your secret”. It’s a fleeting option, of course, because I understand it’s obstruction of justice or accessory. Or something or bloody other that was on that fucking crime documentary I saw. Jesus fucking Christ I’m looking at a real crime scene. I can’t give her a hint of anything on my face, I can’t play this moment until I come to some sort of decision. That baby has got to stay alive.

What if that’s not her baby? What if that is her baby? Is there a better option of the two? I could run. I should run. I could turn on my heel and make a mad dash through the field behind me until I hit town. In fact, why haven’t I? The bullies in school always chased the kid who ran, and that used to be me. They liked knowing I was frightened. I fear the approach of not running might be stupid when you are up against a knife-wielding lady who is already one body deep in her spree. All I have on me in the way of potential weaponry is a Hello Kitty key chain on which the ears are quite sharp. Surely no match for her miniature Katana. She probably won’t follow me. She has to stay with her son. If he is her son… I can’t walk away from a baby whose sole guardian is currently re-enacting Macbeth in a train station. I could walk across this bridge and take my chances. She might listen to reason. Or tell me how this horrible man was the predator, and she did the right thing. She’s not even holding the weapon, it’s still wedged between his ribs.

Almost as if she heard me, she bends down and pulls the knife towards her. She flinches as the blood continues to pour from his now entirely severed chest. With it back in her grasp, her back straightens and her entire presence shifts. She glares across at me, and ever so slightly, I catch a whisper of a smile.

Fuck.