Dylan was a sulker. She denied it vehemently whenever Joan accused her of it, but she knew it was true. She tried her best not to let the angry, resentful feelings bubbling inside her bleed into her conversations with Tristan, but it was hard. Rather than let her feelings come through her words, she often ended up saying almost nothing.
Sulking.
It took until that evening, with ready meals on their knees because Joan was on a backshift and Dylan was too aggravated to cook, before the burn began to fade.
“Do you want to go to this party?” she asked Tristan, keeping her voice even but stabbing at a lump of chicken with unnecessary vigour.
“What?” he looked away from the news report he’d been watching – he couldn’t get enough of the news – and stared at Dylan, who shovelled several mouthfuls of tikka masala into her mouth before she could bring herself to voice the question again.
“Cheryl’s party. Do you want to go?”
He continued to gaze at her, as though trying to work out what it was she wanted. Dylan carefully kept her face blank.
“Do you want to go?” he said at last.
“I’m not bothered.” Liar. “If you want to go, we can.”
Tristan went back to eating, eyes on his dinner and then the television screen. Sixty long seconds later he finally spoke: “I don’t have any desire to hang out with them, but they’re your friends, so—”
“They aren’t my friends, you know that!” Dylan said quickly. Then, because she’d given it away now, “I don’t want to go.”
“Why didn’t you just say so then?” Frustration coloured Tristan’s words.
“Well,” a pause, and then everything came tumbling out, “I don’t like them, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t be friends with them – and even though Cheryl’s thick as two short planks, boys seem to like her and they think she’s pretty, and I don’t know. I mean, do you think she’s pretty?”
The question hung there in the air. Dylan bit her tongue, forcing herself not to make it worse by saying more. Eventually Tristan scowled, a deep groove between his eyebrows.
“You’re serious?”
“No,” Dylan replied, because it seemed like the right answer. Then, very quietly, “I don’t know.”
“All right,” Tristan said, setting aside the remains of his tikka masala, “All right. Let me be crystal clear. I go to that school because you have to. You are the only person there who’s even remotely tolerable.” A small grin that Dylan did her best to return. “I have no interest in Cheryl McNally, or Steph whatever her name is, or anybody else. Only you.”
He used the knuckle of his index to gently chuck her under the chin.
“All right?” He was still there, earnestly looking into her eyes. It was too close, too intense. Dylan leaned back slightly, mortified that he’d seen her insecurities so easily. There seemed to be only one way out.
“Not even Mrs Lambert?”
“Which one is she?”
“The librarian.” The one who liked to wear cardigans that clashed horribly with whatever fifties dress – as in, bought in the fifties – she had on that day. The librarian who had sprouted several long, grey hairs on her chin. Amusement sparked in Tristan’s gaze.
“She is tasty,” he agreed, then his mouth stretched into a grin. “But I’ll stick with you.”
“Well, if you don’t want to go to Cheryl’s thing, there’s always the Halloween Dance…” Once again Dylan feigned disinterest.
“What’s a Halloween Dance?” He looked at her in utter bewilderment and Dylan shifted uncomfortably on the seat.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. I just thought you might want to – have another real human experience. Or something.” She looked away. Her face was burning and she didn’t want Tristan to see. She felt him nudge her wrist, a gentle request for her to look at him. “Let’s go to the dance,” he said. “Together.”
Dylan lifted her head at that. He was smiling calmly back at her.
“You want to go to a Kaithshall Academy Halloween Dance?”
“Yes.” He shrugged. “It’ll be an experience. You don’t want to go?” A quick grin. “What are they like?”
“I don’t know,” Dylan answered honestly.
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve never been to one before.”
“Why not?”
Why did she bring this up? What was she thinking? Stupid, Dylan. “Just… you know.” Her turn to shrug.
“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t.” A quirk of humour in his lips. “I’m new here.”
“Shut up.” Dylan punched him lightly in the arm. He was still waiting for an answer, though, and she knew he wasn’t going to let it go. “I just never had anyone to go with before. I mean, I had Katie, but these things are like, couples’ dances.” She muttered the last bit under her breath.
“Great,” he said quickly. “I want to take you.”
Dylan’s heart wrenched at the sheer sincerity in his voice. It was embarrassing, having him know how desperately – secretly – she wanted to go to one of the stupid dances, be a part of things. But it was also incredible that he knew her so well. She grinned at him, then winced.
“Of course, I’ll be going to the dance with my cousin,” she reminded him.
He looked unconcerned. “I’m sure we can find a dark corner somewhere if we need some privacy.”
