by Anna Legat
‘Where are you going?’
‘I need to follow that man,’ Oscar points discreetly to the old Asian man, who is now standing on the link between the carriages, facing the door.
‘Where is he going?’
‘I don’t know yet. Remember? No questions. If something doesn’t look right – you’ll know when that is – I want you to take out your mobile and dial 999.’
‘Is something wrong?’ Tommy looks frightened. Vulnerable. A little boy Oscar is leaving on his own. Like he did the boy’s grandfather... He mustn’t dwell on it. He must follow his instinct.
‘That’s what I’m going to find out. Stay put, soldier!’
‘Sir!’ Tommy pushes forward his scrawny, ten-year-old chest.
Harald is watching his son. After the long aeroplane journey, Will is asleep, lulled into a nap by the monotony of the train journey. He has propped his head on the window pane, which reflects his profile in multiple layers. His chin is lifted, his mouth slightly ajar and his breathing slow and peaceful. His face hasn’t changed. He is the same little boy Harald has got etched into this paternal memory – his little boy. The features are still soft and smooth, and he still wears the African suntan. Perhaps the Australian sun paints your skin the same way the African one does. All of a sudden, Harald wants to go back. It’s a physical sensation in his gut, like a hunger pain – he is so desperate to go back and face the African sun. Somehow, Will has brought a hint of it with him, on his skin and in his scent. Harald inhales it. How he has missed his boy! How he has missed his homeland in Africa! And now they are both here, before him, asleep.
There is something innocent in a sleeping man’s face. In Will’s case it is the innocence of his boyhood, from before... before that day when their world had ended.
He is back, and Harald’s world is back on track, too. A stray tear rolls down his cheek. He doesn’t care if anyone sees it. Harald is crying with joy. It is joy and relief, and pain that clutches at his chest. A good pain – a pain that reminds him that he is still alive.
He has an urgent impulse to touch Will. Perhaps he needs to make sure he isn’t dreaming this whole moment up. He leans forward, his face close to his son’s, so close that Will’s steady breathing brushes against Harald’s cheeks, and he stretches his hand and strokes the boy’s hair. Will stirs, opens his eyes and squints, dazzled by the artificial light on the train. ‘Dad?’ he asks with disbelief, as if he has forgotten that they are together again, father and son, going home to Mum.
‘Yes, Will,’ Harald smiles and withdraws his hand. ‘Did I wake you? Sorry.’
‘Have we arrived?’ Will sits up, but his eyes are confused and heavy-lidded, and keen to drift again into slumber.
‘No, not yet. Close your eyes, go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up when we’re almost there.’
‘Sorry, I’m not much company. I’m feeling knackered, suddenly...’
‘We have lots of time to catch up on things,’ Harald pats him on the knee. ‘Plenty of time... Plus you don’t want to repeat yourself, do you now? You’d still have to repeat everything to Mum. She won’t take it from me. You may as well save your breath.’
‘OK, if you say so -’ and he closes his eyes again, even before he finishes the sentence.
They have plenty of time. A lifetime. Will is here to stay – he said so. God, what a reversal of fortunes! Harald is thanking his lucky stars. He leans into his seat, throws his head back and gazes at the other passengers. He is smiling at them. He wants to tell them to keep going, even if it may be tough from time to time, because there is joy and happiness at the end of all that suffering. There always is – that’s what natural justice is about. One woman smiles back at him. She is in her forties or fifties, sitting next to a man the same age. The man is doing something on his laptop, looking frazzled, scowling. His fingers dance lightly on the keyboard. The woman isn’t doing anything other than staring into space until she catches Harald’s eye and the smiles follow. Harald nods as the woman, playfully, ruffles her man’s hair. In his turn, the man glances at her surprised, his fingers playing musical statues over the keyboard of his laptop. ‘What was that for?’ he asks.
‘Don’t know,’ the woman tells him, but that makes him smile. So now there are three of them smiling. It’s a chain reaction Harald has started.
He moves with his eyes to two young ladies, both of whom are occupied on their telephones. They can’t see him, but Harald keeps smiling. One of them comes across something amusing on her phone – she shows it to the other one. They giggle and they look up and see Harald. He keeps smiling. They scuttle with their eyes, but their giggles intensify. Harald chuckles. He is delighted.
