Lost Property (Short Story)
28th July 2024
In: Short Stories
You would not believe what people leave on trains. Every morning the cleaners bring me boxes of items found on seats, under seats, from the luggage racks, or simply dropped on the floor.Why, oh why, are people so careless with their belongings? It is my job to log each and every item, and find it space on our crowded shelves. It is, believe me, an arduous and full- time occupation.
As one would expect, there are newspapers and magazines aplenty. These are read and discarded. Possibly picked up by other travellers who need something to while away a tedious journey. Umbrellas are the most commonly abandoned of the more personal items, then it’s gloves, singles or in pairs, scarves and the occasional jacket or overcoat, presumably forgotten in the rush of arrival at their destination. It seems passengers often do not check they have everything before scrambling to leave the train.
More surprising perhaps is that we have relatively few enquiries. Once they have discovered their loss, surely it makes sense to contact Lost Property on the offchance it might be recovered. We do have some satisfying reunions. Anxious owners who are grateful to us — our small department — for the service we provide. There is some job satisfaction to be had. This has changed over the years, however. Perhaps due to attitudes — things regarded as ‘disposable’ and therefore easily replaceable. Just get another one. No big deal.
Of the more unusual items, and a few really extraordinary ones, I could write a book. Indeed, I’ve often thought of doing so. This might even be the opening chapter. So, where to start?
Briefcases are a rarity, but we get one from time to time. Most usually, there is something contained that gives a clue to its owner. Then it’s a simple matter of a phone call and the relieved commuter collecting it in a flurry of thank yous. But one briefcase — dark worn leather with the embossed initials G.O.D (I kid you not) had nothing in it but a manuscript. A thick dog-earred sheaf of papers, much worked on, with handwritten notes in the margins, smudged ink and other stains that could be anything. There was no indication of authorship. I logged and shelved it, sure whoever had written it would be anxious to get it back.
Several days passed without any enquiry, so I took it down and went through all the pages, checking the back of each one for any clue. I couldn’t help catching some of the text, and this peaked my curiosity. It was shocking — quite horrifying in fact — but it drew me in nonetheless. I took to reading chunks of it in my break times.
It wasn’t a novel, as I’d first imagined. It was a record of names, whether real or otherwise. Against each entry was a summary of their lives — their deeds — their sins. Much of it was gruesome and made me shudder, but I kept reading. It listed murderers and traitors, child-abusers and wife-beaters, warmongers and those involved in devil-worship. It gave gory details, damning them for their cruelty, perversity and lack of humanity. I read on and on, looking for familiar names, and found some. Surely, surely not, I thought. Coincidence, nothing more. I read on. A horror grew in me. A suffocating dread. I had to finish it. My name was on the last page, the only comment beside it was ‘Unbeliever’. I had a mind to burn it, destroy it, but I didn’t dare. I put the manuscript back in the briefcase, and the briefcase back on the top shelf.
I took two weeks of my annual leave and went on holiday. I needed somewhere quiet and restful — Wales would do the trick. It had always had a calming effect. I went by train, naturally, to an area I knew — Mumbles — where we’d holidayed as a family before my father went to prison for fraud and my mother took to drink. It was off-season, the weather was dull, the carriage held only myself and a very pale but ordinary-looking man who appeared to be asleep for much of the journey. He got off a station before I did, and I didn’t notice he’d left something on the seat.
Only when it came to my turn to get off, and I gathered my few belongings, then I saw the package that wasn’t mine and picked it up, curious, and looked into the paper bag. It was a bible, a much-thumbed edition, its ribbon marker at the beginning of Revelations. I would hand it in at Lost Property.That was my true intention, but something stopped me. I kept it and read it every day throughout my stay. I went to church for the first time in more than twenty years. Fear followed me like a stray dog.
When I returned to work, I checked the top shelf. The briefcase and its contents were gone. I leafed through the log. It had been collected and signed for, the signature an illegible flourish. No one could recall the person who had claimed it. My relief was very fleeting. I felt an ache now — an absence in my life. I searched for something to fill it. I still had the bible found on the train, kept it within touching distance beside my bed. I felt safer that way.
