Scary Stories - Twist in the Tale Series

Going Back

Phew! Only justmade it. Another couple of minutes and I'd have been leftstanding at the platform. Ten o'clock - bang on time. Veryunusual for British Rail.
Now, where's my seat?

C8, C10... Ah, here it is: C12.

I seem to have a travelling companion. He doesn't look over-cheerful,though - downright sour-faced, in fact. Very forbidding. Still, Imay as well make an effort: "Morning..."

Miserable sod! He just looked straight through me. You try to becivil and what do you get? A blank, stony stare. I was onlybidding him good morning, not asking him to commit himself to alifelong, meaningful friendship.

Look at him. He's still staring at me. I've seen more expressiveeyes on a fishmonger's slab. I hope he's not going to keep it upfor the entire journey - he's giving me the willies.

Smiling at him doesn't work either. Not a flicker ofacknowledgement. He keeps right on staring straight ahead as if Iwasn't here - as if I were invisible. I'll just have to try toignore him.

I'll just read my paper: hide myself behind a wall of newsprintand pretend he's not there.

Full of bad news as usual. They're still talking about lastweek's derailment. All those people dead: horribly crushed andmangled, and not one single survivor left to tell the tale. Howterrible.

He's still staring at me. I can feel his eyes boring through thepaper. I wonder if I can sit somewhere else? Probably not. Thisseat was reserved for me; I suppose it would cock up somecomplicated system if I moved to another.

Still, I don't fancy sitting opposite fisheyes for the durationof the journey. There are plenty of empty seats... I wonder? No,better not, they're probably reserved for people getting on atother stations. I suppose I'll have to put up with him. It's apity you can't choose your travelling companion when you reserveyour seat.

They've printed a list of the dead: 247 names, all inalphabetical order. Names, just names. Squiggles of ink on cheappaper - that's all they are now. They used to be people, humanbeings. They had lives and hopes and dreams; they meant somethingto other people. Now look at them: a column in a newspaper, acatalogue of lost lives for vultures to drool over.

Christ! This bloke is really getting to me. I don't think he'smoved a fraction since I sat down opposite him; not even blinkedso much as an eyelid. I'll be as rude as him; stare back at himover the paper, that'll make him look away.

I feel like a schoolboy having a staring-out contest with theclass bully. This is childish: just like when I was a kid I don'twant to be the first one to look away - I'll have lost if I do.

He's a weird-looking fellow, that's for sure. So pale. Ashen,that's a good word for him; white as a ghost. And his eyes, sowide and staring and fixed. He looks like he's in shock. There'scertainly something wrong with him, anyway. He's definitely notnormal - normal people don't sit across from you on a train andstare at you like you're a two-legged television set.

Perhaps I shouldn't be staring at him like this? I mean, he mightbe deranged or something - not right in the head. If that's thecase, he might suddenly decide to jump on me.

Christ! He might be a homicidal maniac!

Oh shut up, Tony. He's probably completely harmless. You're justmaking excuses. You can't stare him out - you were never any goodat it at school, either, so you're inventing honourable reasonsfor backing down.

Do you remember Bernie Bridges? Now he could really stare peopleout. He had it down to a fine art. He must have practised in amirror; no one could stare like he did without dedicated training.Thirty seconds was about all I could ever manage against him.

Mind you, this chap would have beaten Bernie hands down. He couldstare-out for Britain - he's probably got medals for it. Wow, I'msitting on a train with the World Champion Starer. I should askhim for his autograph: "Excuse me. I wonder if you'd mind...This isn't for me you understand, but for my young nephew..."

Shut up, Tony. He must be making you nervous - you nearly giggledout loud just then. Look away from him or you'll be imagining allsorts of crazy stuff.

We're picking up speed now; soon have left Stella far behind. Ithought I'd never get away from her. It's a wonder she didn'tlock me in her flat - so desperate was she for me to stay.

Christ, what a clinger!

I wonder how fast we're going? The scenery is rushing by at afair old lick now. These intercity trains reach over a hundredmiles an hour - can't be far off that now.

It's hard to believe now: that a one-night stand could turn intoa fortnight of virtual captivity.

How did it happen?

