The Good Mother 1988

After a while, Mark Tempe walked alone along the rails, silent as if he had realized that there was no point in talking to the beings of God. His snow-white suit, shirt, and hat stood out against the dark tracks and the gloomy gray landscape, creating the impression that Mark was not walking on earth, but was passing into another world where pain and suffering did not exist. It seemed that he was surrounded by whiteness - from his clothes to his face, and even his fair hair, tousled by the wind, gave the impression of gray hair, although in fact this was not so.

On his nose glittered a pince-nez that he could barely feel, as if it were part of his face. Although his gaze was directed forward, it seemed as if he saw nothing, moving blindly, like a man who had lost the ability to perceive the world around him. He walked as if by inertia, not realizing what he had left behind, as if he had forgotten everything that had happened up to that moment. His legs carried him forward, as if he could not stop, not knowing where exactly he was going. Everything in his behavior indicated that he was lost not only externally, but also internally, unable to find a point of support, but at the same time continuing to walk for the sake of some inner goal that he had set for himself.

He held his left hand over his heart, and it seemed he held it there unconsciously, as if that place of fear and pain demanded his attention. He moved as if he wanted to drown out something inside himself - something painful, heavy, unbearable. His steps were nervous, and each one echoed in his chest like an echo of something lost. The ground beneath his feet, the rails stretching into the distance, had no meaning for him - he walked as if he were an automatic being, continuing to move forward, with each step further and further from the place where it all once began.

Through a cloud of fog, around which a single vortex swirled, Mark approached the station, his steps more confident, but still painful. He looked at the old building, its shadows and haze somehow weighed him down. The station was already in shadow, the light was fading, and with each step he felt more and more burdened. The passage was full, the noise of people merged into a muddy hum that rose and fell like waves on the sea.

He entered the dark corridor that led to the platforms where the trains waited. People rustled, talked, some glided past, some stood lost in thought. Passengers, workers, they were all there, tired, exhausted, like him, but it was not the crowd that caught his attention, but the figures standing a little further away. The gendarmes. They patrolled the station, elusive shadows in grey uniforms, sabres dangling from their hips, a reminder of the power that was present in every corner of this world.

Mark felt himself growing uncomfortable. Not so much from their threat as from the way this military discipline was violating his last attempts to maintain some inner freedom. He turned away, trying not to meet their eyes, not to think about how they stood there like stone guardians, blocking him from the rest of the world.

He kept walking, as if he didn't see anyone, but he could still feel those heavy gazes filtering through the gloomy light of the passage. The station, its walls and columns, seemed as dark and cold as the thoughts that swirled in Mark's head. This place, like so many others in his life, was not a place to rest. Here he could only continue to move forward, into the unknown, surrounded by those who did not ask questions, but knew how to create fear.

He passed by, and only one of the gendarmes glanced at him briefly. It was a glance that could have been ignored, but Mark felt his body tense. Forgetting his aching chest and his heavy thoughts, he quickened his pace, hurrying towards the train to leave this gloomy place as quickly as possible.

The station was noisy and bustling, filled with the hum of people and the clatter of iron. Workers darted like shadows between loads, unloading boxes and sacks onto wagons, endlessly carrying heavy objects. The air was heavy with the smell of coal and sweat. Mark paused in the shadow of a corner, feeling his body stick to the cold brick wall of the warehouse behind him. His back was pressed against the rough concrete, and he held his breath, watching the scene carefully.

On the right hand side were the railway tracks, along which the carriages stretched, but Mark could not allow himself to go there until he was sure that the gendarmes had passed. His gaze slid across the station, following their movements, and he knew that if they saw him, he would not leave without consequences. The noise was unbearable, but now, at this moment, Mark was ready for action. He felt his heart growing heavier with each beat, as if reminding him that time was not endless, and his chances were diminishing with each moment.

