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

about this man with cancer. His gran had always said he was a sensitive sort who absorbed other people’s feelings. Today, he’d quite like to put them down again and work out what he felt about the whole suicide thing. He grabbed his jacket and edged off the stool. He knew quite a few of the station staff but he didn’t want to see them and have them asking questions about what had happened. Instead, he went and sat in the park outside and pulled out his sketchbook again. Drawing helped him work out what he was feeling and then find a way to deal with it. Another thing to thank his counsellor for. Tapping his pencil against his teeth, he thought about what he wanted to draw and turned to a new page and starting doodling.

The doodles turned into a woman standing in front of a train. There was a tightness in his chest.

Stop thinking about it. It won’t do any good. It won’t change anything. He scribbled the image out and shut the book.

He watched two pigeons fight over a piece of a polystyrene food container, then looked around, pulling up the collar of his jacket against a rising breeze and made himself smile. Be grateful for what you’ve got.

The wind scuffed litter along the ground, and all around him people were rushing to and fro. Behind him on Marylebone Road, cars, buses, lorries, and motorbikes were streaming along trying to find a small advantage in the traffic. And here he was, alive, healthy, and sitting in the middle of this great city. He took a selfie, planning to make a painting from it later, then closed his eyes for a moment, imagining himself on a stage talking to people about his art and them applauding him for his great and exciting talent.

He opened his eyes when he felt someone sit on the other end of the bench. He glanced over, annoyed he’d been disturbed. He looked again, stared. It was the girl from the train, the one he’d watched from the other end of the carriage. She was wearing make-up now and she’d changed her clothes but it was definitely her. Her eyes were a bit puffy, like she’d been crying but she was still beautiful. She was unaware of him, staring at the ground in front of her and playing with the handle of her bag, folding it over and over, letting it go and folding it again. Her nails were bitten, he noticed, and the skin of her hands dry and raw like she washed them too often. His gran’s hands had been the same.

Looking away, he tried to calm down. Should he go? He was always uncomfortable around beautiful girls. Even when he and Tess had been going out for months, he was sometimes tongue-tied around her. It was as if her beauty had made his words sound stupid and unworthy.

He was just about to leave when the girl let out a sob and buried her head in her hands. Tim stayed where he was. He wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder, to offer comfort but she might take it the wrong way, so he pulled out a tissue – his gran had told him always to have one with him – and held it out to her. When she didn’t take it, didn’t notice it, he gently pushed it into her hand.

She blew her nose noisily and said thank you without looking at him. Tim edged back to the other end of the bench once more.

He found beautiful women terrifying but he found a woman in need almost irresistible. It was like a knee-jerk reaction; she needed something, he provided it. Leaving was no longer on the agenda. So he sat and waited, every so often glancing in her direction.

‘Thank you,’ she said again after several minutes.

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘But you haven’t run away screaming either,’ she said. She’d raised her head but hadn’t looked at him.

‘No, I’m still here.’

‘So you don’t think I’m a loony then?’

‘Should I?’

She smiled, still staring straight ahead. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I am.’ She turned and did a double-take. ‘You!’

‘Me.’ Tim blushed.

‘You’re the guy on the train.’

‘And you’re the girl on the train.’

‘Yeah, but you ignored me. You didn’t even look at me.’

‘Oh yes I did.’

She smiled, but tears started spilling down her cheeks.

‘What’s the matter? – it can’t just be that I didn’t look at you when I checked your ticket.’ He made a puppy-dog face.

‘No, although it did break my heart.’ She gave a little laugh that turned into a sob that caught in her throat. ‘I just made such a tit of myself and watched all my dreams go galloping out the door.’

Tim moved a little closer. ‘What happened?’

‘I had an audition for The X Factor and I screwed it up big time. I mean, I was so bad they asked me to stop before I’d finished the song.’ She started folding the strap of her bag again.

‘Oh.’ Tim sat quietly, waiting to see if she wanted to say any more. His gran had always said if you give people the space, they’ll tell you everything. But the girl didn’t go on. She wasn’t crying anymore but she was taking deep breaths as if trying to stay calm.

‘What did you sing?’ asked Tim eventually.

‘Doesn’t matter. It was shit and I’m never singing again.’

‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you,’ said Tim. ‘I mean, you must love singing and be good at it to get an audition. Be a shame to let one setback get in the way of a dream.’

She looked at him but didn’t say anything, so he went on.

‘I do a bit of painting and who knows, one day I might even sell some, but everyone has setbacks. I’m sure even Beyoncé has bad days. Would’ve been a tragedy if she’d quit at the first hurdle.’ Tim had never told anyone about his dream of selling his work before.