Beyond the Knock Knock Door Read Free

lights powered up suddenly and Michael barrelled into a group of teenagers. ‘Hey! Watch out, kid!’ they protested, drawing looks from the other commuters. They gathered their school gear about them and stared as if he was crazy. He looked round the platform, confused to see both old ladies finally walk away, the woman swallow her noodle and the boy pick up and pocket his ticket. People moved freely, as if no longer snared by time.
    He stepped away. Maybe he was crazy.
    Cl-lick – Cl-lick –
    Wait. That noise.
    He weaved through the commuters and spotted a homeless man wearing a chequered hat, an olive coat,several layers of ghastly shirts and a pair of green trousers tucked into football socks. His hair was orange, thinning and slicked back, and he limped with the support of a single aluminium crutch. At least that explained the clicking. Michael breathed, watching him beg for money. Maybe it was the man’s appearance or smell, but everyone he asked hurried through the turnstiles with their briefcases, children or parcels held tightly.
    The 4.20 approached. Commuters folded their newspapers or collected their shopping bags as a blast of chilly, metallic air preceded the headlights of the train. The shrill of dozens of rolling wheels deafened the platform for a second, before giving way to a ruckus near the turnstiles.
    â€˜Let go of me! That’s my train!’ the homeless man said, blocked by the transit staff from passing through.
    â€˜No ticket – no train.’
    â€˜I don’t need a ticket.’
    â€˜And we don’t need you hanging around here.’
    The guards tried herding him towards the stairs as commuters turned away, having seen it all before. A few snorted or laughed into their phones. ‘How disgusting,’ one girl sniffed.
    â€˜You’re hurting me! Let go!’
    â€˜Come on. Crutches or no crutches, you can still walk –’
    â€˜I said I’ll find you an extra lousy dollar if you let me!’
    The train came to a rest as a recorded voice listed off the designated stations. People inside and out crowdedround the doors, waiting for them to open.
    â€˜Mister,’ Michael said, urgently reaching forward. He stood on the other side of the turnstiles, holding out a dollar in change. ‘Here.’
    â€˜Save your money, son,’ the first guard said. ‘He’ll only waste it on alcohol.’
    But Michael offered it again.
    The homeless man struggled free then leered down his veiny nose at the twelve-year-old boy and the coins. Without so much as a thank you, he swiped them and teetered off, watched by the guards, who shook their heads.
    Michael just squeezed through the closing doors of the train.
    Rain fell as he stared out at the grey city. Demolition crews, skyscrapers, peeling billboards and grim-faced police cordoning off a car accident slipped by before the scenery broke into hundreds of dark blotches and became one wet blur. With a sigh, he rested his head against the cold window and dreamt of green fields, tree houses and jumping with his brother and sister into rivers buzzing with dragonflies. Back at the farm, there were no snooty classmates or Thornleigh sisters who made him miserable. And today had been one of his better days.
    A passenger prowling between carriages distracted him. He sat upright as, to his amazement, the orange-haired homeless man searched for a seat. But how? He himself had only barely jumped on board – and he already had a ticket. Soon, though, Michael wished hehadn’t. With great theatrics, the homeless man collapsed in the second row, facing the back. He coughed, wheezed, burped and picked his nose, making sure everyone caught the show. Two commuters moved to other seats, while a third clutched her bags, too scared to follow.
    Michael’s cheeks burned. He felt the other passengers’ ire. But his mum had taught him to be kind to those less fortunate than himself. ‘Just because