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

calm. She experienced a sense of peace, a kind of clarity, release. She wanted to feel it again, to shut out the pain and despair that accompanied her every breath. She went out into the rain, looking into the sky, arms wide, begging the lightning to strike her, the thunder to crush her. Instead, the storm passed as suddenly as it had come and left her drenched, by the bird table, tears mixing with the rain on her face.

Going back into the house, she went upstairs, dried herself off and dressed carefully, choosing the dress Lawrence had always liked. Liked taking off her, at least. She felt peaceful, even hummed a little as she applied eyeshadow and mascara. She didn’t eat breakfast – it was too early.

She wrote a note and left it on the kitchen table. It was an apology to those who were affected by her death, that was all.

She’d considered giving Lawrence a piece of her mind, letting him know what a total shit he’d been, but that would make it look like it was his fault, and although being dumped by him had been devastating, it was merely a last straw. A final reminder that she could see nothing but loneliness in her future.

So now she was making the choice to end her suffering. She suspected people would think of her as a coward, unable to face life as a middle-aged spinster. Let them think what they liked. Perhaps they were right, although she thought of her decision as an act of courage.

Judith took a final look around her house. It had never felt like a home however hard she’d tried to make it so.

She closed the door behind her and started towards the railway line that passed through the fields nearby. She thought about Harvey, the donkey at the sanctuary, his warm breath and soft lips as he snuffled for the bits of carrot she offered. He’d love all this luscious grass. Then she glanced at her watch and quickened her step.

She had a date with Lawrence’s commuter train.

2

Clare

The brakes screeched and the train shuddered to a halt. Stressed commuters glanced out the window and then broke the unwritten rule of maintaining privacy long enough to roll their eyes at each other. Soon, however, it was back to eyes on phone screens, noses in books or newspapers, fingers on keypads, working again already or readying their excuses for lateness, should they need them. Clare looked around the carriage. No one seemed curious as to what had happened. Staring out the window she saw only that they had stopped in a field with a large milking shed at the far end. Maybe a cow had wandered onto the line. It had happened before. Why weren’t farmers more careful with their stock?

Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths and let her mind wander.

She wriggled her toes in her shoes and thought about the red stilettos she’d seen in the shop. There was something about red shoes. She’d even gone in and tried them on but they pinched a bit. The saleswoman tried to convince her they’d give, as leather always did, but Clare hadn’t been taken in. Now she wished she’d been more daring.

With the train sitting on the tracks like it was worn out from carrying all these passengers to and fro, day in, day out, she smiled at the idea of trying to walk to and from the station in heels four inches high. It made her feet ache just to think of it. At forty-four she was too old to wear uncomfortable shoes. And old enough to know better than to spend so much on something as frivolous as red stilettos.

The ticket collector passed through the carriage avoiding eye contact but still several people asked him what had happened.

‘I don’t know,’ he said to the man sitting over the aisle from her. ‘I’m going to find out, then I’ll make an announcement if necessary.’

He was young and pretty rather than handsome. But there was something about him. She couldn’t help herself.

Running her tongue over her lips, she blinked slowly once or twice.

‘I’m just going to go along to the bathroom. The one at the end of the next carriage,’ she breathed, then picked up her handbag and, resisting the temptation to look back, she sauntered along the compartment.

In the cramped toilet she took out her hand mirror and checked her lipstick. There was a knock on the door and she took a deep breath before opening it.

The ticket collector was standing in the doorway, a smile on his face.

‘So,’ he said. ‘There’s you and there’s me and this train ain’t going nowhere fast. Some sort of object on the line. Could take ages to clear.’

‘Oh, how awful,’ said Clare. ‘Better come in then.’

‘I should be finding out what’s happened and making an announcement to the passengers about the delay.’

‘Plenty of time for that after,’ said Clare, pulling him into the loo and locking the door behind him.

There’s an art to having sex in a train toilet. Or a plane toilet. Or any tiny space. Clare pushed the guard against the wall and started unbuttoning his shirt.

‘I’m–’

‘Let’s not talk, eh?’ Clare unbuttoned her own shirt, revealing her red lace bra. She liked red.

He breathed hard, his eyes slid from hers down to her breasts and he smiled. Clare pulled her shoulders back and enjoyed his gaze. She had a good body and she was aroused by his admiration. The heat spread between her thighs. She took his hands and placed them on her breasts and closed her eyes for a moment to savour the sensation. This was always the moment she knew whether it’d be any good or not. Sometimes she stopped it right there because a man didn’t know how to address a woman’s breasts. There were the squeezers, the strokers, the suckers and the lookers. He took her breasts and eased them out of her bra and held them firmly,