Train Man

by Andrew Mulligan

  He started to laugh himself, and she just managed to hold the camera still. At last, the trousers were on and he could move more easily. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. She took it from him and wiped hers. He rearranged his coat, and she adjusted his hood.

  ‘Ready?’ she said.

  ‘Totally.’

  She did her own hood up tighter, for the rain was now merciless – and they stepped out into it.

  25

  He had been on walking holidays with his father.

  He had hiked as a young man, too – but he hadn’t pushed himself this hard for a number of years. He wasn’t unfit, and the cycling he’d done to the retail park had given him some leg muscle and even some stamina. Nonetheless, the ground grew steadily steeper and he was finding it hard. He was finding it harder and harder to believe he was there, too, and the thought kept occurring that he could have stumbled into the afterlife, with all memories of the train’s actual impact miraculously erased. Walking in this tunnel of wind and rain, he tried to imagine at what point his particular afterlife had begun, because it might have been on the bus with the angelic driver, or when he stepped into the hotel with the helpful manager. Had he even died at Preston? For clearly, Maria was his guide.

  There she was, just ahead – and she seemed so real.

  She was tireless, too, and kept up a pace that was a little faster than the one he would have set, had he been in front. They were in single file again, and the muddy grass had given way to rock. The path was a vivid gulley, and there were no choices to be made, for it never divided – it had been scored through, and they were two brightly coloured bugs worming along with their heads down. The leaflet said they wouldn’t need to climb, meaning they wouldn’t need ropes and crampons. What they did need was courage, for they were approaching a long ridge, and the drop either side was worryingly steep.

  The path was like a tightrope.

  It slumped at first, as if the rope was slack. Then it was a constant, gradual ascent, and at the far end there was a tall, bare, chimney-shaped stack. It seemed strange, suddenly, that a thin tourist leaflet could encourage you to risk your life – for that’s what they were about to do.

  Maria crouched down, and Michael knelt next to her. Turning back was unthinkable but they needed to take it step by step. The wind was as strong as ever.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  He had to put his mouth close to her ear.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘That it is very dangerous. Difficult.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘The same thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am thinking the same thing. Very dangerous!’

  ‘Too much wind. Maybe this old lady is trying to kill me.’

  ‘You want to go back?’

  ‘I can’t hear you—’

  ‘I said, “Do you want to go back?”’

  She laughed at him, and her laughter was flung away. Then she took out her camera and photographed the way ahead. She managed to turn it on Michael, and he made a frightened face.

  ‘Smile,’ she said.

  ‘How? I’m feeling sick.’

  ‘But it’s the last photo, Michael, before you blow away!’ she cried. ‘Joking! Come on!’

  She tightened the straps of her backpack, and checked her bootlaces. He pulled his hat a little lower. There was no point in delaying, for there was nothing to plan or discuss. Maria pushed on, and the next moment she was walking upright again.

  Michael followed, still negotiating the gentle descent. He found that his boots fitted neatly into the well-worn path, and best of all he discovered it wasn’t as narrow as it had seemed. There were handholds of a kind, too, for the track was snug against a shelf of knee-high rock, which acted almost as a handrail. If you took care, and went slowly, it was safe enough. Of course, Maria was quicker than him. She was nimble, and was getting close to the end. She was using both hands, and he could see that she had found a certain rhythm as she walked. The wind pressed him back, and he inched forward more carefully. When he saw that she had turned and was filming him, he managed to wave, but when he took another pace something strange happened. He found his legs were locked, and he couldn’t go any further.

  She must have sensed it, or perhaps she saw his face close up in the camera and knew something was wrong. He opened his eyes to find that she was next to him again – she had retraced her steps.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  He laughed.

  ‘What’s the matter, Michael? Are you resting?’

  ‘No. I’m not feeling very well.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Her face was very close. It had to be, so she could hear him.

  ‘I’ll be okay in a minute,’ he said. ‘I’m just feeling… a bit sick. I think it’s vertigo.’

  ‘You’re not going to faint, are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, “You’re not going to faint?” Do you want me to help you?’

  ‘I don’t think you can.’

  ‘Do you want my hand?’

  He shook his head. It was noticeable that she’d come close, but she hadn’t touched him. She could see that he was shaking, and knew that touch would make things worse.

  ‘You’ve done it before, yes?’ she said.

  He nodded, and closed his eyes again.

  ‘Five minutes,’ she said.

  ‘I know. But then we have to come back.’

  ‘Going back is easy.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You can do it. You just have to take your time.’

  He looked down, and imagined falling. He wouldn’t die, because he’d bounce and roll – and he might hit his head, of course – but that would be unlucky. He would roll down the steep shale, and slither to a gradual halt way, way below. Then he would have to find a way up.

