Night Train Read online

  * * *

  Park was where Peter lived and worked now. Every day after breakfast he left his bedroom and was taken to a large room in a building at the back of the house. The room was full of desktop and laptop computers, each one operated by a young man or woman. Nobody spoke, and Peter had no idea what anybody else was doing. He himself was assigned different tasks, the amount depending entirely on how much he could get done throughout the day.

  There were only two constants. The first was that he was never told what to do. Peter might find a map on his screen: having no idea where it was or what he was supposed to do with it, it took him a few minutes to work out that some of the places on the map were connected, and by clicking on the names of the places he could make them vanish. He might find a series of abstract and random images, which he would then divide into groups; he might be given a scientific document whose errors he would then correct. He had no idea if what he was doing was wrong or right. No encouragement or discouragement was ever given.

  The other constant was the bear and rope puzzle. Once every two or three days, one of these puzzles appeared on his screen. They were always easy to solve once it was grasped that the point of the puzzle was to kill the bear, not to free it. Sometimes for his own entertainment Peter would free the bear, but when he did the same puzzle always reappeared the next day, as if waiting for him to do it properly this time, so after a while he grew bored of setting the bear free and just killed it with the ropes to free up time for his other work.

  * * *

  After lunch, which was always under his desk in a plastic box, Peter and the others worked until the evening, when they were allowed to socialise. There were limits to this: nobody was allowed to talk about their work, or even refer to it. As Peter had no idea what he was doing, this was not a very onerous demand. Much harder was the pressure of socialising. Peter had no idea who anyone was or where they had come from, but to a man or woman they were all shy, quiet and far from chatty. Peter, who had considered himself a loner at school, began to realise just how gregarious he had actually been.

  School at least had forced people together in clubs, in hobbies and with games. No such distractions were encouraged at Park. Sometimes people might disclose a former interest in model-making, or football, or films, but there was simply no way of indulging these interests at Park, short of carving twigs or making a ball from old clothes. Even reading was not an option, as there was no library. And, at the end of each working day, nobody really had the energy to do anything but watch television.

  Soon Peter had fallen into the evening routine of making his way to the TV room after dinner, sitting in an old armchair and letting the television’s selection of nature shows and incomprehensible soap operas wash over him. He had the feeling that every animal and person in these programmes was long dead, but he didn’t care. This was his new life.

  * * *

  One evening, when Peter was about to nod off during a particularly old programme about sloths (Peter knew it was old from the blurred quality of the film and the fact that the white people in it were wearing khaki shorts and knee socks), he felt a sharp dig in his ribs.

  A voice said: “I’ve seen this. They capture the sloths and take them away, but we never find out where.”

  He stirred. A young man he’d never noticed was sitting in the chair next to his, a chair normally occupied by a fat boy called Lamb.

  “Where’s Lamb?” said Peter.

  “Over there,” said the young man, and Peter saw that Lamb was perched with difficulty on a small stool by the window. “I told him I was allergic to draughts and he gave me his seat. He’s a very kind boy.”

  “No, he isn’t,” said Peter. “He farts in his hand and puts it over your mouth.”

  “Well, he might do that for you,” said the young man, giving Peter an amused look, “but it’s not really my sort of thing.”

  “I didn’t mean I asked him to –” Peter began, then stopped. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Hatch,” said the young man. He extended his hand. “And you’re Peter.”

  Peter looked at the hand. “Hello,” he said.

  Hatch seemed not to notice his lack of enthusiasm.

  “Listen,” he said, nodding at the TV set. “It’s coming up.”

  Unsure what Hatch was talking about, Peter looked at the television. Two sloths had been trussed up and were being hoisted up on poles.

  “The mission has been a success,” said the fruity voice-over. “And now the sloths will be taken to –”

  Peter didn’t hear where the sloths would be taken to because at the exact moment the narrator spoke, an elephant trumpeted.

  “See?” said Hatch. “They took the name out.”

  “It was just an elephant,” said Peter.

  “An elephant,” said Hatch. “In South America. Right.”

  “Excuse me,” Peter said. “I have to go.”

  “OK,” said Hatch. “I’ll tell Lamb he can have his seat back.”

  * * *

  The next night, Lamb sat next to Peter. Peter pretended he wasn’t disappointed.

  * * *

  The night after that, when Peter went into the television room, he found himself scanning the room for Hatch. He saw him, sitting on a couch with a boy and a girl. Hatch caught his eye and, to Peter’s horror, patted the arm of the sofa. Peter turned away and went to his normal seat.

  * * *

  Denning came to see Peter at work.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, fine,” said Peter. “Why?” he added, although he didn’t really need to. His concentration had not been great recently and he’d found some of the games and puzzles less obvious than usual.

  “Nothing,” said Denning. “Only sometimes we find the environment here doesn’t suit everyone.”

  “It suits me fine,” said Peter. “Really.”

  “Good,” said Denning. “Just checking.”

