Bad Moon E-Zine #1 - New Moon
Page 3
crept through the turnstile at night. He could have taken another train. He could have, but he can't bring himself to leave.
Train. His train. It has to be his train, the one he had to catch, the new life train. For him, there is no way out of this station other than taking the right train.
'Have you got some spare change please?'
Silence.
'Thank you.'
It gets dark, and it gets late. There are fewer trains now. He watches travellers as they buy baguettes, drink Coke or beer, hurry to the next platform, stride outside with their cigarettes and lighters already in hand.
The man feels tired and shaky. He pays £1.10 for a chocolate bar and a bottle of water from the vending machine and eats hastily, crumbs landing on his clothes and in his beard. It doesn't really matter anymore, though. Somewhere along the way, his clothes seem to have stopped becoming dirtier, and he doesn't have to shave anymore. Invisible. Unreal. He wonders whether he has died and not noticed it.
He goes to the toilet. They have UV lights in there to stop people from shooting up drugs. His skin looks strangely blue in the light, and he feels dizzy. He shakes his head, splashes water onto his face, then walks back out and sits on the bench.
The young woman he saw earlier stops next to him. He thinks that she has been crying.
'You OK?' he asks. She winces, nods and looks away.
'Really?'
She starts crying again, tells him something. She speaks a language he can't understand, only occasionally using a few English words. She sits down next to him. The man mumbles something soothing and pats her hand very carefully. He holds out some coins to her, but she shakes her head. Then she suddenly says 'goodbye' and gets up. As she makes to walk away, she looks confused. She frowns as though wondering who he is and whether he is there at all. He isn't, he thinks, he is not real. Then the young woman leaves.
He looks at the clock over the flower stand. It is 22.10. The train, the one he was supposed to catch, would arrive at platform 11 now if it still ran. It doesn't, of course it doesn't, it's over, and there's no point in brooding about it…
Then, without warning, he understands.
That train is there. It exists for him, but is invisible to everybody else, just like he is invisible to the other people in the station. The travellers can't see or hear the train, but he can. Now that he understands, he can. Perhaps other people like him can, too.
The train is arriving, and he can take it. He starts running towards the platform, suddenly terrified that he might miss it and there will never be another one. He drops his bag. Someone shouts at him, but he doesn't turn his head. The money jangles in his trouser pocket. It won't be enough for the ticket, but it could never have been enough anyway, and now it doesn't matter anymore. This is the train. Once he is on the train, it will be alright.
He runs down the stairs, tripping, grazing his hand as he stops his fall. Never mind.
The train, now clearly visible to him and him only, is still waiting, but through his rasping breath and people's shouts he can just make out the announcement that it is about to leave. There is one door that is still open.
He races along the platform, bumping into people, panting apologies.
Almost there.
His heart hammers. The train. Might be the only chance. I understand now – perhaps I'll have forgotten by tomorrow? Got to catch it now. Get ready for departure. Open door. Be quick. There. I could always have gone, it's ridiculous. Door's still open.
Then he is there and throws himself on to the invisible train.
