by David Carter
She glanced up at the youth, pleasantly she thought. Adam looked away, and that was unusual. He chose to sit as far away as possible, on the opposite side, at the far end of the long and narrow room. The woman returned to her newspaper. Adam stared at his shoes. He would bum a ride to Bournemouth where he would hide in the lavatories on the platform, until the guards were off guard. Then he would dash out, and take his chance, and rush through the gates, and hurry on down toward to city, before they could catch him. That was the plan.
In the quietness, disturbed only by the neighbouring rookery, and occasional strident tannoy announcements, he began thinking. In his mind he heard the men hitting his mother. He heard her crying out. He remembered standing in that darkened hole, sweating. The truth was, he’d almost wet himself.
He revisited the uselessness he felt. It was not a new experience for him. He had spent most of his seventeen years feeling pretty useless. He had failed her, the one person he adored; the one person who had seemingly valued him, his opinions and his feelings. He had failed her totally, completely and utterly, and worse than that, he had abandoned her at her greatest moment of need. What was life all about? What was life for if a young man could not protect his own mother? When the train came he might leap in front of it, finish everything, for there was no one left to care, though of course he could not possibly do that, for such an act would require great courage, courage he did not possess, and anyway, his mother would not want him to do that.
Adam began crying.
Quiet sniffles to begin with, soon to become blaring wails. He no longer cared about the woman sitting there; he no longer could feel embarrassment, he no longer cared about anything.
The woman stood up.
‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered. ‘Are you all right?’
Adam nodded, his head almost between his knees, as the wailing continued. She collected her things and crossed the room, and sat beside him. Not too close, for one never really knew what kind of people inhabited railway station waiting rooms at night.
‘Are you alright?’ she repeated.
He looked up, through red eyes.
‘No! I am not all right!’
‘What is it? What on earth is the matter?’
‘The police have just murdered my mother, in our home, that’s what the bloody matter is!’
The woman’s mouth opened. She stared into his face.
But that couldn’t be right. What he had just said. That couldn’t be right at all. The youth must be mistaken. Perhaps he was on something; perhaps he was tripping, it still happened, despite everything. Yet the terror in his eyes was real enough, and she knew from her acting experience with the BAP, the Bournemouth Amateur Players, that terror such as this could not be reproduced on demand, not exactly in that way, not even Sir Richard Maygram or Dame Kate Winslet could do that, so realistically. It just wasn’t possible. She believed him.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘Bournemouth,’ he mumbled.
‘Me too.’
Chatting seemed to calm him, she imagined.
‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘You look younger.’
‘Everyone says that.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Adam.... Adam Rexington,’ he mumbled.
He hated his real surname, Goodchild. Rexington was the name of the late school bully who had left the previous term, to annoy the army. Everyone was terrified of Johnny Rexington, and had breathed a huge sigh of relief when he had finally buggered off to join the army, and if one percent of his powerful presence came along with that name, then Adam would settle for that. He wasn’t the only pupil who studied the casualty lists praying, so far without success, to see the name Rexington secreted there.
‘How old do you think I look?’
She pulled a face. ‘Thirteen, maybe.’
Dagger to the heart. Thirteen! Jeez!
How could he ever be taken seriously when people thought he was still a kid?
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, sitting back on the seat, wiping his face on his sweatshirt sleeve.
‘Elizabeth. Elizabeth Mariner, but my friends all call me Liz.’
She was a looker, stylish, he noticed that for the first time, way out of his league, he knew that well enough, but by God she was a looker, all right. The kind of woman he could never talk to, not in a million years, the kind of woman you might see in a mucky magazine in skimpy clothing, and yet here he was, talking with her, chatting with her, chatting her up, he fancifully imagined. He forced a smile, ever mindful that he possessed neither ticket nor money.
‘Can I travel with you.... Liz.... to Bournemouth?’
‘Sure,’ she said, smiling in that crushing way she possessed, her sparkling green eyes coming into play. ‘Come on, I think the train’s coming.’
The train was indeed coming, a red and gold electric train, running off third rail propulsion. It had been smart once, but no longer. It was a former South West Trains unit, Adam could tell that easily enough, because you could still see where the old letters had been torn off. They had been replaced with yellowy-green British Railways signs. The rampant lion logo was back, and it was everywhere. British Railways, British Railways, damned British railways!
The train was half empty, or half full, depending on how you looked at life; carrying bored, tired workers, yawning their way home. Adam and Liz found a seat half way down the carriage, a seat just for two, where Liz sat by the window, with her briefcase on her lap. Adam sat beside her; close enough to feel the warmth from her body.
‘So,’ she said, eager to keep the conversation moving. ‘What do you do?’
To Adam it sounded like something a member of the Royal Family might ask, and he laughed aloud.
What do you do?
Either way, he ignored the question and said, ‘Liz, I haven’t got a ticket.’
‘You fool!’ she scolded, yet still in a happy kind of way. ‘You should have said. I would have bought you one.’
‘Too late now,’ he said, cockily.