  ‘You go on,’ he said. ‘I’ll follow you.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes. It’s raining – I need to move.’

  The rain was lighter, and cool on his face. Then, as he smiled, it was as if someone somewhere had adjusted the tap, for without any warning at all he was underwater. He stood hunched in a solid, merciless downpour – and it was hard not to take the assault personally, because it was so fierce and drenching. He pulled his hood up over his hat, and she leaned forward and did his zip up for him, taking it right to his nose. Hard rain was battering them both again, and it streamed off their waterproofs. The only other sound he could hear was Maria’s tinkling laughter: once again, she was finding him funny. She turned her back and set off. He followed, and a few steps on she turned to check he was with her. She went slowly, and he went slowly too, through sheets of water. One step at a time, keeping the purple waterproof as close as he could.

  Incredibly, he was dry inside.

  The waterproofs formed such an impregnable skin that he felt warm and safe – and he realised that he and Maria were now crawling through solid cloud, for visibility was next to nothing. When the thunder came, he mistook it for an air-force jet at first, for it had that same savage, ripping quality – tearing at the sky. Then the final roll burst in a detonation so loud it hurt his ears, and there was no possible response except more laughter. Maria turned back to him, horrified.

  ‘We can do this!’ she yelled.

  Would they be struck by lightning? That would be the ultimate experience, he thought. Rained on, thundered at, and finally electrocuted. He would be burned onto the rock, and where was Steve with his rake? He laughed again and lumbered on – Maria went just ahead of him. They were ascending the last section, for the path was widening. The thunder hit once more, but the next moment they had reached the stack, and it gave them the security they needed. Not only was its base broader, but there were wide crevices to lean against and hold on to. It soared high above their heads, just like a tower, and though the rain poured on they spo
tted cover. Maria climbed on all fours, and he followed her into a shallow cave.

  ‘You’re okay?’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘I’m still shaking. How are you?’

  ‘I thought maybe you had a heart attack.’

  He wiped his eyes.

  ‘I nearly did,’ he said. ‘What would you have done, if I had? You’re trained, aren’t you?’

  ‘This is my holiday, remember? I’m not on duty.’

  ‘Then let’s have some tea.’

  ‘You think we deserve it?’

  ‘I need that sugar.’

  ‘I have a treat for you, then. And for me, too.’

  Maria drew her bag round onto her knees, and pulled out the remains of their lunch. He unwrapped the sandwiches and passed one to her, feeling her fingers as she received them. They munched happily, and he watched her swallow. He saw a piece of cheese on her chin, which she wiped away, and when she drank, the liquid was so hot she spilled some down her front. They ate the two biscuits, and she then produced a great slab of chocolate. They sat close as she unwrapped it, the foil revealing thick, brown, nutty squares. When the first dissolved on his tongue, the sun came out, and he saw the horizon.

  He swallowed.

  ‘I was lying to you, Maria,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been here before.’

  26

  ‘Lying?’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Lying about what? You said you knew this place.’

  ‘I don’t. I was lying.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I showed you the map, and—’

  ‘And I lied to you. You asked me if I’d ever done this walk, and I should have said no, but… I thought if I said yes, you’d think it was a good idea if we went together.’

  He paused, and she stared at him.

  ‘It sounds stupid,’ he said. ‘I know that. You would have probably thought it was a good idea, even if I’d told you the truth. Two heads are better than one, and all that – but… I suppose I wanted to pretend to be knowledgeable. And useful. So it seemed safer to say I knew the area, but… I don’t. I’ve never been here before in my life.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  He decided not to look at her.

  ‘These boots aren’t mine,’ he said. ‘Nor is this coat. Didn’t you see me on the bus?’

  ‘What bus?’

  ‘The bus you got from the station. To the hotel. Didn’t you see me on the train? I was sitting about three rows behind you.’

  He could feel her gaze, so he was forced to lift his eyes. He could see only confusion on her face.

  ‘I didn’t see you anywhere,’ she said. ‘You got off the train at the same stop as me? Burnley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You got the same bus, to the hotel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I wasn’t following you, Maria. I saw you get off the train, and I had nowhere to go, so… I don’t know why. I’m not a dangerous lunatic, I promise. But I had no destination in mind, and suddenly I was off the train and on the bus. It was a whim.’

  ‘What’s a whim?’

  ‘A whim?’

  ‘I don’t know that word.’

  ‘It’s when you don’t have a plan. Spontaneous, sudden. On impulse.’

  ‘But you had a reservation at the hotel.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You must have done.’

  ‘I didn’t. I just turned up, hoping. By that time it was late and dark… I nearly stayed on the bus, in fact. But… I didn’t have anywhere to go, you see, so it made sense to stop at the hotel – not because you were there. But the next minute, you were in the bar with the map, and you said hello.’