- - -
The Grimm Truth – The Bear Facts
(as told by Daddy Bear)
So anyway, right, we come back from our little picnic in the woods, me, the missis, and the little ‘un, or as we’ve come to be known in some popular publications of more than dubious content, Daddy Bear, Mummy Bear and Baby Bear, anyway, right, the missis, she goes, “Allo! There’s summink not quite cushdy ‘ere! Some nana’s snuffled up me porridge, made a right old mess of our gaff, and I’m none too ‘appy about it! The bed’s all over the place, it’s a right state, and no mistake!” Then I says, “You’re right, babes, some berk’s half-inched some of my porridge and all, ain’t they, an’ made a right dog’s dinner of me bed too! I’m not sure ‘ow I’ll be able to sleep sound in me bed tonight knowin’ some twonk or anovver’s broke in and gone through our particulars and that!” An’ then the little ‘un, he’s very astute, very observant, like ‘is dad, he pipes up, “Oi, Old Man, Mum, look over ‘ere! Some prannet’s gone and lifted all me porridge and only gone and fell asleep in me four-poster, the daft kipper!” An’ he was right! There she was, bold as day, this blonde piece, ‘avin a kip in our nipper’s divan! I mean, the cheek of it! I thought to meself, “Right! I ain’t ‘avin this! Some young porridge-nobblin’ house-breakin’ whippersnapper dollybird with the abject audacity to fall asleep in the gaff they just robbed!” I mean, what sort of a sicko does that? She must’ve been a right dumb bimbo of a piece to fink she’d get away with it, and no mistake! What a nana! So I goes, “Oi, you! Yeah, you, Goldilocks!” that’s what I called ‘er, coz she ‘ad this blonde ‘air, see, I’m observant like that, I said, “Oi! Goldilocks, you porridge-thievin’ trollop! Get your golden behind out of me ‘ouse this instant, or I’ll call the forest ranger on ya! Go on, ‘op it pronto!” Well, I must’ve frightened the life out of ‘er, coz she jumps up and legs it out of the winda! Then she ‘as the temerity to make out as if she’s the victim in this sorry tale! Oh yeah, right! Just coz she’s blonde and young and pretty, right? Y’know, she must be perfect, despite the fact that she goes round pinchin’ people’s porridge and all! I mean, who’s gonna replace the losses, and tidy up the bedsheets? That’s what I wanna know! Muggins ‘ere, that’s who! This neighbourhood’s gone right down the drain. She ought to be doin’ porridge, no scoffin’ it! I ask ya. Goldilock her up an’ throw away the key, I say. Raaar!
- - -
Fortress Europe
by Tom Laimer-Read
1.
The pond was not in a good state. It contained a broken bicycle, a rusting bedstead, and one bedraggled mutant duck, poisoned by sporadic periods of acid rain, pollution and a particularly bad diet of sludgeworms. Nermal sat on a dilapidated bench looking wearily into the rainbow oil spill pools, tracing the edges of the ripples.
“That’s a rare Norwegian Wigeon,” thought Nermal, a student of ornithology.
A raincoat-clad figure came and sat uncomfortably closely beside him.
“The swallow flies south for winter,” it mumbled.
Nermal was familiar with this migratory route, and returned the rejoinder, “Straight as the crow flies.”
“Ah, good. Here is the package, now go to the pick up in Brussels. The details are in this envelope!” hissed the figure, placing a parcel and envelope next to Nermal, then scurrying off into the mist. In the direction that the figure had gone, there were gun shots. Nermal ducked behind the bench, as did the mutant duck. As they sat there, somebody else approached, looking shifty, and sat down, not noticing Nermal in his hidden position.
Yet another figure slid up to the one on the bench, and said in hushed tones, “Which way does the swallow fly?”
He revealed a silencer pistol and fired.
“This bird has flown!” he cawed, and fled into the night. The other seated fellow flopped forwards.
“Er, are you alright?” enquired Nermal. The body clearly wasn’t. It slowly rolled forwards, and the plopped into the pond, which fizzed slightly. The body floated on the surface, the duck eyed it, surreptitiously, then sunk without trace. It had left a briefcase next to the bench, which was still there.
Nermal was stunned.
He wasn’t sure what to do, but decided to get away from this spot quickly. He grabbed the briefcase and flew, not knowing of any other course of action.
- - -
Nermal entered his ziggurat-like apartment block, swiping his personalis
ed keycard on the door. It didn’t work first time, so he had to give it a couple more goes at a variety of angles, then rubbed it on his trousers and tried again, until eventually the door clunked open.
As he slipped inside he regained his breath.
“That was unusual,” he muttered to himself. “Now what’s this?”
Nermal unravelled the package that he had been given by the peculiar stranger. It contained a key-drive for a computer. Curious as to what it was, Nermal had tried to read it, but the files required a password. Nermal then opened the envelope that he had also been given. The memo inside read:
"Agent Sparrow
You are in the utmost danger. You must escape from England to Belgium where you must make contact with Agent Oriole/Crane. The fate of Europe depends upon you, you must not fail. Call on the enclosed duck caller if you require emergency back up.
Be safe
The Twitcher Squad"
Nermal perused the note a couple of times. It seemed perplexing to him, a humble ornithology student, that such a task had landed in his lap. It was nearly half term break, so he had a week or so to venture elsewhere, and didn’t have any other plans, apart from a case study module, but some time away from his studies would do him good. The bit about being in the utmost danger didn’t entice him greatly. He decided to go anyway. The area he had been was not a No Go Zone with a controlling order on it, and