Waiting For a Train That Never Comes

by J A Henderson Henderson

  There was an awkward silence.

  “I don’t see how it’s possible,” the man with the fringe said morosely. “We simply don’t have an explanation,”

  “I’m afraid we do.” Ashley Gosh spoke from the screen above the Chairwoman’s head. “Rig 579 is where Gordon Berlin was stationed. When he was working on the Lazarus Project.”

  Most board members looked at each other, still puzzled. But one or two of the senior ones paled, including the chairwoman.

  “I’m aware of that.” She leaned back in her seat. “Just didn’t want to think about it.”

  “What will we do?”

  “If the platform doesn’t miraculously turn up, we’ll have to play the hand we’re dealt. Mr Gosh, you were head of the Lazarus Project, so you will be in charge of contacting and liaising with the appropriate authorities. If it comes to that.”

  “I… eh….”

  “Yes Ma’am is the correct response.” The Chairwoman looked heartily sorry that she couldn’t reach out of the screen and grab Gosh by the throat. “And you better be prepared to do some fast talking.”

  “Ma’am.” The man with the grey hair put his head in his hands. “If the Lazarus Project has gone wrong, that’s extremely bad news.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “What about Gordon Berlin? He’ll be all over this like a rash”

  “Mr Gosh will make sure that every piece of information about that man is destroyed before he contacts the authorities. I’ll see to the rest.” The Chairwoman angrily stubbed out her cigarette.

  “As far as we’re all concerned, Mr Berlin is out of the picture.”

  “That vehicle’s been here all night.” Constable MacDonald indicated the black BMW at the end of Aberdour train station, next to a sign that read NO OVERNIGHT PARKING. “Maybe it’s a terrorist bomb. Going to blow up our famous flower bed display.”

  WPC Arnold gave a half-hearted smile. She was the only policewoman in the Aberdour area, and MacDonald had the Inverkeithing beat down the road, so they often patrolled together. But WPC Arnold had never got used to her companion’s weird sense of humour and, besides, she recognised the BMW.

  “The car belongs to a guy called Gordon Berlin. He lives over in Puddledub.”

  “A pal of yours?”

  WPC Arnold considered that.

  “He doesn’t seem to have any close friends but we’ve drunk in the pub together a few times.” She didn’t add that Gordon Berlin had flirted with her outrageously each time they did.

  “Wait a minute. Does he have a son? A teenager?”

  “Bobby? Aye. That’s him. Gordon Berlin writes for the Edinburgh papers, so he probably stayed there last night.”

  “No, he didn’t.” The Constable tapped his nose. “He got off the train at Inverkeithing. I thought I recognised him.”

  “So?” WPC Arnold shrugged. “Maybe the vehicle broke down on the way out and he decided to get a taxi back. It’s easier to do that at Inverkeithing.”

  “Cars usually break down in awkward places.” Constable MacDonald peered through the window of the BMW, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Awful convenient to grind to a halt in a car park, eh?”

  “Maybe he’d been drinking and didn’t want to drive. He likes to drink.”

  “I would have smelled it. Besides, he had the kid with him.” The Constable jiggled the car’s handle. “We were investigating a suspicious death on the Forth Bridge last night, you know.”

  “I do,” WPC Arnold sighed. “You’ve told me four times already. And it was an accident. Not a suspicious death.” She pulled a mobile from her pocket. “Tell you what. I’ll give him a call, all right?”

  “You got his number on your mobile?”

  “He insisted.” WPC Arnold gave a smug grin. “He’s quite cute, as a matter of fact. Just a bit old for me.”

  She pressed dial and held the phone to her ear.

  “Hello. Oh. Is that Bobby? Hi Bobby. This is WPC Arnold over in Aberdour. Is your father there? No. Do you know when he'll be back? You don’t.” Arnold began repeating Bobby’s answers so that MacDonald could follow the conversation. “Do you know where he is? You don’t. No, that’s all right. No. No. It’s nothing. Just wondering when he was going to pick up his car. It’s been in the station car park all night. You didn’t know…. Well, thanks anyway. I’ll give him a bell later.”

