Waiting For a Train That Never Comes

by J A Henderson Henderson

  “When you’re finished, I want you to stick the tops on the barrels and then forget you ever saw them,” the Skipper called from the open door of the wheelhouse. “I’ll be glad to do the same, as soon as we’ve handed them over to our buyer.”

  “What’s in these crates anyway?”

  “They were found by a bunch of workmen in a cave on the coast of Norway.” The skipper expertly evaded the question. “Secron Oil has a big refinery there. Apparently they were excavating the shore for some new gas pipeline that’s getting built.”

  “Yeah, but what’s in them?”

  “None of your business. Some bigwig in the oil company claimed them and we’re the delivery boys. And yes, it must be highly illegal or there would be no need to hire a fishing trawler to sneak the contents into Scotland.” The Skipper wiped his nose with the sleeve of the greatcoat. “We’re being paid handsomely. That’s all I need to know.”

  After that Eddie worked silently and efficiently. There was little chance of coming across another ship in this deserted stretch of ocean, but his heart was pounding harder than the Lillian Gish’s engine. Though part of him thrilled at the idea of being a smuggler, he was mostly afraid and more than a little ashamed.

  “That’s the last of it Captain.”

  “Dump the empty crates in the sea.” The Skipper fastened the wheel and came out on deck. The sky had cleared, the water was perfectly still and they had no trouble pitching the boxes over the side, though Captain Morrison still stumbled once or twice. The smell of whisky surrounded him like overpowering aftershave.

  As they turned back from their task Eddie noticed a slim shape twinkling on the deck.

  “Wait a minute Skipper. I think something fell out of one of the oilcloths.”

  He bent and picked up the object. A smile split his face.

  “It’s a tin flute!” he exclaimed. “I love these things. I had one for years. Could play it pretty well too.”

  “Stick it in one of the barrels.” The Skipper took the small instrument from the sailor and held it up to the lights. “Doesn’t look very valuable, but it must be worth something or it wouldn’t be in with the rest of the stuff.”

  Eddie looked crestfallen. Morrison noticed his crewman’s disappointed expression.

  “You like the sea, Eddie?”

  “I suppose.” But there was doubt in the young sailor’s voice. “It’s lonely, but I’ve no choice really. Not many jobs around where I come from.”

  “I’ve no choice either.” The Captain tossed the tin whistle from one hand to the other. “Hard as it is, this life is the only one I know.” He tapped the instrument against one of the barrels. “But this little lot is worth a fair bit, mister. The money we get for it will let me keep my ship. You take your share and go find a land job, eh? That’s your Captain’s advice.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Eddie replied despondently.

  Captain Morrison looked at the flute in his large calloused hand. He remembered that he used to play the recorder, long ago.

  “Here. You have this for now.” He held out the instrument. “But put it straight in the barrel once we reach our destination.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Eddie snatched the flute before Captain Morrison got over his bout of alcohol fuelled sentimentality.

  “I’m going below,” the Skipper grunted. “Keep an eye on the wheel ‘till Salvesson gets on deck. Try not to steer us into a whale.”

  He clumped off unsteadily. Eddie sat down on a mooring bollard, tentatively put the tin whistle to his lips and began to play. It had been several years, but the finger positions came back to him like it was yesterday.

  A sweet and lilting sound floated across the deck and over the sea. Eddie took the whistle from his lips and stared at it. The instrument didn’t look like much, but it sounded like a classical flute. He put it back in his mouth and began to play again, staring through the rigging at the stars.

  “What are you doing?”

  Lasse Salvesson stood by the prow, glaring at him. Eddie had been so engrossed, he hadn’t seen the First Mate come up on deck.

  “Where did you get that?” Salvesson pointed a gloved hand at the whistle.

  “It came from one of the crates.” The crewman lowered the flute to his knees. “The Skipper said I could keep it ‘till we reach shore.”

