by Adam Carter
With a sigh, she looked me in the eyes and spoke.
The Runaway’s Story
I was wedged into a corner, standing close enough to a window that I could see the world going by. I wasn’t doing much of anything, just thinking over what I was doing, where I was going. The whole journey I’d kept to myself, as people do on the train, wishing I’d brought a book or something, but I don’t think I would have been able to concentrate anyway.
We got to Lewisham and a lot of people got off, finally giving me some room. Then a lot of people got on and I was back to being cramped. Just as the doors were closing this guy jumped on, looking relieved he’d made it. He was in his twenties, I guess, and had that rugged, unshaven look that can’t be carried off well by a lot of folks. As the train began moving again he shucked off his backpack and held it before him as he found a pole to hold onto. This brought him close to me and we found ourselves facing one another. He smiled, and I could tell he was having a good day.
“Nearly there,” he said.
“Nearly where?”
“Waterloo East. That’s where the new life begins.”
I suppressed a little shudder, fearing he’d somehow reached into my mind and plucked out my darkest secrets. “Maybe I’m just on my way to school,” I told him. “Just because I’m fifteen and on the train with a rucksack, it doesn’t mean I’m running away.”
“You’re running away?” He laughed. “Running from or running to?”
“Beg pardon?”
“I’m running away,” he said. “Running away from someone who wants to break my legs and shove me into a skip. You have anyone back home who wants to break your legs?”
“Uh, no.”
“So you’re probably running to something.”
“I’m running away from home.”
“Teenage girls who are serious about running away from home take their music with them.”
“I am serious,” I said angrily. “I’m running away from home.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend. But you don’t run away from home. Home will always be there for you if you want to go back. If you change your mind you can go back to the way things have always been. Me? If I go back …”
“You’ll have your legs broken. You said.” He was a curious man, and I found myself intrigued. Most adults would have told me I was being a stupid spoiled girl, would have told me to go straight home and would have either phoned the police or my parents. This guy, whoever he was, seemed to understand me. Which I found interesting, especially since he seemed to be in something of a similar position to me.
“Why are you running then?” he asked.
“Long story, wouldn’t want to bore you with it.”
“Short version?”
“You don’t want to guess? You don’t want to assume I have a bad stepfather or that my parents don’t understand me?”
“Sounds like you’ve had too many people say those things already. If I said them as well, would it make a difference?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t say them then. Honestly, why are you running?”
I sighed. Opening up to a complete stranger was an odd thing, but it felt freer than anything I’ve ever done. Talking to friends, teachers, parents, counsellors; none of it was quite the same. Those were almost scripted, as though there were things I knew I would never dare mention. But with a stranger, someone I knew I would never see again five minutes from then … I guess I just thought why not?
So I told him everything that was going on in my head, in my heart, in my soul. I told him all of that in about thirty seconds, but obviously I’m not going to go through it all with you because that’d defeat the object of having told one person I knew I’d never see again.
It all boiled down to one thing, though.
“You want to see the world,” he said. “I can understand that.”
“Life’s too constricting,” I said.
“I know what you mean.”
I could even see that he did. Having talked at length about me, I felt fired up, eager to get on with life, adrenalin pumping through my veins. But I also knew next to nothing about him. All he had told me by that point was the vague nonsense about someone wanting to break his legs. “If you’re running from something,” I said, “where are you heading?”
He glanced out the window, for we had just pulled into London Bridge, which meant there was only one more stop, two maximum, before we had to leave. “I don’t know, but I might buy a racehorse.” He thought about that and laughed. “Nah, I’m not buying a racehorse.”
“Why would you want to buy …?” I shook my head. “Who wants to break your legs anyway?”
“A convicted criminal.”
“You keep nice company.”
“Well, he is my uncle.”
“Why does your uncle want to break your legs?”
“Because of the contents of this bag.”
I looked down at where his rucksack was held protectively between his feet, one hand never leaving the strap. “What’s in there?”
Before he could answer, if he even was going to answer, a ticket inspector came around. As I handed across my one-way ticket, the unshaven guy said, “You already saw mine.”
“I don’t think so. Ticket, please.”
“In the last carriage? I was sitting opposite the guy with the briefcase?”
“Lots of people with briefcases on this train, sir. Ticket, please.”
A few people were staring by this point so he got out his ticket and showed it to the inspector.
“Thank you,” the inspector said and continued on his way. “Tickets, please!”
“Job’s worth,” my new friend grumbled as he put away his ticket. I could sense his mood had soured, but we were only a couple of minutes away from Waterloo East so I wouldn’t see him for much longer anyway.
“I don’t suppose,” I said, “you could recommend a good place to run away to?”
“That’s the thing, you see. Our cases are different. All I care about is getting away; I’m not too bothered about where I end up. Where you, all you want to do is see the world; you’re not bothered about what you’re leaving behind.”
