Ostrich Boys (7 page)

He made me and Sim laugh too, and suddenly we were having a good time. We were searching the map for stupid place names, like Farleigh Wallop, Nempnett Thrubwell and Nob—shouting them out to each other, fighting over the map to find one even more ridiculous than the last. We were enjoying being loud, acting up—we even saw it as a compliment when the miserable old woman across the aisle scowled and tutted at us. And it felt good, great, brilliant to be acting stupid with mates (like most lads, it was what we’d always been good at, after all). It was a release. The past week since Ross’s death had been dark and claustrophobic, full of crying parents and sleepless nights. But now, because we were doing the right thing, doing the thing we knew Ross would have wanted, it felt like we could allow ourselves to loosen up again. It was just such a pity he wasn’t here to join in.

I pointed out the old woman’s hair, said that it looked like a mass of spiders’ webs. “What do you call a bunch of spiders?” I asked Sim.

“A clutter,” he said.

“She doesn’t go to the hairdresser’s,” I whispered. “At night, while she’s sleeping, a clutter of spiders scurries across her bald scalp, redoing her hair for the morning.”

And we laughed like a pack of hyenas.

We swayed and rattled the last few miles before Doncaster. I’d forgotten all about our train being late and the conductor’s warning that we’d be pushed to make our connection. It didn’t even cross my mind until his voice came over the intercom to announce that we were now arriving in Doncaster station, apologizing for the delay.

I dived into my rucksack, looking for the scrap of paper with our connections and times scribbled on it. We were supposed to arrive at 11:36, the train for Newcastle leaving at 11:49. But my watch said it was gone quarter to already. And when I looked out the window I could see a long, sleek 125 already waiting at another platform.

“Quick! Get your stuff!”

Kenny and Sim looked confused.

“We’ve got about two minutes. We’re going to miss the next train!”

There was panic as Sim grabbed his rucksack and Kenny struggled to fold the map back up. This train was trundling in alongside the platform, its brakes whining. Kenny couldn’t get the huge map to do as he wanted, swearing at it as it crumpled, and he had to start all over again. I tried to help him but the two of us made an even bigger mess of it in our rush. I ripped it along one crease, tearing Norfolk
in two. The other passengers were up and heading for the doors.

Sim was on his feet. “Stop fannying around. Who cares if it’s folded properly?” He tried to squeeze past the old woman with as polite a shove as he could.

I yanked on Kenny’s arm. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it.” I threw my rucksack over my shoulder and followed Sim. If we missed our connection, I had no idea how long it would take us to get to Ross. Kenny bundled up the map as best he could. The two of us followed Sim—angering the other passengers as we pushed by.

As soon as the train door slid open the three of us were out onto the platform and running for the underpass at the end. We had to get down and through the underpass to the northbound platform on the other side of the tracks. Sim led the charge, skipping and dodging between the people coming up the steps as we were leaping down. “Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry.” I was hot on his heels. Kenny wasn’t far behind, with the huge map flapping and fluttering around his head like a ripped sail. And even though we were running, even though it must have been obvious to any idiot that we were in a rush, people still didn’t help us by simply stepping out the way to let us through. Sim weaved in between them. Our banging footsteps echoed off the underpass’s walls. I wasn’t as light on my feet and ended up smacking shoulders with quite a few. Kenny couldn’t see a thing with that map flying around his head and knocked one bloke flat on his backside.

We raced toward the end of the tunnel, then, leaping for the light two steps at a time, burst up onto the northbound platform. There was already a station guy with a whistle in his mouth all set to move the train off.

“Wait!
Wait!”
the three of us shouted at once, scared we couldn’t be heard over the engine noise.

He spotted us and waved for us to hurry—was good enough to give us those couple of extra moments to jump aboard. But the split second we did, the doors bleeped rapidly and slid into place with a clunk. Kenny almost got the edge of the map trapped, and that would have been the Isle of Man and most of Wales lost forever. We heard the whistle blow, and with a lurch the train got itself moving.

We stood in the connecting area between the carriages, the rumble of the train much louder here, Doncaster station sliding out of view from the window. We were grinning at each other, slapping each other on the back—excited by our nick-of-time timing. I was out of breath. I may be big, but I can run when I need to—it just takes the wind out of me. I had to bend over and put my hands on my knees to ease a stitch. We were all sweating.

