ROSS MCQUEEN

The Station Clock

15:46

They stood outside the café and across the road the hands of the station clock ticked round.

‘We’re going to do this?’ she said. ‘You’re sure you want to?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

‘Sometimes you don’t seem sure.’

‘I’m sure,’ he said.

‘You do love me, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Say it.’

‘I love you.’

‘And you’ll tell her tonight?’

‘I’ll tell her.’

She kissed him.

‘Here’s your ticket.’ She pressed it into his hand and he looked at it: Brussels to Frankfurt, 8:34 pm. One way. ‘Meet you back here this evening?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Here in front of the clock.’

And the sun shone down on the hands of the clock, and it was warm for February.

She hesitated. ‘Do you want to go for a drink? Before you go back?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I have some things to do before I leave.’

‘Before we leave.’

She kissed him again and he felt her hands tight about his shoulders. ‘See you this evening.’

He went to catch the metro.

16:01

On the metro he looked around blankly at the faces of the other passengers. At Porte de Hal a man stepped on with an accordion. A young girl tottered down the aisle with an empty cup, gathering change. At Hôtel des Monnaies they got off.

When the metro reached Louise, he suddenly thought: why don’t I get out here? There was no rush to go home. He had only a few things to collect and he didn’t want to spend long in the flat. He might as well go for a stroll as it was such a bright day. And so he hopped off the metro and went up into the February sun.

The light was clean and crisp after the grubby glare of the metro station. He strolled down towards the Palais de Justice. The traffic was heavy and police cars blared by. Soldiers with rifles patrolled. The Palais itself was bristling with scaffolds. But its dome jabbed up at the blue sky, clear save for stray wisps of cloud.

From the edge of Place Poelaert he looked over the jumble of the city’s rooftops. The black spires of old churches poked up between run-down houses and glassy hotels. The silver globes of the Atomium gleamed in the distance. And to the west stood the huge tower at Midi station, where he would return in a couple of hours.

Why don’t I go to Sablon, he thought? And so he wandered down off the square and walked to Sablon.

16:33

Under the gaze of tall, ornate Brussels townhouses, he found a café and sat outside and ordered a coffee. The terraces were full of weekend people enjoying the unseasonable weather. He drank his coffee and thought on what he’d arranged to do this evening. He couldn’t put it from his mind.

He thought about all he would be leaving behind. On his phone he flicked through photographs. There was a photo he’d taken with his girlfriend, standing together under a bridge in Mechelen. He looked at her picture and thought: can I leave all this?

And he decided that yes, he could. It seemed like a very easy thing to do.

17:21

After his coffee he took a walk through the city centre where the tourists were. He walked to Grand Place. He was just killing time now. He stopped at a tourist shop and bought a waffle with chocolate and ate it on the street. The sun was going down and the strange warmth of the day was fading and it became chilly. The chocolate from the waffle dripped onto his hand and he licked it off. There was a big clock face on one of the old ornate buildings. The scrolled hands ticked round. It was getting late.

18:39

It took him some time to get home. At Place Jourdan he crossed the square, with its fatty smell of the fritkot, and he wove around terraces that spilt out from the cafés and restaurants onto the square. Sparrows pecked at fallen frites and hopped across the flagstones with their beaks open. He wondered: would there be squares like this in Frankfurt? He turned up the street to his address.

His flat was on the top floor of an old maison de maître. It was dim inside. The shutters had been rolled down over the balcony windows. A warm, soft hush was on the room, as if he were intruding on a bedchamber or a maternity ward, that he had no right to disturb.

In the cosy gloom he saw a shape move on the sofa. Samira lay there beneath heavy blankets. Her flu was bad. She had been sleeping – but on hearing the door she had woken. This had caused the fat tabby cat, who until now had been purring happily on her stomach, to stir and stretch, and to knead the blanket with his claws before settling down once more.

‘Is that you?’ Samira murmured.

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I was gone so long.’

‘Were you?’ She hadn’t noticed.

‘I went out. I had coffee with a friend. But I’m back now.’

And he went over to the sofa and sat down and felt her forehead. It was damp and feverish. He brushed his hand over her hair and she snuggled down into the blankets and was content.

‘I’ll make you tea,’ he said.

He busied himself in the kitchen. He boiled water and looked in the fridge. Some of the food had gone rotten.

18:51

When he brought her the tea he noticed a sound that had been bothering him. Rarely was the living room this quiet. But there it was – the small analogue clock on the wall emitted a faint tick. Faint – but distinct. He put the tea down on the floor next to her and seated himself in a chair.

19:05

By all accounts he should have been packing now. But in this warm room, this warm dim room, he sat and kept sitting. He heard the soothing noise of Samira’s sleep-breathing, the pleased purring of the cat, and over it all the ticking of the clock on the wall. He felt very peaceful in spite of what he had agreed to do. He stared at the clock.

He ought to leave soon. He was cutting it fine. But he remained there, listening to the cat and the clock, and made no move to get up.

19:31

Why had he not noticed the ticking of the clock before? It had been there since they moved in. Had it always ticked like that? The previous tenants had left it behind, and he and Samira had kept it where it was. He had never known it to tick so loudly. And he realised that his heart was beating in time and he felt the beginnings of a headache. It was hot in the room.

If he was going to go it had to be now. But he did nothing.

19:46

Why had he not gone? If he was going to make it he had to leave in the next couple of minutes. But he didn’t get up. His headache was bad. He sat in the chair and counted his heartbeats.

20:03

Well, that was that. Getting to the station on time was an impossibility, now. And at this a vast calm flooded over him. For thirty minutes no one would be any the wiser. Claudette would be heading to Gare du Midi now, expecting to meet him in front of the clock, buoyed by the thought of their running away together, with no inkling that he would not come. And Samira lay heavy with sleep and flu on the sofa, safe and secure, unaware of what might have happened.

He looked at Samira: peaceful, pretty, kind. It was strange to think he might ever have escaped this quiet little world. He hadn’t really believed he would, had he? And surely, if she knew him at all, Claudette couldn’t have believed so either?

He switched off his phone and the whole world seemed far away.

20:33

If she was going to get on the train she would have to do it now. She’d be standing on the platform, searching for him, calling him and receiving no answer. What would she decide to do? Would she stay? Would she go?

The ticking of the clock was maddening, deafening.

He looked at the clock on the wall and in his mind he saw the hands of the station clock going round and round.

Ross McQueen is a Scottish writer based in Brussels. His stories have been published in Amsterdam Quarterly and The Brussels Review. His non-fiction has appeared in the Guardian and Time Out.