  “That drunken old fool!” The First Mate slammed his hand against the side of the wheelhouse. “Does he want to invite disaster?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The artefacts we are carrying? They are cursed.” The First Mate looked furtively around. “Tainted by misery and despair and yet you play with one as if it were a toy?”

  “I don’t understand.” Eddie held the flute behind his back like a guilty child.

  “It’s not about understanding boy, it’s about feeling!” The Norwegian growled. “Any true man of the sea knows this.”

  “I’m sorry.” Despite the apology, Eddie held onto the whistle. “I just don’t see….”

  “Keep the damned thing. The damage is done.” Lasse Salvesson pulled the black coat tighter around his body.

  “Whatever we do, the Lillian Gish is doomed.”

  -7-

  Bobby’s father sat on a leather chair in the living room, staring at his many possessions, recognising none of them. His son perched glumly on the sofa opposite.

  “Is that a TV?” Gordon goggled at a huge flat screen Panasonic taking up half the wall.

  “It’s your TV.”

  “Fab! It’s bloody huge! Why is there another one on that desk?”

  “That’s the PC.”

  “What’s a PC?”

  “Can we leave this stuff ‘till later?” Bobby’s voice was strained to breaking point. “I’m feeling a little freaked out.”

  “Aye. Ok.” Gordon Berlin got up and looked at himself properly in the mirror over the fireplace. The face that stared back had small even features, countered by large, sleepy green eyes. He looked across at Bobby. The boy’s eyes were similar. So were his small nose, thin lips and square jaw. He turned back to the mirror. The face in the glass really wasn’t bad looking.

  But it certainly wasn’t fifteen.

  “All right.” He tugged at his ear and checked one last time that the reflection did the same. “How old am I really?

  “You’re 55,” the teenager answered dutifully. “Your name is Gordon Berlin. You work as a features writer and you’re my dad.”

  “I’m a journalist!” His father seemed mortified. “But I was going to work on an oil rig when I was old enough!”

  “Well… You did work for some oil company, but you quit to look after me. So you said, anyway.”

  “Really? I don’t think I ever intended to have a kid,” Gordon mused. “Certainly didn’t expect him to pop up on a train seat next to me.”

  “What do you remember? Who do you think you are?”

  “I don’t remember much,” his father admitted. “My name is Dodd Pollen. I’m fifteen and I live in Dundee. The year is 1979. Only… I bet it’s not, is it?”

  “No,” Bobby agreed. “It’s 2018.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to believe you.” Gordon looked back at the mirror. “But how did I get old? What happened to me?”

  “Maybe all you have to do is rest.” Bobby realised that he, for one, was exhausted. “After a good night’s sleep it might all come back to you.”

  “Eh? It’s only ten o clock.” Gordon glanced at the clock on the wall. “What’s the point in being an adult if I can’t stay up late?”

  “You get your memory back and you can stay up for the rest of your life,” Bobby retorted sourly. “I’ll show you where your bedroom is and I’m going to mine.” The boy headed for the living room door. “I have to think, dad.”

  “All right, all right. But can I read for a while? You got any comics? This week’s Commando. Or the 2000 AD?”

  “Which makes it a bit out of date.” Bobby shook his head. “You can have today’s E
dinburgh Evening News. You’ve got an article at the bottom of page fifteen.”

  “Wait a minute!” Gordon Berlin heaved himself out of the chair. “What did you mean about looking after you? If I’m really your dad, then where’s my wife? Where’s your mother?”

  Bobby paused in the doorway and his shoulders tightened.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Oh. Sorry mate. I mean… Bobby,” Gordon said awkwardly. “Look… eh…. You’re right. We’ll talk about everything in the morning. I’m a bit confused right now.”

  “Join the club.”

  “I bet you’re right.” The man smiled sheepishly. “I bet everything will be normal when I wake up. Hey! Maybe I’m dreaming.”

  “If you are, it isn’t a dream. It’s a nightmare.”

