by Mark Lowery
Distance–97 miles
Train
Near Miss
I turn and jog away from the window. I’m trying to put the tickets into my wallet as I go, but Charlie’s refusing to budge. “Why didn’t you get me a ticket, Marty? Why do I have to stay behind?”
“You don’t!” I say, going back and putting my arm around his shoulder. “It’s better this way. The woman at the counter was going to blow our cover. And anyway, I couldn’t have afforded it.”
He’s still dragging his feet. “But I can’t get on a train without a ticket.”
“You’ll have to,” I hiss. “If the conductor comes along, just hide, okay?”
Charlie’s a master at hiding, as long as he doesn’t have to stay still for too long. One time we played hide-and-seek and I couldn’t find him for ages. It turned out he was trapped in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. I only realized when I heard him having an asthma attack. Dad had to free him with a hacksaw and a screwdriver.
“Now come on!” I say, and finally he starts moving. We run down the ramp to the platform, but when we get there, the train hasn’t actually arrived yet. The North End fans are waiting nearby, already singing, with the police still watching on.
Charlie has a blast of his inhaler. Now that I know I don’t have the paper with the train times on it, I can’t help but think I’ve forgotten other stuff too. At least I made sure Charlie had his inhaler before he left the house; he’s always getting wheezy, and he needs it with him constantly. Even so, if Mum was here I’d still get an earful for making him breathless.
I stay out of sight of the police behind a large rail map, but Charlie dodges away from me to the edge of the platform. He’s leaning right out, peering into the distance. “It’s coming! It’s coming!”
I stomp over and pull him away from the edge. “Don’t do that!” I say sternly. “Stay on this side of the yellow line.”
“Sorry, Mum,” Charlie tisks as we move back a couple of steps.
I notice that his shoelaces are untied, so I bend down to fix them. I always tell him to choose Velcro shoes, but he prefers laces even though he’s forever tripping over them and I’m usually the one who has to tie them for him.
While I’m down there, there’s a gust of air and a squeak of wheels from behind me as the train snakes into the station. Charlie suddenly bursts toward the moving carriages. “Gotta get on first!”
Before I can do anything, he’s stumbled over me and we’re both falling in slow motion, landing flat on the ground in a tangled heap inches from the edge of the platform. My heart’s hammering. From down here I can see the huge wheels grinding slowly along the tracks like giant pizza slicers.
I haul myself up then help him roughly to his feet. “Are you trying to kill us?”
Charlie picks up his glasses, which had skittered off across the platform, and angrily puts them back on like I’ve done something wrong. “I was trying to make sure we got a seat.”
I shake my head. The kid is utterly nuts. What kind of person tries to get onto a moving train? Even though I’m used to his crazy behavior, my stomach is somewhere near my throat at the thought of what could’ve just happened. The policewoman who asked if I was okay before is looking over at us, concerned.
“Let’s just get on,” I huff, pulling Charlie toward the nearest open door.
We Love You, North End
“We’re off!” says Charlie as the train pulls out of the station. “This is exciting! I feel like a monkey with a drum kit.”
It’s taken less than five minutes for him to forget that he almost got us crushed by a train. We’re edging along the aisle of the swaying carriage, struggling to stay upright as we try to find somewhere to sit. At the far end of the carriage, we reach a couple of unreserved seats and plop ourselves down. Charlie’s by the window, and I’m next to him, the backpack with the cookies in it safely on my lap.
The seats face backward and I smile as I watch the city disappear. Within a minute or two, we’re over the river, then charging through open countryside. The train is sleek and fast, and it tilts into the bends like nothing could slow it down. Next to me, Charlie’s got his face pressed against the glass.
Despite the near miss on the platform, or maybe because of it, I’m extremely happy and relieved to be on the move too. In fact, Mr. Hendrix would probably say I was feeling euphoric right now.
Thinking of Mr. Hendrix makes me remember a poem I wrote in poetry club the other day, which was all about how moving can be good for you. He said it was my best one yet; in fact, he said I’d “turned a corner” with my poetry. He asked me loads of questions, then called Mum to tell her all about it. I like Mr. Hendrix, but I wasn’t exactly happy about this. Mum doesn’t know I even go to poetry club; it’s my secret. That evening, she tried to quiz me about the poem like mums do, but I could tell her heart wasn’t really in it. I just grunted a few times and eventually she left me alone and went back to bed. It was four in the afternoon.
