The Train by Sarah Bourne (fiction books to read txt) 📕

He wondered what happened to all the bits – did they pack them all up and give them to the family to be buried?

He also saw the police cars and vans parked untidily in the field next to the train. The policewoman was asking Brian if he was able to stand up.

Tim helped him, one hand under his armpit, the other round his shoulder. He could feel Brian shaking and struggled with the weight of him. He wasn’t a small man. Six foot four and liked his food. Tim wondered if he’d be able to hold him if he had to but once Brian was on his feet he leant against the door frame.

‘We’ll take you to the station to make a statement and drop you home after,’ she said, taking his arm.

‘What about the train – who’s going to drive it?’ he asked.

‘They’ll get a relief driver.’ She pulled on his arm to get him moving.

‘Off you go, man. Look after yourself, all right?’ said Tim and gave him a farewell pat on the back. He felt sick. Thinking about scraping the guts off the train had done it. And he felt angry. How fucking dare someone do that and make his mate blame himself. Brian would have to live with the vision and the memory of the woman’s last seconds on this planet for the rest of his days, wondering if he could’ve stopped if he’d seen her sooner. Course he couldn’t – it takes hundreds of yards to stop a train going at eighty or ninety miles an hour, and Brian would know that, but still… that’s a cruel thing to do to a man. And somehow it made it worse that it was a woman. Such a violent death.

Tim made his way slowly back towards the passengers. He didn’t want to talk to anyone but he knew they’d ask questions, and they had a right to know something.

An Indian man with glasses and a sharp parting in his hair was the first to stop him. His glasses made his eyes look bigger and Tim noticed he had the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen. They sort of curled away from his eyes, framing them darkly. Tess would kill for eyelashes like that, he thought, before he could stop himself.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked the Indian with the faintest hint of foreign, musical tones behind his polished English accent.

‘Unfortunately there’s been an accident,’ said Tim. ‘I’m going to make an announcement.’

‘Oh my Lord,’ said the Indian, and slumped into his seat, closing his eyes.

The woman next to him looked out the window, craning her neck to see if she could get a glimpse of the mess.

‘Best not to look,’ said Tim, disturbed by her eagerness to see, even though he’d done the same only minutes ago. It was human nature, wasn’t it, to be fascinated by blood and gore, to be interested in bad things happening to people? As long as they weren’t people you knew and liked. It was why horror movies so often did well at the box office and people slowed down to look at accidents.

Tim made his announcement about the accident and asked everyone to stay in their seats. He apologised on behalf of the railway for the inconvenience, then made his way towards first class murmuring responses to the passengers who asked questions, but kept moving so as not to get caught in long explanations. He wished he could take his uniform off and sit quietly in a corner seat. He was suddenly so tired, so heavy-limbed that he could barely make it to first class. Is this shock? he wondered. Or the effort of not telling the passengers to get stuffed. All they could talk about was how the delay would affect them. Not one of them had asked how the driver was, whether he would ever get over it.

‘Tickets, please,’ he said as he entered the carriage.

They were all there, in their usual places, copies of The Telegraph on their laps. The first man lifted his head as Tim reached him, sighed and pulled his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket as if it was the greatest inconvenience he could imagine. Tim glanced at the season ticket and nodded.

He moved on to the next person, the man he thought of as Mr Self-Important. ‘Thanks,’ he said when he flashed his ticket. He was turning away when he felt a hand on his arm. Here we go, thought Tim. Sir’s going to complain about the delay and tell me how important he is and how it’s vital to world peace or European security that he gets to London NOW.

‘Is the driver all right?’ he asked.

Tim wondered if he’d heard right. He turned, stared at the suited man with the polished shoes and said, ‘He’s gone to give his statement to the police.’

‘Yes, but is he all right? I mean it must have been one hell of a shock, poor man.’

Tim blinked. Once. Twice. He couldn’t form a sentence. The man cleared his throat and waited.

‘He’s – he’s very upset,’ said Tim.

The man nodded. ‘My grandfather drove a train. It happened to him once too. It really shook him. Will the company look after him? Is there a fund or something, to help him out until he can work again?’

Tim hadn’t thought of that, and didn’t know. ‘There’s sick leave.’

‘Yes. Of course. Well, I hope he recovers quickly.’

Tim felt guilty. This man may be an upper-class twat and wear a cashmere coat and scarf, but he was a decent sort after all. He thought about giving him back the expensive pen he’d left on the seat a few weeks back but decided not to. His gran had always said, ‘God helps those who help themselves’. And anyway, just because he’d been sympathetic today didn’t mean he was actually nice. And Tim liked that pen. It felt just right in his hand and although he didn’t write very much, preferring to make notes on