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

There were two glasses of wine poured, condensation forming droplets on the glass, and a platter of sweaty cheese and biscuits on the table. Looking at it he thought of Russell getting home before him, wondering where he was, making the decision to greet Ray the same way Ray usually greeted him. He felt the love that went into getting it all ready. The same love he felt when he prepared it each day. He sank into a chair, rested his head in his hands, and started sobbing. Russell put his hand on his back, the reassuring weight guiding him away from the grey swamp of his despair back towards dry ground. The sobbing stopped, he hiccupped a couple of times, the breath catching in his throat.

‘I thought I was dying,’ Ray said, looking up into the steady eyes of his lover.

‘Don’t, please,’ said Russell.

‘Don’t talk about it, or don’t die?’

‘Don’t die. I’ve been so scared that I’m going to lose you.’ A tear gathered on Russell’s lower eyelid, hovered, fell.

Ray felt something release in his belly. Russell loved him. Whatever their future held, they would face it together.

‘Fuck cancer!’ he said.

‘FUCK CANCER!’ Russell yelled.

5

Alice

Alice hated trains. There was something about them that made her angry and sad at the same time. Too many people trying to ignore each other, perhaps. Or the tragic carpet design; the mottled blue as if trying to make travellers think of water, like they were going on a cruise rather than chugging along on dry land, and the red streaks through it as if someone had painted the bottom of their shoes and dragged them through the carpet. It looked a bit like someone had puked on them. And the thought of all the other bums that had sat on the too-bright seats and the dirt encrusted in the fabric. She rose slightly and pulled her skirt down her thighs. It was too short to offer much protection from the grime, so she pulled her army surplus coat on in spite of the fact that she always got too hot in it.

She sat back in her seat and adjusted her headphones. Adele sang of love and betrayal, her sultry voice adding to Alice’s sense of the futility of life. If someone as talented and sensuous as Adele couldn’t make a relationship work, what hope was there for her, a twenty-three-year-old nobody whose life was spent cleaning old people’s backsides when they’d shat themselves.

She put on some rap and nodded her head to the beat.

The train had been sitting in the middle of a field for ages now. The blue-and-red lights of police cars and ambulances flashed in her peripheral vision. She put a hand up to screen them out and scrolled through her messages and decided to call Maddie. She told her about the suicide, and Maddie sounded suitably impressed, wanting details Alice couldn’t provide. As she ended the call, she shifted away from the man next to her who had obviously been listening in. She texted Lou and Cherie, but again, the old pervert was making her uncomfortable, peering over her shoulder. She angled her phone away from him. Sad old creep who probably tried to pick up young girls to make himself feel attractive and alive. Stupid sod. She edged farther away, gave him a death stare and got back to her texting.

Looking around, she saw an Indian guy over the aisle who looked like he was praying, eyes closed and lips moving. The trill of her phone distracted her and she smiled as she read Lauren’s text, and started replying. When she looked up, the Indian dude was staring at her. He looked away quickly, but not before she noticed that he had beautiful amber eyes behind his glasses. Alice was so surprised she forgot to look away.

‘Wonder how long we’ll be here,’ she said to cover her embarrassment.

He looked shocked that she was speaking to him, and shrugged. ‘It is difficult to say with these things.’

‘Has it happened to you before then?’

‘Oh, no, I just meant I don’t know how long it takes for the police and–’

‘Were you praying before?’ asked Alice, raising her eyebrows.

‘Yes, I was praying for the soul of the poor man who saw no alternative but to kill himself.’

‘It might have been an accident. He might’ve fallen.’

‘From where?’ asked the man, looking out the window. ‘There is no bridge near here and he cannot have fallen from the sky, I think.’

‘Stranger things have happened.’ Unable to think of anything else to add, she turned back to her phone. What a stupid thing to say. He’d think she was really dumb. Not that it mattered – she couldn’t fancy anyone who was so religious. Even a man with such lovely eyes.

Yawning, she leant her head against the window and closed her eyes. It had seemed doable when she first agreed to the extra shift; finish night duty and get on a train to London. She needed the money. A few caffeine tablets and she’d be fine. But she hadn’t banked on the night she’d just had, with two of the old biddies deciding to do shit-art in the middle of the night, and her having to clean it off the walls. Still, she couldn’t blame them. She would probably do the same if she was confined to a home and spent all her waking hours sitting in a chair staring at daytime TV. She liked to think it was their little rebellion. She preferred them to rebel on other people’s shifts, but they didn’t care who had to clean up. They didn’t even know what they were doing. Still, at least Mrs Beauchamp hadn’t hidden her shit in her sock and put it back in her drawer like last week. Alice had laughed at that. Mrs Beauchamp’s daughter, Deidra Kelly, was such a refined lady and her mother hid shit in socks. Which just showed that in the end the