Train in the Night

Ian had always loved the train in the night. For as long as I’d known him, he’d had a thing about it. And I suppose there was nothing unusual in a twelve year old being interested in trains. Ian was my best mate from school and was, in many ways, a fairly typical lad for his age. But there was nothing typical about Ian’s interest in that train. He was obsessed – always thinking about it, going on about it. He even used to dream about it. I laughed when he said that. It was an old freight carrier – a huge, rumbling rusty thing that used to thunder through our village in the small hours. And whenever it came through, Ian told me how he’d lay in bed in a cold sweat, with the metallic pounding in the distance. And how he’d dream. Of bone quaking wheels. Of showers of sparks. Of four thousand tons of iron screaming through the darkness. Yes, Ian had always loved that train.

I should have known that sooner or later, he’d want to turn fantasy into reality. But still, it was all rather unexpected when he suddenly coaxed me into going with him. And so it was that I found myself late one evening, sitting nervously on the edge of my bed. Waiting...

...I gazed into the carpet. A clock ticked. A faint electric hum drifted through the house. A dog barked a few doors down. A motorbike faded in the distance. The world was asleep.

I looked up and checked the time. I opened my bedroom door, tiptoed downstairs and stepped out into the night.

“Ian?” I whispered. There was a long silence.

“What kept you?” came the response.

“Had to wait for Mum and Dad to go to sleep,” I said. “So what time is this thing due?”

“Ten past two,” said Ian. “Come on - let’s go.”

We headed off down the street. My eyes flitted uneasily among the murky images of a strange world of orange. As I watched our shadows first catch us up, then race ahead of us as we passed under each streetlight, my doubts began to emerge.

“So how do you know it’s tonight?” I said. “I mean it doesn’t come through regularly, does it?”

“Wanky told me,” said Ian.

“Wanky?” I cried.

“Shhhh!” said Ian.

Neil Wilkinson - alias Wankinson, after his famous hand in the pocket episode with the voluptuous female English teacher. He’d always been a bit unhinged but after that little incident, he was whisked straight off to special needs. Two days later, the local vicar came into our class, asking us all to pray for a very sick little boy. I remember the massive grin on Ian’s face. And though I felt sorry for Wanky, with his pebble glasses and big tabby ears, I didn’t believe a word he said.

“What the hell does he know about it?” I said.

“He lives down by the railway line,” said Ian. “Says his mum’s been complaining about the noise for years. Says she wrote to the train company and got a list of dates when it comes, so she can bung her ears with wax.”

“He’s making that up,” I scoffed. “You know what he’s like – he reckoned his dad was in the SAS.”

“Don’t think he is making it up,” said Ian.

A cat scuttled out from under a car and into a nearby garden.

“Come on, it’ll be good fun,” he continued. I shrugged in resignation. But the thought of going to all this trouble on Wanky’s authority was grating on me.

We were a hundred yards from the end of the street when Ian suddenly stopped.

“We can’t go that way. It goes past the police station,” he said.

“But it’ll take ages to go right round the block,” I said.

“Not if we go through the gardens,” said Ian, sizing up a wall.

“Oh no, we can’t do that,” I said.

Ian leapt over the wall. “Course we can,” he said. “Just stay low, keep to the back and we’ll be fine.” I looked at him.

“It’ll be ok,” he insisted.

I gave a disgruntled mutter, shook my head and slipped over the wall. We tiptoed across a lawn.

“Hey - guess what I did the other day,” said Ian.

“What?” I said.

We pushed through a hedge.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” he sniggered.

“Get lost. Come on – what did you do?” I said.

We vaulted another fence, I landed in a vegetable patch and crushed a cabbage.

“Well...,” began Ian.

“Oh, get on with it,” I said.

We came to a high wall near the end of the row, scrambled up and sat opposite each other.

“Come on – tell me,” I said impatiently.

Ian’s eyes widened with excitement.

“I saw the changing room!” he said.

“What?” I said. “You actually did it?”

Ian had been planning it for weeks. Said all you had to do was push a wheelie bin under the long opaque window at the top of the girls’ changing room, climb onto it and look in. Girls’ swimming happened at the same time as games for Ian and me. But when Ian suddenly stopped turning up for football, no-one really seemed that bothered. And it left him free to engage in other pursuits.

“What did you see?” I said.

“Everything!” said Ian, grinning profusely.

“Really? Who?” I said. Suddenly a terrible thought went through my mind. “It wasn’t...”

“Yes,” he said solemnly.

