An old man wearing a green Harrington jacket looked straight ahead, took three confident steps across the station platform and threw himself in front of the advancing train.
Probably the last thing he saw was a notice across the platform: IT’S OK NOT TO BE OK.
A shrill whistle and screaming breaks couldn’t drown out the shriek from the woman standing close to me. The man himself made no sound.
I saw everything. Apart from the old man there were only three of us. Aigburth isn’t busy.
I knew he was going to jump. I know the signs, I’d often thought about doing it myself. He was calm, he didn’t pace up and down or walk round in ever-decreasing circles – as many people do at Liverpool Central. He stood behind the painted yellow line on the platform edge while waiting for the train ‘for passenger safety’ as instructed by disembodied voices on loudspeakers.
The man had stood, toes of his cheap trainers touching the line, like he was preparing to start a race. He looked down the track where the train would come.
There are notices at stations telling us it’s OK not to feel OK, and a number to get help. One says you should ask people who look unhappy where you can get a coffee. Who thinks these things up?
I knew trains would be delayed, so I shuffled off to catch a bus. The old man in the green Harrington jacket was nothing to do with me.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 