‘They are really hot on that kind of thing now, you know, anyone travelling without a ticket. They could call the police. You could get arrested. What are you going to do?’
He shared his plan with her, whispering in her ear from the right side of his mouth, just in case someone might overhear.
‘We can do better than that,’ she said, grinning.
‘How so?’
‘I’ll go out; and at the end of the platform, I’ll pass you my season ticket through the railings. Then you come out after me. Easy peasy.’
She grinned again, and just for a moment she seemed like one of his mischievous school friends. What a surprise, he thought, her talking like that, an adult and all. It was almost as if she belonged in his world, and not theirs. Then he remembered: ‘But there’s a photograph on it,’ he said, unconvinced. ‘I hardly look like you, do I?’
‘They never look at that, ever,’ she said convincingly. ‘Especially at nights, they are just too tired. Just cover it with your thumb. Unless you are too scared of course.... Adam Rexington.’
A challenge. He recognised that well enough.
‘I’m not scared,’ he said, sitting up in his seat to his full height, a height at which he could just about look down on her. ‘I’m not scared of anything.’
Who are you kidding, she thought, remembering him blubbering his eyes out but twenty minutes before, but she couldn’t help liking the skinny kid. There was something strange about him, and he might just be of use to her one day, and you couldn’t have too many friends. She’d hooked him, and she knew it.
Three
Adam dawdled getting off the train. When he finally jumped down to the platform he didn’t walk toward the exit, but away, as if he were a stranger who didn’t know the way out. It was a dangerous moment for it looked odd. It could attract attention. He half expected some gorilla to shout: ‘Hey you!’ But no o
ne did.
In the next moment she was walking alongside him, on the other side of the railings. She dropped the ticket at the base of the fence, just as she’d promised, and walked briskly away without a word or a backward glance.
He stooped to tie his shoelace. Peered around. Nothing. Nobody. His arm shot through the railings and grabbed the ticket. He turned and hurried after the last of the passengers. Safety in numbers, and he didn’t want to be alone, or the last one out. He flattened his thumb against her face, flashed the card at the weary guard, and strode confidently through the ticket point. As before, he expected a challenge, a bawling out, yet none came. Ahead, he saw her dawdling at the top of the incline that led away from the station. She wasn’t looking back; she was clever, and cool.
He hurried after her and caught her and fell in step beside her, as they disappeared around the corner.
‘Like a dream,’ he said. ‘Worked like a freaking dream. Sorry....’
‘Told you so,’ she said, grinning at their joint minor triumph over authority.
‘Want the ticket back?’
‘In a minute, when we are well clear.’
‘What would you have done if they had caught me?’
‘Reported it missing, stolen, not a problem.’
‘I like you,’ he smiled. ‘You’re clever. You think of everything.’
She giggled, hardly believing she’d enjoyed a compliment from a kid like him.
‘So where are you going now?’ she asked.
‘Dunno. I was going to go to my mate’s, but I have just remembered he’s gone up to London. I might have to sell my arse under the pier to raise some ready cash.’
Liz shook her head in disbelief.
‘Don’t be so stupid!’ she said, ‘don’t talk like that,’ not really knowing whether he was being serious or not.
There was a short silence as they walked in step toward the city.
Then she whispered: ‘Do you want to come back to my place? You could stay the night, if you want.’
‘Really?’ he grinned. ‘Truly?’
‘Yep,’ she said decisively. ‘But no funny business, you behave yourself, or you’re out. Understand?’
‘Sure, whatever you say, Liz, thanks a million.... for everything.’
LIZ MARINER’S APARTMENT directly overlooked the bay. It boasted a balcony, three spacious bedrooms, and an underground car park in which her new British racing green MG sports car soundly slept. To many folks it would have seemed like the height of luxury, yet to her, it was simply home.
The long hours and stressful duties of a financial trader in the city paid for it, and in her eyes, it was the least she deserved. Adam had never seen anything quite like it. The furnishings were new and sleek and Swedish, and looked as if they had been dragged directly from Beale’s apartment store window.
‘You must half be rich,’ he whispered, through his teeth.
‘No.... not really,’ she smiled. ‘Comfortable maybe.... but not rich.’
He didn’t believe her.
‘Now, dinner,’ she said. ‘Hungry? Spag bol suit you?’
‘Sure,’ he said, remembering just how hungry he was.
‘You’re not one of those vegetarian freaks?’
‘Good God no,’ he grinned, examining her CD collection. No Goosesteppers. No taste, not a surprise. She was old. ‘I tried it once but couldn’t hack it. I need my meat,’ and he grinned devilishly at her, back over his shoulder, reminiscent of a scene from an old Jack Nicholson movie. Adam returned to thumbing through her music collection, though he could still see her in the kitchen, and he would regularly check she was still there, as if he were a puppy dog, constantly ensuring he was never alone.
‘Liz?’
‘What?’
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Course you can, but if I don’t want to answer, I won’t.’
He paused a second as if pondering her answer, or maybe he was wondering if he should ask her the question at all. In any event, he did.