I ruffle Charlie’s hair. He’s just practically killed us both, but I’ve already forgiven him. You can’t stay mad at Charlie for long.
From somewhere behind us, the Preston fans start singing loudly.
“We love you, North End!
We do.
We love you, North End.
We do.
We love you, North End.
We do.
Oh, North End, we love you!”
They’re not being aggressive—just a bit noisy. Even so, most people on the carriage shrink into their seats or put on their music or pretend to be deaf. Charlie stares at them over the back of the next seat, grinning. I pull him down again before he gets us in trouble.
The fans start the chant again. And again. And again. Charlie turns to me. “Do you think they know any other songs?”
“Just ignore it,” I say. I really like football, but Charlie doesn’t get it. Dad took us to watch a game once, and Charlie spent the whole time under his seat playing cards against himself.
After the sixteenth verse of the same song, it’s wearing a bit thin. One of the fans is stumbling down the carriage, red-faced and still singing. As he goes past us, Charlie calls out to him, “Excuse me.”
My blood freezes. Charlie still hasn’t grasped that we’re supposed to be traveling under the radar.
The fan immediately stops singing and stares down at us. He’s middle-aged with a big gut squeezed into a 1980s team shirt. Red face. Bald head. Glassy eyes. Bit rough-looking. He burps one of those deep, roaring belches that drunk people do to let everyone know they’re there.
The train jerks, making him stumble forward, so he’s leaning right over us and holding onto the seats for support. “What?” he growls. I can smell the booze on his breath. With his belly blocking my escape, I’m feeling extremely claustrophobic.
Charlie’s smile doesn’t fade, even though it’s obvious that he’s seriously misjudged this situation. “We were just wondering which team you love. We couldn’t figure it out.”
This is awful.
From down the carriage, the other fans have stopped singing.
The big guy grabs me—me, not Charlie, I’ll just say here—by the collar. “Think you’re funny you . . .”
“Everything all right?” says a woman’s voice from behind the guy’s huge body.
He immediately straightens up and pats my shoulder a little bit harder than necessary. “Fine, officer,” he says, his voice slightly slurred. “Just chatting about the game.”
The police officer looks at me, her head tilted. I recognize her—she’s the one from the train station. There’s a long silence, and I realize she’s waiting for me to agree or disagree with him.
“Like he says . . .” I whisper, the words barely coming out.
“Behave yourself or I’ll put you off at the next stop,” she warns him.
The man mumbles something at her and waddles toward the bathroom. When he’s safely locked inside, I pull Charlie out of his seat. Still shaking, I lead hi
m out of the carriage, past the closed bathroom door, and as far away from the North End fans as possible. I can feel the policewoman’s eyes on my back as I go.
“He wasn’t very friendly, was he?” whispers Charlie.
Ham and Jam
We walk for ages to find a seat. There’s a whole empty table in the quiet car, but quiet places and Charlie don’t really mix. Just as I’m about to sit down, he lifts his leg and lets out the biggest fart you’ve ever heard. I know you’re not meant to be impressed by these things, but it is a seriously exceptional delivery and, with everyone else being silent, it rings out like a church bell.
“Whoa! Who cut the cheese?” booms Charlie, and a few people look at us and glare. I have to push him down the aisle, stifling my laughter and apologizing as I go.
We finally spot two empty seats in the next car right by the luggage rack and sit down. It’s the last car before first class, and this time I get the window seat. Someone has left a newspaper and an empty paper coffee cup on the little foldout table.
Charlie plays bongos on the lid of the cup and twitches excitedly. “You know what? This is so awesome.”
I put my jacket into the backpack and fasten it up again. “Just what we need.” I smile.
It doesn’t matter how nuts Charlie is or how many times he nearly gets us run over or beaten up. I just enjoy doing things for him. When he’s happy, I’m happy.
The train races through a station. There’s a brief blur of people on benches and graffiti-covered walls, then a smattering of houses before we’re hurtling past green fields and bored cows again.