  He paused.

  ‘I should have said something earlier, I know I should. At breakfast, maybe – but I was very scared you might not want to go on the walk with me. You might think I was a… madman.’

  ‘Are you?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A madman?’

  ‘No.’

  She looked at his feet.

  ‘But they’re not your boots,’ she said. ‘Where did you find them?’

  ‘In the hotel. They have a drying room, and I think they must belong to someone who forgot them.’

  ‘Or someone who’s looking for them, maybe.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She laughed and then stopped.

  ‘I don’t really understand this. Where were you going, really? You were on the train, the same as me. You got off the train—’

  ‘I didn’t have a particular place in mind.’

  ‘You must have, Michael. You don’t just… catch a train and say, “Let’s see what happens. Let’s see where I go.” Or maybe… Are you very rich?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Michael?’

  She was looking at him harder.

  He had pulled his hood down when the sun came out, and now he took off his hat. He met her gaze, then turned his head away. He looked at his knees, but he knew she was simply staring at him and wasn’t going to stop. It was warm, and his coat was steaming. The rock was a soft grey, and tiny flowers had taken root in the fissures. The clouds were rolling back in around them, of course, but at that moment you could see for miles, and the hills and peaks interlocked so naturally. He could see downwards, too, and on his right the land fell away in a series of dramatic steps, like cliffs. You could see the caverns of despair, and he smiled as he re-remembered his poem, aged eleven, and the A grade he’d been so proud of. Come with me, went the first line:

  Come with me, to the caverns of despair.

  They boil in tears and freezing air.

  You will cross them, if you dare:

  The icy caverns of despair.

  He had remembered the whole verse, and he closed his eyes with embarrassment.

  Maria said, ‘Why do you say you had nowhere to go?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  ‘You have a home, though.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You have family.’

  ‘Not… really. Not as such. I have a brother, but I don’t see much of him. And—’

  ‘You have a job? Or are you retired?’

  ‘I am… I’m kind of without work at the moment.’

  ‘But you have money.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I do have some. But not very much, and… Actually, I don’t have much at all.’

  ‘So why are you here? Sorry. But I’m more confused than ever.’

  Michael laughed, unable to meet her gaze.

  ‘I’m trying to explain it,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to find it very easy, but what I told you was the truth. I just… didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘What is the matter with you?’

  She said it very clearly.

  ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So tell me. What is the matter?’

  She was sitting close, not touching him but looking at his face. She didn’t seem frightened, or even worried – or not for herself. She had pulled her own hood down and loosened her coat. He glanced up and saw a black jersey, and again got the impression that she was small but very strong. His eyes drifted to his knees again, but she was waiting for an answer. He tried to find the words but they weren’t there – and he felt his throat tighten. He blinked and laughed, and still she didn’t speak. All he could hear was the wind again, finding its way round the rocks.

  He said, ‘When I was a boy…’

  And he stopped.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Something bad happened to me. I think several bad things happened, and for some reason… I have never had the strength or the… whatever it is you need, to get back from it, and… just lately. I don’t know. I find I can’t get away from it. You don’t want to know, and I don’t want to say any more. But I’ve come t
o realise I can’t get away from it. I’m stuck with it, and it won’t let me go, and…’

  She was looking at him.

  ‘That’s what’s the matter with me,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing.’

  27

  ‘What happened?’ she said.

  ‘Oh… nothing, honestly. Not a lot.’

  ‘Michael, I can’t hear you properly.’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all that matters.’

  He stopped.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I think it does. Were you hurt?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘What happened to you, Michael? Tell me.’

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘I was asked to do things,’ he said. ‘It was a while ago, obviously… and they were of a sexual nature. A man at my school.’

  ‘You mean a teacher?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Oh, like I said – a long time ago. I was… just a boy. I was eleven.’

  ‘What did he do to you?’

  ‘Well…’

  His throat was tight again, but she had asked – and he managed to laugh. She had paid him the compliment – the honour – of asking, and was waiting for his reply. How strange that he couldn’t speak, and that despite all the words he knew, the ones he needed simply weren’t there.

  He tried again.

  ‘He didn’t do anything to me, actually,’ he said at last. ‘It just started to happen. I think the first thing he did, or the first time it happened… I think he just took my hand. He liked to touch, you see – he was very physical. He liked to punish boys, not… he wasn’t a sadist. He didn’t really beat you, but he played games, and one time… This was after he’d got into the habit of one-to-one meetings, or sessions. “Little interviews”, you could call them. And… I suppose I ought to say I was not the only one. There were other boys, boys he liked more. Boys he found much more attractive than me, I suppose. But he – one day – took my hand and exposed himself. And…’

  ‘What? “Exposed”, meaning…?’

  ‘I don’t think you want to hear this.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I can’t.’