Refrain

Chapter 7: Station Pigeons

It was still pitch dark when I arrived. And to my utter dismay, it was raining.

I had no umbrella with me that day. London in year 202- was dry, but Oxford, which should share London's weather, was rainy in 2012. Is it not the most peculiar thing, reader? That time, the byword of relativity, should be subjected to the absolutism of weather—weather which so often defines the scenes in our lives; weather, which really is the glue that pastes those scenes into place, into correlations with each other as we recall them later, and wonder, wistfully: Could it all have been avoided, had it not been a rainy day?

It began with me in front of the train station, and checking my pocket watch for the umpteenth time. Two minutes to four. Through the rain's shaggy veil, I strained my eyes and made out the three or four shadows approaching, soaked yellow by the street lamps at the crossing.

And to no god in particular, I prayed that Cadence would be here on time.

The pale station lamp above me flickered. The shadows grew bigger and gained faces as they drew near. One of them, with a miasma of woe around him, stopped three steps away from me.

'Good morning,' I offered. 'Glad you came.'

Cadence only dipped his head, and made towards the ticket machines.

'I have them here,' I said in his direction. 'Let's go to the platform. The train should be here any minute.'

The first train in the morning was pristine, yet undisturbed by the day's humans and their traces. We sat opposite each other in an incompanionable silence. It was not so much unlike the first time, with Cadence looking out of the window, knowing there was nothing to see, and me throwing furtive glances at him. We were, after all, still strangers. The train, charged on the inside by the hard white fluorescent tubes, was a lonely flash across the dark open fields as the remaining weight of the night pressed in on us.

'Did you get any sleep?' I asked.

'You don't have to try so hard to make conversations,' Cadence said brusquely. It didn't bother me in the least. To me, his off-handedness generated not animosity but a sense of familiarity between us, as if we'd known each other not for less than twenty-four hours, but long enough to shed all layers of politeness. It made me smile.

'Well, did you?'

Without turning, Cadence produced a small 'No', and rested his head against the window.

So it was that kind of stay he had at Louis's.

'I see that you're wearing different clothes,' I nodded at the blue striped shirt he was wearing under his coat. 'Didn't I tell you to not take anything, and not leave anything behind?'

'They got rained on,' he lied without remorse, 'I left them at Louis's.'

'I see,' I puffed up my cheeks, feigning frustration. 'Well. If they're still there when I next visit him, I'll mail them to your German address.'

He threw me a dour look, and returned to being engrossed with the black void outside.

By the time we arrived at Paddington, dawn was yet to break. It occurred to me that, given the ungodly hour, it might be socially acceptable to ask Cadence to breakfast. While filling that morning's emptiness with him, I was attacked by a sudden surge of conversational mood, which was another early sign of attraction. Of that I was well aware.

Still, I let my conversational mood persist.

'I'm thinking of breakfast. Do you care to join me?' I ventured.

'Is today Sunday?'

'Yes, but places should still be—'

'Thank God,' Cadence exhaled, himself being neither a Christian nor a would-be converter. 'I was worried it might still be Saturday. Then I'd have to go through it all again.'