“I’m hungry,” he says eventually. “Can I have one of those Christmas cookies now?”
“I told you,” I reply. “They’re for when we get there.”
Charlie pretends to huff. “When’s that?”
“Afternoon, maybe,” I say. “What happened to the Jammie Dodgers I bought you?”
It’s the kind of thing Mum would say, which immediately makes me think of her and Dad. My watch says seven thirty-five. They’ll still be asleep. Dad didn’t get in from work until late, so he won’t wake up till elevenish at least. Then he’ll be straight back down to the warehouse for the afternoon shift even though it’s a Saturday. Maybe he’ll stay on through the night if they ask him, which’ll take him past ninety hours for the week again. And what time will Mum get up? Pick a time, any time, ladies and gentlemen. Twelve? Two? Tomorrow? Monday?
But then I have a terrible thought. Did I turn the alarm on my phone off? Shoot! If that goes off, it’ll wake them up. Then they’ll come into the bedroom. And then what? Suddenly, I’m gripped with worry. They’ll see the train times of course. And the empty beds. And, downstairs, the space on the shelf where the special cookie tin should be. And my backpack missing off the hook. And the cereal boxes left open. And that jar I left empty and unscrewed. And . . .
Gotta relax. Gotta relax, I tell myself, the words following the rhythm of the train. We’re on the move. We got through the tricky bit. It’s not like they can come and get us, is it? I’m only jittery because I’m feeling guilty about leaving without telling them. It’ll be worth it. We’ll get to St. Bernards and be home before they know it. They might not even realize we left in the first place.
“I don’t have the Jammie Dodgers,” says Charlie. “I gave the rest of the pack to that homeless guy at the station just before you ran to the bathroom.”
That’s Charlie. He’s a good kid. Even if his brain is inside out. I realize now why the homeless man gave me a thumbs-up.
“Can I go to the buffet car?” he pleads.
“No chance,” I reply. There’s barely anything in my wallet, and we’ve still got to figure out how to pay for somewhere to stay for the night. I reach into the backpack and pull out a squashed sandwich, even though there are still five hours until lunchtime. “Here. Have this. I made them last night.”
“Ding-dong!” he says as he unwraps the cling film and looks under the top slice of bread. “My favorite. Ham and jam.”
Yep. That’s right. Ham and jam. On the same sandwich. He started eating them when he was two. Back then he just liked the way they rhymed, but it turns out they’re delicious. Over the last year, I’ve even started eating them myself. When Charlie was little, Dad always used to tease him—Do you want cheese and fleas next time? How about egg and leg? Chicken with sick in?
“Can you time me, Marty?” says Charlie, dangling the sandwich in front of his mouth. Charlie loves to be timed doing anything. I start my watch, and he shoves the whole thing into his mouth. His cheeks are bulging out as his jaws work up and down. Finally he gives a painful-looking swallow, then opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue to show there’s nothing left. Apart from some globs of liquefied sandwich that is. I stop the watch.
“Seven point two nine seconds,” I say, impressed if a little disgusted.
“Oh yeah! New record!” exclaims Charlie, doing a little bum-wiggle dance in his seat.
I shake my head and dig into my sandwich. It tastes so good. Sometimes you don’t realize how hungry you are until you start eating. When I’ve finished the first half, I wrap the other bit up and put it back in my bag. I’m saving it for myself, but I’ll probably have to give it to Charlie when he starts moaning again later.
“You still haven’t told me why we’re going to St. Bernards,” he says, picking bits out of his teeth.
I yawn. It’s been a long morning. “Something to do.”
Charlie looks confused. “But we could do anything.”
“Yeah but . . .”
“Do you think we’ll see the dolphin?”
“Hope so.” I shrug. It isn’t time to tell him yet, so I close my eyes to show him the conversation is over. The gentle swaying of the car is so relaxing that within seconds I feel myself starting to drift and . . .
Dolphin
My eyes scanned the harbor to where Charlie was pointing. I couldn’t see anything at first. But then I noticed it; on the surface of the sea, about 150 feet from where we were standing, darting in between the boats. A glimpse of fin. A hint of arched back. A light-gray shadow cutting through the water.
