For several long moments there was quiet as Dylan considered this. “What do you think it means?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know,” he murmured, keeping a lid firmly on the hope he felt, hope he didn’t like admitting to, even to himself. He laughed. “I shouldn’t even be here.”
“Why not?” Dylan’s brow wrinkled with confusion.
He shrugged, like it was obvious. “When I lost Marie, I should have been pulled away, taken to the next soul.”
“But… but I was there.”
“I know.” He nodded. “And at first I thought that maybe that was why I didn’t go, that I had to stay until you were safely delivered again. But maybe that’s not right. Maybe I’m…” He hesitated, searching for the word. “Maybe I’m broken or something.” He grinned at her briefly. “I mean, I really shouldn’t be able to go backwards like this. It’s not right, Dylan.”
“Maybe you’re not broken,” she said slowly. “Maybe you’re fixed. Maybe, like you said, maybe when you’d done enough, ferried enough souls, you’d be finished.”
“That’s an awful lot of maybes.” He smiled gently at her. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it means.”
Dylan didn’t seem to share his uncertainty, his caution. She sat up straighter, her mouth widening into a grin, eyes bright. “Well… well apart from that…” She nodded towards Tristan’s side which, she now realised, he was protecting with his right arm. “… everything seems to be working in our favour. Maybe we should just go with it.”
“Maybe,” he said, but his eyes were doubtful. He didn’t want to say anything to Dylan, but there was a niggling thought worrying at the back of his head. The further they went back across the wasteland, the worse his injuries seemed to get. Dylan thought she was fighting her way back to life. Tristan couldn’t help but wonder if it was something different that was in store for him.
Chapter Thirty
Despite her assurances to Tristan, Dylan was nervous about returning to the train tunnel, about trying to climb back into her body. She thought about what Jonas had said, how he’d warned her that she’d be going back into her body exactly as it was. She wished it hadn’t been quite so dark in the train carriage. She had no idea how badly she’d been injured, what it was that had ripped her soul from its physical shell. She had no idea how much it was going to hurt when she woke back up.
And finally – worst of all – she was scared that she’d wake up, back on the train, all alone. That she’d make it back to the world, to life, only to discover that Tristan had been right: he couldn’t come with her. She didn’t know what she’d do if that happened. She could only hope, pray even, that fate would not be so cruel.
It was a big gamble, and her stomach writhed with nausea every time she thought about it, but there was no other choice, no other option. Tristan was absolutely adamant that he couldn’t – physically couldn’t – go on past the wasteland line, and he wouldn’t let her stay here. Where else was there to go?
Nowhere.
It was a lot to worry about, yet somehow, despite all this, as they ploughed their way through the final day’s march, the sun stayed high in the sky, the clouds nowhere in sight. Dylan could think of no other reason for it except that she was with Tristan. Whatever happened, so long as she stayed with him, she could survive; she could cope. The bright sunshine was soothing, too. It helped keep her niggling thoughts pinned at the back of her mind, banishing them to the shadows where they belonged.
Dylan expected to recognise the end of the journey, to be able to pick out landmarks that would tell her they were almost there and allow the excitement and nerves to percolate. But the last hill was just the same as the one that had come before it, and the one that had come before that, yet suddenly they were standing at its peak, looking down on a set of rusting rail tracks.
This was it. This was the place where she’d died. She stared down at the railway line, waiting to feel something. Loss or sadness – pain, even. Instead she just felt the creeping sickness of fear and anxiety, the same nervousness she’d been fighting all day. She swallowed it back; she’d already made her decision.
Her hand slid into the pocket of her jeans, fingers stroking the satin softness of the petals on the wildflower Tristan had given her. It had wilted since he’d picked it, but she’d refused to throw it away. Instead she held onto it like a talisman. Something to bind her to the wasteland; something to bind her to Tristan. Dylan only hoped that would be enough to keep them together.
She took a deep, steadying breath. “We’re here,” she said unnecessarily. Tristan could not possibly have missed the train tracks; they were the only thing to look at in the undulating landscape.