I felt faint. “Oh my God. Katrina Bellway - you’ve seen Katrina Bellway undressing.”

Ian nodded.

Katrina Bellway was the love of my life. I’d had a furious crush on her since junior school choir. I dreamt about her – I wrote stories and poems about her. But since that glorious day when she’d laughed at my cowpat joke, I’d found it increasingly difficult to actually get to talk to her. Still, my love for her was as fierce as ever and the thought of anyone else seeing her undress made me insanely jealous. But I had to know the gory details.

“So - what was she like?” I said.

Ian selected his words carefully. “She was lovely, mate. You’ve chosen a great girl, there.”

My heart started to race. “Panties?”

“Crimson red with a white stripe round the top,” said Ian.

I groaned breathlessly.

“Didn’t see them until she pulled them back up, mind,” he continued.

“What??” I cried.

“Shhhh!” said Ian. He laughed and grabbed me as I nearly lost my balance. Suddenly a door opened, we fell silent and tumbled off the wall into the final garden. We tiptoed across the lawn.

“You saw Katrina Bellway naked?” I said.

“Yeah,” said Ian.

I became serious. “You didn’t do yourself about her, did you?” I said.

Ian looked at me. “No way, man. She’s your girl.” He held out his palm and we exchanged high fives in the darkness.

As I looked at him, his face suddenly froze over with fear.

“What?” I said.

Ian raised his hand, silencing me.

We stared at each other for a moment, our breaths whispering in the night air. Ian held his breath first. Then I held mine. As we listened in the darkness, our eyes widened with terror. We could still hear breathing.

Suddenly there were steps from the other end of the garden.

“Run!” whispered Ian. He turned and sprinted for the wall.

The steps broke out into a canter. Ian leapt up onto the wall and turned to me. I jumped but failed to get a grip.

“Come on!” whispered Ian.

I leapt again and just caught the top. Ian grabbed my arm and I scrambled until I was bent double over the wall. Just as the steps came under us, Ian grabbed the butt of my trousers and threw himself down the other side. I heard the snapping of jaws and felt a jet of hot breath on my ankle. There was a ripping sound as my legs whipped up over the wall and we landed in a bed of nettles on the other side.

“Ouch!” I said. There was a rumble and then an explosion.

“Rrrrrrr - rughh!” The bark made me jump. I heard pants and frustrated stamps.

Ian put his finger to his lips. A window opened and a voice sounded.

“What is it, Robby? What you got, boy?” it said.

There was another gentler bark. Deliberation hung in the air. Should Robby attack? Should the householder investigate? Should we run for it?

“Quiet Robby,” said the voice. The window closed.

I sighed with relief and looked down at my trousers. There was a large tear in one of the legs.

“Oh no,” I said. “These were less than a week old. What am I going to tell my mum?”

“Vicious sod isn’t it?” said Ian. “Got one of my jumpers once.”

I turned angrily to him. “You mean you knew there was a dog?” I said. “Why the hell didn’t you say?”

“You wouldn’t have come, would you?” he replied.

“Bloody hell, Ian,” I said.

He ignored me, poked his head above the nettles and looked from side to side. After a moment he gave the all clear, I let out a sigh and followed him. Ian suggested a route down the back streets to avoid the police patrols though the village. As we made our way along, our conversation resumed.

“So what do you reckon’s really up with Wanky, then?” I said.

A faint humming emerged in the distance.

“What do you mean?” said Ian.

“Well, you don’t get a vicar praying for your knob, do you?” I said.

The hum got louder.

“Why not?” said Ian. “There are some very sick dicks about.” We laughed.

“Rachael Gilmour reckons he’s got AIDS,” I said.

The hum turned to a rattling.

“AIDS? How the hell’s Wanky going to get AIDS?” scoffed Ian.

We looked at each other. “Rachael Gilmour!” we said in unison. We laughed again.

Suddenly the rattling exploded into a diesel engine and a car turned the corner, heading towards us. As we panicked and dropped down behind a van, I recognised the tell tale markings.

“Police!” I whispered.

The car crawled up the street. My nerves crumbled and I began to whine. Suddenly, Ian glanced back at an open driveway through a high hedge. He tapped me on the arm, pointed to it and darted out of sight. For a moment I was frozen to the spot. There was a screech of brakes. I panicked, slipped through the drive and came alongside Ian. We knelt on the grass, watching the headlights through the hedge.