It was a harsh way of saying it, but it was also pretty much true. I hadn’t given a great deal of thought to how my family would feel about my running away. I guess I’d tried not to give it any thought at all.
“You’re saying I should go back,” I asked, “aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of ever thinking I could give out good advice. And anyone who listened to any advice I gave should have their head examined.”
“You should have more faith in yourself.”
“This from the runaway?”
An announcement came over the train to inform us we were arriving at Waterloo East and the next stop would be Charing Cross. It was annoying, because I really could have done with another five minutes.
“I’m not a bad person,” I said.
“I never said you were.” He paused. “Did you say you were?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t think you are?”
“No.”
He smiled. “Good. Go out and see the world. Enjoy yourself. Don’t look back.”
The doors opened and people began to step off. Taking up his rucksack, the guy joined the crowd, and I stayed in the corner, thinking about what he had said. He hadn’t said anything against my running away, but that almost made it worse. If he had been like everyone else, if he had told me to go home and stop being so selfish, I could have dismissed him. But what he had said touched me, made me realise maybe there was time to see the world later, that maybe I should go back home and sort out all my problems first.
I stepped off the train, determined to buy another one-way ticket. This one was going to take me home.
The Detective
“Interesting,” I said. The girl was back to looking at her shoes when she finished telling her story, and I could hardly blame
her. It takes a lot for a fifteen year old runaway to be honest with the law and I was grateful for what she had given me. I wasn’t going to tell her that, however. I also wasn’t going to mention that it took about ten minutes to get from Lewisham to London Bridge, so whatever she confessed to her new friend had certainly taken longer than the thirty seconds she had told me. “So he told you outright that his uncle would break his legs if he caught up with him?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t just tag that bit on when you heard everyone else tell their bit?”
“No. Why would I do that?”
“Because he’s a fellow runaway and you want to help him escape? Telling us his uncle is a bad man is a good way of getting sympathy.”
“What would be the point in that?” she asked. “They’ve all gone before me.”
“We still have one more to hear from.”
“Oh. I assumed he was just hanging around because he brought us here.”
I looked over to the final man. “He is. He’s also a witness. But I’ll get to him in a moment.”
Ashcroft shrugged in that nonchalant way only teenagers can. “Can’t see what else I can tell you.”
“I must say, you’re not showing the right attitude here, Miss Ashcroft. Don’t forget, this man I’m chasing is a murderer.”
“So you said. Who did he kill?”
“Can’t you guess? But we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. Which way did he go when he left the train?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t stalking him. He went along with the crowd, but I didn’t see where he went.”
“I find it difficult to believe you weren’t watching.”
“I had other things on my mind.”
“Ah, yes, his little talk. Did he convince you?”
“To not run away?” She gave another of those shrugs. “Yes.”
I carefully considered my next question. “Did he mention what was in the bag?”
“I thought you already said, it was money.”
“But did he tell you that?”
“No. He didn’t say what was in there, just that his uncle wanted to break his legs for it.”
“And he didn’t give you anything from the bag?”
“No.”
“So he could have been lying.”
“Lying? He never said there was any money in the bag. You did.”
“There was the brooch,” Miss Robinson put in.
I could feel the brooch burning a hole in my pocket, directly into my heart. “Yes, the brooch.”
“Are we almost done?” Holding asked crossly. “I think I might have mentioned this once or twice already, but I’m rather late for work.”
“I shan’t keep you too much longer,” I promised. “We just have one final person to hear from.”
We all looked to the last, silent person in the room. There was one man on the train who had not been a passenger, a man whom I had approached just as the train pulled in. A man who, I hoped, was going to make my investigation worthwhile. Otherwise, it would have been a terrible shame indeed to have gathered all those people there for no reason.
The Ticket Inspector’s Story
“Tickets, please!”
I always liked to practise that in the mirror, and as I straightened my uniform and made sure my card reader was straight, I thought about all the fun I was going to have that morning. The trains were up the spout and everyone would be in foul moods as they forced themselves onto already packed carriages. The perfect time for a ticket inspector to work his way through the train, trying to catch the fare dodgers. It not only means there’s nowhere for the little scroats to run, but it also annoys the hell out of everyone.
Having spent so long before the mirror, as I stepped out onto the concourse I realised there was a train on its way in. I had felt certain there wouldn’t have been any trains for at least the next ten minutes, and I was determined to get on the one approaching. It would be the first in, so would be by far the most crowded. They’re always the best to force my way through, because no one argues with a ticket inspector. Well, that’s far from true, but since I’m allowed to call the police for even verbal abuse I don’t have any grounds for not being as obnoxious about things as I can.
