Waiting For a Train That Never Comes

by J A Henderson Henderson

The man was staring absorbedly at the PC. Gordon kept all his photographs on the computer and had set that file as a screen saver. The images came up automatically a few minutes after Bobby switched on the machine.

  Pictures from his dad’s past were sliding onto the screen and fading away in a macabre procession of forgotten moments. Gordon Berlin as a young man, with ripped jeans and a purple streak in his hair. Grinning triumphantly in a black cloak at his university graduation. Working at a bar, in an office, as a van driver. Standing on an oil platform wearing a white helmet. Holding court in a pub with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Travelling across America with a pretty brunette. Arm in arm on a highland mountain with Bobby’s mother. Getting married, stiff and awkward in a black suit, his in-laws scowling in the background. Looking proudly down at Bobby, a baby in his arms. Then there was a succession of women in unfamiliar settings. Finally, there was one picture with his teenage son outside the house - both staring glumly at the camera from either side of the doorway.

  “Bobby. Where are all the other pictures of you?” His father didn’t turn round. The PC cast an eerie luminescence over his hunched silhouette.

  The teenager felt a lump in his throat.

  “You left when I was a baby. You only came back last year. When my mum….” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  His father swivelled round, a tortured expression on his face.

  “I just seen my life flash before my eyes. I thought that only happened when people died.”

  “Dad. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t know who I am, and I don’t remember where I’ve been for the last 40 years.” Gordon Berlin took a shuddering intake of breath. “I don’t even know how to work the TV.”

  “Hey, hey! I’ll figure out a way to fix this mess.” Bobby moved towards him. To the teenager’s astonishment, Gordon Berlin reached out and pulled him close, burying his head in his son’s shoulder. His body heaved and he began to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered between sobs. “I’m acting like a big bloody jessy but I just don’t know what to do!”

  Bobby was too bewildered to react, so he stood with his arms round Gordon’s burly chest until the weeping finally subsided.

  It was the first time he could remember that his dad had ever held him.

  -10-

  Mary Mooney was up by eight o clock, even though it was Saturday. There were so many adventures to pack into a day without school that she couldn’t imagine wasting a minute of it. Besides, there was no point lying in. Her grandmother was clattering noisily around the kitchen and the girl could smell bacon and eggs frying. Baba Rana acted like she was on holiday all the time and Mary could appreciate that. Old people obviously didn’t want to fritter away what little time they had left.

  Baba Rana wore pink velour tracksuits and chain smoked. Baba was an old Romany word for ‘wise woman’ though Mary couldn’t see what was so smart about cigarettes. Then again, her gran had an answer for everything.

  “Never met a herb that didn’t agree with me,” she’d say, lighting another Capstan.

  Rana was tucking into breakfast when Mary came downstairs.

  “Morning dearie!” she cackled. “There’s a pot o coffee on the stove and I made the eggs runny, the way you like ‘em.”

  “I’m a vegan, Gran. Same as always.”

  “No harm in askin’.” Baba took a slurp of coffee and a drag of her cigarette. “In that case, yer toast’s in the bread bin, just like the egg was in the hen.”

  “Best place I can think of for it.” Mary poured herself coffee and stuck a slice of bread in the toaster.

  “Look at this.” Her gran tapped the newspaper on the table. “There was some kind of train accident on the bridge yesterday evening.”

  “Bobby and his dad took a train to Edinburgh and back last night. I wonder if he saw it?” Mary fetched butter from the fridge. “What did the article say?”

  “I only read the headlines, petal. They’re the most interesting part.”

  “Why don’t you put on your glasses?” Mary knew her gran was too long sighted to see the small print. And too proud to admit it.

  “What ye doin today, my sweet?” Baba said hopefully. “Want to come with me to the post office in Kirkaldy? I ordered Sea Monkeys from a comic.”

  “What are Sea Monkeys, then?”

  “Got no idea, honey. The ad says you can grow them in a jar. Who could resist that?”