The car didn’t move for several moments. Ian looked round again and beckoning me to follow, headed toward a dark side access between the house and next door’s hedge. As we scuttled over the grass, a car door opened and heavy footsteps thumped across the road. We tiptoed down the access, the tiny grains scrunching under our feet as we came onto concrete. Suddenly Ian stopped.

“Damn – gate’s locked,” he whispered. I glanced back. There was a click and a beam of light panned the front garden before fixing on the passage. The footsteps sounded and the circular light began to shrink as it approached. My heart raced.

Ian pointed to the ground and started to crawl through a gap in the hedge. I crouched and made ready to follow, just glimpsing a boot as it appeared at the top of the passage before sliding silently through the gap behind him. We slipped across the lawn to the back of next door’s garden. As I landed face down alongside the hedge, my knee found something soft and slippery and a pungent smell filled the air. It was a cat turd. The beam pierced the passageway. The footsteps paused, then advanced to the gate. The light panned across to us, scouring the boundary as the hedge’s shadow barely kept the beam off us. I waited. The light hovered. I waited...

Suddenly, the light turned back up the passageway. The footsteps retreated, a car door opened and closed and the car headed off down the street. I lay still for a moment, re-gathering my shattered nerves as I listened to the sound of the engine vanish into the distance. Eventually, I sat up and inspected my trousers. A stinking pulp had soaked through them – it felt cold and clammy. I scrubbed myself on the grass.

“God damn it, Ian,” I whispered. “I thought you said there’d be no police down this way. And look at my trousers, they stink. God damn it.”

Ian hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to say.

“Oh come on,” I snapped. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Ian was soon chirpy again. “It’s five to two but we’ve still got time if we hurry. We’ll take the back alley,” he said.

We straddled the back wall and came into the narrow passage along the bottoms of the gardens. We headed off toward the orange light at the end, stopped and glanced both ways along the street.

“Once we reach the footpath by the church, it’s dark from then on so we should be safe,” muttered Ian.

We took off into the orange light, scuttling like rats across the street. Eventually, we stumbled into the gloomy lane by the graveyard and started down it into the darkness. Ian looked across.

“Wanky reckons it’s haunted, you know,” he said.

“Yeah, well - you know what I think to that,” I said.

“He says there’s a grave buried in the shadow of an old tree that never gets sunlight,” said Ian.

We started to walk faster.

“You what?” I said.

“Says a cursed man is buried there,” said Ian. “A soldier, who dreamt he was in a sword fight then woke up to find he’d cut off his wife’s head. He went mad, threw himself off the steeple and is buried where he landed. Doomed to wander the graveyard forever, wailing in grief.”

We walked faster still.

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Wanky’s seen it, complete with chains and flapping bed sheets.”

“No,” said Ian. “But he’s heard a strange hollow whining – not quite human, not quite animal.”

We broke out into a trot.

“You don’t believe that do you?” I said.

“Don’t know,” said Ian.

I glanced furtively across the graveyard. “Now I know what’s wrong with Wanky,” I said. “He’s mental, he’s bloody mental. That’s what it is...”

Suddenly a twig snapped. A beating sound and a disembodied cry came from the graveyard. I yelped and took off down the path, leaving Ian behind. The beating sound gained on me, there was another cry and I sprinted as hard as I could. Suddenly I lost my footing and crashed to the ground, grazing my hands and knee. As I rolled around cursing under my breath, a silhouette glided over my head, took a left and vanished out across the field by the path. But as I replayed the sounds in my mind, I realised they were familiar and my anxiety began to dissolve.

“Bloody owls,” I muttered. I sucked the blood and grit from my palms and spat them out. Another hole had appeared in my trousers and through it, I could make out the dark tear lines of a gash on my knee. I looked around but there was no sign of Ian.

I got up and continued along the path, mumbling to myself. The sweet grimy odour of tarmac on pine began to scent the air as I approached the railway line. I reached the crossing and opened the gate.

“Ian?” I whispered.

No response. A breeze came over and rustled the hedgerows along the line. I stood in the middle of the track, gazing into darkness. Only the pinpoint light of the distant signal pierced the gloom. It was green when a train came but tonight it burned crimson red, its rays catching the top of the smooth glassy rails.

“Ian?” I whispered again.

Still no response. I looked around, made out the black silhouette of the iron footbridge at the station and started to head towards it.

“Ian? Are you there?”

The night was still and empty. I became uneasy.

“Ian?” I whimpered.

Suddenly a hand shot out from the dark and grabbed my forearm. I started, then cursed angrily.

“Don’t do that!” I snapped.

“Sorry,” said Ian.