  * * *

  That evening, Peter decided to avoid the TV room entirely. He stayed in his room, staring at the ceiling, trying to make the cracks turn into ropes and strangle the light fitting. “Fuck you, Hatch,” he said suddenly. He got up and went downstairs.

  The TV room was full. Hatch was sitting in Peter’s chair. He smiled when he saw Peter come in.

  “I think there’s something wrong with my washbasin,” he said.

  “You need the caretaker,” Hatch replied.

  “I can’t find him,” Peter said.

  Hatch sighed and got up.

  “Come on then,” he said.

  * * *

  An hour later, Hatch left Peter’s room.

  “We should do this again,” he said.

  Peter couldn’t tell in the dark, but he was sure Hatch was smiling.

  * * *

  And so Peter’s life began. He never said so, even to Hatch, but he dated the beginning of his existence from the moment that they met. He couldn’t prove that Hatch felt the same way, of course, because the way they were together was another thing that could not be discussed, but he knew, inside himself, that they were meant to be together.

  Certainly life smiled on them. Denning took them both from the obscurity of the computer pool and put them into smaller, more intensive workrooms, where the puzzles Peter worked on were more opaque, more abstract and – judging by the pleasure Denning expressed when Peter solved them – more important. There were new privileges associated with working in the smaller rooms, too. Better food, more access to the grounds – which turned out to be huge – and even visits to a nearby village which, while small, had a shop and even a pub, both of which took Park scrip.

  * * *

  It was on one visit to the pub, about two years later, that Hatch, setting their half pints of bitter down on a copper table, said:

  “Do you think this is it for ever for us?”

  Peter nearly blurted out that he hoped it was, when he realised that Hatch was not talking about the two of them
.

  “I mean,” he continued, “the war, of course.”

  Peter looked shocked.

  “You’re not supposed to talk about –”

  “I know. But there’s nobody else here, and besides, it’s ridiculous. There is a war, and we’re in it, same as everyone else. In fact –” and Hatch did at least lean in and speak quietly, “– I think we’re the ones winning it.”

  “What do you mean?” Peter took a sip of his bitter nervously.

  Hatch laughed. “You don’t think we’re just playing puzzles and games all day, do you? We’re part of the war effort, Peter.”

  “I still think you should be quiet,” Peter said.

  “No,” said Hatch. “I’d have to do something really bad to get into trouble. Last year Sorensen in Room 12 came to work drunk and pissed himself at his desk, and nobody said a word.”

  “Pissing yourself isn’t treason,” said Peter, and felt foolish even as he spoke.

  “Nor is this,” said Hatch, sharply. “Peter, I don’t know what we’re doing or how it helps the war, but it does help and we’re the ones doing it. One day they’ll give us medals, believe me.”

  And with that they finished their drinks and left.

  * * *

  Things changed shortly after that. Men and women didn’t come into work and were never seen again. The puzzles weren’t – not difficult, but unreasonable, somehow, as if it was asking too much of Peter to solve them. They were sloppier, harder to follow and – most annoying of all to an expert puzzle solver – badly put-together, as though whoever was making them had lost interest in their work. The only constants were the rope and bear puzzles, which never varied. Ropes continued to writhe and strangle, and bears’ eyes continued to burst.

  The worsening situation bothered Peter, but it didn’t seem to worry Hatch.

  “We’re safe here,” he told Peter one night in his room. “So long as we keep solving the puzzles, everything will be fine.”

  * * *

  A few weeks later trips to the pub were banned (“There’s no beer anyway,” said Sorensen, morosely.) A few weeks after that, everyone was confined to Park for their own safety. There were blackouts – these didn’t affect the computers, which had their own backup generators as well as batteries – and sometimes there was no food. The TV programmes began to get more and more repetitive, too. The sloth programme, in particular, seemed to be on every evening.

  * * *

  “I wish they’d get some more tapes,” said Hatch.

  “This programme means a lot to me,” Peter said.

  “That’s because you are a bloody sloth,” Hatch replied.

  Peter turned to him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve had Denning on my back. Apparently he thinks I have some influence over you,” said Hatch, tightly. “He says you’re slacking.”

  Peter was confused and angered by everything Hatch was saying.

  “I’ve been working as hard as ever,” he said.

  “Plodding is one thing,” said Hatch. “Results are another. I don’t want this to reflect on me.”

  * * *

  After lights out, Peter waited in his room until it got so late he decided to go to sleep. But he couldn’t sleep.

  * * *

  Hatch took to avoiding Peter. Sometimes they didn’t speak for days. Peter worked hard in the computer room to avoid thinking about him, but the puzzles were now so sloppy and incomprehensible that he could only effectively work on new rope and bear puzzles.

  I want to throw myself into my work, he thought, but my work keeps throwing me back out.

  * * *

  One day Peter woke up. He thought about Hatch, and he thought about work, and he decided it wasn’t worth getting up.

  About lunchtime, when nobody had come for him, he got bored and went into the computer room. Despite his unshaven appearance and the fact that he was wearing his dressing-gown over his pyjamas, no one even seemed to notice he was there. In fact, there were very few people in the room at all.