  “Boy doesn’t know much, does he?”

  “He sounded a bit strange.” WPC Arnold agreed. “Like he was flustered. Or scared.”

  “Or lying.”

  “Not that I want to buy into your warped view of the world, but… yes.” The woman snapped the phone shut and put it away.

  “It’s the flower beds, I tell you.”

  “All right Sherlock. Let’s finish our rounds. If we don’t come across a plot to wipe Aberdour off the map we’ll pay a wee visit to Gordon Berlin’s house.”

  -17-

  Bobby sat trembling on the couch, wondering what to do. He couldn’t tell his father about the telephone call from the police. He was too was afraid of how Gordon would react. Bobby could hear his father in the study, playing on the X-Box, whooping with delight every time he killed some bad guy.

  The teenager was angry and confused. His life had gone rapidly downhill over the last couple of years. He had loved living in the country and loved his mother and the two of them hadn’t needed anyone but each other. Then she died.

  Gordon Berlin had turned up at the funeral. An edgy, handsome man in black leather, he had stood at the back of the church with his hands in his pockets, showing little emotion. Bobby hadn’t even known who the stranger was until his mother’s relatives reluctantly pointed him out.

  He had gone to talk to his father, despite their objections.

  “I figured you and your mum were better off without me,” Gordon Berlin said simply. “I know that’s not much of an excuse.”

  “We were. And it’s not.” Bobby was surprised by his own boldness. But his father had nodded in accord.

  “It’s going to get very lonely for you now.” Gordon ignored the black looks from his ex-wife’s family. “It’s probably too late, I know, but I’d like to make amends. If you’ll accept my help.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Gordon glanced across at the disapproving group.

  “Your mother wasn’t like the rest of her family. They’ll probably to send you to some boarding school where you learn to walk with books balanced on your head.”

  “And what about you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m older and wiser. I’m a poor substitute for your mum, but it’s better than nothing. I have a great pad in Glasgow with a 42 inch screen plasma TV.”

  “I want to live in Puddledub.”

  His father hesitated.

  “All right,” he said finally. “We can live in Puddledub if you like.”

  He bent down so that his lips were next to his son’s ear.

  “I just want to protect you.”

  “Protect me?” The boy didn’t understand. “What do you mean? I don’t even know you.”

  “Then now’s your best chance,” his father replied evenly.

  A week later Gordon had moved into Pennywell Cottage.

  But Bobby hadn’t gotten less lonely. His father could be charming and amusing, but he drank like a fish and was prone to black moods that lasted for days. He obviously hated living in the middle of nowhere and found solace in alcohol and a string of women who were neither as funny nor as clever as Bobby’s mum. Even when he spent time with his son, Gordon’s mind seemed to be on other things, as if he had an inner melancholy no amount of joking could cover up.

  Bobby had hoped that, somehow, this would change and a real bond would develop between them. That they’d go kite flying or something, and his father would lighten up and actually enjoy being with his son.

  It hadn’t happened.

  Bobby hated to admit it, but he felt his father was looking after him
out of some belated sense of duty, rather than love.

  On the other hand, this Dodd Pollen character was light hearted and easy going, despite his predicament. More than that, Dodd liked and needed him.

  But Bobby Berlin didn’t want a fifty five year old pal. He wanted a real dad.

  Besides, no matter how grumpy or depressed his father had been, Gordon Berlin had never raised a hand to his son.

  Dodd Pollen already had.

  -18-

  Baba Rana pushed the chair in her bedroom up against the wardrobe. She leaned a hand carefully against the back and climbed onto the seat, lit cigarette dangling from her lips. Her hips clicked noisily, the chair wobbled and she gave a little squeak of fear, slamming both palms against the wardrobe door.

  “Be very careful not to fall, Rana,” she gasped. “You don’t want Mary finding you dead on your back with both legs sticking up in the air. That’s just not dignified.”