When the gendarmes finally passed by, their figures disappearing around the corner, Mark allowed himself a short breath, but still did not move. He looked around, checking that the way was clear, and in his head it was as if an inner voice was saying to him: "Run before it's too late."

Without looking back, he abruptly jumped out of hiding, jumping over a couple of boxes, and quickly headed for the tracks. His legs took him at full speed, and his heart began to beat even faster, as if each step was his last. He heard two engineers arguing with each other on the next track, their voices sounding somehow inappropriately loud among the general commotion, but Mark paid no attention to them. Without slowing his steps, he approached one of the cars standing on the tracks and looked around, trying not to give himself away.

Taking a look at the situation, he made a decision - he needed to get to the other side, to where the train was standing, where the prisoners were being loaded. The commotion around him did not give him time to think. He jumped onto the tracks, but quickly realized that the only way to get through unnoticed was to use what was right in front of him: a car with a low platform.

Quickly and seemingly without unnecessary movements, he slid under the carriage like a shadow, barely touching the rails. His silhouette was barely noticeable among the iron structures, rails and long dark shadows. Everything around was deaf, only the whistling of the wind and the shouts of the workers loading the sacks drowned out his own breathing and thoughts.

As he moved under the carriage, Mark felt his body bend into an unfamiliar position, but he knew he had no choice. If he didn't hide now, if he was seen, it would all be over. He moved further and further until he finally found himself on the other side, where the train stood ready to receive the prisoners.

Mark stopped behind a pile of boxes that might offer some protection. He pressed himself against them, holding his breath, and knew that he had to endure and wait. His heart was beating fast, and every noise seemed to echo in his chest. He watched carefully, trying to catch the moment when the column of prisoners would begin to move.

Around him, in this dense atmosphere of fear and tension, time dragged slowly, as if space itself had become compressed and uncomfortable. He could not allow himself to make a single unnecessary movement. In this shadow between the boxes, among the ghosts and iron sounds, he almost became part of a world that was as cruel and merciless as the people who surrounded him.

Mark stood behind the boxes, trying to hold his breath, as a column of prisoners passed before his eyes in slow motion. They moved like shadows, their eyes dull and their heads down, oblivious to what was going on around them. He waited, hoping to see at least one familiar face among them, someone who could make him feel like all of this made some kind of sense.

And then, among the grey figures, his gaze caught a familiar face. His heart sank when he saw her - Harey Dunlop, his ex-wife. She walked among the prisoners, barely raising her head, her hands were cuffed, and her whole body betrayed a deep weariness. But still, it was her, the same Harey he had once known and loved.

He couldn't hesitate. Suddenly his body regained its strength and he took a step forward. Left in the shadow of the boxes, he slipped out, unable to hold back any longer, and, barely aware of what he was doing, he headed for the edge of the tracks. There was only one plan in his head - to save her.

Then, suddenly, Harey, despite her restraint and sadness, somehow raised her head a little faster and glanced in his direction. It was the moment when their eyes met, and in that instant, Mark felt something warm inside. He knew that her gaze, even if it was full of pain and despair, was still directed at him.

He blew her a kiss instinctively, the way he had done in their happier days-with hope, with the certainty that things could still be fixed. The gesture was his promise, his determination to save her.

Harey slowed down a little, her face softened a little, and although her eyes were full of worry, it was as if a small but strong seed of hope had appeared in her heart. She looked at Mark once more, and although she said nothing, the thought flashed through her mind that he knew what he was doing, and she believed in him. With this thought, she entered the carriage, and her ex-husband, without stopping or looking back, continued to run along the train. His heart was pounding so hard that it seemed as if its beats could be heard throughout the entire station. He knew that if he made a mistake now, if he slowed down even for a second, the chance to save Harey would disappear.

