She sucked in a breath, her pulse suddenly pounding, but a cackle of boyish laughter shattered the illusion. As she watched, the head turned to reveal a smirking mouth pouting out a stream of smoke, cigarette dangling from his lips. MacMillan, with his pals. Dylan wrinkled her nose in disgust and stepped back before he could see her.
Shaking her head to chase the last tendrils of the dream away, she crossed the road, eyes fixed on the hand-painted sign above the greasy-spoon café.
Chapter Two
“It’s outrageous. Scandalous.” The stranger had clearly decided that, as reading was out, he would concentrate on the next best thing: complaining. Dylan glanced at him dubiously. She did not really want to get into a discussion with this tweed-covered, middle-aged man and end up being drawn into awkward conversation all the way to Aberdeen. She shrugged, a gesture almost lost under her heavy parka.
He carried on, unfazed by her lack of enthusiasm. “I mean, the prices they’re charging, you’d think they could be on time. But oh no. Outrageous. I’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes, and you know when it comes in there won’t be a seat to be had. Terrible service.”
Dylan looked around. Though a cross-section of society loitered under the various points of shelter, the platform was not so crowded that she could just melt away and disappear.
The tweed man turned to look at her. “Don’t you think?”
Forced into a direct response, Dylan tried to be as non-committal as possible. “Mmmm.”
He seemed to take this as an invitation to continue the diatribe. “Better when it was National Rail. Knew where you were with them. Good, honest men working the trains then. It’s all gone downhill now. Run by a bunch of charlatans. Outrageous.”
Where is the train, Dylan thought, desperate to be relieved of this social charade. And there it was, rolling in like a knight in rusting armour. One glimmer of hope in a day full of embarrassment and torment.
She reached down for the rucksack at her feet. It was faded and showing signs of wear and tear, like most things she owned. As she took both handles in her hand and heaved the heavy bag off the ground and over her shoulder, a faint ripping sound made her grimace. It would be in keeping with the pattern of today for the seam to tear open and a phantom wind to gust up and whisk her underwear across the station. Mercifully it held, and Dylan shuffled forward with the rest of the weary passengers towards the train as it coasted slowly to a standstill. It stopped with a hiss of hydraulics, leaving her equidistant between two sets of doors. She quickly eyed the direction in which the tweed stranger was headed and dashed, as fast as she could under her burden, towards the other door.
Once in the carriage she glanced left and right, trying to identify the crazies – drunks, weirdos, people who wanted to tell you their life stories (which often involved odd alien abductions) and philosophise with you on the meaning of life and other theories. These people seemed inexplicably drawn to her when she took public transport, and she was anxious to avoid them today when she had so many other things on her mind. Her surveillance picked out the free seats and it did not take long to work out why these remained open in the packed train. A mother with her screaming baby, its red face puckered up and angry, sat at one end with a pram and several bags filled with everything a baby could possibly need scattered in dissaray around them. On the other side of the aisle, a few seats down, there was a double-seater opposite a pair of drunken teenagers in blue Rangers’ tops. They were drinking from a bottle of what looked suspiciously like Buckfast hidden inexpertly in a paper bag, and singing loudly and very out of tune.
The only other option was in the middle of the carriage, squashed in beside a large woman with an array of shopping bags, which she had arranged on the seat beside and across from her in a manner that made it blatantly clear that she did not welcome company. However, glaring or not, she was the most appealing option.
“Excuse me,” Dylan muttered, shuffling over to her.
The woman sighed loudly, her displeasure obvious, but she moved the bags nonetheless and Dylan, after shrugging out of her jacket and hauling it and her bag up onto the overhead shelf, settled herself down. A quick root around in her bag on the platform, as she waited her turn to enter the train, had produced her MP3 player and some headphones. Sticking them roughly in her ears, she closed her eyes and turned the volume up high, letting the heavy drumbeats of her favourite indie rock band drown out the world around her. She imagined the bag lady glaring at her and her awful music, and the image made her smile. Too quiet for Dylan to hear, the train groaned and strained, picking up speed as it raced on towards Aberdeen.
Keeping her eyes closed, she thought about the coming weekend. Nerves and excitement fought for control of the butterflies in her stomach as she contemplated stepping off the train and searching out the man who was all but a stranger to her. It had taken months of persuasion and wheedling for Joan to relinquish the phone number of one James Miller, her father. Dylan remembered how her hand had shaken as she’d dialled, hung up, dialled again, and then hung up. What if he didn’t want to talk to her? What if he had his own family now? What if, worst of all, he turned out to be a huge disappointment? A drunk or a criminal? Her mother had been unable to give her any more details. They didn’t talk, ever. He’d left when she’d asked and never bothered either of them again, also like she’d asked. Dylan had been five years old at the time, and in the decade that had passed his face had become less than a memory.
After two days of inner turmoil, Dylan had called in the middle of the day, finding a quiet spot in the school playground that wasn’t already claimed by the smokers, amorous couples or gangs. Her hope was that he’d be at work and no one would answer. It worked. After six heart-stopping rings, the answer machine beeped and she suddenly realised that she hadn’t thought about what she was going to say. Panicking, she left a hesitant, rambling message.