  * * *

  This went on for a week or so. Peter hadn’t spoken to Hatch for months now. He hadn’t spoken to anyone but, he noticed, people in Park had pretty much given up on talking anyway.

  * * *

  Towards the end of the winter, a winter without heating or much electric light, Peter was woken by a banging on the door. Before he could sit up, he was pulled out of bed by two figures in dark blue jerseys and jeans. They dragged him, not protesting at all, down the corridor and up a staircase. At the top of the stairs was an open door into a small room.

  He was taken into the room and tied to a chair. Some sort of metal ropes were wrapped around him. Peter had never seen them before, but they looked familiar somehow. At the front of the room was a glass window, behind which he could just make out a face. The face was Hatch’s.

  As the ropes gathered around Peter, he tensed. A smaller rope was tightening itself about his neck. He found it hard to breathe. Despite this, he kept his head up, eyes on Hatch. Hatch didn’t return his gaze: he was too busy pressing keys on his laptop.

  Hatch wasn’t as good at the puzzle as Peter, but it still took him less than three minutes to envelop the bear in six or seven ropes. As the last rope coiled into place, the bear’s expression turned to one of alarm.

  A few seconds later and it was over. A team removed the body and cleaned the window.

  There used to be a boy called Peter.

  * * *

  “Hatch is useless now,” Denning said to the woman on the screen.

  “You told me he was first percentile,” said the woman. “You told me he was essential.”

  “No one is essential,” said Denning. “Except yourself, of course,” he added quickly.

  “He turned in the degenerate,” said the woman. “He performed the removal himself. And then…” She looked disgusted.

  “What shall I do with him?” asked Denning.

  The woman said nothing. Unaware she was doing it, she put her hand over her throat, as though feeling for a missing necklace.

  “He’s human waste now,” she said. “Take his face and let him go.”

  * * *

  They took Hatch’s face and gave him someone else’s. The operation hurt so much he could only bear the pain by making number patterns.

  * * *

  Seven.

  * * *

  They were doing something to his eyes.

  * * *

  Thirty-two.

  * * *

  He was strapped down and his shirt was cut off.

  * * *

  Seven. Nine. Fourteen. Seventy-eight.

  * * *

  His chest was open.

  * * *

  When they stopped, he was still in pain. It hurt so much he didn’t wake up for a month.

  * * *

  When he did, he was on a train.

  TWO

  “So now you know,” said Banks.

  “That wasn’t you,” said Garland.

  “It was,” Banks said. “A different name doesn’t make you a different person. A different face doesn’t change you.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” said Garland. “You’re not him. What you did was awful but it changed you. Not your name or your face, but you.”

  She held him. He was bony and difficult to hold. Outside, lights flashed and rainclouds burst.

  “You’re not Hatch,” she said. “I’m sorry about Hatch too, but Hatch is dead.”

  Banks looked up at her.

  “I can still remember, though,” he said. “What I did.”

  “Look where we are,” Garland said. “Look where they put us. Whoever they are, they’re not good people. They didn’t have to make you choose between Peter and your own life. They didn’t have to kill him –”

  “I killed him,” said Banks.

  “They killed him too,” said Garland. “And they killed us.”

  She stood up.

  “I think,” she s
aid, “that we really need to have a word with the driver.”

  * * *

  As Banks picked up his cans and put them back into the kitbag, he said, “How do you even know this is the right way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” said Banks. “When you woke up back there, you just opened the first door you found and headed in this direction. For all you know, we could be going towards the back of the train.”

  Garland frowned.

  “You’re doing that thing with your hand again,” said Banks.

  “When I woke up,” she said, moving her hand, “I was sure there wasn’t another door in the carriage. Which has to mean it was the last carriage on the train. The end carriage.”

  “You didn’t check?”

  “I wasn’t inclined to, no. It was more like a cattle truck than a carriage. It was dark, and there were chains.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything. Half the carriages on this train don’t look like each other. There’s one up there that –”

  Banks stopped. Garland gave him a look.

  “I thought you said you’d been in your carriage the whole time,” she said.

  “I did,” said Banks. “I was. Only –”

  He put down the bag.

  “In the early days, sometimes I’d hear noises. From the other direction – your direction. So I’d move away, up the train.”

  “You’ve been here before? And you saw the cage, too?”

  Banks was on the defensive.

  “I hardly knew you. You could have been a trap.”

  “OK. Sorry. But tell me – is there anything up there I should know about?”

  Banks shook his head. “This is pretty much as far as I got.”

  “Pretty much as far, or exactly as far?”

  “Just as far as the game,” Banks said.

  “What game?” said Garland.

  “I’ll show you,” Banks replied.

  * * *

  They made their way through a carriage which was unremarkable except for the fact that everything in it was broken. Seats, tables, luggage racks: even the unbreakable windows were cracked and bowed.

  “Something angry was in here,” Banks said. He reached under a smashed table and pulled out something. A can of peaches.

  “Maybe it couldn’t open cans,” suggested Garland.