A leaflet came with my mail, an open invitation to a meeting — a group I’d never heard of — at a local venue. Nine of us attended, including the speaker, all men between twenty-five and forty, single, and confused in their understanding of spiritual matters. They called themselves ‘Sons of the Lost’. This seemed entirely appropriate, so I joined.
As one would expect, there are newspapers and magazines aplenty. These are read and discarded. Possibly picked up by other travellers who need something to while away a tedious journey. Umbrellas are the most commonly abandoned of the more personal items, then it’s gloves, singles or in pairs, scarves and the occasional jacket or overcoat, presumably forgotten in the rush of arrival at their destination. It seems passengers often do not check they have everything before scrambling to leave the train.
More surprising perhaps is that we have relatively few enquiries. Once they have discovered their loss, surely it makes sense to contact Lost Property on the offchance it might be recovered. We do have some satisfying reunions. Anxious owners who are grateful to us — our small department — for the service we provide. There is some job satisfaction to be had. This has changed over the years, however. Perhaps due to attitudes — things regarded as ‘disposable’ and therefore easily replaceable. Just get another one. No big deal.
Of the more unusual items, and a few really extraordinary ones, I could write a book. Indeed, I’ve often thought of doing so. This might even be the opening chapter. So, where to start?
Briefcases are a rarity, but we get one from time to time. Most usually, there is something contained that gives a clue to its owner. Then it’s a simple matter of a phone call and the relieved commuter collecting it in a flurry of thank yous. But one briefcase — dark worn leather with the embossed initials G.O.D (I kid you not) had nothing in it but a manuscript. A thick dog-earred sheaf of papers, much worked on, with handwritten notes in the margins, smudged ink and other stains that could be anything. There was no indication of authorship. I logged and shelved it, sure whoever had written it would be anxious to get it back.
Several days passed without any enquiry, so I took it down and went through all the pages, checking the back of each one for any clue. I couldn’t help catching some of the text, and this peaked my curiosity. It was shocking — quite horrifying in fact — but it drew me in nonetheless. I took to reading chunks of it in my break times.
It wasn’t a novel, as I’d first imagined. It was a record of names, whether real or otherwise. Against each entry was a summary of their lives — their deeds — their sins. Much of it was gruesome and made me shudder, but I kept reading. It listed murderers and traitors, child-abusers and wife-beaters, warmongers and those involved in devil-worship. It gave gory details, damning them for their cruelty, perversity and lack of humanity. I read on and on, looking for familiar names, and found some. Surely, surely not, I thought. Coincidence, nothing more. I read on. A horror grew in me. A suffocating dread. I had to finish it. My name was on the last page, the only comment beside it was ‘Unbeliever’. I had a mind to burn it, destroy it, but I didn’t dare. I put the manuscript back in the briefcase, and the briefcase back on the top shelf.
I took two weeks of my annual leave and went on holiday. I needed somewhere quiet and restful — Wales would do the trick. It had always had a calming effect. I went by train, naturally, to an area I knew — Mumbles — where we’d holidayed as a family before my father went to prison for fraud and my mother took to drink. It was off-season, the weather was dull, the carriage held only myself and a very pale but ordinary-looking man who appeared to be asleep for much of the journey. He got off a station before I did, and I didn’t notice he’d left something on the seat.
Only when it came to my turn to get off, and I gathered my few belongings, then I saw the package that wasn’t mine and picked it up, curious, and looked into the paper bag. It was a bible, a much-thumbed edition, its ribbon marker at the beginning of Revelations. I would hand it in at Lost Property.That was my true intention, but something stopped me. I kept it and read it every day throughout my stay. I went to church for the first time in more than twenty years. Fear followed me like a stray dog.
When I returned to work, I checked the top shelf. The briefcase and its contents were gone. I leafed through the log. It had been collected and signed for, the signature an illegible flourish. No one could recall the person who had claimed it. My relief was very fleeting. I felt an ache now — an absence in my life. I searched for something to fill it. I still had the bible found on the train, kept it within touching distance beside my bed. I felt safer that way.
A leaflet came with my mail, an open invitation to a meeting — a group I’d never heard of — at a local venue. Nine of us attended, including the speaker, all men between twenty-five and forty, single, and confused in their understanding of spiritual matters. They called themselves ‘Sons of the Lost’. This seemed entirely appropriate, so I joined.