That was Wednesday night. The rest of the week passed at the speed of a man reading a book in a language that is not his own. I spent most of Thursday and Friday abstractedly dealing with customers while puzzling over a detail in Un Régicide. Boris discovers a gravestone for a student called Red. By this stage, Boris has already decided he is going to assassinate the King, for no other reason than that he doesn’t like his smile. The inscription on Red’s headstone reads Ci-gît Red. Here lies Red. It was one letter away from being an anagram of régicide. Why had the author settled for something that was almost an anagram but not quite? And how would a translator possibly render that in English? It wasn’t my problem, of course, but it gnawed away at me.
Saturday came around and it too went slowly. I was left pretty much alone so I spent most of the day looking at the map. I wondered if it could turn out to be part of Manchester, but I’d checked the appropriate A — Z and ruled out that possibility. Nevertheless, like the Italian skater who jumped a quadruple salchow, the second time the tape was played maybe the streets on the map would insinuate themselves into Manchester in time for my visit. Reality was mutating.
As soon as it started getting towards five o’clock, I waited for a lull in customers and closed up early. I could have driven up but I chose to take the train because I was tired after a hard week. Running a record shop single-handed was no joke but it was beginning to feel like one.
I took my seat at Euston and settled down to enjoy the journey. I had a can of some inferior beer from the buffet and a packet of Camels, a seat at the front of the train, in a smoking carriage, naturally. I pulled down the little table on the back of the seat in front and spread out the map.
As the train rolled through the Midlands I watched the light get squeezed out of the sky by a bank of deep violet cloud in the west. I peered down single-track branch lines that peeled off from the mainline. Their secrets were kept safe by thick stands of trees and thorny bushes.
At one point the railway ran alongside a main road, then the two diverged and smaller roads passed underneath the tracks. The train flew past a depot with sidings where strings of freight trucks stood waiting. Two rows of shunters and larger diesels loomed. Because I rarely travelled by rail I was fascinated by the detail, by the intricacy of the network laid out over the whole country, a multiplicity of directions of travel, different routes to destinations; a world of possibilities.
In my life I got up and I went to work and sometimes I walked around the West End, drove around North London — a limited set of variables. The structure and scope of the rail system attracted me in the same way as the gas pipes. The depots were like gasholders. Maybe those trucks would sit there months; or maybe they’d get shunted into service tomorrow.
I was in awe of this vast network of communication that I had no part in, nor any real knowledge of. There were so many secrets, so many discoveries to be made.
I swigged back the rest of the lager, lit another cigarette and folded the map. The closer I got to Manchester the more excited I became.
Suddenly I felt a cool draught as if someone had left a door or a window open. But these new trains were hermetically sealed. I shivered and felt goose pimples rise on my arms. As I reached for my leather jacket and twisted to get my arm in it, I happened to look outside. It was quite dark now and I couldn’t make out very much apart from trees and ditches and tangles of nettles and brambles. A branch line swung in from the left. I looked down it as the train sped past. The twin rails curved away into darkness.
Then I noticed something flashing. Two little things that flashed together like eyes. I wondered if they were my own eyes reflected in the window but pretty soon, as I shaded my view and concentrated, I realised that I was looking at a pair of eyes outside. They flashed in the light from the train carriage. What’s more, they were keeping up with the train.
I cupped my hands either side of my face and stared back at the eyes.
I went cold. Then hot. And cold again as I started to sweat.
It was a dog running alongside the train, jumping as if it were all a game, but those eyes weren’t playing. The beast was bounding along, leaping over bushes and piles of dumped sleepers, head twisting to the right so it could watch the train. I could see its strong white teeth as the loose flaps of skin around its mouth flew up and down. Thick strings of saliva trailed behind its head. It looked like a bull, eyes rolling, tossing its head one last time before goring its taunter. I briefly shuddered. Its pumping flanks were slick. It opened its mouth and showed an impressive set of teeth. Still it kept pace with the train. I looked around the carriage. There were only two other passengers, heads turned the other way as they stared into the darkness outside their side of the train.
I looked back, hoping that the creature would have disappeared, but it was still there, leaping at the glass and snapping its jaws. I found myself unable to look away, terrified that if I did the dog would somehow manage to get inside the train, either by leaping through an open window between carriages or by smashing a window with its skull — the thing looked hard enough. Now it actually began hitting the side of its head against the window, and the skull cracked like a fancy chocolate, smearing strawberry cream on the glass. I reacted — recoiled, yelped — but the other passengers continued to look out of their own windows. I started to question the reality of what was happening. The dog was doing things that shouldn’t have been possible and whereas I liked that in an ice-skater or a singer I wasn’t sure I was in favour of it for dogs. I’d always believed I’d rather submerge myself in a bath of spiders than meet a pit bull terrier down a dead end street.
It was hard to tell, because of the speed and the poor light, but I thought it was a pit bull that was beating its head against the window.
The train wasn’t going very fast but neither was it crawling along. I was rocking forward on my seat willing it to go faster. The dog showed no signs of tiring. It thumped its head against the glass, working its jaws on the night air like scissors. The eyes were the worst because they were so blank, devoid of intelligence. I felt sucked into them. I had to get away; specifically, I had to go to the bathroom, in a hurry.
I locked the door behind me and for a moment felt more secure. I used the facilities and stood looking at my white face in the mirror.
But I’d been an idiot.
There was a thud on the outside of the frosted window. In the confined space it was deafening.
I’d been an idiot by not taking care to use the toilet on the other side of the train.
There was another solid thump and with an almost imperceptible bending inwards a fine map of cracks spread itself over the small square of glass. I watched it transfixed. With one final blast the window shattered, sharp triangles scattering over me and over the floor, and the dog’s wicked, ugly head thrust through into the tiny cubicle.
I stood unable to move, a wave of revulsion sweeping through me. I watched the dog and the dog watched me. Then the head whipped from side to side catching the neck on jags of glass and spotting the floor with blood. Its eyes followed mine but I couldn’t move. The dog lunged forward, cutting its throat more deeply, and snapped its stinking jaws at me. I felt its hot breath and sticky spittle on my face. The animal made another lunge forward, and its throat was opened so deeply by the glass that a jet of dark blood struck me in the chest. This seemed to set me free. I grabbed at the door handle and within seconds was reeling about the space between the carriages tearing at my formerly white cotton shirt — panicking, muttering, laughing, crying, all at the same time. After pulling the toilet door shut I’d been able to hear the blood drumming against the door.