To Summon Nightmares (6 page)

He brought a finger to his lips to chew the ragged nail there, and then forced himself to draw it away, pulling his phone from his pocket instead. He had service still, but he'd forced himself to downgrade to a plan that didn't include data. He was going to wean himself off of the internet if it killed him.

The screen flashed, indicating an incoming message. He slid his finger along the touchscreen automatically.
Hi bro! Not sure if you're out of service yet but just wanted to say good luck and call us if u need anything!

'Us.' That was nice. He supposed it was true; his father would likely be more than happy to drive all the way across Ireland just to smile smugly at Cohen and imply that he'd known all along that Cohen was too young and immature to live on his own. His mother would be ecstatic at his return. And Halley... well, Halley was just like Cohen, she'd pretend everything was fine to her last breath. Cohen never had known if she was happy about him going to Witton or not. All she'd ever done was support him. But how strange it felt to be going against the wishes of his parents, of the people he loved. Of anyone, really.

He sighed, leaning back against the scratchy cloth of the train seat and staring out at the countryside. Of course that wasn't true, technically. His family hadn't wanted him to transition. But then he'd had therapists, doctors, years of medical research on his side. This time he had only him, and his gut instinct, and his desire—no, his
need
—to get away. He let the screen go black again, setting the phone down on the seat next to him and closing his eyes. The sound of the train and the hum of the seats was comforting, and he didn't need to reply just yet. For a moment he could just be.

The train pulled into the Witton station a few minutes early, according to his watch. It was a couple minutes after six, and he'd only been riding for a few hours, but already it felt like years since he had woken up in his own bed and driven to the train station with Halley and his mother. He'd spoken with his lawyer on the phone the night before, and she'd assured him that she would be at the station to pick him up and drive him to the Coughton. It had been as much for his mother's peace of mind as his, but now, stepping off the train onto the station platform, Cohen appreciated the reassurance.

If there was a town nearby, it was very well hidden. The platform was nothing but a block of cement with a weathered metal roof and a long bench. The dirt road in front of it ran parallel along the train tracks and then veered north over the horizon. Turning in a circle, Cohen could see nothing but green hills peppered with sparse green bushes and trees in every direction, and the rapidly darkening sky. He was glad he'd worn a jumper. Summer was coming, but the cold spring was fighting it every step of the way, and the wind that blew in smelled of thunder and rain.

There were no vehicles in the small dirt lot next to the station, but the train had been a bit early, so Cohen settled in to wait. A quick glance at his phone revealed that he was, at last, out of service. He thought guiltily that he should have messaged Halley back when he'd had the chance. Ah well, he'd call her on the land-line when he got there. He wheeled his suitcase over to the metal bench and sat down, wrapping his arms around himself. The wind was picking up and biting, the cold whipping right through his clothes.

Time passed slowly as the clouds rolled in. He thought he remembered that the town was south of the station, so his eyes were peeled on the road to the south, hopeful for a car. Sandy's tardiness surprised him. She'd always been incredibly professional, and he began to wonder if something had happened to her. He pulled out his phone again to call her, before remembering that there wasn't any service. Should he try walking to town? Best to wait a little bit longer, first.

He bit his lip, bringing his knees up to his chest and rocking to ward off the cold. This wasn't good. He had no way of contacting anyone, and no idea how to get to town from here, never mind his new house. He stood and began to pace, the cold ripping venomously through his layers of clothes.

Eventually he got up and stood on the bench, hopeful for service up higher. No such luck. Maybe he should try climbing the posts? The mental image of himself doing so would have made him laugh if he weren't beginning to stress so badly. He checked the time on his phone. It had been nearly an hour.

The wind whirled and the clouds boiled, and a few tell-tale plunks sounded from the roof. A few seconds later the rain began to come down in earnest, dropping with greater and greater frequency onto the dust of the road. Cohen stood in the centre of the station, arms crossed against the impeding moisture, trying not to panic.