  She lifted a suitcase off the top of the wardrobe and dropped it on the floor. A cloud of dust rose from the battered surface as it landed.

  Rana slowly got down, knelt beside the case and opened the lid. Inside were the few knick-knacks she had kept from her younger days. She hadn’t looked at them in years but the strange boy had started a niggling feeling in the back of her head. And Baba Rana never ignored her feelings.

  She lifted out half-forgotten possessions. There was a silver hip flask that belonged to her husband, long dead now, and a faded picture of them both. They were arm in arm, grinning at the camera.

  We both looked so young, she thought, regretfully.

  “I hope to see you again soon, Pieter.” She gave the picture a gentle kiss. “And you better have got rid of that moustache. You know I never liked it.”

  Most of the objects in the case dated from her marriage to Pieter, who she had met in a grocery shop in Amsterdam when she was seventeen. It was he who had moved them to Britain in search of a better life.

  She had virtually no memories before meeting her husband and even fewer possessions. Rana had grown up in an institution, one of the thousands of children orphaned by the Second World War. If she was honest, it was a time she was glad to have forgotten.

  She burrowed to the bottom of the suitcase and found the two things she had salvaged from her childhood. One was an embroidered red ribbon studded with glass beads. Rana didn’t know where she had got it or even why she kept it. On impulse, she pulled it out and threw it on the bed.

  Underneath was an old sketchbook, covered in cracked leather. She had loved to draw as a child and had kept the tattered volume under her mattress at the orphanage. Rana opened up the book and flicked through the pages.

  There were pencil drawings of other children, the view from the orphanage window and a few sketches of gypsy caravans that must have been drawn from memory. Memories she could no longer recall.

  And then there were sketches of the Secron Ethylene Plant. Pictures she had put on paper thirty years before the structure had even been built.

  Baba Rana shook her head in wonderment, just as she had done the first time she saw the plant. The woman had known, from the moment she set eyes on it, that she had to live in Puddledub. She still didn’t understand why - or how she could have drawn something in another country that didn’t exist at the time.

  Now she had a clue.

  Rana flicked through the pages until she found the picture she was looking for. When she came to it she gave a shudder. It was dated 5th of May 1950. Again, it was a remarkable likeness of the Ethylene Plant – Baba Rana had been a talented artist.

  In front of the buildings she had drawn a small, serious looking boy. She had no idea why or even who he was, but there was no mistaking the face.

  It was the child she had met that morning.

  -19-

  Bobby badly wanted to share his knowledge of the newspaper article with someone adult, but Mary was the only person he could really trust. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a mobile phone, claiming there was no point as she never had enough money for credit. Sighing, he pulled out his own mobile and dialled the number for Mary’s house, praying that Baba Rana wouldn’t pick up. She was a sweet old lady, but she was even crazier than her granddaughter.

  The phone rang several times before a quavering voice answered. The teenager groaned inwardly.

  “Is that young Bobby?” Baba Rana quivered. “I so rarely get gentleman callers.”

  “I was wondering if Mary was around?”

  “I sent her on a few errands, dearie. She went to the shop to pay for the week’s papers. After that, I think she’s going to church.”

  “It’s Saturday afternoon. Won’t it be shut?”

  “You don’t worship much, do you sonny?” He heard a sharp intake of breath as Baba Rana took an enormous drag on her cigarette. “But you’re very welcome to come over and wait. Ever seen a real Sea Monkey? I been watching mine for hours but they don’t seem to do anything.”

  “I’d love to…” the boy began

  “You would?....”

  “But I think I’ll go and find her. Sorry.”

  “That’s alright, lad.” Baba Rana tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “Today’s ironing day. I’ve got a lot of wrinkles need sorting.”

  “That’s an image I didn’t need in my head right now.” Bobby whispered, holding a hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Bobby?” Baba Rana’s voice broke in. “You haven’t eh… noticed a strange new boy in the village, have you? A boy about your own age?”

