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

hospital, his hand wrapped in a tea towel. After the surgeon had put several metal plates in to hold the bones together, Tim asked to see a social worker. She’d found him temporary accommodation. He hadn’t seen his father since.

No wonder his mother had left.

The door handle rattled and Tim heard an impatient hrmph from the other side. He ran the tap, slicked down the bit of hair that always seemed to stick out no matter how much product he put in it, took a deep breath and opened the door.

‘Sorry, sir. All yours,’ he said.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

‘Hey, Timmy – Gavin. I’ll be taking this blood-soaked bucket to Euston for you.’

Tim’s heart sank. Gavin may drive a train okay but he was the last person Tim wanted to see right now. He’d never heard a serious word come out of his mouth, and today was obviously going to be no exception. He was the kind of bloke who, when someone was going through shit, would make jokes about refugees or people shagging sheep. A class act.

‘Hi, Gav. Glad to be in your capable hands,’ he said. ‘Are we clear to go? Shall I let the passengers know?’

‘’Nother few minutes. Boiler suits are still scrubbing the train down. Trust Brian to flatten a girl. I’ve only had men.’

‘What’s that meant to mean?’ asked Tim, bristling on behalf of his friend. ‘He’d never willingly hurt anyone and you know it.’

Gavin laughed down the phone. ‘All right, keep your hair on. Didn’t mean anything by it, just making conversation.’

‘Yeah, well, it was a bloody stupid thing to say, okay?’

Gavin was known to have been back at work the day after he’d hit someone, making jokes and laying bets on who’d be next to slam on the emergency brakes.

Tim sighed, rolled his shoulders a few times and made his way to the intercom to update the passengers.

Twenty minutes later they were on their way again, the rain-sodden fields blurring as they gathered speed. Tim started down the train checking tickets, making small talk with the passengers so they didn’t get a chance to ask any more about the suicide. He found it repugnant that people wanted the facts in all their gory detail. Repugnant. What a good word. Someone had told him the other day he thought President Trump was repugnant, so he’d looked it up, wondering if he’d ever use it. And here he was.

When, finally, they pulled into Euston, Tim let out a sigh of relief. The cleaners boarded the train but not before he’d done a quick check to make sure there was no lost property. As he walked the length of the platform towards the station staffroom, he avoided looking at the front of the train. It was probably clean as the proverbial whistle and he didn’t need to check.

It was only just past ten but he could have killed for an ice-cold, numbing shot of vodka.

Tim started shaking when he got to the staffroom at Euston, nearly two hours later than usual. His boss had been called and he’d been given the rest of the day off but only so long as he agreed to see the staff counsellor the next day. Sandra from the food shop and Brian the driver would have to go, too, it was company policy that all staff on the train were debriefed and counselled in the event of a suicide or other incident. No ifs, buts or maybes.

He decided to go and see Brian, who had been dropped home by the police after giving his statement. At East Acton Station he looked along the road. The day had turned out warm. Tim unzipped his jacket and wondered if he should buy Brian something. He didn’t know what people did in these situations; Brian wasn’t ill, but he’d had a shock. Fags? A car magazine?

In the end he bought nothing and thrust his hands deep into his pockets as he walked through the housing estate, trying to remember which block Brian’s flat was in. There were too many kids around for a school day and Tim wondered why no one cared, why there weren’t adults out there herding them to school, reminding them they’d never get anywhere without an education. His gran had made him go to school. She’d also made him join the local youth club run by the church. He’d protested at first, but made new friends and enjoyed the activities. He’d never thanked her for it at the time but later, when he saw his schoolmates begin to drift away and get into trouble, or start on drugs, he knew she’d been right. Not that he’d done too well, except in English, art and woodwork, but at least he’d finished.

Rounding a corner, he recognised Brian’s block. Red brick, graffiti tags all over it, paint peeling from the wooden window frames, outer door splintered. Tim was dismayed the council did so little for its tenants. Couldn’t they imagine what it would be like to live in a place so run-down and depressing? No wonder the kids didn’t bother going to school, their whole lives were lived in this shitty place where nothing made them feel worthwhile or valued. They grew to match their environment, their horizons as limited as the boundaries of the housing estate. You could grow up to become a drug dealer, a teenage mum or a car thief. They should pay him to do a mural on the walls, cover over the mindless graffiti and paint something inspiring. Although he couldn’t think what that might be in a place like this. He’d hunt for Banksy images when he had time. Or Warhol.

He took the stairs to Brian’s door two at a time and knocked.

‘I don’t want to see anyone, go away.’

‘Brian, it’s me. Tim. Just came to see how you are.’

He heard shuffling and a lock being pulled back. Brian had changed into a grey tracksuit, old and shapeless. The knees bagged and made