Waiting For a Train That Never Comes

by J A Henderson Henderson

  Waiting For A Train

  That Never Comes

  J A Henderson

  Black Hart Entertainment

  Edinburgh. Brisbane

  First published 2008 by Oxford University Press (as Crash)

  Reprinted 2019 by Black Hart Publishers.

  Black Hart Entertainment.

  32 Glencoul Ave, Dalgetty Bay, Fife KY11 9XL.

  cityofthedeadtours.com

  The rights of the authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been ascertained in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the authors’ imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover by Craig Thomson (Thomson art n sketches) and Panagiotis Lampridis (BookDesignStars).

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Waiting For a Train That Never Comes. 2nd ed.

  ISBN 978-0-9928561-5-1 (print)

  ISBN 978-0-9928561-6-8 (eBook)

  A straw headed woman, and a barrel chested man

  A pocket full of posies with a hat brim full of sand

  Waiting for the train that never comes.

  Madness: The Ghost Train

  For Charlie

  Thursday

  The Norwegian Sea.700 miles nor’ east of the Faeroe Islands

  The trawler Lillian Gish bobbed beside a massive oil derrick, invisible in the cold, dark void below the platform. The number 579 was painted on one gigantic leg of the rig, each algae stained digit larger than the trawler itself. The vessel stayed just long enough for three crates to be lowered onto the deck, quickly and quietly. Then it chugged off again.

  An hour later the craft was ploughing south through choppy waves, thick and mottled as soup, heading back towards the Scottish coast.

  The Lillian Gish usually carried a crew of seven, but there were only three sailors on this voyage. The less people who knew what the trawler was transporting the better.

  Eddie Hall peered through the salt streaked wheelhouse window, holding a tin mug of coffee. Taped to the wooden wheel was a picture of his daughter Elspeth, a solemn five year old sitting alone on a see-saw in Camperdown Park. The photograph was rimmed by oily fingerprints and tape marks – the result of being removed from the young seaman’s wallet a thousand times and fastened to the wheel for luck. Elspeth’s mother had moved to Aviemore when she and Eddie divorced and he hadn’t seen his daughter for two years.

  He squinted uneasily out of the grimy window at the heavy sky.

  Something wasn’t right.

  In the six months Eddie had crewed trawlers, he had cultivated a sailor’s instinct for trouble, along with a fine walrus moustache. He opened the wheelhouse door and freezing Arctic air cooled the cabin and spread condensation across the glass. Steam from his mug swirled back on itself in protest.

  There was a strange smell in on the wind. A little like burnt matches, Eddie thought – though that seemed improbable, what with water stretching from horizon to horizon.

  The First Mate, Lasse Salvesson, was leaning over the stern – tall, pinch faced and encased in a full length black oilskin coat. He would have looked like death itself, were it not for the bright red bobble cap on his head and the industrial sized flashlight in one hand. He straightened up and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Get the Skipper up here.”

  “At this hour?” Eddie protested. “I’m not supposed to wake him unless it’s an emergency.”

  Captain Morrison was a heavy drinker. The alternating pressures of boredom and danger on a fishing boat took its toll on a man, as Eddie now understood. But the Captain was the Captain and Eddie disapproved of the Skipper finding solace in a whisky bottle.

  “I don’t care if he’s in a coma.” Salvesson wiped a trembling hand across his spray slicked forehead. “Get him on deck!”

  Frightened now, Eddie pulled the brass mouthpiece from the holder on the wall and blew into it. It was connected by a series of tubes to the Skipper’s cabin and a sharp puff from the wheelhouse produced a piercing whistle at the other end. Eddie took a sly satisfaction in that. He removed the brass cylinder from his mouth and held it to his ear.

  “What the hell is it?” Captain Morrison’s voice squawked tinnily, as if he were a hundred miles away. He sounded tired and grumpy, but then, he always did. “We hit an iceberg? We better have.”

  “The First Mate wants you on the bridge immediately Skipper,” Eddie replied with false humility. “Sounds urgent.”

  “Tell the bugger I’m going to throw him over the side when I get there.”

  A few minutes later Captain Morrison appeared on deck, coatless and hatless, wearing a huge Arran Jersey to combat the cold. His thick black hair, streaked with grey, stuck up on his head like a spent firecracker and his beard was dotted with crumbs. He smelt strongly of alcohol.

  “What’s going on Salvesson?” he shouted, ignoring Eddie.

  The First Mate didn’t reply, too busy shining the powerful flashlight in arcs across the water. The Captain strode to the rail and leaned over.

  Eddie saw the Skipper’s body go rigid. Overcome by curiosity, he locked the wheel and made his way out towards the men. The First Mate was shaking his head, face even paler than normal.

  “What in God’s name is this, Captain? Shouldn’t we report it to someone?”

  “Are you kidding?” Morrison said tersely. “With what we’re carrying?”

  “Twenty years I’ve been a trawler man,” Salvesson replied stubbornly. “I never seen such a sight in my life.”

  “Neither have I.” the Captain scratched his beard. “But we have to keep quiet about where we are and what we’re doing.”

