Cecelia Ahern Short Stories Read Free Page A

atmosphere. ‘It’s not the end of the world, remember, it’s just a job,’ he stressed.
    Steven picked up the phone and called his parents.
    Twenty minutes later he put on his suit jacket, turned off the buzzing strip lighting and exited his office. He waved at Gerard down the hall, who hesitantly gave him the thumbs-up. With a spring in his step he hadn’t felt for years, he walked the forty-eight steps to the ground floor and outside into the fresh air.
    He walked the two thousand six hundred and four steps to the train station, the streets quieter now with everyone buried at work. As he entered the station his head felt light, no longer heavy and pounding. A haze had lifted from his mind, a weight from his shoulders, and he experienced a sensation of floating he’d never had before. He was happy, clear in his mind of what he wanted to do. He didn’t want to worry any more, he didn’t want to feel scared, and he didn’t want his mind to keep torturing him. He knew what he needed to do and
he wouldn’t feel a thing
.
    He entered his train ticket into the machine and pushed his way through the barrier, relieved that for once in his life his destination was unknown. Anywhere but here. Arriving on the platform, hands trembling and heart pumping with adrenaline, he was glad to see that the station was empty. His mind was focused. There was only one way for him to go. He glanced up at the sign hanging over the platform. The next train would be in twenty-four minutes. Twenty-four minutes was a long time to wait. He needed to do it now. Angrily, he kicked a can and sent it flying off the platform and onto the tracks. He watched it lie there, knowing its destiny. He had nothing to do but pace the yellow line he had obediently stayed behind his whole life. Today he would cross it. His skin grew clammy and a chill ran through his body. He could do this.
    Twenty minutes. What would Gerard think when he didn’t get back to work? He pictured his friendly boss staring down the hall, making sure Steven had returned. He had known something was up, he had felt it in his handshake and seen it in his eyes. It wouldn’t be long before he entered his office and saw the note. Steven played out the scene. Gerard would panic, call the gardaí, and they would immediately set out looking for him. But they wouldn’t find him. Not the way they wanted to anyway.
    He glanced up at the sign. Sixteen minutes. He paced the yellow line, clenching and unclenching his fists. What would the lads think when he didn’t turn up to football on Sunday? They’d be angry he’d let them down, at having to take Rory Malone off the bench for the first time since he scored an own goal in last year’s final. He could imagine them all bitching about him over a few pints after the game, blaming Rory Malone and Steven’s no-show for their loss. Maybe the next day they’d find out what happened and hopefully understand.
    If only they knew how his days were covered in darkness, as if someone had turned off the light switch in his mind; if only they knew how his waking up in the morning was the first disappointment of every day. He was tired, he had nothing left to give, no more ideas to try. If they could understand that, then they could understand his decision.
    Nine minutes left. The crowd at the train station. How would they feel? Would they even notice he wasn’t there? The lady with the torn briefcase and the man in the brown suede coat, would they notice him missing from the middle of their daily queue. Would they notice that one more person than usual could squeeze into the train? Would they be looking out of the dirty window as the train pulled away, waiting for him to run onto the platform, out of breath and panicked at having missed the train? When the platform was empty,would they even notice? Would they remember the previous day’s talk about the man jumping in front of the train and would that woman, that same woman, think,
He wouldn’t have