Beneath The Skin

Contributed by Dan Lester on 06/05/10

Martin was sat on the Bakerloo line platform at Baker Street station, waiting for a northbound train, when an announcement came over the tannoy. “Whoullhsdagnorthernlinenkskdelaysbkbk.” Martin glanced up for a moment, during the mostly incomprehensible announcement, then returned his attention to the newspaper he was reading.

A couple of minutes later, another announcement came through. “Bgghthmnokkluhklohhgkillyourself.” Martin frowned, and looked around the platform. No one else seemed to have noticed anything. He looked over to the LED display, which showed that the next train was due in one minute. Then, as he was watching it, the words ‘kill yourself’ appeared on the display.

Martin stood up slowly and looked around. The other commuters still appeared oblivious. He noticed the rumbling of an oncoming train and felt the rush of air being forced from the tunnel. Carefully and deliberately, he stepped forward to the yellow line, then just as carefully, he stepped over it, so that he was right at the edge of the platform. He could see the lights of the approaching train. In a few seconds it would come hurtling out of the tunnel.

“Martin!” A hand clapped down on his shoulder. He spun around. Mitchell Johnston was standing behind him, grinning.

“Mitchell? What are you doing here?”

“Just on my way home. Half day at the office, you know. What about you?”

“Um, yeah, just heading home.”

By now the train had pulled up to the platform, and people were filing on. Mitchell looked at his watch. ”Look, I’ve got nothing planned this afternoon. Why don’t I buy you lunch? I haven’t seen you since Christmas.”

Martin found himself following Mitchell up the stairs, out of the station and into a nearby pub. “I recommend the steak,” said Mitchell. “Had one here last week. Marvellous.” Martin nodded, feeling dazed, and Mitchell went over to the bar to order, while Martin found a table.

After a couple of minutes Mitchell came back from the bar with two pints of bitter and a flag with the order number on it. They made small talk for a while, mostly Mitchell asking questions and Martin answering. When they were about halfway through their drinks the food was brought out.

Martin looked down at his plate, then up at the TV set in the corner of the room. It was tuned to a news channel, and the latest headlines were scrolling across the bottom of the screen. He squinted, trying to make out the text, and realised that he could see two word over and over again: ‘kill him.’

Martin looked over at Mitchell, who was digging into his food, looked at the movements of his throat as he ate. Then, carefully and deliberately, he picked up the steak knife, gripping it much tighter than was needed.