A Close Call

Predatory red eyes stare out of the void, as the train finally disappears into the darkness.  Where the carriages once stood, a bone-aching chill settles down with it's companion - silence.1

My parka, although heavy, fails to stop the draught sneaking past the buttons, gripping first my throat, then chest and ribs.  Guess who got too comfy about the heating in his compartment then?  The situation mirrors my life of the past few months.  The train is my childhood and a sheltered environment, the platform the real world.  How isolated I feel, watching all those people who have their own lives to live, dreams to follow and fears to hide from.  No-one is obliged to pay any attention or expend any energy on a waif, huddled on a platform-bench in Cologne's main railway-station, at half-past eleven on an icy March night.2

Anything could happen to me.  There are real monsters out there who wear Nike trainers and watch television, but can corrupt and torture innocence without batting an eyelid.  Young people, no matter what their gender, can simply disappear whilst abroad and re-appear months later, in a shallow grave.  Fit, clean bodies ripped open.  Promising lives snuffed-out for the satisfaction of maladjusted minds.  One day a video may turn up on the private circuit; a permenant dedication to the agonising last moments of a human being.  3

"Of course, it's only simulated', they will say, but we all have a visceral recognition of true mortal distress, of pleading and terror-filled eyes.4

It really is a jungle out there, but Man is the only animal which kills for pleasure.  A sane person can understand that one must be careful of hungry lions or charging elephants; its only natural.  Humans are supposed to be social animals, needful of contact and communication.  So sad that these necessary urges bring us within the grasp of ravening beasts more horrifying than any wild animal.5

These thoughts build a wall around me.  Any approaches by strangers must be viewed with extreme caution.  Never let a situation develop where you can't bale-out and run for safety.  If all else fails, the bowie-knife in the lining of my parka can do some 'negotiating'.  Prevention is better than cure, so stay scared and don't let your guard down.6

He walks past once, tapping a rolled-up copy of Die Welt against his thigh; agitated, nervous?  He's looking around into the darkness, feigning impatience.  Short, thin, balding head, rimmed by clipped black hair, the faint line of a mustache clinging to his upper lip.  Cloaked in a long fawn-coloured rain-coat, his pin-striped trousers badly turned-up.  He lives alone.  Yes, he'd probably pass for a 'perv'.7

He struts past again, his jutting chin and arms clamped to his sides remind me of a pidgeon. Feral, arrogant.  A quick glance at the timetable and here he comes again.  This time he stops in front of me, facing the tracks, stock-still, building his courage up.  8

Turning around with almost military precision, he enquires -9

"You are english?"10

I keep my arms crossed and answer in the affirmative.  This guy is as sharp as a billiard-ball!  My parka is festooned with sew-on badges from the various clubs I used to be a member of; rifle, practical-pistol, ju-jitsu.  Each one blattantly showing a Union-Jack in its logo.11

"Would you like to come to come into town for a drink or something?" comes the next verbal offering.  So, he's worked-out my connecting train doesn't arrive for another two hours.  Is he trying to 'pull' me?  I shut my eyes, pull my arms in tighter and answer -12

"No!"13

"Well, I must be going now" he apologises in his best Private-Schultz-accented english.  The response came too quickly for the invitation to have been 'innocent'.  He spins around again and tick-tocks off down the corridor like a little toy-soldier.14

I imagine what might have happened had I taken him up on his offer.  Suddenly, there is a chill in me deeper than any icy night could generate.  The wolf doesn't necessarily don sheeps clothing to gain the trust of the lamb. A rain-coat could suffice.15

A gust of wind sends powdered snow swirling across the grey slabs of the platform; strong enough to make my rucksac slide onto its side, like a drunk giving-in to sleep.  Leaning across, I stand it up again and check that the contents are still securely packed. The bin-liner wrapped around my gear, to keep it dry, is punctured somewhere.  16

I know it is, because the canvas of the rucksac is stained almost black by the seeping internal organs of my last companion.17