‘It was nice,’ she said afterwards. ‘Such a con, though. All they want to do is sell you stuff.’
He’d laughed, because he’d bought two bottles and a box of Tomatin liqueur chocolates.
‘Of course they do,’ he said.
Secretly, he’d wondered what she expected. It was the distillery’s business, after all, and it would have been strange if they’d suddenly started giving their whisky away. ‘You’ve taken the trouble to visit us, sir. Have it for free.’
‘Such a con, though, Michael. All they want to do is sell you stuff.’
‘I know.’
‘And it’s not cheap, is it?’
But it was, for all that time and skill.
He had wanted to understand the distilling process, because he had such gaps in his knowledge. He didn’t know what malt was. He didn’t know why spring water mattered, and he hadn’t even known what a bonded warehouse was for, because he’d never thought about it. Thousands of barrels of whisky were simply left to sit for ten years, or fifteen years… it shouldn’t have struck him as odd, but it did. Time made the whisky better, so you paid for its age.
He sipped the liquor and tried to taste the oak. The oak soaked into the spirit, and nobody had come up with a way of faking that process. A woman called Vicky had shown them round, and there was someone else on the tour – a bilingual Scandinavian – who seemed to know his stuff. He had asked technical questions, but Vicky dealt with them all, succinct and utterly in charge – the Scandinavian man had ended up looking rather foolish.
Amy had said, ‘Boring twat,’ under her breath.
Boring twat.
They had made love that night, unsuccessfully. ‘He’s not much good in the bedroom department!’ A letter he could write, and questions he could ask. He could handle a complicated conversation with a ticket salesman, and he could disguise whisky so it looked like juice – and he could provide sweets for schoolboys he’d never ever see again, and make them happy. Relaxing into sexual intercourse, though – that was something he had never ever been able to do, and he sat on the bench pondering the fact, returning to it, turning it over and over as the trains came and went.
It all came back to sex. So what?
He would not jump onto the tracks now, for that would waste the ticket. Better that he simply went to Preston, on the 16.48 – for the train appeared to be absolutely on time and why should his chopped body delay it? The next one had been cancelled, he noticed, and the train company was genuinely sorry. The apologies were available at the touch of a button, and they’d found an actor who sounded so sincere: ‘We’re sorry for the delay… We’re sorry to announce, and we’re sorry – so sorry, in fact, that we are holding back the tears, feeling only shame. Don’t tell on us, please! We’re sorry…’
Michael laughed.
His own train would take him north, and he could decide about the onward route when he got to Preston. He would go right back up to the Highlands, because he was remembering the perfect, isolated station two hours or more beyond Glasgow, and express trains definitely came through it. The track was unfenced for miles, and there was a night train from Aberdeen or Inverness – the poor driver would see him in the headlamp, of course, but that couldn’t be helped. Michael would be illuminated, as if by a searchlight. He could turn away, though – in fact, he could walk backwards once he’d heard it coming, or he could put his head down and run, and the man at the controls would blast the horn and never see his face.
13
Michael sat back and sucked a mint.
Poor Morris had made it up the line towards Worcester, but Michael had never met him, and therefore didn’t know that there was a new plan. It seemed that Tony really had gone to the wrong café, somehow, and refused point-blank to drive all the way back to Cheltenham. The idea now was obvious: to sort someone in Birmingham.
‘I don’t have any money,’ said Morris.
‘I know that,’ said Keenan. ‘Go to Birmingham. Can you get through the barrier?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not.’
‘If you get through, I can fix you up with Aziz. That’s the best I can do, because—’
‘Fix me up with who?’
‘What?’
‘Who have you got in Birmingham?’
‘It’s a guy called Aziz – I thought you’d met him.’
‘Never. What’s he like?’
‘He’ll look after you. He’s okay, he’s a good man. Young.’
‘What time?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll call him, and he’ll call you. There’s a park, near the station – he’ll only want an hour.’
‘It’s a long way to go if he doesn’t know I’m coming.’
‘That’s why I’m going to call him, Morrie. Worst-case scenario is we wait till tomorrow, so just stay put.’
‘How much is it worth?’
‘What?’
‘I said, “How much is it worth?” One hour.’
‘I don’t know. The usual, I imagine. Have you got anything on you? Any stuff?’
‘No. I was going to get it from Tony.’
‘Then it’s the usual. Are you up for it or not? I don’t want him messed about.’
Morris cursed silently.
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘I said yes.’
‘I’ll call you back, then. Or he will.’
He waited another forty minutes, and the call finally came. Birmingham was on, for as soon as possible. He got there at 17.02 having avoided the train guard. As for the station barriers, you waited for someone with a suitcase and the gates opened wide enough for you to follow through. As long as nobody was watching, away you’d go. He didn’t have Aziz’s number, because Aziz didn’t want him to have it – and that was normal.
They would meet in the park. They would find a hotel, which Keenan always insisted on – and the sex would be quick. He’d be paid in cash, and home before midnight.
NORTH AGAIN
14
Ayesha had set Maria’s handbag in front of her, on the table.
