The Closed Platform

Text 1: Thirteen Steps, by Iona Mercer

An original short story extract.

Leila had made a point of laughing when Mr Vale handed her the key. “Your notebook’s still on the platform,” he had said. “Five minutes. Then I lock the street door.” She had swung the key round one finger. “I could find the platform blindfolded.”

Now the ticket hall was empty enough to make every movement seem borrowed from someone else. The emergency lamps painted the tiles a weak yellow. At the stairwell, the darkness opened beneath her, and the metal edges of the steps shone like wet teeth. Leila put the key in her pocket and began the little sequence she remembered from daytime: twelve steps, turn, gate; twelve steps, turn, platform.

Her shoes struck the concrete sharply. A second set of footsteps followed, half a beat behind. Echo, she told herself. Only echo. Yet when she stopped, the station seemed to continue listening. The clock above the platform had halted at 11.47, its hands arranged in a neat, useless angle. Her notebook lay under the bench exactly where she had left it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Leila did not bend for the notebook. The sound came from beyond the pool of light: patient, measured, closer than before. Pipes cooling, probably. A drop of water, perhaps. She said, “Hello?” and the word went thin as thread.

A draught moved along the platform. Beside the tunnel mouth, a loose enamel sign lifted and knocked gently against the wall. Tap. Leila let out a laugh, too bright and too loud, and snatched up the notebook. On the stairs she did not run. She counted instead.

Twelve steps, turn, gate; twelve steps, turn—

thirteen.