Dylan blushed at that. He kept her gaze, searching her face, but embarrassment still made her want to squirm away and hide. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”
“It is,” Tristan agreed, not moving, “But I doubt it’ll make it taste any worse.”
He grinned at her, blue eyes sparkling. This ethereal being who had guarded her soul against annihilation in the wasteland was teasing her, laughing like it was the most natural thing in the world. Sitting here beside her, on their crummy sofa, like he belonged. It was amazing. He was amazing. Dylan fought to keep the wonder from her face.
“Hey!” she shoved at his shoulders, pretending to be outraged. “I microwaved that ready meal to perfection. You have to like chicken tikka masala if you’re going to live in Scotland. It’s practically our national dish.”
“My apologies then.” But he didn’t go back to his dinner. Instead he drew himself closer to Dylan. Her stomach tightened with apprehension and her heart beat faster. He pressed his mouth to hers once, twice. Dylan caught spicy tomato sauce on his lips, infinitely more appealing when tasted this way. God, she’d missed this. Through Tristan held her every night, he had been treating her like she was made of glass ever since she came out of hospital. Like her bones would shatter if he so much as squeezed her.
Dylan leaned into his kiss, eager for more, but all too soon Tristan flopped back into his spot on the sofa. Picking up his dinner, he winked at Dylan then turned back to the TV.
Dylan looked too, taking in the reporter’s miserable face as he stood hunched against driving wind and rain. Behind him the landscape was a muddy wash of browns and dulled greens, lit by the harsh glare of the red and blue lights of emergency vehicles. It was barren and ugly – and eerily familiar.
“Tristan,” she said. “Turn that up.”
He did as she asked, and the reporter’s voice floated into the room.
“…the bodies were found earlier today when a quantity surveyor arrived to look at the damage to the roof of the tunnel. It is understood that all four men were the victims of some kind of attack, and although police have not yet stated the causes of death, they are treating them as suspicious. What has been made clear is that this was not an industrial accident – but mystery surrounds the facts. When questioned, officers on the scene refused to confirm or deny that wild animals may have had a part to play. Autopsies are to be carried out on all of the bodies, and the families of the dead men may finally get some answers as to what happened in the dark of the train tunnel. Back to you in the studio.”
Dylan reached for the remote and paused the report just as the news journalist was nodding his goodbye.
“Is that—” It couldn’t be. “Is that the tunnel, Tristan? Our tunnel?”
The angle of the camera wasn’t good, focussing on the melée of police cars, ambulances and a solitary fire engine, but train tracks stretched across one corner and there, almost out of sight, was the gaping back hole that Dylan would never forget.
“I don’t know,” he said, leaning forward to squint at the screen. “Rewind it.”
They went through the report again, glued to every word. Annoyingly, they couldn’t see any more of the scenery, even though Dylan tried to crane her neck to the left, as if that would magically let her see beyond the framing of the shot.
“It looks the same,” she maintained. “And the reporter said the site of the crash – how many other train crashes have you heard about recently?”
Tristan shook his head slowly. “It has to be.”
He turned back to the screen and played it once more. Dylan’s gaze fixed on the tunnel that had so drastically changed her life. As the reporter spoke, certain phrases jumped out at her, seeming louder than the rest: wild animals, perished and, the worst, mystery.
Four men murdered. Four ordinary men, just doing their jobs, murdered at the exact spot she and Tristan had defied nature and broken back through to the land of the living. Dylan’s stomach twisted. It reminded her of the sick feeling she’d had as a child when she’d secretly given her younger cousin – her actual cousin – a haircut. She’d accidentally snipped the cartilage on the top of her ear, and had never forgotten the feeling. It felt like that now – the guilt, the responsibility, the horror of blood on her hands – but a thousand times worse.
“Do you think that has anything to do with us?” she asked in a strangled whisper.
“How can it be?” He hesitated. “It must just be an accident, a terrible tragedy.” Tristan sounded sure, but actions speak louder than words. He took the video back to the start and watched it yet again, this time with the sound muted.
“The police said it was suspicious,” Dylan reminded him.
“Suspicious doesn’t mean—” He broke off, clearly not believing his own words.
“Do you reckon… do you reckon they died because I lived? Like, yin for yang? Balance or something?”
“It’s possible.”
“But that isn’t what you think.” Dylan made it a statement, sensing Tristan’s scepticism.
“No,” he replied, his face drawn in thought.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s… We need to know more. We need to know how they died.”
“You mean, we need to know what killed them?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “That’s exactly what I mean.”