At least he could get his coat out of his case. He bent down to open it, managing to keep his things from spilling out as he dug to the bottom for his coat. He paused to touch the plain black medical case that he'd stored carefully in the corner, its presence warming him somewhat. It contained a four month supply of medical testosterone and the accompanying syringes. The one thing that had finally made him feel human. He'd gladly throw away the entire contents of his suitcase as long as he could hold onto that small black bag.

Well, hopefully that wouldn't be necessary. He managed to extract his coat, standing to pull it on and button it up quickly, his hands beginning to stiffen from the cold. He zipped the suitcase back up quickly, turning as he heard the unmistakeable sound of a vehicle driving up the road.

His relief was short-lived. As the vehicle came to a stop in front of the station, Cohen saw that it was a beaten-up blue pick-up truck, definitely not the type his lawyer would drive, and the man peering out through the driver's side window was definitely not his lawyer.

Cohen stood cautiously, slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder and stepping towards the truck. The man reached forward and began to roll down the window, flinching from the rain as he did so.

"There isn't a train!" he yelled at Cohen through the deluge.

"What?" Cohen shouted back, unwilling to venture further out into the rain.

"There isn't a train!" the man repeated. "It went by an hour ago, and it only comes by once a day!"

Cohen glanced back at the tracks, before comprehending what the man was saying. "Oh! No, I got
off
the train! I'm waiting for my ride, but she hasn't shown up!"

"Who's your ride, then?"

"Sandy McIntyre? She's my lawyer!"

The man glanced back in the direction he'd come, then turned to look at Cohen again. "Would you like me to give you a ride?" he yelled, gesturing at his truck.

Cohen thought for a moment. It was possible that Sandy was still coming, and had gotten held up. But it was also entirely possible that he could be waiting here all night. He chewed his lip, staring at the beat up vehicle and the blurred face of the man who was obviously awaiting his response.

"All right!" he yelled. "Just give me a moment!" He trotted back to grab his suitcase, pulled up the handle and rolled it to the edge of the platform. The man had already stepped out into the rain and grabbed it for Cohen as he jumped down. "Oh, thank you!"

"It's no problem," the man assured him. "This bloody rain came out of nowhere." He stashed Cohen's bag in behind the passenger seat and then leaned over to unlock the door so Cohen could climb in.

The short jaunt in the rain had left Cohen nearly soaked. He could feel his already curly hair frizzing, drops of water sliding off the curls and into his face. "I look a right mess," he said, bundling his coat around him and glancing at the man next to him.

He was wearing a light jacket with a red button up underneath. It had a logo on it, and Cohen thought it might be some sort of uniform. He was tall and lean, with long legs and broad shoulders, and his face was angular. His short brown hair was wet from the rain as well, though not as unflatteringly as Cohen's was, and a small goatee accented the rest of his otherwise surprisingly young face. He couldn't have been more than a few years older that Cohen, although Cohen (courtesy of being only a few months into his transition) tended to look much younger than his actual nineteen years of age.

The man was staring at him curiously. "I know you," he said, and Cohen felt his heart drop. "You make videos on the internet, right? And you write books. Cohen Brandwein."

Cohen felt relief surge through him. "You used my name," he burst out, immediately becoming embarrassed. "I mean, most people use... you know, the other name. Because I was published under it."

"Right," the man grinned at Cohen as he leaned forward, put the vehicle in gear and pulled back onto the road. "I saw your video about that. It's rude to use your old name, right?"

"People are rude." Cohen shrugged, sinking into himself. The man had leaned quite close to him, and he smelled good in the rain. Cohen's vestigial uncertainty about his bisexuality was fast dropping with the man's proximity. He supposed he ought to thank him for that.

"Well, I'm not," said the man. "My name's Niall." He held out a hand and Cohen shook it, still feeling a little dazed. "Are you staying in town?"

"Oh, no, at a house called the Coughton. Have you heard of it?"

Niall nodded, squinting a little in the rain. "Yeah, I live right close. Didn't think anyone lived there, though."

"No one does," explained Cohen. "My aunt left it to me when she died a few years ago, and I inherited it on my birthday last month."

