Arnold sat in his little wooden booth, sheltering from the windy blast of the open platform. His worn radio played the strains of popular music, to Arnold’s ears they were all the same. The cracked volume knob was secured to the set with Sellotape. Beside the radio, his copy of The Mirror and his faded sandwich box. He’d eaten one of the sandwiches already and it wasn’t even 8am.
Arnold had a second sense that he was in for a beating as the train drew into the station. As the electronic doors opened in synchronisation, and the trapped masses pounced onto the greasy platform, he heard the volume rise. There was rage in the air, borne along by the charging horde, the sound of primal commuters now released from their captivity. There was no stopping them as the charged on the little wooden booth. It was amazing how such instruments of civilised gentility, the humble briefcase and brolly, could cause such harm to an aging Railtrack employee. But that was his lot, agreed by an FTE contract with pension benefits and 20 days annual leave: the sign above his occupational station said simply, “Late Boy,” an invitation to be beaten for various breaches of timeliness and related frustrations on the railway. Arnold protected his face and neck with a move taught him during his induction.
Bev was braced at the back of the madding crowd, her modest brolly aloft and ready to strike this stupid man, like her fellow passengers. She felt her turn coming, as satisfied commuters pealed away from their bashings and the next row moved forward. How could they warrant 18 minutes of lateness and standing room only? She felt her ire rise. He would Get It from her.
But then, almost immediately, it was her turn – and everything changed. She was no longer angry. Now she was at the front of the crazed crowd, looking down into the pathetic little booth where Arnold the Late Boy had his vocational abode. He was not some burly, strong character with protective wear for his punishment: he was a man in advanced middle-age, poorly shaven, in regulation navy blue Railtrack garb. His tie was dishevelled. His lip was bleeding and his glasses were pressed haplessly across his face from the many blows. There was a deep mark on his forehead from some blunt instrument of commuting. Was he conscious, as he sat on his stool, his back to the wall of the booth, somewhat slumped and senseless from receiving his duty? Bev could hardly lift a hand against this man, but wanted to help him.
She clicked her chic Cellini brolly closed and turned away. She was late for work.