The door to the carriage opens behind him. Harald can feel the whiff of cold air and the clanking sound of the running train; then the door closes, the sound is muffled. Two men hurry through the carriage, heading towards the front of the train. They walk briskly without looking for seats. They are just passing. Harald recognises them. At least, he is sure he recognised the one at the back –
‘Ahmed!’ he calls out. The young man’s head turns and he gazes at Harald, his eyes strangely out of focus. ‘Ahmed! It’s me, Harald! What are you doing here? What a coincidence! Come and meet my-’
Ahmed doesn’t seem to know who Harald is. He turns away from him, brisk and unsmiling, and presses forward. For a split second, Harald doubts his own eyes. That wasn’t Ahmed. It was someone looking just like him. And the other one – that wasn’t Malik, either.
Ahmed’s stomach turns. He feels lightheaded, faint. He has to stop and breathe. Black specks swirl before his eyes. ‘Wait!’ he shouts, and pauses, squatting on the platform between two carriages, his head between his knees. He swallows repeatedly, not wanting to throw up.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Malik glares at him, pacing over him like a caged animal. ‘Let’s go!’ For the millionth time he glances at his wristwatch. ‘We’ve got two minutes to stop the fucking train for Sandman to get off. Let’s go!’
‘That was Harry -’ Ahmed experiences another wave of nausea.
‘What?’
‘Harry’s on the train... With his son...’
‘So what?’
‘For fuck’s sake, we can’t -’
‘Get up!’ Malik pulls him by the scruff of his neck. ‘We’ve no time for this shit. Now!’
‘Haven’t you heard me?’
‘I heard you all right!’ He’s holding him up, his fist grasping the lapels of his jacket, his face contorted with fury. ‘No turning back, hear me? Harry’ll have to join the party.’ He drags Ahmed to the next door – the last door on this train, the door that leads to the final carriage. ‘Come on! Don’t go soft on me now!’
Bright light floods Ahmed’s eyes as he braves the narrow corridor of the crowded carriage. The four young men – the stag party from Sexton’s Canning – are having a whale of a good time. They are cracking jokes and chatting up a bunch of women, all wearing pink bunny ears. A hen party and a stag do – such a small world! The women are sniggering, their cheeks burning with excitement. The men are thundering with laughter. Two of the men are sitting down, the other two standing up, blocking the passageway. Malik and Ahmed have to squeeze between them, exchanging polite and apologetic smiles. One of them, a long-faced fair-head with a freckly forehead and pale eyelashes, says, pointing to the front of the train, ‘Where you going, mate? There’s no seats there, just the train driver. Tis how far you can go.’ He is looking straight into Ahmed’s eyes as he pushes by him, face to face. Ahmed says, ‘Sorry. Thanks.’ He follows Malik, who doesn’t stop.
Malik tears the door open and they burst in on the driver. Taken aback, he stares at them for one uncomprehending second, his round face slowly setting into a bizarre, inexplicable expression of something bordering on pleasant surprise. ‘Malik?’
For the first time Malik pauses. He too is taken aback. He knows the driver. He may even change his mind. Ahmed takes one tentative step backward
s.
‘Step away from the steering, Andrzej,’ Malik orders the driver, addressing him by his name. ‘We’re armed. We carry explosives – do you understand?’ He slows down and it seems like an eternity when he repeats the instructions. ‘Step away. Lie down on the floor, face down. I’m taking over.’
‘You lost your mind, yes?’ the driver says, his accent thick. ‘Playing tricks on me, Malik, are you?’
‘Move! Now!’ Malik barks, but the driver only moves in order to block Malik’s access to the dashboard.
‘You don’t want to fight me, Malik. I’ve a black belt -’
Malik pulls out a knife and shoves it in the man’s face. ‘Stop the fucking train!’
The driver dodges Malik’s first thrust, which slashes through the air. Malik tries again but this time the driver grabs his wrist and pulls it towards him, which sends Malik off balance. They tumble onto the steering wheel. The train seems to be gaining speed. Malik is paralysed in the driver’s arms, and is forced to drop the knife. ‘Get him!’ he hisses at Ahmed over the man’s shoulder.