Soon his gaze fell on a carriage where there was a ladder on the back wall leading up. This was his opportunity. He knew he needed to get to the roof, and the ladder was the last obstacle. Looking around, he quickly assessed his surroundings: the workers, uninterested in the passengers, and the gendarmes, busy with their own affairs, were not paying attention to the decently dressed man who could, it seemed, be part of some strange, yet perfectly normal journey. This was to his advantage - he looked as if he belonged on this train. Sometimes appearances themselves can be the best disguise.

Mark approached the ladder and, without wasting time, began to quickly climb it. He hardly felt tired, despite the tension. Having reached the roof of the carriage, he exhaled briefly and without thinking jumped to the roof of the neighboring carriage. He barely managed to hold on, balancing so as not to lose his balance, but at that moment all his efforts were directed at moving forward.

Now standing on the roof of the train, Mark continued on his way, not stopping. He raced across the roofs of the cars, and the world around him merged into one big blur of iron, air and wind. He knew that he had to get to the front car, where Harey might still be. The blood in his veins was boiling, and in this crazy rhythm of time he did not exist. He only knew that he had to act.

The cool wind in his face seemed to urge him on. Each step was a step into the future he wanted to change. Mark concentrated only on not losing his way, on not falling, and on not losing sight of his goal. He knew that soon everything would be decided - either he would save Harey, or he would be left with only the memory of this crazy act. But he could not stop.

When he was only a few steps away from the head of the train, Mark, holding his breath and feeling his body losing strength, suddenly froze for a moment. His heart stopped for a moment, and in his mind, as if from nowhere, the face of his daughter Molly appeared. She was not next to him, not in this crazy, empty railway space, but her face appeared in his thoughts with such clarity that he felt as if she were standing in front of him, right on the roof of the train, looking straight into his eyes.

Her gaze was cold, full of reproachful silence. She said nothing, but Mark clearly felt her disappointment. He saw how her large eyes, full of sadness, looked at him, as if accusing him. Why did he come to this only now? Why didn't he do everything to prevent her mother's arrest in advance, why did he wait so long to act?

Molly didn't scream. She didn't demand an explanation from him. But her silent condemnation was louder than anything he could have heard. There was something in her gaze that made his heart clench and his chest tighten. She, a little girl, couldn't understand why her father hadn't tried to change the situation for so long. Why he hadn't protected her mother when she had the chance, why he hadn't fought for her.

Mark felt like he could barely move any further, his legs felt like lead, his head suddenly lost its clarity. But he couldn't stop. He knew he had to keep going, otherwise he would be left with only that look - with her displeasure and disappointment.

At the last moment, driving away all thoughts, Mark finally ran to the head carriage and, as if in some fantastic dream, deftly grabbed the window and, without slowing down, jumped over its frame, finding himself in the cabin.

It was quiet inside, except for the soft creaking of wood and the creaking of old iron. Two engineers sat opposite each other, one an old man with a long moustache and a tired expression on his face, the other a rough-looking guy who looked like someone who was used to hard work and routine. Mark could not afford a second's hesitation - he knew he had to act immediately. His hand clutched his pocket and without thinking, he pulled out a lady's revolver - a harmless toy taken from Harey's things when he left her house before heading to the station. He did not think about how strange it would look when a man in a white suit with pince-nez, with a lady's weapon in his hand, would threaten two engineers. But now, at this second, it did not matter to him.

It is worth mentioning that Mark did not say a word during this procedure, he did not even try to look threatening or pretend to be a cruel villain. On the contrary, his face was neutral, almost emotionless, and this only gave his actions more power. He was not looking for a conflict, but he was not going to give in either. The drivers, an old man with a moustache and a guy with a rough face, understood that there was no point in arguing with him. They did not protest. Perhaps their eyes were full of surprise and discontent, but they silently left the car. Even the thought of shouting and attracting attention did not occur to them. They simply obeyed.

The only protest that could be seen was when the rough-faced guy turned around as he left the carriage, his gaze full of contempt. But as soon as he saw Mark, as if aiming at him, move the revolver in his direction, the guy pursed his lips, muttered something under his breath, and, without waiting for Mark to make another move, hurriedly jumped out after the old man.

