I was standing on the platform at Lidcombe Station waiting for a train home, as is my wont when I'm in Lidcombe and need a train home. I appreciate that we are all different people who are into many different things, but for me, personally, when I am in Lidcombe and need a train home I go to the platform at Lidcombe Station where the train that will take me home is scheduled to arrive.
It was there I saw a young man approach me and was struck by a horrified thought: this stranger wants to talk to me.
“Excuse me mate,” he started, as I wondered if I’d be asked for money, asked if I was buying or selling something or whether it would be something worse. It was worse than I feared.
“Do you know how to get to Clyde?”
CLYDE.
The suburb of nightmares.
Neighbouring my own suburb of Granville, Clyde was a notorious location that had its own train station despite the census reporting a total of 9 people living there.
What was truly going on in Clyde to warrant a station that every night delayed hardworking Granville residents’ return home by as much as maybe 90 seconds? No one seemed to know.
What I do know is it is not usual for a stranger to approach you to ask directions to a suburb that is 90% industrial warehouses and 10% traffic jam on Parramatta Road. Especially not on a Sunday afternoon when the industrial estates are empty and even the Parramatta Road traffic has eased to the extent that a pedestrian could cross it after a wait of less than 10 minutes, assuming they were mad enough to want to cross that stretch of Parramatta Road by foot.
What the fuck was happening here?
I could think of no innocent reason to be asked such a question. Was this some sort of test? Was the young man an agent of Clyde trying to lure me into a trap? Was it a warning? A coded message?
I had to be smart. I replied calmly that he should get the next train and get off the second stop, just after Auburn (and just before Granville, I couldn't help but think).
The train arrived on time, further suggesting that something wasn't quite right. I watched the young man get in a carriage, then chose a different one. I was taking no chances.
I didn't see if the young man did in fact get off at Clyde. I went home and stood on my balcony that looked eastwards over its bleak expanse and asked the question I asked myself every day: what in God's name is going on in Clyde?
What do you think? Innocent question, attempted trap or something else altogether? Let me know in the comments and don't forget to like and subscribe even though this isn't a platform that does that, but is a blog, a communication form not used by any other human for at least two decades.