She hadn’t wanted to touch it at first and she certainly didn’t want to look inside. To do so would be intrusive. The man in the seat opposite suggested she should, though, to identify the owner.
‘If there’s a phone number,’ he said, ‘we can call it.’
‘I should have kept my mouth shut,’ said Ayesha. ‘I should have said I don’t know.’
‘She did say, “Is this train going to Burnley?” That’s what she asked you.’
‘I know, but I should have realised.’
She sighed.
‘I make this trip twice a month – I should have known. She was a complete stranger, wasn’t she? A backpacker.’
She unzipped the bag and peered inside. There was a tablet, and beside that a cheap, pay-as-you-go phone. There was a long, slim wallet too, which was clean, smart and new and when Ayesha opened it she saw banknotes and cards. When she saw the passport tucked into a side pocket, she felt even worse. The poor woman had lost everything at a stroke: Pilipinas stood out in gold, so she was clearly miles from home. Ayesha flipped the cover open, and Maria looked up at her, smiling shyly.
‘Is there a number?’ said the man.
‘This is her phone. We can’t call her.’
‘But is there any other? Like a contact for emergencies?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Look in the back. See if there’s a next of kin.’
Ayesha turned to the last page.
‘Next of kin,’ she said. ‘There’s a number for a sister by the look of it, but the address is Manila.’
‘What time is it in Manila? Do you want me to check?’
He tapped some digits, and turned his own phone sideways to see the results of his search. He brought the screen closer and tapped again.
‘They’re ahead of us,’ he said at last. ‘It’s ten past nine in Manila – you could try her.’
‘What could
she do, though? “Maria Ruiz”, that’s her name.’
‘Whose name?’
‘The woman who owns this bag.’
‘Her sister might know someone. There might be a mutual friend you can send it to.’
‘She’s stuck,’ said Ayesha. ‘She’s got no phone, and we’ve got all her money – we’ve got everything. Could we call the rail station? Get them to make an announcement?’
‘You could try.’
‘What station was it? Carlisle?’
‘It might be better if we just hand it to the guard. Let him do it.’
Ayesha nodded.
‘I’ll take it to him,’ she said. ‘I’ll go down to the buffet car, and see if I can find him. Can you look after my stuff?’
She stood up, and put the guitar on her seat. She walked carefully through the carriages, for the train had picked up speed. The woman’s phone rang as she emerged from the third, plaintive and urgent. Ayesha stopped and fumbled for it. She held it close, and for a moment she couldn’t remember which button you had to press for a connection – the ringtone wailed on, desperate as a crying child. She found the right one and put the thing to her ear.
‘Hello?’ she said.
There was a pause, and she heard an anxious, distant voice: ‘Hello? I think… Hello?’
‘Hello.’
‘I think this is my phone, yes?’
‘I think it is,’ said Ayesha, steadying herself. ‘You left it next to me, on the table.’
‘Hello?’ said the voice.
‘Hello. Hi, can you hear me?’
‘Yes, but not very well—’
‘You left your bag on the table. Is that Maria? I’ve got it here, Maria – it’s safe. Where are you now?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear everything.’
Ayesha found a seat, and pressed the phone closer. She could hear a station announcement, and the speaker above her head chose the same moment to come to crackly life, the volume high.
‘Good afternoon,’ said a voice. ‘This is your train manager speaking, and I’d like to welcome those passengers who joined at Carlisle…’
Ayesha ducked low and closed her eyes.
‘Hello?’ she said.
‘This train is for London Euston,’ said the manager happily. ‘We will be calling at Oxenholme, Lancaster and Preston.’
He hesitated, but Ayesha knew that he was far from finished, and that everyone on board would now have to endure the full long list of station-stops, for they had already endured it twice. They would then hear all about all the snacks and beverages – alcoholic and non-alcoholic – and that would probably lead into an earnest, paternal encouragement to keep all one’s personal possessions with one at all times. The man was unstoppable, and poor Maria strained to make herself heard. To Ayesha she was a tinny whisper, calling from a distant planet.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just can’t hear you.’
‘What?’
‘Wait. Wait…’
She got up and headed back the way she’d come. The train manager spoke slowly, as if what he relished most was his time at the intercom. Somebody’s toddler was in the aisle, but she managed to move past and get into the little vestibule as the open doors decided to close, and knock the phone from her hand.
‘A variety of toasted sandwiches,’ said the manager, but his voice had dropped away a fraction. She snatched the phone up again.
‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I’m here, Maria. Your bag’s safe, okay? I’m holding it—’
‘Hello?’
Ayesha swore quietly.
‘I’ve got your bag!’ she said. ‘Nobody’s taken anything, and it’s perfectly safe.’
There was a short silence.
‘Thank you,’ said Maria.
‘Where are you? Where are you at the moment? Are you still—?’
‘I’m on the station, still.’
‘Carlisle?’
‘Hello? I’m on the station, yes. I’m at Carlisle, I think – Carlisle.’
‘Okay,’ said Ayesha. ‘It’s easy then. You don’t need to worry, okay? I’ve got everything with me, and we can meet up.’