I went up North to try to get some work - so much for Mick's tipthat there were plenty of jobs in my line there. What did I get?Zilch! I'll not take notice of him again. But I did getsomething, didn't I? Stella. On the very last night, when I'dgiven it up for a waste of time and decided to drown my sorrowsin a few pints before I set off back home.

There she was, all innocent and demure and... and so lovely,sitting in that grotty little pub all by herself.

You should have known girls don't usually drink on their own.

Not your average girl, anyway.

You couldn't resist it, could you? She looked so lonely anddefenceless. And when she smiled at you... that shy little smilethat somehow lit up her whole face... you just had to go over toher.

All she said was, "Can I buy you a drink?" and you werehooked. Before you knew it you were back at her place. Youthought your luck was in at last: a cosy, no-strings night ofpassion with a very willing participant to wipe away thedisappointments and frustrations of pointlessly wandering streetsas work-starved as those back home...

"Excuse me, do you mind not staring?"

I don't believe this! There's something seriously wrong with thisbloke. Even when I confront him outright it makes no difference.He still sits there like a tailor's dummy gawping with thosevacant eyes. I can't stand it.

"Look, I have to say that I think you're extremely rude.Didn't anybody ever tell you it's not nice to stare? If you don'tstop it I'll..."

This is incredible! He didn't even flinch.

I've had enough. I'm moving to another seat.

There, that's better. A whole section of the train to myself,room to stretch my legs and no demented idiot staring at me.Until some interfering guard comes and tells me I shouldn't besitting here, that is. Oh well - enjoy it while you can.

We're really moving now, fairly eating up the miles. The sceneryis flying past. Funny how as we go forward the outside worldseems to go backwards. It's almost as if time itself is goingbackwards; as if we're not travelling across distance butreversing the clock.

I can't say I've noticed that effect before, but that's theimpression I'm getting now. That tree next to the line, forinstance, it suddenly appeared at my side, was present in everydetail for a moment, and is now dwindling to the rear of thetrain and will soon disappear. There it goes: vanished from sightas if it only existed for a brief span. Or, more correctly, isgoing to exist. Because, if time is going backwards, then thetree has gone off into the future where it will exist in sometime yet to come.

You get some weird ideas, Tony. As if time can go backwards. Whata crazy notion! Anyway, if I were to sit with my back to theengine then it would have the opposite effect: it would be as iftime was speeding forward and I with it.

You're going to boggle your brain if you keep thinking that way -Stevenson invented trains, not H. G. Wells. Time I brought myselfto the real world... Where's my paper? Oh shit, I've left it onthe other seat with Goggle-Eyes.

Well, are you going to get it, or what? Or are you going to sithere twiddling your thumbs because you're suddenly too nervousabout approaching the Mad Starer again that you daren't evenclaim your own property?

Oh sod this, he's only a harmless imbecile; he can't hurt you. Upyou get. There it is, still on the seat where you left it. Justget the paper and go back without looking at him...

God! He's still in exactly the same position: sitting immobileand staring straight in front of him. He hasn't moved an inch.There's definitely something wrong with him... I wonder if Ishould tell someone?

No way! Why should I get involved? If he chooses to sit like astuffed dummy it's his business; not mine.

Now where was I? Oh yes, last week's derailment. To think: Icould have been on that train - should have been. If it hadn'tbeen for Stella I would have been. I had a seat reserved on itand fully intended to be sitting in it. If she hadn't persuadedme otherwise they would have had to drag my mangled body from thewreckage.

Persuade is the wrong word. Lure and seduce, wheedle and beg arebetter ones. I've never known a woman so limpet-like, sodesperate. All I wanted was a single night of solace and nocomplications. But not her, she wanted more - too much more. Shewould not let go.

Oh it was flattering at first: to have someone so lovely be soattentive, so all over me. Oh yes, I enjoyed it: her treating meas if I was the most special person in the world. She couldn'tget enough of me. One night turned into two then, before I knewwhere I was, it had become a week.

It was then it began to pall, to become too much. Suddenly shewasn't so lovely anymore: there were lines on her face that Ihadn't noticed before, her skin wasn't so soft and clear, and thefigure I thought so perfect sagged and creased. Worst of all, shebecame cloying, suffocating.

