The Wrong Train

by Jeremy de Quidt

  The boy could feel his resolve to stay there and stand in the dark at the end of the platform slipping from him. There was nothing he could do to stop it. The more he fought to hold on to it, the more it ebbed, and the more he could believe that, quietly and slowly, something wicked was creeping through the darkness toward him, getting closer every moment he delayed.

  He moved a few steps nearer to the light of the lantern, trying at the same time to be farther from the dark, but no nearer to the man, only the spill of that light seemed to shrink the closer he came to it, as though it were drawing him in until finally he was standing again by the end of the bench and the old man.

  “I said they’d turn those lights out,” the man chirruped. “Saves a bit of money. No point having lights on if there’s no one to see them. Be different if there was anyone to see them.” He leaned forward on the bench and looked exaggeratedly both ways into the darkness of the platform as if he might just see someone they hadn’t noticed. “No,” he said brightly. “Just you and me and Toby.”

  He smiled up at the boy.

  “Just you and me,” he said quietly, and smiled again.

  The boy didn’t like that smile.

  “You need to come and sit down,” the man said. “No point standing over there in the cold on your own.”

  “I’m happy here,” the boy answered.

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I will.”

  “Nowhere else to go now, though, is there?” said the man. “You’re going to have to stay with Toby and me unless you want to wander off and stand all alone in the dark.”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  The old man tapped his feet on the cold platform, one then the other—tap tap tappity tap.

  “Nearly time,” he said, but he didn’t say what for.

  The boy looked back into the darkness of the platform; that sense of there being something wicked, there in the dark, hadn’t left him.

  “What it is,” said the old man, shifting on the bench, “is you’ve got to tell me a story. That’s what’s got to happen now. Anything you like—little story about your school, or what you did over vacation. That’s all you’ve got to do—tell me about your school. I’d like to hear about that. Then we can play my game.”

  “I don’t want to tell you a story.”

  “Well, we can’t just wait here without a bit of a chin-wag,” the man said. “Tell a story and the time will see to itself—that train will be here and you’ll be on it and on your way.”

  The boy said nothing.

  The man looked at him with those hard, shard-glass eyes.

  “All right,” he said. “Then I’ll tell you another one.”

  There were only two more weeks of school left before the summer. Exams had finished and there was hardly any point in being there, because no one was doing anything. Even the staff were counting down the days. It was so hot too, the sky so blue, so clear—boys with their sleeves rolled up, girls barefoot on the playing field, carrying their shoes on the tips of their fingers.

  It was lunch break.

  Richard and the others lay on their backs in the long grass at the edge of the playing field. Next year someone would have passed their driver’s test by now, and they’d have a car and could go somewhere, but not yet.

  Richard rolled over onto his elbows. It was too hot to do anything.

  “Let’s play Dead Molly,” he said.

  They used to play it all the time when they were little—it was such a good game. They’d choose who was going to be Molly, then lie on their backs with their eyes screwed shut and all say the rhyme together.

  “One, two, she’s coming for you,

  Three, four, knocks at the door,

  Dead Molly, poison my cup,

  Dead Molly, wake me up!”

  Then they’d open their eyes at exactly the same time, only whoever was Molly would have crept soundlessly up and stuffed their face inches away from someone else’s, so when that person opened their eyes, they’d find a face right against theirs.

  “Boo!”

  It would scare the daylights out of them—you never knew if it would be you. If you were Molly you had to be dead quiet so you wouldn’t be heard—and you had to stop breathing as well, so the other person wouldn’t feel any breath on their face. If you had long hair you had to hold that out of the way too—even a strand of it would give you away.

  There was supposed to have been a Molly once, but nobody believed it. When Richard was small he’d told his gran he’d played Dead Molly at school, and she’d said he shouldn’t mess with things like that, or one day he might get more than he’d bargained for. But it was just a game.

  Because it was his idea, Richard was Molly first. He chose Ginny to scare, because it would be nice putting his face close to hers. He held his breath and silently leaned over her while they chanted the rhyme.

  “One, two, she’s coming for you,

  Three, four, knocks at the door,

  Dead Molly, poison my cup,

  Dead Molly, wake me up!”

  She gave such a yell when she opened her eyes and found him there. He sat back on his heels, laughing his head off, and as he did, something on the field caught his eye.

  The field was so full of color and movement that the woman stood out a mile—tall and slim in a plain gray dress, walking unhurriedly toward them across the grass. He saw her from a long way off. He thought maybe she was from the school office with a message for one of them, because she was walking straight as an arrow toward them, past everyone else, not even turning her head to look.

  If she was from the office, they’d find out soon enough. He lay down in the grass again, closed his eyes, and said the rhyme. As he opened them, there was a scream and everyone fell about laughing, because they’d done Ginny again. He sat up and as he did, he looked back across the field. The woman in the gray dress had stopped now. She was still a way off but was just standing there, looking at them.

  There was time for one more game before the bell. Everyone lay back down and closed their eyes, and as Richard closed his, he felt a shadow settle over his face, and felt the cold of it. A strand of hair brushed against his cheek. There was someone with their face over his. He knew it was Ginny; she had the longest hair.

