THE WING
A Room With a View
Nigel Martin
Through my window I can just look over Platform 2 of Wakefield Westgate. Whether it’s a privilege or an added punishment, I can’t decide.
In the early morning sunshine countless commuters prepare themselves for the working day ahead, each one unwittingly driving my loneliness into me like a succession of punches. I’ll never get to meet them, speak with them, find out where they’re going.
Leeds most likely. To sit in front of a computer screen in an office, another type of prison. Would they swap our respective cells given the chance, just for a few hours? Perhaps they’re dreading a presentation to a room of strangers. Or they’re off to explain to their boss why the report so vital to securing that all-important contract isn’t finished yet. Sitting in here for the day might seem preferable.
Oh God.
The workers bring me down but it’s the others that really get to me. Those off for a day of shopping in York or a week with family in Plymouth. A dirty weekend in Edinburgh.
Other times, after witnessing some fresh inhumanity in here, I relish the link with civilisation one hundred metres beyond these thick stone walls. Really it’s a world away.
‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime,’ the old saying warns. ‘Crime’. In my case, the absence of the plural is important. It sets me apart from the majority in here. The serial offenders. The real sickos. My lapse was a one-off, I’m sure of it.
I imagine the authorities know I’m not like the others, that I shouldn’t be here. Not in this prison anyway. ‘Monster Mansion’ the red tops call it.
Oh Jesus Christ.
I spend most of my days watching trains come and go and the station has come to intrude my nights too. I dream I’m stood on the platform, revel in being able to move around, to read the timetables and look at all the potential destinations. A free man.
No train ever arrives.
Recently she’s been there, sometimes older than I remember, sometimes younger. She’s alone, just as she was that day.
When I try to approach she moves away, disappearing up the stairs to the footbridge or vanishing behind a pillar. Occasionally I’m able to get closer, within touching distance, but when I reach out I wake up.
Like tonight.
My eyes grow accustomed to the darkness and I become aware of a sound. I hold my breath. Where the fuck’s it coming from?
The cell is silent, and there is no sound coming from beyond its steel door either.
I listen again.
Nothing.
I shut my eyes to sleep.
I hear it again.
A human sound. Coming from outside.
Anger rising, I spring to my feet and look through the bars of my window at Platform 2 of Wakefield Westgate.
In the twilight I make out a lone figure standing on the platform.
It’s her.
She’s looking up at my cell.
The sound I hear is her laughter.