  Bobby lay staring at the ceiling long into the night, unable to sleep. He tried not to think of his predicament. He tried not to think of his mother. He tried not to think of anything. But, hour after hour, black feelings tumbled over each other inside his head until he drifted off.

  Gordon Berlin’s thoughts, however, were far more pleasant. He was utterly mystified, but he could see the advantages of suddenly becoming an adult. He wouldn’t have to go to school for a start. He wouldn’t get any hassle from parents. He could watch 18 certificate films at the cinema. He hadn’t even cleaned his teeth before getting into bed.

  And he hadn’t taken his nightly pills.

  In fact, he had forgotten the pills even existed.

  Pills he had never told Bobby about.

  Pills that he had to take.

  Saturday

  Dodd Pollen

  He that cannot forgive others breaks the bridge over which he must pass himself; for every man has need to be forgiven.

  Thomas Fuller

  -8-

  The Norwegian Sea.300 Miles nor’ east of the Orkney Islands

  The crew of the Amazon drew alongside three crates bobbing on the murky swells. The trawler had been fishing for mackerel near an area known as Ormen Lange. They were heading back to port in the Shetlands when one of the trawlermen spotted the floating debris.

  Captain McRory stood on the prow, hands in his pockets, as the boat cut its engines and drifted towards the wooden boxes. One of the crewmen swung a grappling hook, caught the nearest crate and the men hauled it onto the deck. The first mate puffed on a cigarette, shielding it with his hands to stop the sea spray turning it to soggy paper in his mouth.

  “You think there’s been some sort of accident?” he lisped through the smoke.

  “Doubt it.” McRory shook his head. “There’s no oil slick. No wreckage. It’s probably Jetsam, pitched over the side of another vessel.” He looked at the rising sun. “Can’t have been too long ago, or else they’d have got waterlogged and sunk”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  “One of the many mysteries of the sea,” the Skipper grinned. “And none of our concern.”

  “I tell you what’s a mystery,” one of the older men ran calloused hands over the crate. “This is made from oak. Nobody makes boxes out of oak any more. And it’s got lettering burned into the side. Not stencilled. Burned.” He patted the side of the crate. “This thing is old.”

  “Any idea what it says?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “It’s German.” A young crewman named Karston was peering at the letters. “I used to work in the Rhine Ports,” he offered by way of explanation.

  “Ahnenerbe Forschungs und Lehrgemeinschaft. It translates as… eh… Ancestral Heritage Research and Teaching Society. And underneath.” The man traced his fingers along the lettering. “He who ignores the secrets of the past will unleash the power of darkness.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” Unlike most seamen, Captain McRory wasn’t a superstitious sort. “Now, can we get round to the business of transporting our catch?”

  “I’ll tell the engineer to put us back on course.” The First Mate turned towards the wheelhouse. He stopped and sniffed the air.

  “You smell that?”

  “I certainly do.” Captain McRory frowned. “Was it you?”

  “No sir!”

  The Captain slowly took his hands from his pockets. Within a few seconds the acrid smell had become overpowering. The other crewmen were looking at him questioningly. One or two clapped a hand over their mouths, their faces registering revulsion.

  “It smells like… sulphur.” The First Mate said. The stench was now so strong he had difficulty forming the words.

  The older crewman crossed himself.

  “Jesus Captain,” he croaked. “It’s like the very gates of hell have opened.”

  Captain McRory fought the impulse to gag.

  “Get us moving!” he yelled. “Full speed ahead!”

  The First Mate darted into the wheelhouse and the Amazon’s engine roared to life. The ship gave a lurch, but it was a downward motion, not forward, as if the craft were in some giant, stuttering elevator.

  “God save us!” One of his seamen pointed over the side. “We’re sinking!”

  “Is the hull breached?” The First Mate screamed from the wheelhouse door, losing his balance and falling to one knee. “It can’t be!”