Then Sim said: “Are you sure this is the right train?”

The three of us instantly panicked again. All swearing and fussing at once. We could be going to Farleigh Wallop, Nempnett Thrubwell … anywhere. We could be going back to Cleethorpes, for all we knew. I’d just
assumed
this was the right train.

But Kenny spotted the notice on the door listing the different stations along the train’s route. The Route Of The Flying Scotsman
.
It was going all the way to Edinburgh, but would be stopping off at Newcastle too.

The relief felt good, our grins and bravado returned. Another catastrophe avoided. This was seat-of-the-pants stuff, but we were doing okay. Sim said we should try to find somewhere to sit. Kenny and I at last managed to fold the map back up and I told him to put it in his bag.

“My bag,” Kenny said, white-faced.
“My bag!”
He looked like he’d been smacked on the back of the head with a plank of wood. “I’ve left it on the other train. It’s got all my stuff in it. It’s got all my money in it!”

The train hurtled north, taking us with it. We stayed in the connecting area between the carriages where the noise of that hurtle was loudest. Other passengers staggered past toward the toilet or the buffet, keeping a hand to the wall as the train rocked. We stood close together, heads bent and whispering, but doing our best to look inconspicuous.

“We can’t go back,” Sim said. “It’s impossible.”

Kenny hopped from foot to foot and whined.

I met Sim’s eye; he was thinking the same as me. As if this trip wasn’t going to be difficult enough … Without Kenny’s cash it could go a bit nightmarish all too easily.

“We’ve got to go back,” Kenny said. “I’m telling you: we—”

“How?” Sim was pissed off. “Are you gonna ask the driver to turn the train round or am I?”

“But my bag …”

“The train we were on was going all the way to Manchester,” I said. “It’s not even going to be back at Doncaster anymore.”

“It’s got everything in it.” Kenny was almost pleading. “I mean, not just my money. I had my iPod and my mobile…. I’d got a waterproof in case it rained.”

“At least you were wearing your favorite T-shirt,” I said. “You’ve still got that.”

Sim shot me a look to tell me I wasn’t helping. Kenny said, “I’d thought of everything. I’d got my toothbrush. I’d got Travel Scrabble.”

Now Sim looked stunned. “Christ-on-a-bike, Kenny! What the hell did you want …?” He shook his head. “You amaze me, you know? How can you think of stuff like that, but not even remember to keep hold of your bag?”

“Tell me you’ve at least got your ticket on you,” I said.

“Of course I’ve got my ticket.” Kenny pulled it out of his back pocket and waved it at me.

I took it from him to get a better look. “That’s the return part,” I said.

He snatched it back, not sure if I was still trying to be funny. But I was telling the truth. He closed his eyes, hung his head.

I felt bad for him then. He was a real
trier
. If Kenny ever died it would probably say “I tried” on his gravestone. He was the cleverest person I knew when it came to computers
and stuff like that; he’d just never had any common-sense software uploaded, that was all.

“We might be able to get you another ticket,” I said. “We only need enough for a single there, right? How much money have we got on us?”

We dug as deeply into our pockets as we could. I had two ten-pound notes crushed up at the very bottom of mine.

“Just over a fiver,” Sim said, counting out shrapnel. “Five pounds thirty-eight.”

Kenny didn’t have anything anymore. “I had easily a hundred quid in my bag—at least.”

“Twenty-five pounds thirty-eight,” Sim said. “Nowhere near enough for another ticket.”

“True, but at least it’s something.” I was desperate to sound positive. “It’ll do us for food—a couple of Maccy Ds each.”

“What about for a hotel tonight?” Kenny was morose.

“Do you really think there’s going to be a hotel at Ross? You saw the map—that spot the size of gnat crap?”

“But—”

“And who needs a hotel anyway? It’s summer out there, isn’t it? Haven’t you heard of sleeping out under the stars?” I was laying it on thick. “This is an
adventure
, right?”

Kenny perked up enough to insult me. “We could always use your pants as a tent.”

“Yeah, and burn your radioactive T-shirt to keep us warm.”

Sim said: “What about his ticket?”

