Moscow Station: By Barry Hutchings

They dumped me at Moscow station, alone and frightened. Threw me out of the car while it was still moving. Did they listen to my screams and my pleadings for mercy? No! The fact that I was scared made it more worth while. I should have realised that you don't fuck the daughter of a South African landowner and expect to get away with it! They have ways of dealing with people like me. Even if she did claim to love me! And where was she now... where was she when all this was happening? Waving her handkerchief at me, waving goodbye. "See you at university!" she was shouting. The naïve fool. Did she she really think her father was taking me to university!

She had no idea what was in store for me. Moscow station! How was I supposed to get home from a foreign station? How was I supposed to ask for directions in foreign land. In a Russian station?

I always hated stations - always hated the effort involved. Always so complicated, always so much to know, so much to do. And the consequences of getting it wrong, the consequences of getting onto the wrong platform, the wrong train, the wrong carriage...

I envied people who could catch a train, who knew where to stand, what bridges to cross, what underpasses to go through, what platforms to wait at. They seemed to know how to read a destination board, how to understand an announcement from a garbled megaphone. I always got it wrong.

My mother said it was simple. "Ask!" she told me. "Use your tongue!" she told me. She was so full of herself! Not so simple in a Russian station though is it! Not so simple in a land of spies and gangsters!

I wandered from the booking hall to the station platforms. All sorts of trains, all sorts of travellers. Big Russians waited on the platform. Fur hats and thick rimmed glasses. They looked grim and serious. What would they do if they knew I was English? What would they think if they heard me speak? I decided I would say nothing, would not allow my voice to be heard. They mustn't see that I was ignorant.

I mooched to the end of the platform away from the Russians. The trains were strange here, tiny trains, no longer than cars. Just a space for a driver, and a passenger or two! I tried to read the notice boards. It was impossible, I could not read the Russian. Then I realised, then I remembered that they printed notices in more than one language, they cater for the tourist in this modern age. I looked again, the text was in French, beneath the Russian. I tried to read it. It was useless knowledge - instructions for spies - not travel information. I was lost, I was done for!

The Russians in the fur hats were starting to look at me. They were grim faced and serious. Don't show your ignorance, I thought.

I could see their eyes through their heavy rimmed spectacles. Then I remembered how lawless Russia had became, that these people were probably Mafia gangsters.

I jumped onto the nearest train and waited. I didn't care if it didn't take me home, didn't care if it went to Siberia. An elderly Russian sat in the seat opposite me, reading a newspaper. I recognised him, he was Yuri Kanacov - a Russian missile scientist. I had seen a documentary about him, the BBC had chronicled his life. He was a genius, yet he still lived in a crumbling tower block!

I began to see hope. This man was an intellectual, he would be sympathetic to my plight! The train started to move, rolling slowly out of the station. Through the window I could see that it was it was snowing.

I thought of Mina and her flapping handkerchief.