‘Have you ever heard of something called the Tinbergen Papers?’
‘The what?’ she said, pausing and coming to stand in the sitting room doorway.
‘The Tinbergen Papers,’ he repeated.
‘Can’t say as I have,’ she muttered, and she returned to browning the mince. ‘What are they?’
‘I have no idea. Don’t know anything about them.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘It was something my mum said.’
‘Check it out on the Internet.’
‘Can I?’ he answered, like a kid being offered an unexpected ice cream.
‘Sure you can.’
He didn’t need to be invited twice. He flipped open the laptop that lay at the end of the CD’s and booted it up.
‘What’s your password?’ he asked urgently, ‘to get online.’
‘Andrew,’ she said, without emotion.
‘Aha, the dreaded Andrew,’ he said triumphantly, ‘the first man in your life, eh?’
That brought a wide smile to her face, though he couldn’t see it from where he was. He could hear it though, in her words, and he knew he wasn’t far off the mark.
‘None of your damn business,’ she said mockingly, ‘just get on with it. What does it say?’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘What?’
‘Come and see for yourself.’
She wiped her hands on the blue and white striped pinny and ambled into the sitting room, and peered past his shoulder at the large screen.
YOUR SEARCH FOR “TINBERGEN Papers”, the display said, At this time all files on this subject are being updated. No information is currently available. Please try again later. Thank you for using National Web Search, the leading British Internet search engine.
‘WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF that?’ she said.
‘Bloody censorship, that’s what it is!’
‘You think?’
‘Damn right it is! It’s happening more and more. The damned government can’t leave anything alone. They are censoring the Internet left right and centre.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m telling you! There’s a guy at Brockenhurst College, Marcus Cross, he is monitoring the censored sites. It’s huge, it’s everywhere. He’s even developed a program to leapfrog the censor. He’s called it KillCen. There’s a big demand for it too, I’m telling you, you’d be amazed, pity we haven’t got a copy here. It really works, his stuff, every time, it’s brill.’
Adam abruptly ceased talking, as if realising he had already said too much. He didn’t know this woman from Adam; so to speak, and she could be working for the police, or anyone else, for all he knew.
‘So it’s rumoured,’ he said, as if belatedly trying to repair any damage.
‘Maybe we should try again after dinner, like it says,’ she said.
She had returned to adult speak. It was precisely the kind of thing his mother might have said. After dinner, everything will be all right, just as if a good meal cured all. You’ll feel better in the morning, that was another of mother’s fallback sayings, and, You’ll feel better after a good wash. Oh yeah! Fat chance! he said to himself. He knew it would be a complete waste of time.
The doorbell rang, one long electronic tone.
Adam jumped inside his loose clothing.
‘Who’s that?’ he said, betraying his nervousness.
‘It’ll be Martin,’ she said, ‘let him in, will you. I’m up to my arms in garlic sauce.’
Who the hell was Martin? Adam gingerly approached the front door and silently grasped the lock. He twisted it and pulled the door open. A startled guy looked back at him through dark eyes. A fit looking guy, a guy Adam instantly disliked.
‘Who the hell are you?’ said the stranger.
‘I’m Adam; I’m staying for a few days.’
‘Are you now? First I have heard of it. Adam who?’
‘Adam Rexington. And who are you, may I ask?’
&nbs
p; ‘I’m Martin Reamse,’ said the guy, before wondering why the hell he was answering this kid’s questions. Elizabeth hadn’t mentioned this guy before. He pushed past Adam in the doorway and hurried down the hall, before spitting out, ‘Where the hell’s Liz?’
‘She’s in the kitchen. Spag Bol. Yummy yummy. Hope there’s enough for three!’
Martin didn’t appreciate the sarcastic comment and gave Adam a withering look, as he headed toward the kitchen, and Liz, where he landed her a thunderous kiss, a kiss he made sure the kid saw.
Adam stared at them embracing, and never once thought to look away, as his mother would have advised. Even when Martin looked back over his shoulder to check that the kid was still watching, Adam didn’t avert his eyes. Instead, he glared at Martin, and they both knew they would never get along. How could they?
AFTER DINNER, THEY tried the Internet again, predictably with the same result, and some time after that, Liz took Adam to the back bedroom and advised him to sleep. Later still, deep into the night, he heard noises. Noises he had never heard before. His mother rarely kept company in the cottage, and though he had never previously experienced such sounds, he knew well enough what they were. They disconcerted him. They kept him awake long into the night, and all they managed to do was reinforce the hatred he already felt for Martin Reamse.
He spoke the name aloud, Martin Reamse. Martin bloody Reamse, and only after the noises ceased, and the apartment fell silent, did Adam fall into a fitful sleep, inevitably to dream of his mother calling for his help, begging him not to abandon her. Beseeching him: Adam! Adam! Save me!
In the big bedroom at the front, the sounds of the breakers crashing onto the beach below could be heard through the open window.
Martin pulled Liz toward him, and cuddled into her soft skin.