  “No I haven’t,” the teenager said quickly. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, son,” Baba Rana replied in a quiet voice. “Just an old woman being paranoid…”

  Then she hung up.

  -20-

  “Where are you going?” Gordon appeared in the hallway as his son was pulling on a coat.

  “I’m going to the newsagents and then the church on the other side of the hill.”

  “Don’t you dare tell me we’re religious.”

  “No. I’m looking for Mary Mooney.”

  “Good. I can’t stand churches.” His father gave a disapproving sneer. “Bunch of bloody hypocrites work in them.”

  Bobby stopped in the doorway. “What makes you say that?”

  “I’ve forgotten who I am.” Gordon tapped his head. “Doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

  “What? Do you remember something?”

  “Some things I just know.” His father gave a throaty cough and padded back into the living room scratching his chest. “I know I hate religion.”

  “Jeez. I hope the Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t come to the door while I’m gone.” Bobby pulled up his zip and let himself out.

  He checked at the local shop but Mary had been and gone, so he set off down the road towards the Catholic Church on the other side of the hill. Our Lady of the Sacred Heart was a small Victorian building a mile from Puddledub and a few hundred yards from the far more imposing Ethylene plant. The church was surrounded by a low stone wall topped with a carefully tended hedge.

  Bobby had never been inside and hadn’t realised that the Sacred Heart was usually left unlocked. It stood to reason, now that he thought about it. There wasn’t exactly a lot of crime in the isolated villages around Puddledub.

  He pushed open the arched wooden door and let himself into the building.

  Winter sunlight filtered through stained glass windows and motes of dust danced in the beams that drifted from the arched ceiling towards the marbled floor. On the far wall above the altar, Jesus hung on a giant wooden crucifix, closed eyes oblivious to the empty mahogany pews.

  Mary was kneeling in the front row with her back to him and her head bowed. She was lost in a world of worship and Bobby envied the comfort she found in faith. He didn’t understand how Mary managed to find solace in just about everything.

  Bobby’s mother had believed in God. Now she was gone.

  His father, on the other hand hadn’t believed in anythin
g, not even himself. And he was much more persuasive.

  “God to Joan of Puddledub!” Bobby hissed in a stage whisper. “You’re getting your knees dirty.”

  Mary whirled round.

  “Bobby!” She clutched at her chest. “You can’t say that in here.”

  “I guess I’ve got issues with authority.” Bobby sauntered down the aisle in a display of bravado, his hands jammed in his pockets. “Anyway, I thought you worshiped fairies and magic and stuff.” He nodded up to the cross. “What’s that got to do with the big guy?”

  “I like to keep an open mind.” Mary ignored the jibe. “You could always pray for your dad, since you’re here.”

  “I doubt he’d appreciate it. He just went on a big tear about religion though, of course, he can’t remember why.”

  “There has to be a reason.” Mary was suddenly curious.

  But Bobby didn’t hear. He was turning on the spot, admiring the majestic furnishings and intricate carvings. He stopped and pointed to a row of wooden cubicles with ornately fashioned doors.

  “What are those?”

  You’ve never been in a confession booth?”

  “I’m not Catholic. I’m not even religious.”

  “You go into the booth and you can tell the priest anything.” The girl got up and led Bobby to the nearest cubicle. It contained a simple backless seat covered in red velvet and a small window that looked like a serving hatch. “It’s totally private. Whoever you confess to isn’t allowed to say anything to anybody and they have to try and help you.”

  “Aye. And then everything is magically ok?” The boy stuck his head inside and sniffed. The smell of polish covered a faint odour of sweat.

  “No. But it makes you feel better.” Mary gave Bobby a little shove. “Go on. You get in the next one and I’ll go in here. If you like, I’ll start and you can hear my confession.”

  She looked around the church to make sure it was empty, then darted into the booth and shut the door. Seconds later the hatch to the adjoining box slid open and she could see the outline of a figure through the mesh. Mary clasped her hands on her knees.