I couldn't breathe. What had been hot embraces werestrangleholds; what had been passion was predatory greed. It waslike she wanted to suck the life out of me and use it for herself.

I had to get away. I reserved a seat on the train, the one thatwent off the rails, told her I was going. There were tears andpromises: she would give me space; do anything for me. I didn'tget the train. She made me feel so guilty: perhaps I'd been wrong- no one could cry like that without being deeply hurt.

And then it was like at the start: she was lovely and lovingagain and I didn't care about anything. I didn't even cancel thereservation. Then her claws came out, and the ropes and chains -not real ones, though they may as well have been. I felt boundand tied once more, imprisoned, enslaved. I should have caughtthat train. Another week passed and it was much harder to leave.This time she didn't helplessly cry, but screamed and threatened,insulted and humiliated. I virtually fled from her.

So here I am, going back at last to sane old humdrum London -free. It's odd how things work out: staying another week withStella against my better judgement probably saved my life. If I'dbeen stronger I would have been on that train and they might wellbe writing about me in this paper. Instead I'm alive and well oneweek later and being whisked across the country towards home.

Strangely enough, this is the same day the derailment happened;not only that, but it was the 10 o'clock too. Come to think of it:this could even be the exact same train, were it not lying at thebottom of a steep embankment smashed to pieces.

You had a very lucky escape, my boy. If it hadn't been for Stella...

If it hadn't been for Stella you'd have been back home a weekbefore the disaster. You don't owe her anything; so don't begoing all dewy-eyed now.

A week on, and everything's back to normal. The line's open againand the trains are running as if nothing ever happened. Nothingto show that over 200 people have lost their lives. Nothing butthis alphabetical list of names and ages.

Hang on; I know that name. J. Arbuthnot, 45 - now where do I knowit from? It's not a common name and I don't think I've ever metanybody called it, yet it rings a bell. Funny, I'm sure I've seenit recently.

So many names.

Now this is really weird! There's a name I certainly recognise -because it's mine! T. Driver - even the age matches: 27. That's abit of a coincidence - especially when I was supposed to be onthe train.

That's the answer, though, isn't it? I was supposed to be on it.I never cancelled my reservation, so they've got my name from thepassenger list and assumed I was on board.

I'm presumed dead! Anyone back home reading this will think it'strue; they could be mourning me at this very moment. They'll geta shock when I turn up live and kicking.

Dead. The late Tony Driver. It doesn't bear thinking about - itwas so nearly the case. If I'd caught that train...

You didn't. You're alive and soon everybody will know it. Still,it gives me the creeps to think how close I came.

Don't think about it. Finish this piece and do the crossword.

Apparently the derailment was due to the brakes being faulty. Itprobably wouldn't have occurred under ordinary circumstances; thetrain would have slowed down when they were applied. But, forsome unknown reason, somebody pulled the communication cord. Thetrain was going at full speed; the line was icy; the brakeslocked... and the rest is history.

It must have been terrifying rolling over and over down thatembankment; trapped in a steel tube; unable to escape; knowingyou were going to be smashed to bits. What a horrible way to go.

Wait a minute! This is a mistake surely. It says here that theline hasn't been reopened yet, that repairs are still beingcarried out and the wreckage removed.

How can that be? The line is open; this train is running on it.Useless paper. I don't know why I buy it, it never gets its factsright. I mean, they've got me down as dead when I'm not; thoughcloseted up with Stella for the last two weeks, for all anybodyknows I am.

Two weeks. It's like a chunk out of my life. Anything could havehappened out there in the world and I wouldn't be aware of it.It's amazing how soon you lose touch with things when you'reseparated from TV and radio for a while and not being fed aconstant diet of news. I only heard about the derailment whenStella told me of it, and that to let me know how lucky I was notto have left her when I first planned.

I wonder how she knew of it? We spent most of the time in herbedroom; hardly the hub of worldwide communications, yet she wasable to tell me all the details. Maybe she's got psychic powers.Who knows? Who cares?