“Hi, this is for James Miller. It’s Dylan. Your daughter.” What else to say? “I, um… I got your number from Mum. I mean, Joan. I thought, maybe, we could meet up, maybe. And talk. If you want to.” Breathe. “This is my number…”
As soon as she’d hung up, she’d cringed. What an idiot! She couldn’t believe that she hadn’t planned a message. She’d sounded like a bumbling moron. Well, there was nothing to do now but wait. And she had waited. All afternoon she felt sick to her stomach. Biology and English passed in a blur. At home she’d numbly watched Ready, Steady, Cook and the news, not even changing channel when the stupid soaps came on. What if he didn’t call? Would he have listened to the message yet? What if he never got the message? Dylan had imagined a female hand lifting the receiver and listening, then slowly pressing a painted red fingernail on the delete button. The image had made her look over at the cordless phone beside her and chew her bottom lip, indecisively. Too scared to phone again, she’d had no choice but to cross her fingers and stay within easy reach of her mobile.
It took two days, but he did call. At four o’clock, just as she was sloshing home through yet another rainy day of school with wet socks and increasingly wet shoulders, her phone vibrated in her pocket and began chirping out the piano chords of the Once Upon a Time theme tune. This was it. Her heart seemed to stop beating as she yanked the phone out of her pocket. A quick glance at the caller ID confirmed it: although it wasn’t a number she recognised, it was the Aberdeen area code. Sliding her thumb up the glass screen, she pressed it to her ear.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded rough and strangled. She tried to clear her throat quietly.
“Dylan? Dylan, this is James. Miller. I mean, your dad.”
Silence. Say something Dylan, she thought. Say something, Dad. The silence hung between them, but in the stress of the moment it sounded like screaming.
“Listen.” His voice broke through it, melted it away. “I’m so glad you called. I’ve wanted to get in touch with you for so long. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
Dylan closed her eyes and smiled. She took a deep
breath and started to speak.
It had been so easy after that. Talking to him felt very comfortable, like she’d known him for ever. They’d talked until Dylan’s mobile ran out of charge. He wanted to know everything about her, her school, hobbies, who she hung out with, what movies were her favourites and what books she liked to read. Boys – though there wasn’t much to say there, not from the selection on offer at Kaithshall. In return, he told her about his life in Aberdeen, where he lived with Anna, his dog. No wife, no kids. No complications. And he wanted her to visit.
That had been exactly one week ago. For seven days Dylan had been wrestling with her nerves and excitement about meeting him, and trying not to fight with Joan, who made no secret of the fact that she disapproved of Dylan trying to connect with her father. She’d no one to talk to about it except snatched MSN conversations with Katie whenever her friend’s crazy mother gave her five minutes alone. They’d managed to sneak one such chat last night. Katie’s mother had done a late-night shopping run – she hated to go when there would be lots of people around – and Katie had managed to convince her that she needed to go to bed early for school. Dylan had received her text and two minutes later they’d been connected.
Oh my God I thought she was never going to leave! Thank heavens for 24hr supermarkets!
I know! How are things?
New school still suck? New school, same morons. These ones are just country morons. So glad that this time next year we’ll be starting college, I can’t wait to get out of here! Howz things at glorious Kaithshall?
Sucks. Got some news though!
Ooh, do tell!
I called my dad.
Dylan had hit the send button and waited. Her heart had been racing ridiculously. She’d wanted Katie to say something nice; wanted someone to tell her that she was doing the right thing. There’d been a pause that seemed to last for ever before the little box had popped up: Katie’s writing.
So… how did that go?
A cautious response. Her friend hadn’t wanted to stick her foot in it.
Actually, great! He wants to meet me! He sounded really nice on the phone. Don’t know why Joan hates him so much.
Who knows? Parents are weird. Look at mine, total nutters! So is he coming down to see you then?
Nope, I’m going there. Tomorrow.
What?! That was fast! You scared?
No, I’m dead excited. What is there to be scared about?
The reply had come through instantly.
Liar. You’re crapping it!
Dylan had laughed out loud, then clamped her hand over her mouth. Joan would go mental if she knew she was on the computer this late. Typical Katie, she always saw straight through her pretence.
Okay, maybe a bit. Trying not to think about it too much… kind of worried I might chicken out if I actually think about what I’m doing!
It’ll be cool. You need to meet him anyway. And if your mum really does hate him then keeping them in separate cities might be a good idea! How you getting there? Train?
Yeah, he’s bought me a ticket. He says he wants to make up for fifteen years of lost time.
Dylan held that very train ticket in her hand right now. She was supposed to text her dad to let him know she was on her way. She’d been impressed that he could text; Joan couldn’t even make a call on her mobile. When she’d broken down once she’d had to ask a stranger to show her how to contact the RAC.
Digging into her pocket, which was difficult being surrounded by the glaring woman’s bags, Dylan pulled out her phone. She opened up a new text and began to type.
Dad, on train. Not running too late at the mo. Can’t wait to meet you Dylan.
