Something hooted in the rustling hillside at their backs. The black bulk loomed a few hundred yards ahead. Masters was freezing. His left shoe was taking in water. He hated leaving Jane, but knew she was not strong enough to walk through unknown terrain in the dark. “Don’t worry, there will be a logical explanation for this,” he assured the others. “There always is.”
They reached a concrete ramp and began to climb. “It’s a station,” said Ben, shining his torch ahead. “Milford. Ever heard of it?”
They climbed on to the platform and approached the low brick box that functioned as the main building. Masters tried the door of the waiting room, but it was locked.
“Do you think it still operates?” asked Claire. “It’s unmodernised. They’ve got wooden slat benches instead of those curved red steel ones with the little holes. And look at the lights. They’ve got tin shades.”
“It can’t still be used,” said Ben, shining his torch through the window of the ticket hall. “Take a look at this.” The others crowded around in the halo of light. The ticket machines inside had been vandalised. The timetables were heavy with mildew and drooped down like rolls of badly-hung wallpaper. Several of the floorboards were rotten and had fallen through.
“Can you see a phone?” asked Claire.
“You’re joking. If there is one, it’s going to be out of service. Try your mobile again.”
A silence. Only the sound of their breath and the wind in the trees while Claire tried to get a service signal. She tipped the device to the light. “Still nothing.”
“We should at least try to work out where we are. Did anyone see if we passed Exeter?”
“I don’t know, Ben,” Kallie suddenly shouted, surprising everyone. “This was your idea, remember? I’m from the city, I don’t visit places with trees unless they’re the indoor kind in big pots, like the ones you get in malls. If you told me to expect rabid fruit-bats and rats the size of Shetland ponies I’d believe you because I don’t know about outdoor stuff, this is not me, all right?”
“You might have told us before you decided to tag along,” said Claire. “I’m freezing. What are we going to do?”
“I guess we either walk back to the carriage or pass the night here,” Masters replied.
“I’m not walking all the way back. Anyway, there’s no more heat or light in the carriage than there is here. Oh shit, listen to that.” From above came the sound of rain on slates.
“That does it, we all spend the rest of the night in the waiting room,” said Ben firmly. “It makes the most sense.”
“Oh, you get to decide what’s good for everyone, do you?” Claire snapped. “Of course, you’re American.”
“Just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you always boss people about.”
“Only if we know what’s best for them.”
“You’re trying to make up for being beaten in Vietnam and the Gulf by telling everyone else what to do.”
“At least we’re capable of making life-decisions, which is more than you guys. I suggest you try it sometime.”
“Great advice coming from a country where people eat with their fingers and send money to TV evangelists.”
“Now you’re being offensive.”
“Come on, you two, give it a rest.” Kallie pushed between them and led the way back to the waiting room. They had to break the lock to get the door open, but found a dry fireplace with dusty bundles of wood stacked beside it.
“I read that bird-watchers use places like these as hides,” said Masters, digging out his lighter. Outside, the rain began pounding the roof. It took a few minutes for the wood to catch, but soon they had a moderate amount of light and heat. Paint hung in strips from the ceiling, but the floor appeared to have been recently swept.
“I’m going to use the john,” said Ben, rising from the corner where he had been seated glaring balefully at Claire. “If you hear a crash it’s me kicking the lock off, okay? Give me your flashlight.” He pulled the waiting room door open. “Hey, listen to that rain.”
“This is like the station inBrief Encounter.” Claire hunched down inside her overcoat. Kallie had already fallen asleep. “I’ve seen it dozens of times on TV and I always want the ending to be different.”
“I’m surprised you like it at all,” said Masters. “Surely your generation prefers more recent stuff. You’d rewrite the ending, then?”
“Only in my head. Don’t you ever do that, change the endings of things?”
“All the time, Claire.”
Kallie fell asleep in front of the fire. The rain was still pounding the platform roof. “Ben’s been a long time. Do you think we should go and look for him?”
“No, it’s okay, I’ll go,” said Masters, forcing his aching limbs into action. He checked his watch but condensation clouded the face. As he picked his way along the dark platform, he tried to imagine what had been responsible for stranding them here. The carriage had been coupled at both ends. There had been a guard in the carriage with them. None of them had been paying much attention — they’d been too busy grandstanding each other with crazy stories. Perhaps they’d missed some kind of emergency announcement. But didn’t the staff always come around and check the carriages if there was a problem? In this day and age surely people were protected from accidents of fate? Wet leaves plastered the backs of his legs as he walked. He reached the door of the ladies’ toilet, but found that it was still locked. There was no sign that Ben had ever reached this far.
He turned slowly around and studied the dim forms about him. No sound but for wind and rain. But there was a faint glimmer of light, no more than a pencil beam, from somewhere near the far end of the platform. As he reached it, he realised that it had to be from Ben’s torch, and it was coming from the underpass to the other platform. Wary of slipping on the wet steps, he descended.
“They’ve probably found a telephone by now and called someone,” said Summerfield vaguely. “There’s really nothing to worry about.” He and Jane sat side by side in the pitch-black carriage, protected from moonlight by the hill behind them, as the art historian emptied the last of the wine into his glass. At least she had stopped crying now.
“I want to know why this is happening,” she said finally.
“That’s like trying to explain the moon, or the course of people’s lives.”
“It’s all so random, and it shouldn’t be. We’ve been telling each other stories all night, but they’re not like life because they have plots. Nothing is left to chance. All this — there’s no plot here, just a stupid accident, someone not doing their job properly.” She wiped her nose with a tissue. “I don’t want to be worried all my life. I’m tired of always thinking of others. When the children were ill, when my mother died, when Harold had his breakdown I was always the strong one. I had the answers and the energy to go on. It seems like there was never a moment in my life when I wasn’t prepared to face disappointment. I feel like a fictional cliché, the academic’s neurotic wife, and only I know that I’m not in someone else’s story, that I’m real. Well, I don’t want to be like that any more. I want someone else to take care of the worrying for a while. I want to go away somewhere warm and quiet. Where could I go, Peregrine?”
“I know a story about a special place,” he whispered.
“Is it real, though?”
“No, of course not. I don’t know anything about real places.”
“But you must do. You’re so much more practical than Harold.”