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

shown the tiniest bit of empathy? If he’d said, ‘Sorry to hear that, son, but I’ve been living with it for several years now and I’m still going strong,’ Ray would have been shocked, of course, but also soothed.

He imagined the conversation that could have happened:

‘That’s encouraging,’ he’d have said. ‘Do you feel well, despite the cancer?’

‘Fit as a fiddle. Doesn’t stop me doing a thing.’

‘That’s great. Well, I’ll certainly worry less now.’

‘That’s the way, boy, that’s the way,’ Stan would have said, giving him a smile or a squeeze on the arm. His fantasy father.

Now, though, the wedge between them had been driven deeper than ever. Ray shook his head and wiped his eyes. His father was a damaged man who locked himself away from his family physically and emotionally, so when would he stop wanting his love and acceptance?

Ray looked at his watch and cursed under his breath. What on earth had possessed him to go and see his parents? Now he’d be late home and his phone battery had died. He looked around for a phone box but the only one around had been vandalised, graffiti covering the windows and the receiver dangling by its metal cord. He wouldn’t be able to let Russell know and he’d have all sorts of questions to answer when he got home. Russell would be curious to know where he’d been, what he’d been doing, who with. Not in a jealous way – far from it. In fact, Ray had wondered early on if he even cared enough to want to know what he did when they weren’t together. But now there was an expectation that they told each other their plans, shared their day’s highs and lows. What would Ray say to him about this day? It had started badly and got worse? He was terrified still, even though the doctor had said there was nothing to do and little to worry about? That his father was in fine fettle living with his cancer?

He looked at the departures board at the station and checked his ticket was still in his pocket. Twenty minutes to wait. Time for a glass of wine or a cup of tea.

He opted for the tea, not wanting to go home smelling of alcohol.

He realised with a jolt he didn’t want to go home at all. He was tired of Russell’s inability to support him emotionally and exhausted by his own anxiety and the effort it took to keep it from the man he loved. He felt the heat of righteous indignation rise in his chest. Russell’s fear of illness suddenly seemed like nothing more than selfishness. Surely if he truly loved Ray he should put that aside in order at least to talk about what was happening.

As Ray walked towards the train there was determination in his stride, a stiffness to his spine and a resolve in his heart. He was going to demand what he needed and Russell was not going to be allowed to slide off the hook.

By halfway to Milton Keynes, Ray was slumped in his seat, his resolve in tatters. He understood Russell’s fear, he empathised with his avoidance. He would like to do the same; there was something seductive about ignoring bad news, hoping it would go away or assuming someone else would deal with it. The trouble was he couldn’t do it. He’d never been able to walk away from a problem or distract himself so totally that he forgot it. Maybe Russell’s ability to do so was one of the things that had attracted Ray in the first place; his father lay dying and Russell could go out and enjoy himself as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and go back to his father’s bedside refreshed, to hold the old man’s hand while he slept or listen to him as he wheezed out a memory too precious to die with him. Russell had announced after the funeral that he didn’t have it in him to go through it with anyone else, that the energy it had taken to overcome his fear and revulsion of the whole dying process with its indignities and leaking bodily fluids, had depleted him forever. But surely, thought Ray as he sat on the train, surely he could muster a little more from his reserves for the man he loved?

Was that it – did Russell not love him enough? It was what Ray was afraid of. Russell, ten years his junior, looked like a model with his blond hair that flopped over his baby-blue eyes unless he put product in it and swept it back from his temples. Ray couldn’t be said to be a great catch, being stocky and prone to weight gain. He took pains to stay in shape, but his hairline was receding, leaving him with a forehead growing ever taller. He sighed and leant his head against the window.

‘I’d offer you a hanky except I gave mine to a woman on the train this morning. Terrible thing it was – a suicide on the line and the lady had a panic attack.’

Ray looked at the man opposite him. ‘Sorry?’ he said.

The man pointed to Ray’s face. ‘Bad day?’

It was only then Ray realised he was crying again. He reddened and tugged a tissue out of his pocket. ‘Bad day – yes,’ he said quietly, embarrassed. He blew his nose. ‘I was on the same train – awful thing to happen. Poor bloke.’

‘I heard it was a woman. A youngish woman. Younger than me, anyway.’

Somehow that made it even worse and Ray shook his head sadly. ‘It makes one’s own problems seem insignificant, doesn’t it – someone taking their own life?’

‘Puts things into perspective, that’s for sure,’ said the other man. ‘I’m Trevor, by the way,’ he said, extending his hand.

Ray shook it. ‘Ray,’ he said.

‘Well, Ray, all I can tell you is the events that happened earlier have made me rethink my life and what I