  Mary didn’t know any other woman in her eighties who even read comics, never mind ordering the dumb stuff they advertised. Graphic novels filled the shelves of their little living room, along with more weighty tomes about Romany life and the history of European countries.

  Then again, Mary didn’t know of any woman Baba Rana’s age who would effortlessly walk six miles to Kirkaldy and back to pick up a package of Sea Monkeys, whatever the hell they were.

  “I… eh… thought I’d see what Bobby Berlin was up to.” Mary put away the butter and bread, avoiding her gran’s disappointed stare by stooping to avoid a particularly long string of Sage hanging from the roof. Her own bedroom was bad enough, but the kitchen ceiling looked like a forest canopy. The effect was enhanced in a surreal way, by a large rubber snake curling through the clumps of herbs. There was a joke shop in Kirkaldy too.

  “You shouldn’t go runnin after that boy all the time.” Rana mumbled through a mouthful of egg. “He’s a handsome young chap but you ignore him for a couple of weeks and he’ll do a somersault for a glimpse o yer knees.”

  “That’s a picture I can’t really imagine. I’ve got legs like washing poles.”

  She glanced disapprovingly at her white thighs shining through the gap in her dressing gown. While Mary was distracted her grandmother pulled a pair of glasses from under the table and stuck them on her veiny nose. They were purple, unfeasibly large and had little windscreen wipers on each lens. The teenager lifted her head, the frown on her face deepening.

  “You did tell me to put on my glasses,” Rana said innocently. “And I thought it might rain today.”

  Mary’s grandmother was always trying to make her laugh, and she usually succeeded. But, this morning, the teenager’s mood wasn’t easily lightened.

  “Gran?” she asked tentatively. “What would happen if you did a spell and got a bad omen?”

  “What kind of spell?” Rana was instantly alert. “Don’t you be meddling in things like that, darlin. If you don’t know what you’re doing, there’s no telling what kind of nasty things you can conjure up.”

  Mary cursed herself for being so dumb. Her gran might be old but her mind was sharp as a razor.

  “No. I was just asking,” she replied quickly. “But… if you did?”

  “I’d thank my lucky stars, dearie.”

  “I don’t understand, gran. I’m talking about bad omens.”

  “Me too.” Rana leaned back in her chair. “A good omen? That’s just a ruined surprise. A bad omen is a heads-up from God.”

  She took off the glasses and squinted at her granddaughter.

  “After all, how are you going to prevent a disaster if you don’t know it’s coming?

  -11-

  Ashley Gosh sat in his leather armchair staring across the landscape, a half empty bottle of wine on the coffee table beside him.

  The view was magnificent. His house was perched on top of the Hill of Beath on the Fife coast and looked out, through a massive picture window, over the Forth Estuary towards Edinburgh. The only landmarks spoiling the view were the chimneys of the Secron Ethylene Plant, puffing imitation clouds into a cobalt blue sky. No matter where he moved the chair they were always visible.

  He could hardly complain. He had bought the house specifically because it was near the plant. Now it tortured him to look at it.

  He poured another glass of wine. It was pretty early to be drinking but he was a busy man and had to take his pleasure in the few moments he could. Wagner played softly on his expensive sound system. He used to
like rock music but these days he favoured something more… contemplative?

  No. Something more funereal, if he was being honest with himself

  The mobile on the table rang. He left it buzzing on the glass table top like some fat annoying fly until it was spent. A few seconds later, it went off again.

  He glanced at the number. It was Maureen, his secretary. Reluctantly he picked up the phone.

  “What is it now? I’m not paying you to interrupt me every time you have a bad hair day.”

  “I’ve a message for you.” He could hear his secretary rummaging around on her desk, looking for the appropriate bit of paper. He liked Maureen but she was going to have to go. She just wasn’t efficient enough.

  “I’ll find it in a sec.” The woman sounded flustered. “Apparently it’s a very urgent message.”

