to me, to home in on it, to see every detail of it. It was my father, as if he had just been down to the shop and then returned, rather than having succumbed – that’s the word that the doctor used, when they called me to visit him: succumbed – to his death the way that he did.
But, of course, it wasn’t him. It was another man, with a suit like his and a coat like his, brushing around his knees even in the middle of the summer; only this man wasn’t dead. His face wasn’t as sallow and pallid as my father’s, at the end. He took his hat off, and I saw his face. The insides of the hat, so different to my father’s; which, I was convinced, held some secrets of the universe, because he would gaze into them when searching for moments of pause, and I would try to distract him. I stared at this man, and he met my eyes, and we smiled, because that’s what you do when something is mutually embarrassing. I looked away, then, to the platform; and the most striking memory, of my father, his actual suit and coat, leading me through the station one day when I was small. Holding my hand, guiding me, taking me someplace; I forget where. His hand, folded over mine, so large it swaddled it; and the warmth of it, on my child-thin knuckles.
‘Come with me,’ he said, as if that was all.
And then, snap, to reality, to the actual then: the light lurch of the train as we left Liverpool Street, leaving Alex’s flat for the last time; my rucksack, a bag with my entire life crammed into it, between my knees. The woman opposite me typing on her phone; the man next to me with a script, learning lines, his lips mouthing the words with almost silent sibilance; another woman with a novel, the cover folded backwards, just a tease of a glimpse of what she’s reading. For one year of my life, as a challenge, everything that I read was a suggestion from other readers on the underground: the covers acting as part of the lure, solidified by the intensity of the reader’s face as they tried to turn as many pages as they could before their stop. I tried to see the woman’s book, then, a cover of delicately painted art, but she kept it clenched. I wished that I could have known, because she was so intent that I wanted nothing more than to read it. People on all sides, all living their lives.
The comfort of feeling hemmed in; even if just a little.
I shut my eyes and leaned back. The new trains rattle less than the old. Less of a rocking sensation; somehow both more and less comforting, at the exact same time.
I heard a flapping that I was sure was a pigeon, somehow make its way into the carriage. They do that: they peck their way into stations, down escalators, onto platforms, into lunches. I pictured it, moving down the carriage; head bobbing, inquisitive, nudging crumbs and leaves along the line of the door. And then my phone trilled in my pocket, cutting through the flapping; leaving that noise gone, and no sign of the bird.
A message, from Alex:
I’m sorry. Fly safely. X
I deleted it. Didn’t just turn off the screen, act as if it weren’t there, but I deleted it. The faff of endless menus, of attempting to discover a way to remove that message, to purge it, while leaving the previous messages – I can’t wait to see you; I thought of you today – even though, perhaps, those were lies, since no choice such as his gets made so rashly. And I saw my hands – my knuckles, more wrinkled and drawn than I remembered them being, as if I hadn’t actually looked at them in the longest time, and time itself had cheated me of whatever near-muscular form I thought that my knuckles once had – and I realized how old I suddenly was. A tidal wave of time, washing over everything, swallowing it whole.
My father had died fifteen years earlier. He had been eighty-five, and old with it; a curmudgeon in a chair at Christmas, paper crown still folded on his placemat, Whisky Mac in hand regardless of what the rest of us were drinking. The man in the crowd reminded me far more of my father when I had been young, still hat and coat and briefcase and a complicit understanding that he was my hero; and I, in some way, maybe was his.
Then, of course, time and life interrupt; and we were at odds. When his father – my grandfather – died, I remember him telling me that he was sad that he never got a chance to say the things that he wanted to say. The gulf between them; the pain.
I told myself that history wouldn’t repeat; except, of course, that’s the nature of history. Inescapably cyclic.
Farringdon, and the electric slide of the doors that, when I was a child, on another line before this one even existed, used to hiss their pleasure at being opened. A girl got on. Ten, or eleven, and dressed for some sort of event: you can see them around at weekends, as superheroes or movie stars. This girl was wearing a bonnet, a Victorian child-heroine writ large. She apologized with her eyes, and she sat next to me. Bunched her skirts up. I folded my body as small as I could, in the space, and she smiled at me. And we left Farringdon, this part of the city that’s so old, so well worn; and in the tunnel, in the dark, I saw myself reflected in the window. My face, but somehow barely recognizable. The thump of the dark tunnel outside, seemingly endless, as if leaving the carriage and wading through the black might lead to some parallel world.
‘Pardon my intrusion,’ a still, small voice said. From the young lady. ‘You’re Gregory Abbey, aren’t you?’
I had a moment where I wondered if there was any chance she’d read one of my novels, but I doubted it – she was not the target audience, if such a thing even existed – and yet. Perhaps she was one of Alexander’s nieces. He had enough of them, faces that blended in amongst a parade of introductions: this is my friend, Gregory.
A lie, a lie, a barely formed truth.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you,’ I said.
‘I’m Alice,’ she said. She held her hand out, to shake mine; and mine enveloped hers, a gnarled root swamping soft willow. ‘Do you remember me? It has been a while.’
I felt myself spiralling. Shut my eyes, a blink that lasted a count of one, nothing more; and I remembered her. I remembered a photograph that my grandmother herself had shown me, of the day that she had her picture taken. And this was her, my grandmother, Alice Abbey; and she was sitting in front of me.
‘Are you real?’ I asked her, and she laughed. She didn’t answer; which, in itself, is an answer, of sorts. ‘Why are you so young? When I last saw you, you were an old woman.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather look like this, if you could?’
‘What are you doing here?’ I wondered how loud my voice was; how loud you should be, when speaking to somebody who was meant to be long dead.
‘I’m here because you are. I used to ride this stretch,’ she said. ‘The tunnels don’t change, you know.’ She smiled. Kicked her feet, which scuffed along the floor.
‘But why?’ I asked her.
‘Because today is when you’re going to die,’ she told me. ‘And this is what happens when you do.’
My dying father’s bedside was a strange affair. He was in a hospice, because there was no other way to make sure that he was actually cared for, not the half-arsed care that comes from having one eye on a dying man and another on the food you’re burning, the love you’re losing, the television you’re missing. He wasn’t happy, because he wanted me to take him in. But I had Alexander. I told him, then, when he asked why he couldn’t move in with me. He said, ‘You don’t have a wife, you don’t have children.’
I told him. He told me not to visit him any more.
The only time I made it through the doors was at the very end. The care workers