Ahmed, too, is paralysed – with inaction. But this only lasts for a split second. He is sure now the driver has Malik under control. All Ahmed has to do is to dispose of the explosives. Before it’s too late. He opens the door. The wind hits him sideways, almost lifts him from the train, which is now travelling with doubled speed. The two fighting men must have pressed the accelerator, a gas pedal, or whatever it is that makes the train go faster. Having regained his balance, Ahmed swings the backpack with the explosives, intent on throwing it as far away from the moving train as is humanly possible.
The train enters a sharp bend. And suddenly, without any prior warning, it stops in its tracks, the grating sound of its brakes like a screech of a prehistoric raptor.
Ahmed, still holding onto to the backpack, is tossed out of the train and into the dark night like a burning cigarette butt into a pool of flammable black oil.
In the distance, the train rushes over the ancient Roman-built viaduct above the village of Little Horton. Its progress seems to be faster than usual. Perhaps it’s just Gillian’s perception. The trains are so much faster these days. She throws the ball for Corky, and he goes for it full gallop. In fact, he starts running in the direction his instinct takes him before the ball leaves Gillian’s hand. Then he disappears behind a bush.
The Green is dark and empty at this time of the night. The last few days of rain have not done much to entice ramblers to the park. And it’s getting colder. The weather forecast says that wintry temperatures are on the way from the Arctic – just for some meteorological diversity, to keep people guessing what the next day may bring. Gillian doesn’t mind a bit of frost to shackle the mud. She hates it when the animals stagger indoors with dirty paws and carry the filth onto the carpets.
As soon as the train is gone, all that is left is the vibrating silence that slowly dies away. She can now hear Corky squelching through the mud in search of the ball. He is making snorting, grunting noises, having probably stuck his nose where it doesn’t belong.
Gillian loves the tranquillity of an empty park. Trees are slowly beginning to shed their green foliage, sporting nothing more than twisted black silhouettes against the starry sky. She breathes in, contemplating what life could be like if she wasn’t a copper. Would she make a decent –
What? She wonders. What could she do for a drastic career twist? Become a lollipop lady? There is probably a long waiting list for that.
Corky returns with the ball, and proudly deposits it at Gillian’s feet. He sits back, his tongue dangling, and watches her predatorily as she picks up the ball. She is about to throw it again when a violent firework in the distance lights up the sky.
She instantly knows: it’s the train.
XXI
She bundles the dog onto the back seat. Corky is putting up some resistance; he whimpers and pushes his tail between his hind legs – he is frightened by the explosion. Gillian starts the engine and takes off. She is there, at the scene, within minutes. It is the notorious bend where the rail line circumvents Little Horton and where visibility is poor. In the seventies, another train was derailed in the same spot, culminating in four casualties. A speed limit had been in place ever since, and no further incidents have occurred until today.
She could tell the train was going way too fast.
Now, she can also tell that speed wasn’t the only cause. She steps out of the car, slams the door shut behind her, leaving Corky cowering on the seat. She approaches the train with caution. The first carriage has come off the rails, rolled down the bank and is lying on its side. It has dragged the second carriage halfway down with it. That one is hanging precariously with its nose up in the air, threatening to tip over any minute. The last two carriages are disjointed, looking like a broken leg with a bone sticking out.
There is a smoking crater before Gillian. This, she thinks, must be what caused the derailment. This is what hurled the train off its tracks. She stares with horror at the human remains scattered within the circumference of the crater. They are charred and bloodied – unrecognisable body parts belonging to somebody: maybe one, maybe two people.
With a hand shaking uncontrollably, she takes out her mobile, ‘DI Marsh. We’ve an emergency situation two minutes west beyond the Little Horton viaduct. A train is derailed. Casualties, multiple injuries, deaths... We need ambulances. Now!’
‘Dispatching! We’ve received a 999 call a couple of minutes ago. From a child! We thought it was a hoax.’
‘It isn’t! Send the bloody ambulances now!’ Gillian is angry. ‘Ah, hang on! Call in the counter-terrorism and bomb squads as well – this looks like a terror attack.’