  “One, two, she’s coming for you,

  Three, four, knocks at the door,

  Dead Molly, poison my cup—”

  What did that bit mean anyway? he thought.

  “Dead Molly, wake me up!”

  He snapped his eyes open, ready to push Ginny away—only it wasn’t Ginny.

  Pressed right up against his face was a face he didn’t know at all—a woman’s face, dead and white, her skin bloodless and transparent, her eyes black as coal.

  “Jesus!”

  He sat bolt upright in his bed, his breath stuffed in his chest, his heart hammering. The playing field, the summer’s day were gone, and he could see his room all around him: his hands on the bedclothes, his wardrobe, the half-open bedroom door, the landing light on. He could hear the sound of his mom in the kitchen downstairs. He swept his hair back, his heart slowing, his breath coming more evenly. He’d never, ever had a dream like that before. God, it had been so real.

  He could still picture the woman’s face inches away from his, the clear blue sky behind her.

  But it was dark outside—it wasn’t even summer. For the moment, he was so thrown by the dream that he wasn’t quite sure what time of year it really was.

  “Come on, Richard! You’ll be late for school!”

  He got out of bed, put his feet in his cold slippers and his dressing gown on.

  It had snowed in the night. He parted the gap in the curtains and looked down at the street—at the sodium-orange lamps and the sodium-orange snow piled thickly on the roofs and hoods of the parked cars.

  In the bathroom, he looked at his face in the mirror and tried to forget the dream, but it felt like it was only inches away from him still. He turned on the tap
and the water ran for a moment, then dribbled to a stop. He turned it off and on again, then the cold one too, but no water came out of either.

  “We’ve got no water!” he shouted.

  “You’ll be late,” answered his mom.

  “But there’s no water!”

  She didn’t answer him.

  He went back into his room and got dressed in the cold, standing against the radiator.

  When he got downstairs and sat in the kitchen, he knew at once there was something wrong. His mom looked at him like she did when she was angry—like she did when there was something simmering that hadn’t been put right—but he couldn’t think what he’d done that it might be. Without a word, she put the cereal bowl down on the table in front of him, and the cereal box next to it; then she stood with her back to him, watching the pan of milk on the stove.

  He’d been going to tell her about the dream—about how real it had all been—but that didn’t seem important anymore.

  “What’s up, Mom?” he said.

  She didn’t answer him.

  He heard the milk hiss and rise in the pan. She turned the gas down, and poured the hot milk into his bowl. Then she looked straight at him.

  “You know, I’ve never loved you,” she said.

  He grinned at her, but she didn’t smile back, and the grin died on his face.

  “Not like I love your brother,” she said. “I really love him. But you? You’re not even second-best.”

  He sat there with his mouth open. He kept expecting her to say the thing that would turn it all into a big joke. But she didn’t.

  “I didn’t even want you,” she said. “You were just a mistake. You’re not even your dad’s boy.”

  He stared at her. He felt physically sick. He could feel everything that he believed in, everything that he loved, crumbling to dust around him.

  “Why are you saying this, Mom?” he whispered.

  She pursed her lips and shrugged.

  “ ’Bout time you knew it,” she said.

  She dropped the milk pan into the sink and turned the tap on, but no water came out. The tap just made a thumping noise like someone knocking at a door, louder and more insistent, until he realized that there really was someone knocking at the back door.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  His mom didn’t even bother to look up.

  “You’d better open it,” she said. “It’s about all you’re good for.”

  Wordlessly, he stood up and reached out for the handle. The knocking was getting more demanding.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  He turned the handle, and as the door opened, he felt the cold, damp chill of the snow outside, and out of the dark stepped the tall pale woman in the gray dress, her face dead and white, her skin bloodless and transparent, her eyes black as coal.

  He sat bolt upright in his bed, his breath stopped in his chest, his heart hammering, and all around him was daylight—bright summer daylight in his own room.

  His heart was racing; he could see the bedclothes, the room, the sunlight streaming in through the window. There was birdsong and the radio from downstairs.

  His mom stuck her head around the bedroom door.

  “Did you call?”

  “No,” he said unsteadily. “Just a bad dream. Oh, Mom—that was the worst. I thought I was awake but it was still a dream.”

  “Well, get yourself up,” she said. “Blow the cobwebs away.”

  He got out of bed and went into the bathroom—looked at his face in the mirror, then turned on the tap at the sink. The water ran for a moment, and dribbled to a stop. He stared at the empty bowl. He turned the tap off and on again, then he tried the other—but nothing came out.

  He felt the skin on the back of his hands crawling cold.

  It was just like in the dream.

  He hesitated.

  “We’ve got no water,” he called slowly.

  “No. They’re doing work at the end of the road,” answered his mom. “I meant to tell you. It’s been turned off. I’ve got water in a pan if you want to wash.”

  She brought the pan up the stairs.

  When he got down into the kitchen and sat at the table, she put a cereal bowl in front of him, and the cereal box next to it, then she stood with her back to him watching the coffeepot on the stove.