Left alone in the cabin, Mark felt his body, which had been tense all this time, relax a little. He moved away from the window, taking a few steps towards the controls. He knew he had no idea how to operate this train, but he couldn't afford to doubt. He had to act, and now that the car door was closed behind the drivers, he had no other choice.

His hand paused in midair for a moment, and without thinking, he placed the revolver on the high shelf next to the levers. He intuitively knew that this decision was a mistake, but at some point his mind overrode his instincts. This was not the time for a gun. Mark felt that he needed to find the instructions, the ones that would help him get the train going. On the shelf next to the levers lay a paper instruction book, like a saving island in this chaos. He grabbed it, opened it at random, and began to nervously flip through the pages.

The pages rustled in his hands, but the information he was looking for was not there. Instead of concentrating, his fingers darted across the pages, reading the lines, finding nothing of value. Thoughts were boiling in his head, but he could not gather them into a single picture. Everything around him continued to spin, as if time had slowed down. He became increasingly nervous, not understanding what was happening to him.

Meanwhile, outside, behind the windows, shouts were already heard. The drivers, who had run out of the carriage, had managed to warn the gendarmes. At first it was a weak, noisy murmur, and then louder and louder, shouting commands, approaching footsteps. Mark did not hear anything, his attention was completely absorbed by the instructions, which he could not understand. His left hand nervously fiddled with the levers, following the directions written on the paper. His heart was pounding in his chest, every step he took was tense, panic was growing with every second, but he forced himself to act. His fingers moved almost involuntarily along the mechanism, pressing and pulling the levers in accordance with what was indicated in the instructions, but he was still not sure that he was doing it right.

His right hand clutched the manual, but it couldn't hold its weight, his mind and body focused on something else entirely - the sound that was getting louder. Footsteps that his consciousness hadn't realized until too late were becoming louder.

Workers were already running up to the carriage. They were rushing towards him quickly, despite the heavy bags of tools, obviously preparing to stop him. In the distance, he saw several gendarmes lagging behind, their steps unhurried and their breathing heavy, but from this Mark could only understand one thing - they knew that they would soon be caught up if he did not manage to escape.

Suddenly, right in front of him, the carriage door swung open, and one of the railway workers, just as Mark pulled the lever, ran in. He was broad-shouldered and wide-eyed, and his hand would have grabbed Mark. But Mark, without thinking, pushed the worker away, forcing him to retreat into the doorway.

"Get out!" Mark croaked, continuing to manipulate the levers.

The worker, taken aback by such pressure, did not have time to utter a word. He froze in place, not understanding what to do. At this time, the gendarmes, noticing that something was wrong, increased their pace, and one of them managed to run closer to the door, while Mark continued to frantically manipulate the levers, trying to set the train on the right course. His fingers barely obediently followed the instructions, but every moment, every movement made him feel like something inside was starting to collapse. He could not afford to make a mistake - this was his last attempt to save Harey. The train gradually picked up speed, but all he could do was hope that he would not make a fatal mistake.

But his nerves gave way when the carriage door swung open again with a bang. Another worker stood on the threshold, strong and fast, and, seeing Mark at the levers, rushed towards him. This was exactly what Mark had been afraid of - losing control.

Without thinking, he threw the instructions on the floor and, with the last of his strength, grabbed the lady's revolver, pulled it out and swung it, pressing the barrel right to the worker's face. There was a vicious determination in his eyes - if this man decided to stop him, Mark would do everything to continue on his way.

But the worker froze for a moment, as if trying to figure out how serious the threat was. His face became a little more tense, but still, the next second, he took a step forward, holding out his hand to Mark. There was a flicker of pity in his eyes, or perhaps doubt, but it was a moment that cost Mark too much.