That name, J. Arbuthnot, keeps niggling me. Where have I heard itbefore? None of my friends are called that; yet it seems sofamiliar. It's so annoying when that happens: it's like when youknow the solution to a crossword clue but just can't call itforth. The answer is not to think about it too deeply - it'sbound to come to me.

We must be at top speed now: the click-clack of the wheels hasmerged into a smooth rushing sound and the scenery outside iswhizzing past like a video being rewound. If time were goingbackwards I wonder what rate it would be going at? A minute asecond? An hour a minute? A day an hour?

Just think, if I stayed on this train long enough I could go backto the day I was born. Imagine that: I'd actually get younger andyounger until I ceased to exist at all. No- I'd stay the sameage, but all my life would unwind; everything I've done would beundone; everything I've said would be unsaid. I could start allover again with a clean slate. Then again, knowing my luck, I'dprobably end up doing all the same things over again: meetStella; get on this train and go back to the beginning to repeatit all over and over forever. What a dreadful thought -especially the part about having to endure Stella at regularintervals for eternity.

I'm bored. I must be to be getting all these nutty ideas. I thinkI'll have a walk to the buffet car and have a drink.

My legs have seized up from sitting. Nice to stretch them. ShallI take the paper? No, I'll leave it here...

J. Arbuthnot... J. Arbuthnot...

Hold on! No, it can't be. Goggle Eyes... No, it's too much of acoincidence.

But yet... When I was sat opposite him, when I was trying toavoid his eyes, there on his reservation card fastened to hisseat - didn't I see his name? And wasn't it..?

I've got to check. All I have to do is go to his seat and look.I'll just walk over casually. I wonder why I suddenly feelnervous of going near him? He never made a move before; whyshould he now?

Don't stand here dithering; he won't hurt you. That's it: onefoot in front of the other. Here he is: still sat like a zombie...

"Oh Christ, I'm sorry. I didn't mean... The train jerked - Itripped. Are you alright?"

God, he's flat out on the seat. I only fell onto him gently -hardly touched him. Certainly not enough to knock him over.

"Are you alright?"

Why doesn't he get up?

"Here, let me help you. I must have fallen harder than Ithought. Up you get, mate..."

Sod me! What's wrong with him? He's a dead weight.

Shit! What's this? His legs are all smashed up. There's blood allunder the table - a big pool of it - I didn't see that before.Did I do that? Don't be an idiot! I couldn't have caused so muchdamage just knocking him over... But what..?

"Hey! Come on!"

What am I supposed to do? Slap his face? Shake him?

Pulse. Where's his pulse..?

Shit, I can't find it, and he's cold - icy cold.

Cold...

Christ Almighty! He's dead. Stone cold dead.

Got to get some help... Hang on - I knew it. I knew I'd seen thatname recently. There, on his reservation card - J. Arbuthnot.What the hell's happening here?

Got to get somebody.

Run! Run to the back of the train. Get the guard.

Other passengers here, sat like statues... Get them to dosomething: "Hey, you. Help me. There's somebody injured downthere..."

Oh good God. Another one. Just propped up in the seat - allsmashed up like a broken doll. What is this?

And another. Bloody hell. She's lost her arm.

Got to get to the guard.

Through the next carriage.

There are more people in here. Maybe one of them can help. Maybeone of them knows what's going on.

Oh God, no. I can't stand this! They're all the same. All dead.All mangled and bloody. It's like an abattoir.

Look in the next carriage. Oh no, no!

Got to get off this train. Got to stop it. I'll go mad... Where'sthe communication cord?

Not a cord - a lever in a box. Got to smash the glass.

There.

God, what a noise. Brakes screeching like ten thousand pieces ofchalk on a blackboard, carriages banging together, things beingthrown around.

Slow down. Slow down. Why isn't it slowing? It should be slowingnow.

Can't keep my feet. Being thrown all over. What's wrong?

Slow down!

The noise has changed - not screeching... We've stopped!

No!

Going up in the air.

Over.

Turning.

Tumbling.

Over and over.

Crashing.

Banging.

Screaming metal.

Breaking.

Flying glass.

Flying bodies.

Pain.

Oh the pain.

I can't stand it.

Please make it stop.

Blackness.