Leah Giarratano - Watch the World Burn (Detective Jill Jackson Mysteries)

This is the reason I went into politics in the first place, thought Sheila McIntyre. Standards in Australia are slipping. These people are just plain rude.

Thirty or so early-morning train travellers shared the shelter of the awning with her, but only a couple had taken a flier. Most wouldnt even acknowledge shed spoken to them.

Now, all Im asking you to do, she tried again, is to fill in one of these forms and post it back to the address inside. We need to let the government know that security at train stations in the west must be upgraded.

People stared at their shoes or away through the drizzle, searching for the train. A grey-haired woman in a good coat met her eyes.

Im not just a politician, Sheila said to her. Im a mum too. And I just dont think its right that the children catching the train at Riverstone Station arent as well-protected as the kids at Strathfield or North Sydney. She held out a flier and the woman took it.

And what about you, sir? she said to a man in labouring clothes nearby. Do you think its good enough that there are virtually no security cameras at this station? She pulled another flier from the stack. Her confidence boosted, she leaned a little closer. Ugh, his breath!

What I dont think is good enough, said the man, his eyes jaundiced, his nose bulbous and crimson, is that half my bloody wages every week go to pay for you bludgers to sit on your fat arses and fuck up this country.

Oh ... Well! she said.

Someone laughed, and from behind her she heard, Piss off!

Sheila smoothed at her skirt and stood a little straighter. I got up at five oclock this morning to come out to these ingrates, she thought. She pursed her lips, thinking about the group of concerned citizens shed expected to find here waiting to meet her, to support her, having seen her ad last week in their local paper. Well, maybe it serves them right that they have no upgraded amenities out here. She swapped the umbrella in her handbag with the fliers then stepped forward from the awning. She cracked the umbrella and tossed her head a little. Ill wait for the train out here, she thought.

Standing a little behind her, Carmel Bussa secured the top button of her camel coat. Not so much because she felt cold, although it was chilly in this rain at seven am, even in November. No, Carmel buttoned symbolically to shut these people out. When her husband had had his stroke, she hadnt minded that shed had to go back to work. In fact, she really enjoyed working with the young people in the David Jones Food Hall. Half of them were travellers, backpackers, over here from Europe, working hard to support themselves on the trip of a lifetime. Now, these kids werent angels far from it. The stories they would tell! She could never repeat some of their jokes to her husband he would have insisted she quit immediately but sometimes she had to step into the cool-room to stop the laughter, take her glasses off and wipe her eyes. The two gay boys, Sasha and Ferdinand that was another thing her husband wouldnt understand found it hilarious to make her laugh until she cried. Well, shed admit these kids were crude, but they certainly werent rude, and thats the one thing that really wore Carmel down. The rude people who caught this train.

Every morning she shared the train with these people around her. She understood that people were sleepy and probably didnt feel up to talking so early in the morning. That was fine with her. She had a good book with her every day, maybe a magazine when her daughter had finished with it. But she could not understand the rudeness. The night before her first day at work, shed been hardly able to sleep and had arrived so early for the 7.10 train that shed watched three trains go by. Her daughter had warned her whatever you do, Mum, dont catch the 6.50. It makes every stop to Town Hall. The next had been a flyer, the 7.04. Her eyes had blurred with tears in the draught created as it flew by. Finally, shed spotted the 7.10 approaching. Shed felt a little thrill her first day in a new job, and she hadnt been on a train for years. Smiling, shed stepped forward as the train pulled in and had been pushed, elbowed and shoved out of the way by the very same people standing around her now. One woman in a tunic had stepped hard on Carmels foot and charged straight past her. By the time shed limped through the doors, breathless, every seat had been taken. Shed stood all the way to the city, listening to these people snoring and farting, and grunting into their mobiles.

So Carmel felt for the politician standing in the rain in front of her. She wasnt surprised to see that others had now joined her, unconcerned by the drizzle and the annoying woman with the fliers. With the 7.04 fast approaching, they all wanted pole-position to get a seat on the next train, the 7.10. Carmel had given up on hoping for a seat although she was on her feet all day in the deli, she couldnt bring herself to battle this mob every morning. She watched them surging their way closer to the edge of the platform, the politician lady caught up in the wave.

And then a whir of fabric. A shriek. What? What just happened?

The 7.04 screamed past, leaving a pink-tinged mist in its wake. But the screaming didnt stop. Carmel moved through the people ahead of her, certain she needed to get to the edge of the platform, but with no idea why. She hunched up the collar on her camel coat, although she felt nothing at all right now, not the rain on her cheeks, not even her feet as they took her towards the edge.

Carmel didnt even feel herself sobbing as she stood at the edge of the platform, staring down at the wet-purple mince and creamy globs on the track. She didnt feel it when someone pulled her backwards. Shed been determined to try to get down there. Someone had to cover that up. Like a fresh Christmas ham in the deli, Sheila McIntyres jointed groin and whole leg shined slickly in the gravel. Apart from a sensible walking shoe, which was still on her foot, nothing else in the mess resembled anything human.

With two people losing their breakfast over the edge, no one noticed a man in a khaki parka spit down onto what was left of Sheila McIntyre. No one paid any attention as he walked away from the scene, turning his face away from the sole CCTV camera as he exited Riverstone Station.

As he left, he raised his hand for the camera in a single-digit salute.