Breath & Shadow

FICTION

TODD AUSTIN HUNT

No Travelcard

The thunder of the Victoria Underground trains thrummed faintly through the bare sole of Malcolm's right foot as he slipped his left through the hole of his pants. He dropped his pants behind the loo and bent over, breathing deeply as his face began to flush. The cool air immediately began to shrink his free-swinging tidbits. He'd never run this station before, and the exhilaration squeezed his chest like an overeager lover. The sweet, sweet shock that paralyzed all the faces: the biddies, the lovelies, even the stalwart barristers enveloped in their own particular hardened shell of sin. He took them out of time.

Wonder if Da would be proud of his Malcolm?

A thin giggle sprayed from his lips. Inhaling deeply, he turned and pounded through the privy doors. An old man bent over the sink washing his hands, oblivious to Malcolm. Malcolm caught his reflection above the man's stooped back in flight. Tired eyes. Proud ribs pressing against weary flesh. A blur.

He froze in the spot before the door that led out of the toilets into Victoria Station and pushed it open slowly with two fingers, as if he anticipated some Great Secret lay beyond. The chaotic voice of the masses seeped in through the crease, surrounding Malcolm and the wash, wash, wash of the old man.

Malcolm pushed open the door and ran. The air rushing around his free skin was cold, alerting him that he was awash with sweat. Lighting toward the stairs that rose to the main concourse and platform, he swiveled around clusters of people, smelling sweat and masking perfume and rubbish food. Dashing up the stairs, evading touch but nonetheless whispering, "—sorry. Cheers," Malcolm registered the fingers pointing up the stairs behind his scrawny, bare bottom. He laughed for a moment, but then heard the silence and felt the surge of the crowd up the stairs.

Topping the last step, he bolted through the open spaces between the travelers scurrying along the main concourse floor toward the platforms. Overfed, red faces jerked around in his wake. Mumbles.

"Oh, dear Jesus."

"Sanctity is gone."

"The sick bastard."

The last one renewed Malcolm's smile, yet the crowd continued to gather in his trail and surge toward the platform. Sirens drifted through the station from Kensington side as he leaped over the turnstile past a clerk staring at the trains while gnawing at an overstuffed pasty.

The crowd continued to mill toward the train, despite protests from workers and guards. Malcolm dodged a child hurrying to the ledge. Shutting off his peripheral and finally looking, he noticed that none of the crowd was staring at him. Those he had passed were now filling the platform, joining others who peered greedily down at the tracks. He was ignored.

He halted, tidbits swinging to a stop as well, and approached the edge of the platform where a single elderly lady stared down at the tracks. Looking around the woman's frail shoulders, he winced. A skinny bloke lay down there, crushed and torn and destroyed by an arriving train. What skin that remained whole was gray and bare.

Although sickened by the sight, Malcolm felt a perverted jealousy of the dead man for having stolen his day, for capturing all the shock of Victoria Station.

The old woman turned around. Her watery eyes passed right through Malcolm, as a moment later, did she, mumbling in a voice that radiated outward from his ethereal core.

"No travelcard. No clothes. Poor lad."