The teenager laid a magnifying glass on top of the picture. Her parent’s faces bulged like cartoon characters but this was supposed to help with the spell.
She picked up the book and murmured the words on its fragile pages, faltering occasionally as she struggled to make out the spindly handwriting. When she finished, she read the whole thing again, just in case her first attempt had been too hesitant. Mary looked deep into the brown distorted eyes of her mother.
“Are you out there mum?” she whispered. “Would you let me get a tattoo?”
According to the book, you could hear the people in the picture speak if you wished for it hard enough.
Even if they were no longer alive.
Poop Poop!
Mary jumped. Twin doors popped open on the cuckoo clock above her bed. A painted yellow bird darted forwards, gave its pathetic little cheep and jerked back in again before she could find something to throw at it.
“I’m being serious here!” Mary threw up her arms in exasperation. “Do that again and I’ll be waiting with the garden shears. And I know exactly when you’re due to come out.”
She turned back to the photograph and tried to concentrate, staring so hard that her eyes started to water.
A breeze ruffled the curtains and the candles flickered. Mary’s heart leapt and she scanned the room, searching for some sign that her parents were near. The wind gusted again. Shadows jinked around the walls as the flames bent and spluttered, but the curtains settled back into their uniform façade. The girl held her breath and listened intently.
Nothing.
“What if I just got my nose pierced?”
Still no answer. Sighing, Mary blew out one of the candles and waved the photograph through its smoke - from north to south, and then east to west – ending the spell just as book instructed. She would try again next week.
The teenager stood up and returned the picture to the cabinet beside the window. At head level was an ornate crucifix, Jesus suspended on a cross, hanging dejectedly on faded wallpaper. He was also a bit squint, which rather detracted from his pained dignity.
“I know mum and dad are in Heaven,” she said politely to the effigy. “So, if they fancied talking to me, surely that would be all right with you?”
The carved features of the Lord were as pained as the faces of her parents were happy, and equally unresponsive.
“I know.” Mary sighed. “It’s probably not allowed. Sorry about the spell, by the way.” She crossed herself and straightened the crucifix. “But I miss them.”
Outside a dog at the nearby boarding kennels gave a long, drawn out yowl. Mary shuddered. In Gypsy lore a howling dog was a bad sign. She reached for the curtain to see if she could spot the animal but, as she stretched out, an icy gust blew the drapes into her face. The sill housed a collection of fairy figurines and several of them tumbled from their perch and landed on the carpet. Mary staggered back, beating down the curtain, trying not to stand on her precious ornaments. She collided with the top of the bedside cabinet, lost her balance and landed flat on her back. A stronger blast of wind swept into the room, lifting the material over her head and, through the open window, she glimpsed a bloated full moon hovering over the black hills of Fife. The candle flames oscillated wildly and the shadow of the drapes pulsed across the ceiling like the beating wings of a giant bat. The next gust of icy air extinguished the beleaguered lights altogether and the room was plunged into darkness.
She heard a crash from the corner of the room.
A second dog began howling. Then a third.
Mary scrabbled across the floor, banging her head on the hard wooden corner of the table. Her outstretched arms connected with the bedroom wall and she scrambled to her feet, feeling with flat palms for the door frame and then the light switch.
“That cuckoo comes out now, I’ll have a heart attack!”
She flicked the switch and turned, her back pressed against the wall, a sudden and unreasonable feeling of panic surging through her.
Her bedroom was small with a sloping gabled roof that made it seem even more cramped. A single bed from Ikea, covered with toy Trolls, squatted next to the bedside cabinet. Both were made from cheap, unpainted pine. Her grandmother, trying to brighten the room with a little Romany decorating, had painted the skirting board sunflower yellow and the crooked ceiling sky blue. The cuckoo clock was Baba Rana’s idea too, as were the dried clumps of herbs hanging from the roof, each wrapped in string and fastened in place with Sellotape. Their pungent aroma mingled with the candle smoke and made Mary feel sick. The bang on her head hadn’t helped.
