4

Tom had acted on instinct.

The little moped was locked between the lines, so he couldn’t swerve. He glimpsed the poor driver’s face and heard a brain-shredding screech as the train wheels slid along the rails. There was a burst of sparks, and that’s what made him haul at the handlebars, wrenching them upwards. The bike jumped, and with half a second to spare Tom wrestled it to the side and found himself landing in a spray of gravel. The front tyre exploded, and the rear fishtailed wildly as he hurtled down a footpath. Trees flashed past on either side, and he hit a root so hard that he was flipped in a long, slow somersault—the sky was underneath him, and the ground was spinning above.

He landed flat on his back in a thick bed of ferns, and lay there knowing he’d been killed. All he could hear was birdsong. Dazed, he tried to move his fingers, and was astonished to find that they did just what they were told. He could flex his toes, too, so he clearly wasn’t paralysed—and nothing appeared to be broken, or even grazed. He rolled gingerly on to his side, and found that the foliage tipped him neatly back on to his feet.

He looked for the moped. It was in pieces, of course—he could see that at once. The front forks had slammed into a large conifer, and both wheels had been torn off. He gazed at what was left and thought of Phil. He thought of his dad, too, wondering what on earth he’d say. This was not the time for reflection, though: he had to keep moving.

The railway line was close, so he tottered back to it. Fifty metres down the track stood a tiny station, so he headed towards the platform and climbed the ramp. An old man was sitting on its one concrete bench, and he nodded at Tom. Then he sighed and made a mark in his notebook.

“Late again,” he said.

“Am I?” asked Tom.

“What?”

“Late.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“No. Not you, son. I mean the 15.06. It’s on its way, but it’s… seven minutes behind schedule. It was late leaving, as usual.” The man chuckled.

“They won’t hit their target.”

“I suppose not.”

Tom licked his lips, aware that his voice was cracking. His heart was pounding, too—it just wouldn’t slow down.

“What’s the matter?” asked the man.

“Nothing,” said Tom. “I’m just a bit confused. Did you by any chance notice a big, long freight train? It would have come through here a few minutes ago. Did you see it?”

“Of course.”

“It was real, then?”

“Real?”

“I’m not dead, am I? I’m definitely alive, talking to you?”

“Of course you’re alive,” said the man. “You’re asking about the 15.11 wagon service. The locomotive’s one of six, if you want the details: a Schlossenburg 35, made in Germany. She was off to the docks.”

“The docks? Outside town, you mean?”

“By the old warehouses. Are you a spotter, too?”

“Yes. I suppose I am.”

“I’ll tell you a trade secret, then. The freight trains still get priority on this line, and that’s what’s behind all the disruption. What annoys me is that half those containers are empty.”

Tom noticed that his legs were still shaking, so he joined the man on the bench.

“Did you by any chance see a dog?”

“Where?”

“Standing on the last wagon. He’s black and white. Quite young.”

“I was looking at the chassis, I’m afraid. That’s the old seventies model—thirty tonne maximum, which is why they’re slow.”

“He’s only a puppy.”

“What is?”

“My dog. There was a dog on the last wagon of that freight train. I saw him, I’m sure of it.”

“I doubt it, son. You don’t tend to get dogs riding on trains, because of health and safety.”

“You must have missed him.”

The man frowned. “Possibly,” he said. “I was actually cross-referencing my timetables.”

He turned to the back of his notebook, hooked off his glasses and put his nose close to the page.

“Depot departure at 09.43, picking up at McKinley’s. Then it goes to the cement factory. Terminates at sidings seven, where the wagons divide. The front half goes on to the pier. The back half waits at the disused warehouse, then goes out to the quarry.”

Tom stood up.

“Where would it be now?” he asked. “The last wagon, I mean. Where was it going?”

“I just told you,” said the man. “The warehouses. I had a little snoop around there last month, as a matter of fact—they’re pulling them down, but I got some cracking photos. I’d catch this fellow here, if you want to go there. This is the delayed 15.08. Get down at the terminus.”

The old man was on his feet now, for a passenger train was approaching.

“Darren!” he cried, as the driver’s cab drew level. “You’re three minutes late. Any excuse?”

“Not really,” replied the driver. “Bit slow at the crossing—there’s a police car down there, looking for some hooligan. Stole a motorbike, apparently, and threatened a couple of pensioners. He had a knife, too—gave them quite a mouthful.”

Tom said nothing.

He climbed quietly on to the train and took a seat. Taking off his coat, he discovered that he was still wearing his school blazer, with its thin red stripe. His tie was in his pocket, so he put it on. His hands were filthy, and his shoes were scuffed. He had leaves in his hair, and his trousers were thick with mud. In fact, he looked like a perfectly normal schoolboy, and his fellow passengers hadn’t even glanced at him.

A bell rang, and the doors closed. The train shunted forward, and Tom was on his way again.

Twenty minutes later, he saw the familiar rooftops of his own town, dominated by the church tower.

He had his route worked out and was ready to run. He was first through the doors, and hardly noticed the clusters of children waiting to board. He didn’t see Robert Tayler—he simply pushed through the scrum and set off at a sprint.

Rob nudged his companion and stared.

“That was Lipman,” he said. “Where’s he going?”

The friend smiled. “Where’s he been? That’s the question. He wasn’t at school today, so why’s he in his uniform?”

“He’s bunking off.”

“He’s scared, by the look of it. Why’s he going that way?”

They watched as Tom reached the end of the platform and jumped down on to the tracks.

“Shall we follow him?” said Robert. “He’s on his own, as usual—we could sort him out properly. Once and for all…”