  “We should never have taken this job. I said so before we started out.” The First Mate crossed himself and spat over the side. “Our cargo is cursed. I swear it.”

  “None of that talk!” Morrison snapped. “The fishing restrictions in the North Sea have all but destroyed us. We’d no choice but to make this run.” The Skipper put a scarred hand on his First Mate’s shoulder and stamped a foot on the deck. “Just one trip, Salvesson. We need the money.”

  “Yah. If we live to collect it.”

  “You Norwegians, eh? Always so damned optimistic.” Captain Morrison turned to Eddie as the younger man reached the rail.

  “Take a look if you must, boy. Then keep us heading south.” He paused for a second and threw back his shoulders, staggering slightly. “And maintain radio silence all the way to Scotland.”

  Eddie was staring dumbly at the surrounding sea, hands tight on the rails, not feeling the cold seeping into his fingers.

  “Understand sailor?” Captain Morrison repeated.

  “Aye Skipper.” Eddie was still gazing uncomprehendingly over the side. Salvesson played the torch beam across the water, back and forth like a searchlight.

  All around the Lillian Gish, as far as the eye could see, dead fish layered the surface. They bumped gently into each other, cresting each swell of the tide, white and bloated as maggots.

  Friday

  The Bridge Over The Forth

  Now that I'm a parent, I understand why my father was in a bad mood a lot.

  Adam Sandler

  -1-

  Bobby Berlin lost his father on the
6.15 pm train from Edinburgh to Aberdeen.

  The day had started off unexpectedly well. Bobby’s father, Gordon, had the week off work and was slowly going stir crazy. There was nothing for him to do in Puddledub, the village where they lived, so he had suggested a trip to the cinema in the capital. They had driven to Aberdour and parked the car at the train station, then taken the express into the city.

  “Are we going to see a comedy?” Bobby asked hopefully as they stood in the cinema queue.

  “Depends on whether you think a meteor hitting New York is funny.” His father jerked his thumb at a poster showing a skyscraper with a hole in it. Under the picture was a lurid green title. Fireball!

  Bobby groaned. Now the reason for their trip was clear. Gordon Berlin was a rabid fan of disaster movies, something his son just couldn’t appreciate. It wasn’t like any of these films actually ended in real catastrophe - some unlikely hero always saved the world in the nick of time.

  The attendant looked sceptically at Bobby, who had to stand on his toes to see into the ticket booth.

  “This film is an eighteen certificate,” he said. “The boy looks a bit wee to be eighteen.”

  Gordon Berlin glanced down at his fifteen year old son and shrugged.

  “That’s ‘cause he smokes.”

  The attendant frowned. Bobby, used to his father’s warped sense of humour, smiled awkwardly and accepted the tickets.

  After the film they ate fish and chips at a nearby café.

  “What would we do if this country was going to be hit by a meteor?” Bobby was the kind of boy who had questions about everything.

  “There’d be a lot of panic, so we’d have to arm ourselves.” His father considered the problem. “There’s a pistol in the attic that belonged to your granddad.”

  This was news to Bobby and exciting news at that. It must have showed in his face for his father tapped him sharply on the forehead.

  “Don’t even think of looking for it. It’s locked in a drawer.”

  “Why did granddad have a gun? Did he get it in the war?”

  “I think he got it in a car boot sale. He came home with a stuffed parrot once.” Gordon went back to pondering their survival. “Anyway, we’d take the gun and some tinned food and bottles of water. Then we’d head for the docks and try and get ourselves a boat. Make for some small island.”

  “What if the meteor landed in the sea?” his son countered. “Then there would be a huge tidal wave and all the ships would sink.”

  “All the better. Everyone else would be heading inland to get away.” Bobby’s father always sounded self-assured, even when he had no idea what he was talking about. “But it wouldn’t be the ship that was important. It would be the lifeboats. We climb into one and fasten the tarpaulin over our heads. Lifeboats are designed to withstand strong impacts and an empty one will float like a cork.”

  He seemed to have given the scenario a lot of thought.

  “Is that really true?” Bobby didn’t like to take anything at face value, especially when it came from his father. Gordon wasn’t above inventing facts in order to win an argument.

  “Bound to be. Stands to reason.”

  “Then, wouldn’t all the sailors have the same idea?” Bobby took a long gulp of Coke and gave a victorious belch.

  “That’s why we’d need the gun.” Gordon looked at his watch. “We better head off or we’ll miss the train home.”

  Bobby tugged at his arm as they left the cafe.

  “How come we didn’t take Angelica with us today?” Angelica was his father’s girlfriend.

  “Me and Angelica are having a few… problems.” Gordon’s curt reply signalled that he didn’t want to pursue this particular conversation. “If earth gets hit by a meteor? We’ll take her with us then. Ok?”

  “It was cool when she went places with us.” Bobby persisted. “It’s like we were a proper family.”

  “Yeah.” Gordon Berlin pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his leather jacket and lit it. “That was one of the problems.”

  The village of Puddledub was in the ‘Kingdom’ of Fife in central Scotland. Fife really had been a kingdom once, and some ancient law allowed the little county to keep its grandiose title. To reach it, the train from Edinburgh had to cross the bridge over the River Forth – a mile and a half of gigantic rust-red, iron diamonds - their tops fading into the darkening winter sky.

