When Barclay Was “Becker”

The characters of Barclay and Claire MacDonald were created on a 2016 Random House writing course. Originally, Barclay was called “Becker”, and this was his very first appearance.

Before I found the man who would transform my life, I found his bag. 

It was a Monday and the morning commuters had long since shuffled from the platforms when I arrived to catch the train for yet another boring business trip to New York. I saw it, a lonely Prada rucksack, resting against the glass wall of the Krispy Kreme. Prada. Not just expensive but ridiculously expensive, and not something you would expect to see left, forgotten, abandoned even, on a platform at Paddington on a cold autumn morning.

Yes, I know I should have reported it to a member of the police, but there’s never one around when you need one, is there? Besides, terrorists don’t buy Prada, surely - that just draws attention and they don’t want attention. At least, not until things go bang. And it was a very nice bag, too - pristine condition, not leather but synthetic, Prada synthetic, that probably made it even better than leather. It was in perfect nick, spotless, scuff-less, not a mark on it, and even the buckles looked freshly polished, the chrome sparkling in the September sunshine. I didn’t know my luxury goods back then (this was pre-Becker, remember) but I knew expensive when I saw it, felt it, smelt it. And this was top of the line.

And I needed a new bag for work.

So I took it. And this is what I found in that (surprisingly heavy) gateway to a new life:

  • Becker’s passport. Recently issued and lacking the next of kin details at the back but already proudly boasting stamps for New York, Seattle and Bangalore, along with the obligatory Indian visa. The photo was ten years’ old. Typical Becker, male vanity personified.

  • His laptop. A gossamer thin, featherlite top of the range slice of Apple, designed in California but forged in China, technology that would make even the geekiest geek drool in envy. 

  • And, speaking of gossamer thin and featherlite, a half empty packet of Durex. So very Becker - never a full packet, that would suggest a lack of action. (I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he discarded a few himself, just to give the impression of regular usage.)

  • His copy of Catcher in the Rye. Very much for show, a well-worn, well-thumbed vintage seventies edition that looked much loved and a constant companion. (But, as I later learned, was something he’d picked up third-hand in a book shop, had never read, and just carried around to impress the women he would inevitably disappoint.)

  • An Epipen. I was never sure whether this was for medical emergencies (he never mentioned any allergies) or if this adrenaline-filled syringe was his idea of a legal high, an extreme pick me up inspired by Travolta in Pulp Fiction. It’s Use By date had long since expired.

  • The keys to his Aston Martin. He’d sold it years ago during one of his lean periods but kept a set of the keys to impress the women. He actually drove a Fiat now.

  • The gun. I nearly dropped the bag when I saw that. I’d never held a gun before and was surprised just how light it was. It was a SCCY CPX 9mm, the best-selling handgun in the States apparently. Every home should have one. Oh, and the magazine was half empty. The handle was dirty and it felt warm to me. Recently used.

I should have left the bag there, dumped it, thrown it away, run a mile. But I had a train to catch and people were now looking at me holding it, intrigued. It was, effectively, mine. And Becker, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, was now part of my life. I slung it over my shoulder and went for my train.