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Back Train Man Save as PDF
Chapters (48)
  1. COVER
  2. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  3. DEDICATION
  4. GOING NORTH
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. COMING SOUTH
  9. 4
  10. NORTH AGAIN
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. IN FROM THE WEST
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. STUCK
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. NORTH AGAIN
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. CONNECTION
  27. 17
  28. EAST
  29. 18
  30. 19
  31. OS GRID REF: SD837321 TO SD299810
  32. 20
  33. 21
  34. 22
  35. 23
  36. 24
  37. 25
  38. 26
  39. 27
  40. 28
  41. 29
  42. 30
  43. 31
  44. NORTH AND SOUTH
  45. 32
  46. FAR EAST
  47. 33
  48. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

He wiped his eyes, and checked the bag between his feet. The thought of malt whisky in the morning made him feel sick. Another tangerine was the answer, and he’d try to wash it down with a few good gulps. There was a packet of mints somewhere, because the last thing he wanted was to be taken for a sad, empty-headed alcoholic who couldn’t even walk straight. Michael was determined to get onto the track and stay upright. Then the rails would guide him, and it was only 10.14. He still had time, as long as there were no cancellations, and as long as he held his nerve.

There was no need to feel sad, for everything would be resolved at Crewe.

He turned, and looked at the vending machine.

Behind him, another train came in, serving the opposite platform: its ghost moved across the glass through the treasure trove of sweets which dangled precariously, asking to be bought. Someone must have recently refilled it, just as someone had designed, built and installed it – and what was the result? The result was that he, Michael MacMillan, need never go hungry or thirsty again. The world was looking after him, offering him Twixes and Twirls, and even Maltesers: that most shareable of treats. There they hung, bright and tantalising, and as he put his nose closer his reflection smiled happily back at him. Confectionery could do that: it could always make you happy.

COMING SOUTH

4

The girl’s name was Ayesha.

She was travelling with a guitar, and Michael would not meet her because he was travelling north. It was a conspicuous piece of luggage: a hard, grey case, standing on the seat right next to her. In fact, she was wondering if she ought to wedge it onto the overhead luggage shelf, because the train was getting busier, and the platform was crowded. The last time she’d been on a train, a young man had freed up some space by doing just that, finding a gap for his rucksack above the man sitting in front of him. Ayesha had watched him do it, thinking it was really too big and heavy to be safely stowed – but the owner seemed to know his business. It took him a while, standing with his arms upraised, the sweat patches clear and dark as he turned the thing around and forced it in. Satisfied, he took his seat and it wasn’t until a good ten minutes had elapsed that the bag worked itself free and fell onto the head of the passenger under it.

Ayesha had glanced up in time to see it connect.