  Captain McRory had been a sailor for most of his life and he knew the Amazon couldn’t possibly be letting in water. That would cause the ship to list, not go straight down. He knew everything that could cause a trawler this size to sink. A violent storm, a freak wave, even a whirlpool. He raced to the side and stared in disbelief at the water rising rapidly up the side of the Amazon.

  The sea was perfectly calm.

  No ship just goes down like a stone! the Captain thought as the waves spilled over the rail. That’s impossible!

  Seconds later, the Amazon was heading for the ocean floor, the crew flailing upwards in a vain attempt to save their lives.

  Only the crates remained, still bobbing gently on the water.

  -9-

  Bobby lay in bed trying not to wake up. The light of day was poking feebly through the blinds and his father was moving about downstairs. He couldn’t hear any music, though - and Gordon Berlin always played music as soon as he got up. Bobby knew the silence was a bad sign.

  The teenager didn’t feel like he’d slept at all. His tangled, bitter thoughts had turned slowly into black dreams and then back to dread as he drifted into consciousness. Now he hid under the covers, exhausted, his mind still filled with frightening questions.

  There was a loud bang somewhere below him. That didn’t sound good.

  Bobby pulled himself out of bed, showered and dressed. Then he sat in his bedroom for a while longer trying to stop feeling queasy. Finally he went downstairs, a hard ball of unease lodged somewhere between his heart and his stomach.

  Gordon Berlin was slouched on the sofa in a sweatshirt and underpants, eating toast and drinking a glass of milk. His hairy legs were splayed wide and he was dishevelled and unshaven. He wasn’t even sitting the way he normally did.

  “That’s a crazy wee oven in the kitchen,” he said. “If you put a metal dish inside it goes completely mental.”

  “It’s called a microwave.”

  “And I tried to stick the TV on, but it doesn’t have any dials. That’s stupid.”

  “You have to use this.” Bobby picked up the remote control and handed it to his father. “I take it you haven’t got your memory back?”

  “Nope.” His father took a slurp of milk and gave his son an anxious look. “Don’t I have to go to work or pay bills or something?”

  “No. You’ve got the week off.” Bobby switched on the computer. “I’ll put on some music. You like to listen to music.”

  “The little TV plays tunes?”

  “The PC? It does everything. Your whole life is on there.”

  “Let’s have a shooftie then!” Gordon regarded the desktop with open curiosity. “What sort of stuff am I into? I used to like the Rolling Stones. But now I’m more into the Sex Pistols.”

  �
��I don’t know half the groups you listen to,” Bobby admitted. “They’re all loud. I know you don’t like the Rolling Stones anymore. You say they’re too old.”

  “They’re still around? Hey, were they frozen or something? I read that was going to be possible in the future.”

  “Dad. You think you’re a fifteen year old!” Bobby snapped. “Why are we talking about the Rolling Stones?”

  “I don’t have anything else to talk about, do I?” Gordon said petulantly. “Are Dundee FC still bottom of the First Division?”

  “I’m going to get myself some breakfast.” Bobby smoothed down his wet hair and marched into the kitchen.

  He made himself coffee and sat at the kitchen table, holding the mug to his chest and glaring morosely at the blackened inside of the microwave. He had to tell someone what was going on, but who? Gordon didn’t have any living relatives, as far as he knew, and Angelica was probably mad at him. His mother’s family had never liked Gordon Berlin, so they’d be no help. If he told them his father had gone nuts they’d probably have him carted off to the funny farm.

  Who could he talk to?

  Mary Moony, he supposed.

  She was the only person his age in the village and, though she was pretty annoying, she was weird enough to take something like this in her stride. He’d go and see her after breakfast.

  First he’d have to persuade his father to stay in the house and not answer the telephone or go to the door. God knows what would happen if someone came to read the electricity meter. Gordon probably didn’t know what electricity was.

  He strode back into the living-room

  “Dad. I want you to promise me something…”

  His voice trailed off.