Cecelia Ahern - Short Stories - The Every Year Collection

The train eventually stopped at Tara Street Station and the door opened with a hissing sound, like the loosening of a mineral-bottle lid. It had the same effect as a birdcage being opened; out through the door they all fluttered, tiredly bumping into one other as they walked at different paces downstairs and on into the fresh air. The sun was rising over O’Connell Bridge, the buildings casting shadows on the pavements. Steven walked in and out of the darkness as he moved with the rolling crowd, just one more body, just another meaningless overactive mind churning on a crowded city pavement.

Two thousand six hundred and four steps to the bank. They all marched on in full uniform to the beat of a drum. Forty-eight steps downstairs to his office, where he took his position in the firing line and awaited the moment Gerard Rush, his boss, would give him the good news.

Twelve noon sharp, and the door to Steven’s office opened, banging against his desk. Gerard popped his head around the door. His face said it all. His complexion was grey and his expression grim.

‘I’m sorry, Steven. They decided to go with Andy in the end. I fought for you, I really did.’ Gerard sat before him, his back almost touching the door of the small office. His voice was sincere, his apology genuine.

The promotion was the one thing he had had to look forward to, so much so that it had become the solution to every problem. Everything would be all right when he got the job. It was the crutch that had helped him limp along. It wasn’t a lifelong ambition, it wasn’t his aim in life to sit behind padded porridge screens leafing through files, it was just that there was nothing else. There were no other distractions, no other goals or interests. It was all there, every little hope in the world pinned right on the promotion. His last crutch had been taken away and now he was falling.

The woman’s voice from the train came back to him— He wouldn’t have felt a thing— and suddenly there was clarity. He had found another crutch, albeit a temporary one.

Gerard watched him—his grey and wrinkled face full of concern—expecting him to scream, shout and fire the stapler at his head. The strip lighting buzzed loudly in the silence that ensued. But Steven smiled, a big broad smile that Gerard hadn’t seen for years.

‘No worries, Gerard, I understand,’ he beamed, his eyes lighting up.

Gerard looked confused. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Yep,’ he chirped, leaning back in his bony chair, looking around his closet-sized office proudly. He repeated confidently, ‘Yep. Absolutely.’

‘OK.’ Gerard nodded quickly, confused by his reaction. ‘Well, that’s a great attitude to have, I must say. Do you want to take a break or anything, get a breath of fresh air?’ He studied his face closely.

Steven laughed. ‘Yes, actually, I will in a while, but in the meantime I’ll get back to work on this lot. He picked up a pile of papers and banged them down on front of him, the dust bouncing up from the old table.

‘Right.’ Gerard paused. ‘OK.’ He stood up and got ready to leave. ‘I’m very sorry, Steven,’ he said sincerely, holding out his hand.

Steven looked up from the stack of papers and took Gerard’s hand. ‘Thanks, Gerard.’ He grasped his hand tighter, holding on that little bit longer. ‘Thanks for everything.’ His voice was gentle.

‘No problem, Steven. It’s my pleasure.’ He gulped lightly, not liking the change in atmosphere. ‘It’s not the end of the world, remember, it’s just a job,’ he stressed.

Steven picked up the phone and called his parents.

Twenty minutes later he put on his suit jacket, turned off the buzzing strip lighting and exited his office. He waved at Gerard down the hall, who hesitantly gave him the thumbs-up. With a spring in his step he hadn’t felt for years, he walked the forty-eight steps to the ground floor and outside into the fresh air.

He walked the two thousand six hundred and four steps to the train station, the streets quieter now with everyone buried at work. As he entered the station his head felt light, no longer heavy and pounding. A haze had lifted from his mind, a weight from his shoulders, and he experienced a sensation of floating he’d never had before. He was happy, clear in his mind of what he wanted to do. He didn’t want to worry any more, he didn’t want to feel scared, and he didn’t want his mind to keep torturing him. He knew what he needed to do and he wouldn’t feel a thing .

He entered his train ticket into the machine and pushed his way through the barrier, relieved that for once in his life his destination was unknown. Anywhere but here. Arriving on the platform, hands trembling and heart pumping with adrenaline, he was glad to see that the station was empty. His mind was focused. There was only one way for him to go. He glanced up at the sign hanging over the platform. The next train would be in twenty-four minutes. Twenty-four minutes was a long time to wait. He needed to do it now. Angrily, he kicked a can and sent it flying off the platform and onto the tracks. He watched it lie there, knowing its destiny. He had nothing to do but pace the yellow line he had obediently stayed behind his whole life. Today he would cross it. His skin grew clammy and a chill ran through his body. He could do this.

Twenty minutes. What would Gerard think when he didn’t get back to work? He pictured his friendly boss staring down the hall, making sure Steven had returned. He had known something was up, he had felt it in his handshake and seen it in his eyes. It wouldn’t be long before he entered his office and saw the note. Steven played out the scene. Gerard would panic, call the gardaí, and they would immediately set out looking for him. But they wouldn’t find him. Not the way they wanted to anyway.

He glanced up at the sign. Sixteen minutes. He paced the yellow line, clenching and unclenching his fists. What would the lads think when he didn’t turn up to football on Sunday? They’d be angry he’d let them down, at having to take Rory Malone off the bench for the first time since he scored an own goal in last year’s final. He could imagine them all bitching about him over a few pints after the game, blaming Rory Malone and Steven’s no-show for their loss. Maybe the next day they’d find out what happened and hopefully understand.

If only they knew how his days were covered in darkness, as if someone had turned off the light switch in his mind; if only they knew how his waking up in the morning was the first disappointment of every day. He was tired, he had nothing left to give, no more ideas to try. If they could understand that, then they could understand his decision.

Nine minutes left. The crowd at the train station. How would they feel? Would they even notice he wasn’t there? The lady with the torn briefcase and the man in the brown suede coat, would they notice him missing from the middle of their daily queue. Would they notice that one more person than usual could squeeze into the train? Would they be looking out of the dirty window as the train pulled away, waiting for him to run onto the platform, out of breath and panicked at having missed the train? When the platform was empty, would they even notice? Would they remember the previous day’s talk about the man jumping in front of the train and would that woman, that same woman, think, He wouldn’t have felt a thing , just to make herself feel better, so she could sleep well that night and rest easy in her bubble?

Four minutes. His granddad. What would he think? Would he even know what had happened, or understand? He could imagine him being told by the nurse that his only grandson had passed away. He could imagine him asking, ‘What grandson? Steven who?’ and settling down to watch his geraniums blow in the breeze on his windowsill. Steven smiled as he walked faster and faster to the end of the platform, his head dizzy with relief. He needed to get off the platform now and onto the tracks so that he caught the train before it slowed down. He wanted to have to do this only once.