  Bobby stared out of the window through the criss-crossing girders, watching the lights of North Queensferry on the far shore. He found the sight faintly depressing. There were so many people down there and he would never get the chance to meet most of them. Puddledub only had fifteen houses and his father wasn’t exactly the greatest company in the world. He always seemed too preoccupied with his own thoughts.

  “This bridge was built in 1879, a year after the original Tay Rail Bridge up north,” Gordon derailed Bobby’s train of thought. “The two greatest structures in the world at the time. Then the Tay Bridge collapsed during a huge storm. There was a train crossing when it happened and all 179 passengers were drowned.”

  Bobby’s eyes shifted down to the grey, windblown water. He tried to imagine what he could do to survive if this train were plunged into the sluggish abyss. Not much, he concluded. It worried him that so many situations might suddenly develop over which he would have no control. He couldn’t wait to grow up.

  Not that being an adult would help much if death came calling in such a violent fashion.

  “Fifty seven workers lost their lives constructing this bridge.” Gordon Berlin seemed strangely affected by these morbid facts, although Bobby wasn’t sure if he was inventing them to make conversation. He wished his father would talk about something more pleasant, or even ask if his son had enjoyed the film.

  The sky and the water were darkening to the same colour, bleeding into each other where the Forth widened and became the North Sea. Out in the bay, two oil rigs huddled together, thick legged leviathans awaiting repairs.

  Bobby followed the path of a seagull floating up from the choppy waves into the nest of wires and struts.

  Suddenly there was the squeal of metal grating on metal and the train gave a violent jerk. The occupants of the carriage lurched forwards, some embedding their faces on the musty seatbacks of the row in front. The train rapidly lost speed and ground to a halt. Nobody seemed hurt, though passengers were muttering indignantly and wiping dust from their faces.

  Bobby looked up again and gave a cry.

  There was a scaffolder hanging from a small wooden platform, fastened to a rivet studded girder twenty feet above their carriage. His feet kicked helplessly at empty air and the wind snapped his orange coat back and forward like a flag. Another workman was lying flat on the platform desperately holding onto his companion’s arms.

  Spotting the developing tragedy, Gordon Berlin grabbed his son by the shoulder and tried to cover his eyes. Then his hand went rigid and slipped away from Bobby’s face.

  Bobby saw everything.

  A sharp gust of wind pulled the dangling man out of his workmate’s grasp and he plunged through the struts, arms windmilling, the thin wire of a broken safety harness trailing behind him like a useless tail. Pain and abject horror were plainly visible on the man’s face as he plummeted past the window and vanished below the parapet, heading for the freezing, concrete coloured water.

  Bobby turned to his father, desperate for some kind of reassurance. Waiting for him to explain that what they had witnessed was just some wild publicity stunt or a safety training exercise.

  But Gordon was staring out of the window with a lost expression. Passengers in the carriage began rising to their feet and pressing themselves against the windows to try and get a better view.

  “Is that guy going to be ok, dad?”

  Gordon didn’t move.

  “Dad?” Bobby grabbed his father by the arm.

  Gordon Berlin swallowed hard. Then his eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped sideways onto the s
eat.

  -2-

  In Puddledub, Mary Mooney was casting a spell.

  Bobby Berlin and Mary Mooney were best friends. As a matter of fact, Bobby was Mary’s only friend, since there weren’t any other children in the village. Mary lived with her grandmother, was a few months older than Bobby and claimed to be descended from gypsies. Her grandmother even had an old fashioned painted caravan in her garden, though Bobby had never seen it actually go anywhere.

  Mary sat on the floor of her bedroom with the lights off and the curtains closed. In front of her was a low table draped with a tapestry and topped by three lit candles. On the wooden floor, drawn in chalk, a crude pentagram surrounded her makeshift altar.

  Mary went to the hall and checked that her grandmother was still downstairs. The living room door was shut and the teenager could hear the TV blaring in the background. As long as Coronation Street was on, it would take an earthquake to tear her gran from the screen.

  Mary slunk back and knelt by the low table, sliding an open book from under the tapestry. She had found it a few days ago, on the top shelf of her gran’s bookcase, hidden behind a huge History of Poland. It looked old, bound in pleasant smelling leather, with yellowing, hand written pages.

  It was a book of Gypsy incantations.

  Mary knew her gran didn’t want her to read it or it wouldn’t have been so well concealed. She’d only found it because she was doing a school project on the Second World War and assumed Poland had been involved somehow.

  And the old woman would be apoplectic if she knew the spell Mary was attempting.

  It was an incantation for talking to the dead.

  Mary laid a photograph of her mother and father, still in its wooden frame, face up on the table. Her parents had their arms around each other and were smiling into the camera. Mary’s grandmother, Baba Rana, swore that true Gypsies never had their photograph taken. It was an old Romany superstition – travelling folk believed that the soul could separate from the body and be trapped by the camera. Mary’s mother and father, of course, had ridiculed this as nonsense.