“We’re here,” he agreed.
He didn’t sound nervous, like she was. Or eager. He sounded sad. Like he was convinced this wasn’t going to work and he was dreading Dylan’s disappointment. She didn’t let his cynicism faze her; she had enough trouble silencing her own doubts.
“So we just follow the tracks?” she asked.
Tristan just nodded.
“Okay.” She swung her arms back and forth a couple of times, dithering. “Okay, let’s do it.”
Tristan didn’t move and she realised he was waiting for her to take the lead. She took one deep breath, then another. Her feet didn’t seem to want to move. They felt leaden, too heavy to lift from the dew-soaked grass. Was that just fear, or was it the wasteland, reluctant to let her go?
“It’s going to work,” she muttered to the air, far too low for Tristan to hear. “We will make it back.”
Setting her mouth into a determined line, she trudged forward. One hand gripped Tristan’s tightly and, step by step, she dragged him along behind her. He was limping now, one hand permanently fixed to his side. But he’d be all right. If she could just get him through this last little bit, get him back to her world, he’d be all right. She made herself believe it.
They walked down the hill until Dylan was able to step up onto the sleepers that turned the tracks into a ladder. Then she turned – after checking with Tristan that she was heading in the right direction – and began to follow the line towards the tunnel mouth. The tracks curved through the countryside, so at first she couldn’t see it, but then, out of nowhere, they turned a corner and there it was. A giant hill stood immovable in their path. The tracks seemed to wind towards it, then disappear: a road to nowhere. The closer they got, though, the larger a dark arch at the base of the hill seemed to grow, until Dylan could clearly see where the train had entered the mountain. Entered, but not left.
A black hole. Gaping and wide, it seemed to call to her. She shivered, the hairs standing up at the back of her neck. What if, what if, what if? Doubts whispered ferociously again at the back of her head but she tried to ignore them. She set her chin high in the air and marched determinedly forward.
“Dylan.” Tristan pulled her to a stop, spun her to face him. “Dylan, this isn’t going to work.”
“It will—”
“No, it won’t. I can’t go to your world. I don’t belong. I don’t belong anywhere but here.” He seemed to be pleading with her; half-angry, half-desperate.
Dylan played with her tongue between her teeth, stared at him. For the first time he look like a sixteen-year-old boy, small and uncertain. Rather than frighten her, though, his uncertainty gave her courage.
“Why did you come, then?” she challenged.
Tristan lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, looking for all the world like an awkward teenager.
“Tristan? Why did you come?”
“Because… because…” He blew out an exasperated breath. “Because I love you.” He dropped his head to the ground as he said it, missing the shock and joy that rippled across Dylan’s face. A heartbeat later he pulled his gaze back up. “I want you to be right, Dylan. But you’re not.”
“You promised me you’d try,” she reminded him. “Have faith.”
He huffed out a black laugh at that. “Do you?�
� he asked.
“I have hope.” She blushed. “And love.” Dylan gazed at him, green eyes scorching. “Trust me.”
She had come a long, long way for this chance and she wasn’t going back now. Not without at least trying. Besides, they couldn’t stay here. Tristan was hurt. Whatever had happened to him, the wasteland was hurting him now. He was wrong: this wasn’t where he belonged. He needed to get out. Dylan told herself that and tried not to listen to the whispering voice at the back of her head suggesting that his injuries, his agonies, were happening because she was trying to make him leave the wasteland. Squaring her shoulders, she headed into the dark. Tristan had no choice but to follow; she refused to let go of his hand.
The black was disorienting at first, and their footsteps echoed off the closed-in walls. The air smelled of damp. Dylan shivered.
“Are there wraiths in here?” she whispered. The air was silent, but surely they would lurk in such a damp, desolate place.
“No,” Tristan replied. “They aren’t allowed this close to your world. We’re safe.”
That was small comfort, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the chill that was raising goosebumps on Dylan’s arms and making her teeth chatter.
