The Train, Sarah Bourne [dark books to read .txt] 📗

his phone when necessary, that pen made him think about writing. What he’d say about things and how he’d say it. Maybe one day he’d start a diary or something. He gave a little laugh. All because of a pen.

And why not? He’d always been all right at English. His mum, and later his gran, had read to him and then, when he could read himself, made sure he always had books. He looked at his hand, imagining the pen in it, then he looked at the other man’s hands – soft and white, tapered fingers, buffed nails. And small. Almost a child’s hands. They didn’t deserve to hold a pen like that. Tim’s own hands may be rough, but he always kept them clean and the nails short. Art was his great love though. His fantasies about the future always centred on having a solo exhibition of his works. Or being asked to paint a huge mural somewhere prominent. His art teacher had said he had talent. Maybe he’d use the pen to sign copies for his fans.

‘Are you all right?’ asked the man, and Tim realised he was still standing beside him, daydreaming and probably smiling like a loony.

‘Yeah,’ he said, and moved on.

Half an hour later, Tim was ready to quit his job and walk away. It didn’t seem to matter how many announcements he made, or how often he apologised, the passengers were getting antsy. He’d rung head office to find out what else he could do and even when he announced a discounted train journey for every passenger, there were still complaints. He felt like telling them all to take a flying jump but knew it would cost him his job which, much as he hated it right now, he needed to keep a bit longer. So he glued an apologetic smile onto his face and walked the length of the train again, listening to people go on about their important jobs, appointments, meetings, shopping, family reunions and God knows what else until he wanted to ask if any of them actually did anything that was a matter of life and death – did it really matter one tiny rat’s arse if they were late – would people die?

He tucked himself away in one of the loos for a few minutes and called Brian to see how he was.

‘I’m still at the police station, man,’ he said, sounding agitated. ‘I’ve given my statement, but they want me to see a counsellor before I go. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, you know? What damn use is a counsellor gonna be? I just want to go home.’

‘Not long now, I’m sure. You’ll have to see the company counsellor – tell them that and they might let you go. After that you can get home and take a bit of time for yourself. If you need anything, call me, okay?’

‘Yeah. Ta, man.’

Tim leant against the hand basin and sighed. He knew all about counsellors. When he’d let slip to one of the teachers at school that his mum had left after one too many bashings, they’d hauled him in to see a psychologist. He hadn’t wanted to. Only pussies saw people like her, but over time it had helped. Gran had been great at the day-to-day stuff, but the psychologist was the only person who actually listened to what he said and helped him make sense of what he was feeling. Which was sad and empty, angry and confused, and then just angry and in the end sad again, but not the bone-shattering sadness he’d started with, more a dull ache that increased to an acute pain every now and then – birthdays, Christmases, school events where parents went along. All those times when he realised afterwards he’d been holding his breath, hoping this time she’d come. She never did. He wondered where she was, what had happened to her. His father had banned any mention of her and Tim remembered all too clearly what had happened last time he’d asked. The knuckles of his left hand were still stiff and two of his fingers misshapen from the pounding he’d got.

They’d been sitting in front of the telly, the dinner trays still on their laps. EastEnders had just finished and his dad was going on about how in TV shows everything got sorted out in the end, everyone knew what was happening, as if it was a bad thing. It was the day after Tim’s twenty-first and he still had the knot of pain in his stomach from yet another birthday passing without his mum so he asked, without thinking, why she’d gone.

As soon as he said it the sadness was replaced by anxiety. He wanted to eat his words, swallow and silence them.

‘Sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean it.’

But it was too late. His father was on his feet and coming at him, steak knife in hand. He’d had a few drinks before he got home and several more since, but his hand was steady, his eyes fixed on his son. Tim felt a shiver of fear but stood to face him, still holding his tray. Tim didn’t know whether to brace for a punch or watch the knife. Not that his father had ever done more than threaten when he had something in his hand but this time felt different. He took a step back, his calves hitting the chair.

His father never said a word. When he thought about it afterwards that was what stuck with Tim. The quiet. The only sounds came from the falling of crockery and cutlery and the thwack of fist into flesh and Tim’s groan. He reeled but remained standing, dazed. The next punch doubled him over and he fell to the floor and drew into a foetal curl. He saw his father’s heavy work boot swim into view and heard the crunch of his hand underneath it before he felt the pain.

He’d taken himself to the