Everything seemed normal.
Except...
The crucifix was gone from the wall.
The teenager moved cautiously to the bedside cabinet.
The cross lay in bits on top of her parent’s photograph. Jesus had come loose from the base and was in two pieces, face down and arms outstretched as if the plunge had killed him. Below his broken body, shattered glass obscured her mother and father, sparkling like choppy water in the overhead light. The carpet around the cabinet was littered with her fairy figurines, scattered fallen angels embedded in the weave.
Mary crossed herself again.
She was no expert, not like her grandmother. But there was little doubt this was a truly dreadful omen.
“Oh God,” she said, scooping up the broken effigy.
“What have I just done?”
-3-
Nobody noticed Bobby’s father collapse. The other passengers were glued to the right hand windows, or standing on the seats trying to spot the man in the water. Some had taken out mobiles and were talking urgently. One or two were using their phones to take pictures. Others were stunned into silence. The surviving workman was indicating furiously to the train driver. Though the wind whipped his words away, it wasn’t hard to guess what he was trying to convey.
- Get the train moving! We have to allow rescuers access! The people in these carriages can see what happened!
Weeping, he turned and punched one of the girders so hard that Bobby winced. Chastised, the driver engaged the throttle and the train sluggishly moved off.
Gordon Berlin opened his eyes.
“What happened?” he said weakly.
“You ok, dad?” Bobby tried to haul his father into a sitting position. Gordon Berlin wasn’t a tall man, but he was stocky and muscular and all Bobby managed to do was pull his father’s T-shirt up over his hairy stomach. Gordon shook off his son and levered himself upright, blinking furiously, as if he had just emerged into bright sunlight.
“Hey…. where am I?” he said, looking around.
“Dad?”
Gordon stared at his son in bewilderment.
“Who the hell are you?”
For a second Bobby thought his father was joking. On the rare occasions when he was in a good mood, Gordon Berlin liked to kid around, telling his son ridiculous stories and pretending they were true. But surely his father wouldn’t joke at a time like this.
“It’s me, dad. What’s the matter?”
“Stop calling me dad, you Muppet!”
There was something different about Gordon Berlin’s voice. He was talking faster than normal, his Scots lilt more thickly pronounced.
“What do you mean?” Bobby inched away from the man. “Dad? You’re scaring me!”
“What’re you on about?” Bobby’s father spat. “What’s this dad crap? My name’s Dodd Pollen.” He looked around in amazement. “How did I get on a bloody train?”
“No it’s not! Your name’s Gordon! Gordon Berlin.” Bobby searched his father’s face, trying to find some spark of recognition. “It’s me. I’m your son!”
“Don’t be stupid!” Gordon pushed the teenager away. His hands stopped, square against Bobby’s chest. They were red and thickly veined, with a taint of nicotine on the fingers. He held them up in disbelief.
“What’s happened to my hands?”
“Be quiet!” Bobby hissed. “What
’s wrong with you?”
“These aren’t my hands.” His father’s face twisted in disgust. “These are old hands!”
“You’re not making sense!”
“What’s happened to me? These can’t be my hands!”
“Why not?”
Gordon Berlin clenched his fists and glared at his son.
“Because I’m only fifteen years old!”
-4-
The conductor’s voice fizzed over the train intercom, breaking through the hubbub in the carriage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re getting reports of some sort of accident on the bridge.”
“Great. We got Einstein punching our tickets,” a fat businessman in a pin-striped suit turned away from the window. He had already accepted that the worker in the water had drowned and there was nothing anyone could do about it. The rest of the passengers were talking loudly over each other, trying to come to terms with what had happened.
Bobby’s father had fallen silent, feeling his chest and legs as though they were utterly foreign.
“The train will be stopping at Inverkeithing to allow the police on board,” the intercom continued. “They’d like to question anyone who saw the… incident.”