"You'll be living there on your own?" Niall glanced at him, eyes raised, and Cohen ducked his head down.

"Yeah, well I just... I sort of wanted to get away."

"I shouldn't lie." Niall looked a bit sheepish. "I saw your video about it. For what it's worth, I'm sorry people are being, y'know, shit to you."

"People aren't being shit to me; well, I mean
most
people aren't. It's the ones who are that get to you though."

"I know the feeling," agreed Niall. "Seriously though, are you going to be okay living there all by yourself? I mean, is anything even hooked up?"

"I'm fine." Cohen couldn't help but laugh at this total stranger's concern. Although he supposed the fact that Niall had potentially seen all of his videos meant he knew several intimate details of Cohen's life, without Cohen knowing anything about him. It was a strange thought. He always forgot real people saw his videos. He hoped Niall wasn't disappointed by how boring he was in real life. "My lawyer's on it. Or she was supposed to be." He frowned. "She got the electricity and the phone line hooked up, and she was
supposed
to pick me up and—ah, shite."

Niall glanced at him. "What?"

"The key," moaned Cohen. "She was supposed to pick me up, drive me there and give me the key to get in."

"There's no spare? Rubbish looking for it in this weather, I suppose." Niall squinted out at the rain again. Cohen was surprised he could even see the road through the deluge outside.

"I don't even want to try," Cohen pulled out his phone again, glancing at the screen to confirm its uselessness. "I wish I could just call her."

"Tell you what," said Niall, glancing over Cohen as he pulled into what looked like a driveway. "Go see if you can get in and if not, I'll bring you to my place and you can use my phone."

Cohen heaved a sharp sigh, glancing at Niall. "Thank you," he said. "I really appreciate it. All my plans have gone down the drain, it seems."

"That's the way of things," said Niall with a small smile. "Good luck out there."

"Thanks." Cohen threw his hood up, buttoning the front of his jacket, and then threw himself out into the rain. He trotted as quickly as possible towards the large grey shape that looked like a house, aware that Niall was probably watching him run and wishing he owned a jacket that made him look a bit less like a balloon with legs. He tried not to think about that. The steps were stone, and the water pooled in between the cracks in his trainers in no time. He hurried to stand under the ledge, pulling his hood back a little as he did so to look around.

The large door was heavy lacquered wood, and the handle was brass. He tried it, not really expecting anything, and his suspicions were confirmed. He was locked out. He turned back to the direction of the truck, lifting his arms in a defeated position, before turning back to the door to try once again for good measure. Nothing.

He looked around. The walls were made of the same stone as the steps, and the only windows he could see were on the second story, above the ledge. Untended flower beds ran along each side of the door, and he didn't much feel like stepping through them, or along the wild growth that was the lawn, to check for a spare key or another opening. It was ridiculous to think that it wouldn't have been locked up tightly anyway. The only person here in years had been Sandy and she... well, he'd
thought
she was reliable. Maybe not.

He hurried back to the truck as quickly as possible, attempting futilely to shake off some of the rain before ducking back onto the seat.

"No luck?" asked Niall, and Cohen shook his head.

"I mean, if you wouldn't mind taking me back to town, I'm sure I can get a room there." He shook his arms, effectively spraying water all over the dash and seats. "I'm really sorry about this."

"It's not a problem." Niall seemed much more amused than annoyed. "If you want to go into town I can bring you there, but my place really is like five minutes away. You can stay there. Really."

Cohen bit his lip. "I-I'd
like
to really, but I don't want to impose."

"Trust me, you won't be imposing. I like to entertain."

"Do you entertain a lot?" asked Cohen as they pulled out of the driveway, and Niall laughed.

"I wish. You'll find the locals are a pretty tight knit group. They don't welcome strangers easily."

"Well, that's probably a good thing. I'm supposed to be writing, not canoodling with the natives."

Niall snorted. "Are you going to write the next one in the series, then?"

"Oh, god, you've read them." Cohen leaned forward to hide his face between his knees, and Niall laughed again.