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

Perhaps this girl had a gran who told her about giving people space to talk, thought Tim.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Alice.’

‘Alice what?’

‘Alice Cooper. Why?’

‘Any relation to Alice Cooper?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘No. It wasn’t even his real name.’

‘I know. He was Vincent Furnier. I prefer Alice Cooper.’

‘Why’d you want to know my name anyway?’ she asked.

‘So I can listen out for you on the radio and say, “I met her once, before she was famous. She’d just been turned down by The X Factor and now they’re regretting it”.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t give up, Alice Cooper.’

Alice laughed. ‘You’re the loony, not me. But thank you. You’re sweet.’

Tim blushed more deeply and held his breath. Suddenly he was aware of her again as the girl he hadn’t been able to make eye contact with on the train. And here she was, calling him ‘sweet’, sitting right next to him on a bench on a summer afternoon in London. He wanted to draw her, or take a photo so he could paint her later. Anything that meant he didn’t have to focus on actually being there now.

‘So, Mr Ticket Collector, do you always sit here in the afternoons in case someone comes along and needs cheering up?’

Tim swallowed. ‘No.’ His suddenly sweaty palms seemed to have drawn all the moisture away from his mouth, which was as dry as a pub in a brewery strike. Come on, Tim, he thought, say something funny. Or not funny, just say something, or she’ll think you’re a jerk. ‘I was drawing,’ he said. Oh, God, I’ve mentioned it again! What a stupid thing to say. She’s either going to think I’m bragging, or she’s going to ask to see it. Or both. Shit. ‘Normally I’d be on my way to Manchester now,’ he said, hoping she’d ignore the art bit.

‘But not today. Is it because of what happened this morning or do you have magical powers and you knew about my potential suicide this afternoon? Sorry – that was a pretty off thing to say.’

Tim didn’t know how to answer. Yes, it was because of the morning incident, no he didn’t have magical powers, and yes, he agreed it was a pretty bad joke – or at least he hoped it was a joke. He looked at her in confusion and wanted to kick himself. How often did he meet girls he fancied these days? And here he was, fucking it up because he was so shy he couldn’t talk. He wanted to scream. ‘Want a drink?’ was all he managed.

He felt his skin burning under Alice’s scrutiny. It seemed to take hours for her to decide. Hours in which Tim had plenty of time to imagine her laughing at him, asking why on earth a girl like her would want a drink with a guy like him, point out that she was worthy of far better, could have, in fact, anyone she wanted, and had no need for a nobody like him.

‘Yeah,’ she said finally. ‘That would be nice.’

Which Tim heard as, ‘Yes, I haven’t got anything better to do until my train leaves.’

Tim looked back with longing at the pub he had just left. Not the pub, Alice, who was still sitting at the table. She was the first chick he’d met since Tess that he really wanted to get to know. She was hot, but it was more than that. She interested him with her mixture of self-confidence and self-doubt. Sure, he would like to see her naked, he couldn’t deny it, but he also wanted to unravel the mystery of this Alice Cooper.

He shrugged himself deeper into his jacket. The temperature had plummeted with the sun going down. He turned his thoughts to Brian. He’d been practically incoherent on the phone. Tim had found it difficult to understand what it was he wanted, and was dismayed to find it was him. A friend to talk to now Nina had gone and the events of the day were hitting him. Tim couldn’t let his mate down; his gran had always said, a friend in need is a friend indeed. Or was it in deed? He had no idea what it meant either way, but he did know friends were important and you didn’t ditch them for a bit of skirt. Not that Alice was that.

He hurried through the estate past teenagers sharing a joint who jeered at him and got back to their puff.

A woman stepped out of a doorway. She stood under a dim light, her bleached hair glowing either side of the darker strip of her parting. ‘Ten quid for a blow job,’ she said, in a raspy smoker’s voice.

‘Not tonight, thanks.’ He hugged his jacket tighter and quickened his step.

At Brian’s door he paused. Part of him wanted to run back to the pub to see if Alice was still there, if she was real.

He knocked. The door was ajar. Tim pushed gently and went in.

‘Brian, it’s me, Tim. You there?’

No answer.

The lights were off and Tim couldn’t find a light switch. He left the door open so the landing light shone in weakly. He looked into the bedroom but there didn’t seem to be anyone in there. From what he could make out, the bed was still made. He felt his way along the hall into the kitchen which was lit in strobes by a blinking street light.

‘Shit – what the–?’

Brian was slumped over the kitchen table, vomit pooled around his face. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t making a sound. Tim rushed over and felt for a pulse, leant down and listened for a breath.

Shit, he thought again, and pulled out his phone. He dialled 999 and asked for an ambulance. He found the light switch and noticed Brian wince as the light came on, but his eyes didn’t open.

‘Come on, man, wake up.’ Tim patted him on the cheek. He moved Brian’s face out of the puke and cleaned it as best he