Suddenly, the worker hit him in the face, as if he knew that Mark had no chance of staying on his feet. The blow was sharp and strong. It knocked all the breath out of Mark, and he felt his body begin to lose its balance. The next second, he was thrown overboard - literally.

Mark didn't have time to hold on to the shelf or anything else, he lost his balance and flew out of the carriage with a crash, crashing into the ground with furious force. Everything around him went dark for a moment, and he felt pain take over his body. Too late to do anything - the revolver slipped out of his hands and remained in the carriage, and he himself did not even have time to get to his feet, as his strength was running out.

Mark lay on the ground, struggling to catch his breath, feeling like his body was still reeling from the impact. The lead car stood still, its wheels not moving, but everything around him still felt alien and uneasy. He lay in uneasy silence when he heard quick footsteps. A group of station workers ran up to him, three men, with varying degrees of bewilderment on their faces.

One of them, an older one with a wrinkled face and a thick collar on his jacket, squatted down next to Mark and tried to lift him up, while the other two behind him talked among themselves.

"No, just look at this gentleman!" one said, raising his eyebrows.

He could barely contain his surprise as he looked at Mark, dressed as if he were going to a ball and not trying to drive a train.

"What kind of joke is this? Dressed up like a dandy and decided to hijack a train?" the second added, shaking his head in bewilderment.

"He's probably gone crazy," the first added in a calmer tone. "Maybe he hasn't seen a woman for a long time, and decided to show himself off with this trick..."

Mark tried to compose himself, his gaze sliding over their faces, but his thoughts were confused and his body resisted. He felt himself being pulled upward, but he could not understand what was happening. One thing was clear - they would not kill him, but his plans had suffered a catastrophic failure.

The third, the younger one, looked around anxiously, but said calmly:

"Stop chatting, that's enough. Let's get him in order, if he hasn't killed himself."

Mark felt himself being supported and pulled off the ground. The two men continued to discuss his reason for doing so, but Mark himself could not grasp the clarity in his mind - everything that was happening was too chaotic. He hoped that at least they would not start asking too many questions, because now he had no answers. But the station employees, as if fulfilling his silent request, said nothing, and only continued to walk forward, from time to time urging him on, like a sack with a load. All he could do was look ahead as the scenes of his defeat slowly floated before him.

Mark's eyes, full of fatigue and pain, slid towards the rails. There, at the end of the tracks, he saw what he had so desperately tried to avoid. The train with the prisoners, his last chance, was moving again. The legitimate engineer, quietly and calmly, as if doing a normal job, started the train, and the heavy cars began to move slowly forward, cutting through space.

Mark watched them with his eyes, feeling his heart squeeze. He saw faces in those carriages that were familiar to him, and one face that he was desperate to save. Harey. He saw her figure disappear over the horizon as the train, with every meter, moved away from him. As if in slow motion, the carriages passed before his eyes, and he felt everything he had once considered important slipping away. Molly, Harey, salvation-all of it was now just a shadow, slipping between the rails.

Mark couldn't go back, couldn't catch the train. He was here, with this pitiful body, on the shoulders of strangers, as if all his resolve and strength had been exhausted. A train car flashed before his eyes, and in the barred window he saw the face of his ex-wife Harey. She was holding onto the bars, her eyes looking straight at him. There was no anger in her gaze, only sadness, as if she had already resigned herself to the fact that now she was there, and he was here, unable to save her.

But as he tried to tear the image from his memory, another face flashed before his eyes - the face of his daughter Molly. She stood as if in a void, her eyes full of disappointment, as if she had something important to say to him. And in her gaze there was an unbearable condemnation that cut through all his determination and his helplessness.

"You couldn't save Mom," Molly's eyes said. "You're not my father."

And at that moment, as if his body could no longer bear it, he lost consciousness. Everything disappeared: the carriages, the faces, the sounds - and only absolute emptiness remained, in which the voices of some devilish choir rang out, singing about a deer being chased by a hunter with a spear.