  It was like the dream, only not the dream.

  He glanced uneasily at the back door, but there was no knock.

  “Our Frank’s coming home this weekend,” his mom said brightly.

  He was Richard’s older brother, who’d just gone to college in the autumn.

  “It will be lovely having him back,” she said, her face all lit up. “Not half the same when he’s not here, is it?”

  The coffee gurgled in the pot and she poured Richard a mug. He looked at her face as she did it—saw how pleased she was that Frank was coming home—and he realized that she never smiled at him the way she smiled at Frank, and that made him feel awful—all small and cold inside. Like he’d felt in the dream.

  “You love me too, though, don’t you, Mom?”

  “Course I do,” she said.

  But she didn’t look at him as she said it, she turned away, and it seemed to him that she was only saying it because she had to, not because she really meant it. He ate his breakfast in silence, but he looked up at her and he just couldn’t shake that thought off. That she didn’t really love him at all.

  Maybe he was just a mistake? Was it something he’d never been meant to know?

  He didn’t remember getting to school, he just found himself there, walking through the gate with all his friends. He was trying to tell them about the dream—how he’d been on the field, and then at home, and how that had been a dream as well, and that he’d woken up from one dream and found himself in the other—and he wanted so much to try to say something about his mom, but he didn’t even know how to start—and they’d just laughed, because it all sounded so dumb when he said it, only it hadn’t been.

  “It was so real,” he said.

  But they just laughed more.

  It was a hard sort of laughter, like stones against a roof. It didn’t sound like they were laughing because what he was saying was funny, it sounded like they were laughing because he was the joke—as though he wasn’t their friend at all, just someone who hung around them.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” he said.

  Only that made them laugh more, and the laughter felt like poison.

  Ginny put her arm around him. She glanced knowingly at the others as she did it, like the fact that he liked her was a joke they were sharing, and over her shoulder he caught a glimpse of a scrap of gray—of someone coming toward him through the crowd of white shirts and blouses, only there were so many blouses and so many shirts that he couldn’t see who it was. He looked at Ginny, and she smiled.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “You’ve just got to understand.”

  “Understand what?” he answered.

  She put her hand to his face and kissed him full on the lips. Her mouth was cold and wet, and her breath smelled like stale meat. He tried to pull away, but she held her hand against the back of his head and kissed him again.

  “You’ve just got to understand,” she whispered. “I’ve come to wake you up.”

  And it wasn’t Ginny anymore.

  It was the thin woman in the gray dress, and her face was bloodless and dead and white, and her eyes were black as coal.

  His eyes snapped open and he found himself out of his bed, stumbling on the cold floor of his bedroom before he even knew where he was. He stood there, shaking, a sheen of cold sweat on his skin as the room took shape around him. It was morning. The sun was streaming through the window; the radio was on downstairs. He could hear his mom singing.

  Glass-eyed, he went down the stairs.

  His mom was pulling clothing out of the machine. She looked up.

  “Hello, honey,” she said. “You need a shirt?”

  He just stare
d at her.

  “Is this real or a dream?” he said.

  Whatever she’d been going to say, she changed her mind and frowned instead.

  “Are you all right, love?”

  When he didn’t answer, she put the clothes down and stepped toward him, but he backed away, bumping clumsily into the wall.

  She looked at him with concern in her face, and then smiled.

  “You’re not really awake yet, are you, love?” she said gently.

  His eyes widened.

  “So this is a dream?”

  She put her hand out and touched him. He could feel the weight of it—the lovely warmth of it—against his skin.

  It felt like a real hand.

  “Come on,” she said, and she shook him by the shoulder. “You wake up now.”

  He stared at her.

  “You love Frank more than me, don’t you?” he said.

  She shook her head and smiled again.

  “Come on, don’t be silly. You need to wake up. You’ve got to get to school. Get yourself upstairs, get yourself dressed, and get yourself out.”

  He looked past her at the table. There was no bowl, no box of cereal. No pan on the stove. Not like in the dream.

  He turned and went slowly back up the stairs, still not sure.

  In the bathroom he turned on the tap, and the water dribbled to nothing.

  There was a card propped behind it, with his dad’s writing—no water it said. Then in capitals, WASHER!!!

  His mom called up the stairs.

  “You can’t use the hot tap.”

  He picked up the card and held it between his fingers. It was damp and he could see where the pen had smudged. He ran the cold tap, and water came out of it.

  But was it real?

  He washed, dressed, and got himself out to the bus stop. He stood in the warm morning sun looking at the trees and the houses, at the passing cars and people’s faces. The colors were so vivid, so real. He found himself staring at the woman next to him in the line, not sure if he’d ever seen her at the stop before.

  Waiting for her face to change.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and looked away.

  The journey passed like silk around him. He felt so tired. He pinched the back of his hand until he broke the skin—he could feel the hurt of his nails, but still he wasn’t sure if any moment now he was going to wake up. When he came to his stop, he left his bag on the seat. He was halfway down the bus before the woman behind him called him back and lifted up the bag for him. His eyes widened and he caught his breath, but she was just a woman on her way to work, holding up his bag.