She rings off. She can’t risk approaching the first two carriages. There may still be explosives on board, plus the carriages look dangerously unstable. The passengers must be evacuated as a matter of urgency however. A few bewildered individuals are beginning to emerge from the back carriages, staggering away from the train, screaming and crying. It’s dark. Confused people are running in all directions. It will be impossible to contain them in one place. Lights are flickering inside the train. There is the danger of electrocution on top of everything else.
Where is Charlie? Where are the boys? She doesn’t know which end of the train they have boarded. She runs towards the third carriage, climbs up the steps and yanks the door open. The door opposite is already open – some people must have got out that way. She can hear cries for help. A man is holding the limp body of a woman in his arms. The flickering lights animate her wide-opened eyes. There is a small trickle of blood from her temple. The man is wailing and shaking her. Her head flips from side to side as the flashing lights hit and animate her dead face in a grotesquely bizarre spectacle. Gillian approaches, steps onto a broken laptop whose screen cracks under her foot. ‘Sir, you must leave the train. Now!’
‘What about my wife?’ he looks at her pleadingly as if it was within her power to bring the woman back to life. ‘Do something!’
Gillian tries to feel for the woman’s pulse. There isn’t any. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Who are you?’ the man demands.
‘The police.’
‘I’m taking her with me,’ he decides and tries to lift the woman’s body. He is too weak and staggers, trips over the broken laptop, and both he and his wife drop to the floor. The man weeps, ‘Annie! Annie...’
Two young women are staring at the whole scene in horror. They are perfectly immobilised in their seats. Everything has fallen from the racks and the seats. Gillian steps over pieces of luggage and gets the two girls up on their feet, pushing them towards the door and out of the train. ‘Emergency services are on their way. Wait for them! Can you hear me?’ They don’t answer, but they do as they are told and leave the train. Gillian has to pick up the grieving man by his shoulders to tear him away from his dead wife. ‘Later,’ she tells him, ‘Not now. Later!’ She doesn’t know exactly what she means to say, but strang
ely he nods and lets her lead him to the exit.
She passes by two men who are seated opposite each other: one elderly, his body sprawled on the seat awkwardly; the other one younger – both unresponsive. Gillian assesses her chances of carrying them out. She’s too small, too weak. They will have to wait for the paramedics. She presses on. Across the gangway connection. Another door is hanging open. More people are trickling out of the train. Disoriented. Confused. She directs them away. This train could be a ticking bomb.
Wedged between two seats she finds a small boy: nine or ten years old. He is sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin, his mouth gaping. In his hand is a mobile phone. He seems to be unaccompanied by an adult. Gillian squats in front of him. ‘Hi. I’m Gillian. What’s your name?’
‘I’m not really supposed to talk to strangers,’ he says calmly, but there is hesitation in his eyes.
‘I’m not a stranger. I’m the police,’ Gillian retorts and shows the boy her ID.
‘Good,’ the boy exhales heavily. ‘I called the police. It was ages ago! I thought you were never coming!’
‘You called 999?’
‘Oscar told me to.’
Gillian looks around. ‘Who is Oscar? Where is he?’
‘He’s my friend... my nan’s friend. I mean he was my granddad’s commanding officer. In the Paras. He knows what to do -’
‘I see. So where is he now?’
‘He’s following a suspect,’ the boy informs her with all possible gravity in his tone.
‘OK...’ Gillian doesn’t know what to make of this. Little boys have huge imaginations. ‘Are Oscar and the suspect still on the train?’
‘No, course not. The suspect pulled the emergency brake and got off. That’s how it all happened – the train stopping... It was like an air raid, you know! I told them when I called 999.’
‘I see.’
‘Oscar is following him. He told me he would go after him just before it all happened. Oscar knew something was fishy about that man. And he was right. Oscar is always right, you know? He is a real Major! He said I must call 999 – if it didn’t feel right – and I must tell them... He knows these things, Oscar does.’ The boy is blabbering. He is clearly in a state of shock, but Gillian realises he is telling the truth. This isn’t the figment of a little boy’s imagination. The sole fact that the adult, Oscar, is gone and that he has left the boy behind on the train, can only mean one thing: the boy is telling the truth and Oscar is following a suspect. He must have concluded that leaving the boy on the train would be safer than taking him with him.