“Oh my God,” I said. “Is that a shark?”
“Dolphin,” said someone near me, but I didn’t turn around to see who it was. My whole body was tingling and I felt like I’d been clamped to the ground.
The dolphin disappeared underwater, and we struggled to look for it between the boats. Then, after a few moments, its pointy nose poked up next to an orange buoy. Everyone by the railings cheered, and it set off again, slicing through the calm water. After a while, it stopped and bobbed up and down, showing off its white chest. Then, with a sudden explosion of spray, it burst up into the air.
Even today I can picture its leap perfectly, almost in slow motion—its body straining as it catapulted upward, showering down droplets of water that caught the sunlight like tiny flecks of gold. The way people gasped as it hung in the air. The slow, graceful turn of its body. The unexpected smash as it landed in the water, breaking the spell. The flick of its tail before it shot forward, out of the harbor and toward the open sea. That feeling of emptiness, grief even, when I slowly realized it wasn’t coming back.
We stood there for ages, not speaking, before I eventually broke the silence. “Whoa,” I said, puffing out my cheeks. “Just whoa.”
“Amazing,” sighed Mum.
“Don’t see them in Preston docks, eh, boys?” said Dad.
I didn’t answer. And neither did Charlie. His mouth was hanging open.
Some Weirdo on the Train
My eyes open with a start. Was I asleep? Everything suddenly seems very different. Agitated and confused, I look around.
A girl is next to me, jabbering away on her cell phone. She’s Indian, about sixteen, tight jeans, flowery perfume, and completely beautiful. I feel embarrassed like I always do when I’m this close to an older girl.
“. . . no, it’s not right. I’m not happy . .
.”
Her accent’s lovely—proper Midlands—roight . . . oi’m . . . ’appay.
Hang on. Midlands? Where are we?
And where’s Charlie?
The girl looks at me like I’ve just crawled out of a pond. “Do you mind?” she says. Moind—amazing. Then she shakes her head and mutters something under her breath.
Suddenly, I’m worried.
Where is Charlie? And hang on. Where is my backpack? Who’s taken it? No. Not the backpack. Whatever happens. Not the backpack. It’s got everything in it. I can feel panic squeezing around me like a boa constrictor and I frantically look under the seats but it’s not there, so I pull on the girl’s sleeve until she yanks it away from me.
“It was taking up the seat, so I put it on the rack,” she snaps, pointing a sharp, pink thumbnail behind her, her hand over the mouthpiece. “I didn’t wanna wake you up. You were . . . drooling.”
How humiliating.
She looks me up and down with what? Horror? Pity? Then she goes back to her phone call. “. . . No, just some weirdo on the train. . . . Anyway tell me about this boy. . . .”
Some weirdo on the train. That’s me. Five words that stab like little daggers under my ribs. And my brain is being yanked in different directions. The girl, Charlie, the backpack, and I spin around and scan over the back of the seat at the luggage rack and there’s the backpack like she said. Thank God! But where on earth is Charlie? He hasn’t left. He couldn’t have left! But he’s nowhere to be seen and the panicky feeling keeps growing and this girl’s perfume is actually really strong and is it me or is the car just a little bit too hot and those lights are prickling away in my eyes again and . . .
“Tickets, please!”
A conductor’s right there next to us and I’m all light-headed and wobbly and I don’t know why but I stand up like a proper fool and I hold out the ticket and he stamps it and says we’ll be in Birmingham in twenty minutes, which I guess is a good thing but only if I find Charlie and I feel a bit faint and now the conductor’s looking at me and asking if I’m okay and I can hear my own breath inside my skull, which I guess is just a box of bone with your brain in it when you really think about it and the girl is staring at me too and she’s standing up as well and saying “. . . This guy’s really freakin’ me out. . . .” and she’s looking around for another seat and the next thing I know I’ve pushed past her and stumbled through the sliding doors in between the train cars and it’s so clattery and rattly in there I’ve got to escape and get to the bathroom and I struggle through the next door and into the bathroom and slam the door and before I know it there’s my chewed-up ham-and-jam sandwich staring up at me from the silver bowl.