The doors opened, and the toddler’s mother appeared. The toddler was now in her arms, and had started to cry. He was taking a deep breath, for someone had hurt or upset him and he needed to express his grief and rage.
‘Hang on,’ said Ayesha, moving to the side.
‘Crisps,’ said the train manager. ‘Peanuts.’
‘Do you have my passport?’ asked Maria.
‘Your what?’
‘My passport, in the bag—’
‘Yes, I promise. Everything’s here. And you’re going to Burnley, aren’t you?’
She had a finger in one ear.
‘Sorry, when—?’
‘Where are you heading? You said Burnley.’
‘Burnley Manchester Road. Yes—’
‘So you need to change at Preston, I think. Is that right?’
She moved back into the carriage, for the child’s howl was deafening.
‘Yes,’ said Maria. ‘I think so.’
They were rattling over points, and for a moment Ayesha contemplated finding the alarm and slamming her hand on it. She could bring the whole train to a halt, and have a simple, quiet conversation.
‘Yes,’ said Maria again. ‘I have to change at Preston. You’re right.’
‘Then I think it’s going to be very straightforward,’ replied Ayesha. ‘I’m going to get down there myself, okay?’
She had never spoken so carefully or clearly.
‘Take the first train you can,’ she said. ‘You get to Preston. We’ll meet in the café, in front of the footbridge. There’s a big bar-café, right in the middle. I’ll be waiting for you.’
‘At Preston?’
‘Yes. I won’t leave until we’ve found each other, and I’ll have your bag with me.’
‘In Preston? Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much—’
‘You mustn’t worry,’ said Ayesha, and for some reason her eyes were full of tears, as if the loss were her own. ‘It’s perfectly safe, okay? My name is Ayesha.’
‘Ayesha?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Thank you, Ayesha. I’m Maria.’
‘I know. I’ll see you soon, Maria. A couple of hours, at the most.’
The station man was smiling.
Maria handed him his phone, and he handed her a tissue. Her rucksack was against her chair, but she pulled it closer so it was tight against her knees. For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
‘I have to go to Preston,’ she said at last. ‘I need to get the next train and find this person – Ayesha. I don’t have a ticket, though – all my tickets are in my wallet.’
‘You don’t have a ticket?’ said the man.
‘No.’
‘Then you’ll have to stay here.’
‘What?’ cried Maria. ‘No, you don’t understand. I can’t, I—’
‘I’m joking,’ said the man gently. ‘I’m joking, Maria – I can issue you a special pass right now, free of charge. Special circumstances, special pass – that’s the least of your worries, okay? We’ll get you to Preston, so…’
He looked at the screen above their heads.
‘You’ve got about twenty minutes to wait. Problem solved, eh? By the sound of it.’
Maria nodded, but found that the words she needed wouldn’t come.
‘You see?’ said the man. ‘We can always sort things out. It’s never as bad as it looks, is it?’
‘No.’
‘You thought it was the end of the world, didn’t you?’
Maria looked at him.
‘It nearly was,’ she said. ‘I’m so lucky. Thank you.’
15
Michael’s train was busy, so he wasn’t sure where to sit.
An elderly couple sat either si
de of a table, halfway down the carriage, so he apologised for the intrusion and joined them. There was a new mint in his mouth, and his shoulder bag was neatly zipped.
‘Filling up,’ he said.
‘It always does, this one,’ said the man.
He had been forced to pick up his coat to make room, so Michael asked him if he wanted it placed on the overhead rack.
‘Thank you,’ said the man. ‘That would make life a bit easier.’
‘Give us a bit more space,’ said his companion.
‘Just don’t let me forget it.’
Michael laughed.
‘So easy to do,’ he said. ‘We’ve all done it.’
The woman had a tablet, and next to that was a deck of cards. They both had paper cups, and there was the usual detritus of milk cartons, stirrers and sugar sachets, suggesting that the trolley had recently passed. Michael sat down, wondering if it would return, and whether it would be selling sandwiches or not – he should have bought one at the station. Every service was different, after all, and the catering had to be planned to meet different passenger needs. The people who organised these things were not reckless, and the last thing they wanted was a surplus of unsaleable food. Were there people monitoring how many items got bought and how many ended up wasted? Of course there were. There had to be – there would be computers receiving the data, and managers sifting the figures. A sandwich would cost three to four pounds, and the mark-up on that had to be three hundred per cent at least, which Michael didn’t begrudge if only because pushing the awkward, laden trolley down narrow aisles looked so hard. Those doing it were heroic in his opinion, begging people to move their luggage, feet, children and pets, even as passengers were constantly trying to squeeze past… Was it a job he could do? He wouldn’t last a day.
On the other hand, was there any job he could do? How had he become so jobless and unemployable? How had he become such a liability at the council? The whole staff, divided as they were by envy and intolerance, had come together to dismiss him. Looking back, it may have been the only thing everyone had ever agreed: that he, Michael, needed to be fired because his desk drawer was full of unpaid, unprocessed invoices which he occasionally shredded. His school desk had been just as cluttered, as was the one at home.
Train Man Page 15