Just as she hit the send button, the window beside her went black. Fabulous, she thought, a tunnel. The mobile – an expensive Christmas gift that Joan had paid for through several extra shifts at work – scrolled one word across the screen: Sending. It rolled through three times before the little phone emitted a double beep: Message failed.
“Dammit,” Dylan muttered. Irrationally she tried holding the phone up above her head, knowing that it was useless. They were still in the tunnel; no signal was going to get through that much rock. She was poised like that, arm in the air like a mini Statue of Liberty, when it happened. Light vanished, sound exploded, and the world ended.
Chapter Three
Silence.
There should be screams, cries, something, thought Dylan.
But there was only silence.
The darkness was so heavy it was like a thick blanket smothering her. For one panic-stricken moment, she thought she was blind. Frantic, she tried waving her hand in front of her face. She saw nothing, but managed to poke herself in the eye. The shock of the jabbing pain made her think for a moment. They had been in a tunnel – that was why it was dark.
Her eyes couldn’t make out even the tiniest pinprick of light. She tried to push herself up from where she’d been thrown sideways onto the chair next to her, but something was pinning her down. Twisting to the right, she managed to pull herself down onto the floor between the seats. Her left hand landed on something warm and sticky. She yanked it away and quickly wiped it on her jeans, trying not to think about what the stickiness might have been. Her right hand curled around a small object – the phone that had been in her hand when the world had been turned upside down. Eagerly she picked it up and turned it over. Relief rolled through her, but it was quickly replaced by disappointment. The screen was blank. Her fingers jabbed at the touch screen, hope fading fast. It was dead.
Crawling into the aisle, Dylan got her feet beneath her and stood up, smacking her head hard on something.
“Shit! Ow!” she exhaled, ducking back down. Her hand reached for her temple, which was throbbing ferociously. It didn’t seem to be bleeding, but it hurt like hell. Carefully this time, she straightened up again, using her hands to guide her head to a safe place. It was so dark she couldn’t even see what she’d bumped into.
“Hello?” she called timidly. There was no answering voice, no rustling sounds of other passengers moving about. The carriage had been packed, where the hell was everyone? The pool of liquid on the floor by her seat flashed back into her mind, but she pushed it away.
“Hello?” Stronger this time. “Can anybody hear me? Hello!” Her voice cracked a little on the final word as panic began to rear its ugly head. Her breathing quickened and she struggled to think through the fear that gripped her. The darkness was claustrophobic and she clutched at her throat, as if something was strangling her. She was all alone, surrounded by… by… She didn’t want to think about it. All she knew was that she couldn’t bear to stay in the carriage a second longer.
Mindlessly she surged forward, tripping and hauling herself over objects that stood in her way. Her foot landed on something soft and slick. The tread on her trainers found no friction and slipped. Horrified, she tried to jerk her leg up and away from the suspiciously spongy object, but her other shoe couldn’t find a safe and level place to land. As if in slow motion, she felt herself falling towards the floor and the fearsome things that lurked there. No! Gasping, she threw her hands down to protect herself as she tumbled towards the ground. Her flailing arms caught a pole and her fingers tightened around it, bringing her to an abrupt stop that strained the muscles in her shoulder. Her momentum carried her forward and she jarred her neck painfully against the cold metal.
Ignoring the throbbing in her neck, Dylan held on to the pole fiercely with both hands, feeling like it was her grip on reality. Pole, her brain told her. The pole is next to the door. You must be next to the door. Relief flooded her system and allowed her to think a little more clearly. That’s why she was alone. Everyone else must have made their way out already, and they’d missed her because she’d been buried under that stupid woman’s bags. I should have sat next to the Rangers fans, she thought, laughing weakly.
Not trusting her feet in the darkness, she reached along the partition connected to the pole, expect
ing to come into contact with the folded open door. Her fingertips stretched out but found nothing. Shuffling a little further forward she found the door at last. It was shut.
That’s weird, she thought, but then shrugged. Everyone else must have gone out of the door at the other end. That was just typical of her luck. Her logical reasoning calmed her and helped her to think clearly. Unwilling to travel back across the carriage and risk stepping on some more worryingly soft things, she felt around for the button to open the door. Her fingers found its raised edges and pushed, but it remained closed.
“Dammit,” she murmured. The electricity had probably been cut off during the crash. She looked back over her shoulder, a pointless exercise as she could see nothing. Her imagination filled in the blanks, packing the route through the carriage with upturned seats, luggage, broken glass from the windows and squishy, slick things that were solidifying in her mind’s eye into limbs and torsos. No, she was not going back that way.
Putting both hands flat against the train doors, she pushed hard. Though they held, she felt them buckle a little. With enough effort she thought she could force them open. She stepped back, took a deep breath and launched forward, kicking the door as hard as she could with the bottom of her left foot. The bang sounded very loud in the confined space, ringing a little in her ears, and her knee and ankle twinged painfully, complaining about the force of the impact. Nonetheless, she could feel fresh air against her face and that gave her hope. Her hands confirmed it: one section of the door had been forced off its runner. If she could do the same to the other door, there would be a gap big enough for her to squeeze through. She took two steps back this time and threw herself against the door with as much strength as she could muster. The door screeched as metal rasped against metal, before finally giving way.
Ferryman Page 2
