Bench Three

On Tuesday morning, Noor arrived early and read the ledger again. She had slept badly. The three earlier entries had been signed by someone called E. Marsh, and each signature looked a little shakier than the one before. The address was always the same, 14 Alder Road, and the phone number had ten digits. When Noor called it, a recorded voice said that it no longer existed.

At lunchtime she went to the station café for a sandwich. Gina, the owner, had been serving coffee on the concourse for twenty years. “Marsh?” she said, stopping with a cloth in her hand. “Elena Marsh? The violin lady?” Noor nearly dropped her cup. “She used to play here on Friday evenings, just for fun. Then, one day, she stopped coming. That must be thirty years ago.”

Back at the counter, Noor tried to concentrate on a lost laptop, but something kept pulling her eyes towards the bench opposite. Bench three. A thin woman in a long green coat was sitting there very straight, with her hands in her lap, looking at the office as if it were a theatre and the curtain were about to rise.

“That’s the woman who brought the suitcase,” Noor whispered. “She hasn’t left the station.” “She arrived at ten,” said Mr Okafor, without turning round. “She’ll stay until we close. She always does, whenever the suitcase is here.” “Then why doesn’t she just take it back?” “Because she isn’t ready,” he said. “And I can’t tell somebody to be ready.”

Noor looked at the clock, then at the calendar behind the counter. “There’s a rule about unclaimed property, isn’t there?” “After seven days it goes to the auction house,” Mr Okafor said. “The seventh day is Friday.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If she isn’t ready by Friday, I will have to choose between the rule and her.”