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

could, talking all the while, telling him what he was doing.

‘I’m here to help. Let’s get you looking beautiful again.’ He almost gagged at the smell of vomit and alcohol fumes.

Where was the bloody ambulance? It had been at least fifteen minutes since he’d called. At last he saw the blue-and-red flashing lights reflecting on the ceiling. He opened the window and called out, relief replacing his anxiety. Now someone else would take responsibility. Someone who knew what they were doing.

‘What’s the story here?’ asked one of the paramedics as he came in.

‘I don’t really know. He’s a train driver and someone jumped this morning. He called me earlier and said a friend was here and they were having a drink. He called again about forty minutes ago. I came round and found him like this.’

‘Just alcohol? Does he take any drugs you know of?’

‘Nah. No drugs. He’s dead against them.’

Tim looked around and saw an empty bottle of vodka and a nearly empty one of bourbon. There were several beer and cider bottles by the sink. ‘I’d guess it’s that,’ he said, pointing.

‘Best get him to hospital for fluids then,’ said the paramedic to his colleague. ‘You coming?’ he turned to ask Tim as they manhandled Brian onto a stretcher.

‘Well – okay. Yeah, sure.’ How could he say no? He wondered what Alice was doing. He was sure he’d never see her again, not leaving the way he had. Resentment flickered and died. What was the use? He had to help his friend, no two ways about it.

In the ambulance, he gave Brian’s details as best he could. He had to guess his birthdate and didn’t know his middle name, had no idea who his next of kin was, nor whether he had any existing illnesses. He wondered if he should tell them he was a recovering alcoholic, but in the circumstances, it didn’t really seem to matter; there wasn’t a lot of recovering going on right now.

At Ealing Hospital the paramedics wheeled Brian into a corridor and left to find a staff member to hand over to. His eyes opened momentarily, unfocused. Saliva stretched down his chin. Tim looked away. Brian wouldn’t want to be seen like that.

He waited, leaning against the stretcher in the absence of anywhere to sit. The light immediately above had blown, leaving him in a pool of shadow. In the distance, he could hear voices, the beeps of machinery, a squeaky trolley being pushed along the lino floor.

He jumped when Brian gurgled as if he was going to puke again, but he just mumbled something and settled back into semi-consciousness.

Tim thought again of Alice. Perhaps she was waiting for him to call. He pulled his phone out and found her number in his contacts. There she was. He tapped the screen and heard her phone ring. His heart started beating faster.

A doctor in a flapping white coat parted the plastic doors at the end of the corridor and approached. Tim ended the call before she answered – would she have answered? – and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

‘Alcohol poisoning? Were you there? How much did he have to drink? Has he vomited at all?’

Tim was about to answer but the doctor glanced at the paperwork in his hand and said, ‘Oh, yes. I see. Terrible shock he’s had, although drinking himself into a coma isn’t the best way to deal with it.’

Tim agreed and was about to say so when a nurse arrived and strapped a hospital band onto Brian’s wrist and started pushing the stretcher back the way they’d come.

‘Should I come too?’ he asked.

They didn’t reply, so he followed. At the plastic doors, the nurse turned to him and pointed to a seating area on the right.

‘You can wait there.’

‘How long will it be?’

Again, no response and then they were gone, the sound of their voices retreating down the hall. One said something and the other laughed. Tim was annoyed. This was no laughing matter.

In a corner of the waiting area was a TV showing a shopping channel, the sound turned off. A sign next to it said For the comfort of all, DO NOT TOUCH the television. Tim wondered what not touching the TV had to do with anyone’s comfort, and then lost interest and looked about. An old man was coughing into his hand, the younger man with him eating a family-size packet of crisps. An Indian couple were cradling their children on their laps. Tim couldn’t tell which one of them was ill or injured. A mother and son sat talking quietly, his thickly-bound ankle resting on another chair. That was it; early Monday evening in A and E. Tim thought it would probably be busy later with the drunks and the sick who hadn’t made it to their doctor during the day. He looked at his watch. Alice was probably halfway home and he’d never see her again. He knew it had been too good to be true. Chicks like her didn’t go for guys like him. He swallowed his disappointment and sat, hands in his armpits, staring at the floor.

He was nodding off when his phone rang.

‘How’s your friend?’

‘Alice?’

‘Yeah, it’s me. I’m still in London. Didn’t know how long you’d be.’

‘Alice – you’re – Alice!’

‘Course I am. Who else would I be? Are you okay? What’s happening?’

Tim told her about finding Brian and waiting at the hospital.

‘Want company?’

Tim smiled. ‘You’d come here?’

‘Sure. Why not. Got nothing else to do except go home, and I don’t really want to yet.’

Tim’s smile faded. She was bored, and hanging out with him was marginally better than going home.

‘What I meant was, I’d rather come and hang around with you than go home, if you want me to.’

‘Yeah, I’d like that.’ Tim’s smile reappeared. ‘I’d like it a lot.’

‘See you soon then. Don’t go anywhere.’

Tim paced. He couldn’t keep still. Alice was coming to see him. He hoped they kept Brian long enough so he was