  “They always are.” Ashley took another sip of his drink. He had been drinking it since the moment he opened the bottle, even though an aged Burgundy was supposed to be allowed time to breathe.

  That would be a nice Ashley Gosh thought. To be allowed time to breathe. He remembered when he bought cheap plonk from the supermarket to scarf with his mates. Wine tasted better back then.

  “Here we go,” Maureen said with obvious relief. “There is no communication with rig 579.”

  Ashley slammed his glass down so hard on the chair arm that wine slopped over the rim, splashing red droplets across the Axminister carpet.

  “What exactly do you mean by no communication?”

  “I mean they can’t be reached by radio or satellite phone.”

  “You did say 579?”

  “I did.”

  “Who else knows?” Gosh’s heart began to pound.

  “Only the top executives so far. And their secretaries. Oh. And the north eastern branch who were monitoring communications.”

  “I take it there are still nomadic tribes in Outer Mongolia who haven’t been alerted.”

  “I’m just passing on the message,” his secretary replied in a hurt tone.

  “What steps have been taken?”

  “There’s a chopper on its way to investigate.”

  Gosh wound fingers through his blonde hair and clenched his fist. Maureen waited patiently.

  “Is a video conference being set up?”

  “An hour from now. Chopper should have reported back by that time.”

  “You keep a lid on this Maureen. No press. No police. Not yet.”

  “I’ve already been told to keep quiet if I want to have a job tomorrow.” The woman sounded less than pleased by that piece of information. Ashley didn’t bother to inform her that, quite possibly, none of them would have jobs tomorrow.

  He struggled out of his armchair and paced up and down, trying to regain his composure.

  “Maureen? You still there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Email me all the data on the Lazarus Project. Then I want you to dig up any files we have on a man called Gordon Berlin. Scan them and email them to me as well. And not one word to anyone about what you’re doing.”

  “I’ll look him up.” He could hear his secretary writing down the name. “Who is he?”

  “He’s a very clever man with an exceptionally large grudge.”

  Gosh clicked his phone shut and threw it on the chair. He pulled open the window and let the freezing air dry the sweat that suddenly soaked his face.

  Bobby had hit on a way to keep his father out of trouble. Once Gordon had blown his nose and wiped his eyes, his son had shown him how to work the gadgets in the house.

  First off had been his father’s mobile phone.

  “This is absolutely bloody ace,” Gordon enthused, his melancholy fading away as rapidly as it had come. Bobby had to admit that his father, whoever he thought he was, had a much sunnier disposition than before.

  Gordon held up the tiny phone in admiration.

  “Look at the size of this thing. It’s smaller than one of those pocket calculators that just got invented.” His eyes widened. “Hey! How big are pocket calculators now? They must be the size of, like, a pinhead!”

  “They are,” Bobby replied sarcastically. “But it’s OK, because everyone’s fingers have gotten smaller.”

  “Really?” his father looked at his hand. “You having me on?”

  Then Bobby demonstrated how to actually work the television remote. That was good for half an hour.

  “Fifty channels and still nothing decent to watch,” Gordon complained after a while. “What the hell are Teletubbies anyway? Are they, like, gnomes or something?” He sounded remarkably like his adult self and Bobby felt a pang of hope. It was quickly crushed.

  “I want to go out.” His father turned off the TV with a flourish. “Are there any other kids in this horrible wee place?”

  “Only Mary Mooney, and you can’t exactly hang out with her.”

  “How come?”

  “Because she really is fifteen and you need a shave. It might scare her if you suddenly want to play hide and seek.”

  “Hey… I’m not ten.”

  “You’re fifty five.”

  “All right! I’m ancient! So what? I don’t feel it, that’s the point.”

  “This is a little place and everyone knows you. What happens if you bump into Mrs Smith from the boarding kennels?”

  “What about it?”

  “She fancies you.”

  “She does?” Gordon raised an eyebrow.

  “She’s 38.”