Gordon Berlin’s head shot up. He turned to Bobby, eyes bright with fear.
“I don’t wanna to talk to the police!”
“What’s wrong with you, dad?”
“Stop calling me that, you tube! I’ll not tell you again.”
Bobby’s heart was pounding and his throat felt like sandpaper. The fat man in the suit wandered over.
“You guys ok?”
“Eh… yeah. Thanks.” Bobby tried to sound confident. “My dad… eh… he’s feeling a bit sick. He hit his head when the train stopped.”
Gordon Berlin was a features writer and often claimed that ‘the truth only got in the way of a good story’. Living with him, Bobby had picked up how to tell a pretty convincing tale when he had to.
“Tell you what,” the businessman said. “Soon as we get to Inverkeithing, I’m off in the nearest taxi. Once the police realise our carriage was closest to the accident, they’ll be questioning us all night.”
“Will they just let you go?”
“I’ll say I was asleep the whole journey. Didn’t see anything.” The man nodded towards the carriage window. “Nothing’s going to help that poor guy who fell. I got to get up early for work tomorrow.”
“Can we do that too?” Gordon’s hands were clasped on his knees in an attempt to hide the fact that they had begun to shake.
“It’s your life.” The fat businessman pulled an equally stuffed briefcase from the rack above his head. Bobby notice that the man’s podgy hands were trembling as much as his dad’s. He lowered the bag awkwardly onto the seat and some semblance of sympathy finally crept into his voice.
“You should get your old man away too, son. Looks like he might have concussion.”
“Can we get a taxi?” Gordon whispered to his son. “I don’t trust the police.”
“We’ve got our car parked at Aberdour.” Bobby kept his voice low.
“Stop mucking about! I don’t know how to drive.”
“All right! All right! We’ll get a taxi.” Bobby could see the businessman was trying to listen in on their whispered conversation. He gave the man a wistful smile, tempted to turn over all responsibility to an adult.
But his father, now forlornly examining his stomach, was the person who insisted Bobby always think before he acted. To try and take control of any situation. The teenager lowered his head, lips pressed together.
“We are now approaching Inverkeithing.” The intercom burst into life again, an automated female voice this time. “Thank you for travelling with Northern Rail and we hope you enjoyed your trip. Our apologies for any delay.”
“Yeah. Tomorrow it’ll be leaves on the line.” The businessman hefted the briefcase under his arm and moved off towards the door.
Gordon Berlin nudged his son.
“Listen mate. Can you help me out? I don’t want to get you into trouble but I need to get away from here.”
“We won’t be in trouble. The police only want to know what we saw.” Bobby gave one last glance out of the window but the water was flat and unbroken and the sky was growing black. Nobody was swimming for shore.
His father was also looking at the train window. Not through it, but directly at it. His reflection, phantom-like, was unmistakable on the dark pane. Gordon touched his face and let out a low moan as his reflection did the same.
“That’s not me! That bloke’s ancient!”
Cold chills raced up Bobby’s spine.
“Maybe you’re sick or you really did bang your head when the train stopped,” he said. But he was well aware his father hadn’t hit his head on anything.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on.” Bobby’s father was still transfixed by his visage. “I know I don’t like the police.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t remember.” Gordon Berlin moved his head from side to side and the transparent reflection mocked his every move. He turned to Bobby, his eyes as haunted as the ghost in the glass.
“I just got the feeling I done something terrible.”
-5-
Inverkeithing wasn’t a large town and the northbound rail line only had one platform. It was bordered by a tatty white fence and dotted with empty benches, each illuminated by a concrete lamppost. Two policemen waited in the cold as the train pulled up. One got on to talk to passengers and another stood by the exit, blowing into his hands, ready to interview anyone alighting.
Stepping down from the train, Gordon Berlin was visibly afraid.
“You speak to the copper, eh?”
“What?”
