The last time she’d been on a train was the Caledonian Sleeper from Inverness to London, after a rousing tour of Loch Ness with a gaggle of rowdy teenagers. She remembered purple bunk beds, stainless steel washbasins, tea and toast to soak up their evening’s excess. They’d gotten plowed on the train (thrilled to be able to say they were appropriately pissed, in the local lingo) and disembarked with legs that wouldn’t hold them properly, giggling and swaying through the train station like a mustering of newborn storks.
Things were more seemly now that she was an adult. Their seats were reserved with a small piece of paper stuck to the top. They faced one another, with a tan plastic table in the middle.
“Forward or back?” he asked.
She motioned to the forward seat. The idea of riding backward made her nauseous.
They took their places. Taylor turned her phone on so she could check her messages, was relieved to see she had none.
And sad, at the same time. It used to be she couldn’t go five minutes without a call, but now her phone sat silent and unused. Unloved. She sent Baldwin a quick, needless text that they were on their way, and stowed the phone.
The train’s doors closed. The cabin around them was full. The movement began with a gentle tug, then built into a rhythm. Quickly, a girl with a trolley came by. Taylor followed Memphis’s suggestion and ordered tea, fruit salad and a bacon sandwich. She was delighted when it showed up—the bacon was crisp, the wheat toast warm and crunchy, and the side was a large dollop of what she first thought was barbeque sauce, but quickly discovered was HP Sauce, similar, but more peppery than what she knew. It was delicious, and she immediately felt at home. Bacon and barbeque sauce in first class on a northbound train to Edinburgh. She could get used to this.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Taylor watched the green fields roll by, surprised by their verdancy, considering it was so late in the year. Wintertime, but at sea level, the constant wet kept things lush. The villages along the way were charming, even the smallest, poorest close elegant in its barrenness. She was surprised by the cypress trees, which were so reminiscent of the Italian countryside she loved. The beautiful trees brought up fond memories, memories Memphis seemed determined to ruin with his inopportunely timed interruptions. She’d forgotten what a blue jay he could be. Of course, after being trapped in silence for the past month, most of the people close to her had grown quiet as well. She had to remember that. He was simply being friendly.
“You’ll be pleased to know the weather will be fine tomorrow. A brief storm tonight, some snow, but nothing you won’t be able to handle. It might liven up a bit later in the week. You did pack your warm boots….
“May I get you some more tea? The trolley should be coming back through any moment….
“You’re much too thin, you need a proper fattening up. Cook will be thrilled to have a project. She gets terribly dejected when my parents decide to spend the holidays away….”
And finally, “Are you ignoring me on purpose, or have you simply lapsed into a travel coma?”
She mentally shook herself. She was being awfully rude.
She held up a finger to make him wait a minute, then retrieved her laptop from her bag. If they were going to have a conversation, it was easier and quicker for her to type.
She opened to a blank page in Word and typed her answer.
Not ignoring. Just used to quiet. Sorry. Where are we now?
“Just north of York.”
The trolley arrived again, momentarily saving her from more conversation. She was full of tea, accepted a glass of wine instead. Outside, the clouds turned from white to gray, and small bits of blue tried to peek through. The vistas were changing, growing wider, with more farmland visible. The landscape was dotted with the cotton of lambs.
With the alcohol on board, things became easier. She dropped her walls a bit and allowed herself to enjoy the ride. She and Memphis settled into a comfortable rhythm of chatter and writing. She watched his blue eyes light up when he saw something outside the train windows he thought she should know about. He was full of stories and memories.
“See the cathedral at Durham? One of Britain’s most famous serial killers is housed in the prison here….
“We call this the Angel of the North….
“This is still the Thames, all the way up in Newcastle, famous for their bridges. The Tweed River is at the border between England and Scotland….”
They chugged past an undulating concert hall that looked like a roly-poly, one of the insects Taylor had treasured as a child. She’d combed the ground for them, picked them up with her grubby hands, thrilled to watch them curl into tiny balls that made them impervious to her incessant poking.
Trees that looked like miniature Italian Stone pines puffed their tops into umbrella shapes—yet another reminder of her time in Italy. She wondered whether the conquerors brought them or if they migrated naturally.
A murder of crows stood watch in a field. She imagined their caws, overlaid with the delicate notes of the fine song-birds in Nashville. They’d gathered in the branches at the Snow White’s house, their Siren call pulling her in, where the Pretender lay in wait for her…
God, she had to stop flashing back like this. It was disturbing in the extreme, this inability to divorce the most mundane sights and sounds from the shooting.
She had the most absurd thought, which pulled her back to the present. She knew it would make Memphis laugh. She hoped his mirth would be catching.
Do the crows have a British accent?
“What?”
The crows. The animals in general. Do they have some sort of accent, like you do?
“I haven’t an accent. Besides, I would think it’s the American animals with the inflections, don’t you? A drawl here, a twang there. It’s all the Queen’s English, after all.”
They shared a smile, then were quiet for a bit.
The sun was growing low in the sky. She burrowed into her jacket, suddenly chilled. She was here, she was committed to getting all the way back to herself. So why did she have such a sense of foreboding about the whole venture?
Memphis caught her shiver. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, gently taking her hand. She let him, she was chilled, and the warmth felt good.
She knew exactly what he meant. The shooting. The Pretender. Her fall from grace. Her life falling apart before everyone’s eyes.
Not really. There’s no more to tell. It’s over. I just need to let it go. I’m trying, so hard, to let it go. Why don’t you tell me about your case instead? I’ll live vicariously through you.
He stared into her eyes for a few moments, as if trying to ascertain if she was trying to get him to push harder, or if she really wanted him to back away and distract her. Apparently deciding on the latter, he filled her in.
“All right, then. At best, we have a trio of girls who’ve run away, joined a cult or some such nonsense. At worst, we’ll start finding bodies. The pattern is quite evident, and the victimology is coming together nicely. They all attended different schools, didn’t work together, but all three had gone to a ‘church’ over on the East End. For one it was in her neighborhood, for the others, a tube ride. Out of their way.
“They call it a church, but they don’t ascribe to any God I’ve ever heard of. It’s run by a very charismatic young man who is known as Urq. His father is quite rich. I think he’s probably a schizophrenic, but seems to be much beloved amongst his flock.
“It’s probably a serial, but if that were the case, I’d expect to see bodies by now. I just don’t have a handle on it yet. Give me a stabbing in a Mayfair pub any day.”