A crowd was already moving through the barrier by the time I reached it. There was a scruffy man ahead of me, with a prim and proper woman who was desperately trying to keep up with him; and I use the word desperate on purpose. I figured the meanest thing I could do would to separate them, make my best effort to force her to miss the train he got on, so I pushed in front of her and made sure I got through the barrier before her. She swore at me, loudly, and I could not hide my grin when I heard her swear at the barrier for rejecting her ticket. That would have slowed her even more, and I was satisfied she had lost her friend, even if they did manage to somehow get on the same train.
Moving up to the platform, I could see it was crowded indeed, but I managed to get on, at the expense of an elderly woman who might have made it if I wasn’t more sprightly. As the doors closed, I lowered my voice and said in a flat tone which I knew would annoy everybody, “Tickets, please.”
Then I bathed in the collective groan I could feel washing upon my jagged rocks of a heart.
It took me a while to work my way through the carriages, but all the looks, all the grumbles, all the veiled yearning for my death made it all worthwhile. It was not long before we reached Lewisham that I came across a man sitting with a briefcase on his lap. Opposite him was the same scruffy individual I’d separated earlier from his girlfriend. I felt glad he hadn’t got off the train yet, because it meant I could annoy him all over again.
“Tickets, please.”
The man with the briefcase was not happy, but he was not my target. The scruffy man seemed to have some trouble finding his pass, and while I waited I felt immense elation at the very thought he might be a fare dodger. He certainly looked the part.
“This service is appalling. I’m late for work now.”
It took me a moment to realise the briefcase man had spoken to me. Ordinarily I would have absorbed his anger with glee, but at that moment he was not my target.
“It’d be ironic,” I said, “if I was late for work because of the trains.”
Just then the scruffy man found his ticket and I checked it thoroughly. I did not show him my annoyance that the thing was in date and moved off to check other people’s. It was a shame I couldn’t make the man’s life miserable, but I felt I would have to settle for just having separated him from that woman earlier.
We reached Lewisham and, as usual, a lot of people escaped while a great deal of fresh meat was introduced into my slaughterhouse. Continuing my rounds, I eventually made it to the next carriage, where I was somewhat surprised to find a familiarly scruffy man, talking to a sad excuse for a teenager who was clearly running away from home.
I approached with a gleam to my eye, deciding fate had been kind to me and I was going to get a second chance at making his life hell.
“Tickets, please.”
The scruffy man looked very annoyed with me that I had interrupted his conversation. The girl showed me her ticket, but I only gave it a cursory glance before asking the scruffy man for his.
“You already saw mine.”
“I don’t think so. Ticket, please.”
“In the last carriage? I was sitting opposite the guy with the briefcase?”
“Lots of people with briefcases on this train, sir. Ticket, please.”
People were staring by this point, which is always an added bonus. I had no idea why he had moved onto this carriage from the last, but I hoped somewhere along the way he had ditched his ticket. With pure venom to his eyes, he shoved it in my face.
“Thank you,” I said, knowing I would sleep soundly that night. Moving along the carriage, I once more called out, “Tickets, please!”
It was not long after this that we arrived at Waterloo East and as I got off I saw you hurrying towards
me, flashing your badge.
“Have you been through the carriages?” you asked.
“Wouldn’t be much of a ticket inspector if I didn’t walk through …”
“I’m after a man. I had a tip-off that he’d be on this train. Twenty-six, unshaven, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, carrying a backpack.”
“The scruffy gentleman.” I beamed. “I found him rather memorable.”
“Where is he?” You looked about us at the crowds pushing past, as though you were going to be able to spot him.
“Gone.”
“Damn. Did you talk with him?”
“Me and several others, yes.”
“Others?” Your eyes took on a suspicious look. “What others?”
“Three that I know of, detective.”
“Which three? Tell me.”
You grabbed hold of my arm, and I said, “Steady, detective. I can find them for you. That man who just passed us. The one with the briefcase? He was one of them.”
“You! Stop!”
As you ran to accost the man, I glanced into the carriage to see the teenage runaway was only now stepping off the train, deep in thought about alcohol abuse or Take That, or whatever teenage girls think about. She didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move, so I scanned the oncoming crowd for the scruffy man’s girlfriend. As a ticket inspector I’ve always been good at picking people out of a crowd, but in all honesty I didn’t expect to find her. Statistically speaking, she was likely staying on until Charing Cross. I whooped with joy when she almost bumped into me.
“Sorry, miss,” I said. “Detective wants a word.”
By that point you had come back to me with the briefcase man and I was able to point out the others to you. I had a happy feeling I was going to make the scruffy man’s day a whole lot worse. I had no idea why I had decided to pick on him, but I was mighty glad I had. Now, I knew, the real fun was going to begin.
The Detective
I looked at the ticket inspector in something approaching horror. “You really are an odd man.”