  “Aw! That’s disgusting.”

  Suddenly Bobby had a brainwave.

  “I’ll show you how to use the internet! I can surf the internet for hours without getting bored.”

  “You can surf?”

  “You’re about to get a gander at real 21st century technology.” Bobby led his father to the computer and sat him down. “This will blow your mind, I promise. You can’t look at sexy stuff though,” he added wickedly. “There’s a parental control block on it.”

  “That’s ok. I’m a parent, aren’t I?”

  “You’ll be a real parent when you remember the access code.” Bobby hit a few buttons and the screen sprang to life.

  -12-

  Baba Rana had begun walking to Kirkaldy. She’d put a parka on top of her pink tracksuit and an old Walkman cassette player was clipped to her waistband. She wished she could afford an iPod, but the only income for herself and her granddaughter came from a meagre pension.

  She hadn’t been exactly honest with Mary. Baba Rana wasn’t going to Kirkaldy because she was desperate to get her package of Sea Monkeys, it was just she had nothing better to do when her granddaughter wasn’t around. She couldn’t afford a taxi and she couldn’t afford to run a car and so she was walking. Besides, she loved the countryside. She always had.

  She took the coastal road, for it passed the Secron Ethylene Plant. Somehow Rana was drawn to the place. The plant consisted of a series of boxy processing buildings and neighbouring storage sheds. Towering above that were triple chimneys that burned off the plant’s excess gas. At night the flames lit up the sky like enormous candles. During the day the complex looked altogether more sinister, though she wasn’t sure why.

  The plant was the reason Baba Rana had moved to Puddledub, years ago, though she had never told anyone that fact. But the moment she had seen the sprawling complex, on a day trip to the country, she knew she had to live next to it.

  The old woman stuck her hands in her pocket, turned the music off and stared at the chimneys. As always, she was unexpectedly moved and, as usual, she had no idea why.

  Tearing her eyes away, she turned to continue her journey.

  A small, dark haired boy popped up from behind the dyke that bordered the road. He looked around fearfully, then clambered over. His clothes were strangely old fashioned and they certainly weren’t warm enough to protect him from the winter chill. He shuffled towards the woman, scanning the deserted road, looking like he might flee at any moment. The woman took off her headpho
nes and slid them into her pocket.

  “Hello Rana.” The boy gave a timid smile. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Baba Rana frowned at a stranger mentioning her name. He looked to be in his early teens, but there was something about his voice and bearing that made him seem much older.

  “Sorry love,” she said politely. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m not sure.” His wide brown eyes were unblinking. “But I seem to know you.”

  “So who are you young man?” There was something about the boy’s voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

  “I don’t remember. In fact, I’m not certain how I got here.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Eh… I don’t know that either.” The boy rubbed his eyes. “I feel like I’ve been asleep.” He pointed to the chimneys spiking the sky. “What are those?”

  “It’s an Ethylene plant. It makes gas.”

  “I’m sure I’ve seen it before.”

  “What do you remember, petal?” Rana was becoming concerned now.

  “Not much.” He shrugged. “The last thing I recall was a train.”

  The old woman felt a shudder run through her body. She had just been thinking about the newspaper headline in the paper.

  “Well…. do you know where your parents are?”

  “They died a long time ago.” The boy reached out his hand. “May I walk with you a little?”

  Rana faltered a second, but he seemed harmless enough and, eventually, she took it. It was small and cold as a dead bird.

  They walked together for a few minutes. Rana was overcome by the silliness of her situation, but part of her of was inexplicably excited about this meeting. In a way she felt like a little girl again and it was a fine sensation. The fields were low and level and the cows were painted pearls, grazing in the distance. It was a beautiful landscape.

  Then common sense prevailed.

  “You really don’t know how you got here, sonny? You definitely don’t live around these parts.”

  “No. I ran away. Away from something terrible.” The boy shut his eyes and concentrated. “But I think I left behind someone I loved.”