“How the hell did you get ahead of me, anyway?” I said.

“Took the short cut across the field. Thought you’d do the same,” said Ian.

I didn’t respond.

“Anyway, we’re nearly there, now,” he continued. “It’s gone five past two – it’ll be here soon.”

He slid off into the darkness and I trailed behind him, kicking stones and scowling at the ground. We reached the platform and I followed him past the deserted waiting room to the bridge. He bounded up the steps and peered through the lattice railings toward the signal. I lumbered up alongside him.

“Any minute now,” he said.

We waited. Ian continued to peer down the line, muttering little enthusiasms but after several minutes of moody silence from me, he eventually spoke.

“What’s up mate?” he said.

“What’s up?” I scoffed. “My trousers are shredded and covered in cat crap, I’ve got cuts on both hands...” I flashed my palms at him. “...And we’ve got school tomorrow, in case you’ve forgotten.” I glanced down at my trousers. “I’m supposed to be wearing these.”

“I can get my mum to fix them if you like,” said Ian.

“Not before tomorrow you can’t,” I said. “God damn it, my mum’s going to kill me.”

I slumped over the railings in a huff. Ian pondered for a moment.

“I just thought it would be good fun,” he said.

“But why did we have to come now?” I interjected. “I told you we should have waited for the summer holidays.”

Ian didn’t respond and I let out an irritated sigh. We fell into silence, heads on our arms and staring down the line at the signal. A cold wind blew and I shivered – suddenly I felt tired. It was Ian who spoke first.

“It was Susan Frampton,” he said casually.

“Eh?” I said.

“It was Susan Frampton I saw in the changing room,” said Ian.

“Susan Frampton?” I said.

“Horrible great white bum flopping everywhere like jelly...”

“You saw Susan Frampton naked?” I said with disgust.

“...I know why she stinks of wee now - big red rash on her arse...”

“Urrrrgh!” I said.

“...and she farted when she bent down to pull up her pants...”

“Aghhh - shut up!” I said. But I couldn’t help smiling.

“...it was revolting – I nearly puked,” said Ian. We broke out into furious laughter.

“So you didn’t see Katrina, then?” I said.

“No. Well – only when she called me a perv and slammed the window in my face,” said Ian.

I laughed. “So why did you say you did, then? “ I said.

“I knew you’d take the mickey if I told you the truth,” said Ian.

“Too right!” I said.

Our laughs faded to smiles. We leant on the bridge, peering down the line. Ian let out a sigh.

“Looks like Wanky got it wrong after all,” he said.

“Told you he was crazy,” I said.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” said Ian.

“Do you reckon we could sneak into school late tomorrow?” I said.

Ian paused. “I won’t be at school tomorrow,” he said.

“Why not?” I said.

“God, I wish that bloody vicar hadn’t come – I nearly died,” muttered Ian.

“Why won’t you be at school?” I said.

“Oh, I’ve got to go to hospital for some stupid tests,” said Ian.

“What’s up with you?” I said.

“They’re not sure,” said Ian. He thought for a moment. “Leu... leukaemia, or something.”

“Leukaemia? Is that bad?” I said.

Ian shrugged casually. “Dunno,” he said.

“How long are you going to be off school?” I said.

“Don’t know,” he said. He stared down the line.

Suddenly there was a click and we looked up. The signal was green. As we turned back to each other, Ian’s face lit up into a beaming smile.

“Come on,” he said. “The best place is on the platform.”

He took off down the stairs and knelt near the platform edge, facing the train like a sprinter in the blocks. As I squatted down behind him, the sub-acoustic thump of giant diesel pistons began to rumble in the distance, like an incoming storm. Moments later, a brilliant white light pierced the gloom, jerking to and fro as it tore in towards us. The sharp report of metal on metal began to split the air.

“It’s coming!” said Ian. “It’s coming!”

...And so Ian finally got to see his train. How he loved it, shrieking as the tail wind knocked us off our feet. Dancing with delight as the thunderous cracks battered us deaf and numb. Looking back on it, though, I have to admit it was tremendously exciting. And I’m sure it made Ian happy – I’m sure it did.

I still hear the train come through the village sometimes. And when it does, I find myself dreaming. I lay there in a cold sweat with tears in my eyes and a metallic pounding in the distance. But I wish I could dream of bone quaking wheels and showers of sparks. I wish I could dream of four thousand tons of iron screaming through the darkness. I wish I could dream it all, just like Ian used to.

Because all I can dream of is Ian.

END