“Can you see anything?” she asked, not liking the silence. “Are we nearly at the train?”
“Almost,” Tristan said. “It’s dead ahead. Just a few metres.”
Dylan slowed. It was so dark she could barely see her hand in front of her face, and she didn’t want to bang into the bumper at the front of the train.
“Stop,” Tristan barked. She complied at once. “Reach out. You’re there.”
Dylan felt out with her fingertips. Just before she reached full stretch, her hand came into contact with something cold and hard. The train.
“Help me find the door,” she ordered.
Tristan gripped her by the elbow and guided her along several metres.
“Here,” he said, taking her hand and placing it mid-air, just at the height of her shoulder. Dylan scrabbled around and felt the texture of dirt and rubber under her fingers. The tread on the floor of the open door. It was high up, she realised. They were going to have to climb.
“Ready?” she asked. There was no response, but she could still feel his hand on her arm. “Tristan?”
“Ready,” he whispered back.
Dylan moved closer, ready to clamber up. Her fingers pulled Tristan’s hand from her elbow and curled it into her palm. She was taking no chances; she wasn’t letting go of him. She didn’t care how awkward it was. She was not going to be tricked again.
“Wait.” He tugged at her, pulled with enough pressure to turn her round. Tristan’s other arm snaked round her waist and he drew her to him. The tunnel floor was uneven and so, for once, his face was level with hers. She felt his breath tickling her cheek. “Look, I…” he started and then fell quiet. She heard him take a deep breath, then another. He gripped her chin, lifted it a fraction. “Just in case,” he whispered.
Tristan kissed her like he was saying goodbye. His mouth pressed hungrily against hers and he squeezed her so tight it was hard to breathe. Letting go of her face, he slid his fingers into her hair, pulling her closer still. Dylan screwed her eyes shut and tried to fight the tears that sprang forth. It wasn’t goodbye, it wasn’t. This was not going to be the last time she felt the heat of his embrace, smelled him, held onto him. It wasn’t.
They were going to share a million other kisses just like this.
“Ready?” she asked again, breathlessly this time.
“No,” Tristan whispered back in the dark. His voice was husky; he sounded almost frightened. Dylan felt her stomach twist nervously.
“Me neither.” She tried to grin but her mouth wouldn’t work. She reached blindly for his hand again. She wasn’t going to lose him.
Still holding on to him, she hoisted herself through the half-open doorway and then shuffled round to help Tristan up. It was difficult, and she smacked her hand against the buckled door, making her knuckles throb, but eventually they were standing together in the doorway, blind and breathless.
“Dylan,” Tristan murmured, his voice just beside her ear. “I hope you’re right.”
Dylan smiled into nothingness. She hoped she was, too.
“I don’t know how we do this,” she said quietly. “I think we have to find me. I was somewhere in the middle, I think.”
Cautiously, she edged forward. The carriage was silent, but her pulse was roaring in her ears, so loud she could barely hear the sound of Tristan breathing just a step behind her. Her stomach was squirming. What if this didn’t work? What if her body was battered and broken beyond repair?
And what was lying on the ground between her soul and her body? What were they going to have to crawl over? Blood? Body parts? That stupid woman’s bags? Dylan laughed at that, a tense bark. She turned to share the joke with Tristan, and felt her trainer swivel much too easily. Something slick was under her shoe. And it wasn’t spilled juice, she was sure of that. Disgusted, she tried to yank her foot up, but something caught her heel. Off balance, she shuffled with her other foot, but there was something in the way. Her weight tilted back, leaning precariously, then tipping just a bit too far.
Dylan had time for just one, quick intake of breath, then she was falling. She reached out, desperate to stop herself tumbling down to the graveyard floor. Reached out with two hands. Two empty hands.
Chapter Thirty-one
Screaming.
There should be silence. Tranquil, deathly, solemn silence.
But there was only screaming.