They both looked at me, both eager for me to make everything all right again. This was my idea, after all. “Maybe we can get away with it,” I said. “We only need to get as far as Newcastle on this train, right? We might have enough for a ticket from Newcastle to Dumfries. The closer we get, the cheaper a ticket’s going to be.”

“But we’ve got to get to Newcastle first,” Kenny said.

“Just keep your head down, pretend to be asleep or something,” Sim told him. “Hide in the bogs if you have to.”

Kenny wasn’t happy. “What’ll happen if I get caught?”

“I’m sure they’ll stop the train before they throw you off,” I said.

We went looking for seats.

The train charged through the countryside, fields and trees speeding by the windows. It was busy but not packed. We weren’t worried about being recognized now, had no fear of bumping into anyone we knew. There were families with young kids, students sitting by themselves and backpackers in twos or threes. Most of them wore their “travel face”—kind of blank, a bit bored, mostly tuned out.

We made our way through two, then three separate carriages hoping to find a free table where the three of us could sit like before. But without any luck. It was when we reached the carriage where the conductor was checking tickets that we panicked, spun around and stumbled over each other in
our hurry to get back the way we’d come. And we ended up exactly where we’d started.

Kenny was so worried he bounced. “So, you know … So, what do we do? I might as well get off at the next stop, right?”

“Don’t chicken out on us now,” I said.

“But I’m the one who’s going to get kicked off. Not you.”

I looked at Sim. “What do you call a load of chickens?”

“Brood,” he said. “Or peep. Some people call it a peep.”

“Don’t ‘peep’ out on us, Kenny,” I said. “It’s all part of the adventure, right?” I was worried he might give up and go home, and I believed this trip was meant to be all three of us. I felt sure Ross would have wanted all three of us together.

Kenny was a long way from happy. He didn’t like me picking on him, and liked being labeled a whole bunch of chickens even less.

Sim was wearing his sunglasses again, keeping his cool. “You’ll just have to hide in the bogs.”

“But what if I get caught? They might get the police—it’s against the law, right? I’m telling you: someone’s bound to tell my mum.”

“So don’t get caught.”

“Great. Thanks. That’s easy enough for you to say, isn’t it?”

“So what am I supposed to say? You weren’t worried about the law last night when we sprayed up Fowler’s house and Munro’s car.”

“Yes I was. I was the one who said we—”

“And you’re the one who’s lost his ticket, so stop whining.”

Kenny scowled and turned as though he was going to stomp away. But maybe he remembered there wasn’t really anywhere to stomp away to. Instead, he sagged.

“Why’s it always happen to me? It’s true, isn’t it? It’s always me stuff like this happens to. Why am I always getting the crappy end of the stick?”

Sim didn’t like Kenny’s sudden self-pity. “Get over it.”

“Yeah, thanks. Thanks for that. You’re a great friend, you are.” He saw Sim was about to bite back so got in there first. “Don’t say it. I don’t care what you say. Because I’m the unlucky one, aren’t I?”

“I can’t help thinking that out of all the people I know, Ross is probably the unluckiest.”

But Kenny wouldn’t stop. “You’re not the one who’s just lost a hundred quid.”

“I wouldn’t be lucky enough to have a hundred quid in the first place,” Sim scoffed.

“It wasn’t just the money! What about my other stuff—my iPod?”

“And Travel Scrabble,” I reminded him.

“All of it!” He was getting red-faced and worked up. “It’s always
me
. I’m telling you: over and over again, it’s always me who all the crappy stuff happens to.”

Part of me knew he was right. Teachers could think he
was rude, girls sometimes called him weird; he wasn’t either. The truth was that the real world seemed to move at a quicker pace than Kenny’s head sometimes, and he was always too busy trying to catch up to see what was actually going on around him. So part of me did feel sorry for him—yet I couldn’t help thinking he brought a lot of it on himself.

You’ve got to learn to deal with your own problems, haven’t you? Moaning about it won’t help. How messed up would you be if you didn’t get a grip and get over it?

But he was anxious and miserable. “I want to go to Scotland as much as you, you know. It’s not just about the stuff I’ve lost. I want to do this funeral thing too—do it for Ross, same as you. But I’m the one messing everything up. It’s true, isn’t it? I am, aren’t I? It’s my fault.” He kicked the train wall. “God, I hate myself sometimes. Maybe I’m the one should be dead instead of Ross.”