“Please!”
“That won’t look right.” His son swallowed nervously. “Just tell them you didn’t see anything. And take my hand.”
Together they walked up to the policeman. He smiled sympathetically at them.
“Bad business, eh? On the bridge.”
Bobby’s father shuffled his feet. “We didn’t see anything.”
“My dad and I were asleep,” Bobby broke in. “What happened? Did someone die?”
The policeman looked uncomfortable. Behind them the fat businessman heard Bobby using his excuse and glared at the back of the teenager’s head.
“We don’t know the exact situation, son.” The policeman looked across at to Gordon. “You were asleep too sir?”
“Yeah.”
“You live around here? I think I recognise you from somewhere.”
Bobby’s father looked blank.
“I bet someone got hit by the train,” Bobby interrupted again. “I wish I’d seen it. Did you hear anything on your car radio? Was it a suicide? I want to tell my pals at school.”
“We didn’t see anything.” Gordon repeated.
“All right, sir,” the policeman stepped back. “Get the boy home before he goes into overdrive.” He turned to the fat businessman. “What about you? Don’t tell me you were asleep as well…”
Bobby and his father moved out of the streetlight and walked quickly towards the taxi rank.
“You got any money?” Gordon whispered. “I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“You’ve got the money. Check your pockets.”
Bobby’s father rummaged in his leather jacket and pulled out a wad of notes.
“Beezer! There must be fifty quid here!” He smiled at his son for the first time. “Will it be enough to get me home?”
“Of course. Puddledub is only a few miles from Inverkeithing.”
“Puddledub? What kind of a stupid name is that?” His father frowned. “I live in Dundee.”
Bobby felt frustration welling inside and tears stung his eyes. Gordon Berlin saw them glisten as they passed under the next streetlight.
“I don’t live in Dundee, do I?” he said dejectedly.
“No dad. And you’re not fi
fteen either. You can see that can’t you?”
“I suppose so.” Gordon studied his hands again.
“Come with me.” Bobby opened the door of the nearest taxi. “Maybe all you need is a rest. We’re going somewhere safe.”
“Where to gents?” The taxi driver looked like Groundskeeper Willie from The Simpsons. He wore a tatty yellow pullover and smelled of cigarettes.
Bobby piped up, before his father could mention Dundee again.
“Pennywell Cottage in Puddledub, please.”
“Nae worries.” The taxi pulled out and headed through Inverkeithing. Gordon Berlin leaned over, lips next to his son’s ear.
“Thanks pal.”
Pal? Bobby felt like his head was going to burst.
“Hey.” The driver turned almost all the way round to address them, even though he was doing fifty miles an hour. “What happened back there? What are the polis doing at the station?”
“We don’t really know,” Bobby answered civilly.
“Eh? I thought you just got off the train. I saw you talking to the copper.”
Gordon Berlin leaned forwards, his face a spider web of moving shadows. He laid large hands on the back of the driver’s seat, the knuckles white. In the darkness his eyes glittered like shattered glass.
“We didn’t see anything.” he snarled.
And another shiver went up Bobby’s spine.
-6-
The Norwegian Sea.300 Miles nor’ east of the Orkney Islands
Captain Morrison and Eddie Hall slid the secret cargo across the deck – three wooden packing cases with some language they couldn’t read burned into the sides. Lasse Salvesson was due on the next watch, so the Captain was letting him sleep.
After prising the boxes open with a crowbar, the Skipper went back to the locked wheel and Eddie carefully lifted out bundles wrapped in oilcloth, placed them in empty herring barrels and packed them down with rags. He had no idea what the packages contained, they were different weights and sizes and the thick oil cloth obscured their true shape. Besides, it was a dark night and the trawler’s rigging lights could only dent the thick swathes of shadow layering the deck. All the Captain had told him was that the cargo was fragile and had to be handled with the utmost care.
Waiting For a Train That Never Comes Page 2