Dylan opened her eyes and was instantly blinded. Brilliant white light pierced her brain. She tried to twist away, but the light followed her, moving a fraction of a second late, then eclipsing the darkness behind. She gaped at it, stunned.
Just as suddenly as it had come, the brightness disappeared. Dylan was left staggered, blinking away dancing spots of colour. She started as a face dropped into her vision. Filled it. It was pale, coated in a sheen of sweat and smeared with inky red. A man, stubble bristling around his mouth, his lips moving urgently. Dylan tried to focus on what he was saying, but there was a high-pitched ringing in her ears, and she could hear nothing else.
She shook her head, forced her mind to concentrate on the man’s lips. Slowly she grasped that he was repeating the same phrase, over and over.
“Can you hear me? Look at me. Can you hear me? Can you hear me?”
Now that she knew what he was saying, Dylan realised that she could hear him. In fact, he was shouting, his voice hoarse and strained. How had she not heard him before?
“Yes,” she mumbled, spitting through a mouth filled with liquid too hot, too thick to be saliva. She swallowed, tasting something metallic on her tongue.
The man looked relieved. He flashed the little penlight across her face again for a moment, causing her to screw up her eyes against the assault of white, then ran it down the length of her body. Dylan watched him train it on her legs, his expression anxious. He looked back up at her.
“Can you move your arms and legs? Can you feel that?”
Dylan concentrated. What could she feel?
Red fire. Pain. Agony. Torture. She stopped breathing, frightened even of the tiny movement of her rising chest. What was wrong with her?
Everything hurt. Just… everything. Her head was throbbing, her ribs clasped in a grip of iron that was squeezing far too tight. Where her stomach should be was a pool of molten lava, burning like acid. And below that? She shut her eyes, tried to feel her legs. Were they there? Maybe she just couldn’t feel them because of the waves of excruciating pain coming from everywhere else. Panicking, she felt her heart start to pound, and every ache around her body spiked in tandem with its furious beats. She tried to move her feet, to shift position; she was so uncomfortable.
“Mww!” It was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. She’d only moved her legs a tiny bit, a cenitmetre maybe, but the explosion of agony
that jolted through her had been enough to take her breath away.
“Okay, okay, love?” The man was frowning, the penlight clenched between his teeth, hands moving somewhere below Dylan’s waist. He stopped whatever he was doing and wiped his hand on his jacket. Dylan raked her eyes over the ugly contrast of hi-vis yellow and mouldy green jacket. There was an emblem stitched onto his shoulder, but she couldn’t focus on that. Was that blood he’d just wiped away? Blood from where he’d been touching her legs? Ragged gasps started hissing between her lips, each breath stabbing at her lungs. “Love?” The man was gripping her shoulder, shaking it. Dylan made herself look at him, tried to think through the terror. “What’s your name?”
“Dylan,” she whimpered.
“Dylan, I have to go away. Just for a minute. But I’ll be right back, I promise.”
He smiled at her, then stood up and began to jink his way down the carriage. As Dylan watched him go, she realised the thin coach was crowded with men and women in jackets: firemen, police, paramedics. Most of them were hunkered over seats or in new-made gaps, talking, treating, comforting – their faces grim.
Only Dylan seemed to be alone.
“Wait,” she croaked, far too late. She raised her hand, reaching in the direction he had disappeared, but the small effort exhausted her. She let her arm fold in half, dropping her hand to her face. It was wet. Her searching fingers found a mixture of tears, sweat and blood. Drawing her hand back, she stared at the shining mixture, glistening in the artificial brightness of torches and emergency lighting.
What had happened? Where was Tristan?
She remembered falling, bracing herself, arms stretched out, her only thought not tumbling down to lie with the bodies on the ground.
She’d let go of him. She’d let go of him to save herself, to keep her face out of the blood, the debris of death.
She’d let go of him.
Dylan’s lungs were aching, but she couldn’t stop herself gasping and retching. Her eyes stung and her throat constricted painfully. Whatever injuries she had dulled mercifully into the background and tears coursed down her face.
Ferryman Page 26
