Luck and Other Deadly Things. Christopher Byford

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СКАЧАТЬ the idea about in his head, with an inebriated grin. There was something alluring about the idea of gambling, almost dangerous, a perfect accompaniment to their new venture. At his request, they struck the caramel-coloured bottles together, cementing the agreement. ‘Do tell me more …’

The Rust Cough

       Though not elaborated on in the novel, the years that Franco and his grandfather shared were spent transporting goods around the region, with Franco learning how to operate the train. Unfortunately, this was all to be cut short. Pappy began to develop a respiratory disease on account of poor working conditions in his youth, something he would never recover from. This sequence was supposed to reveal the sudden decline of Pappy’s health, as well as a twenty-something Franco managing the train itself.

      Franco picked beneath his fingernails for the umpteenth time. The dirt had congregated there so many times that it was almost a permanent fixture. He shuffled his feet forward, looking past the queue to the station house on the platform. There, illuminated by gaslight, a solitary individual wrote in his ledger. He spoke with the person at the front of the line. When their business was concluded, the individual inside called the next person forward and the line became one shorter in number. Franco looked about for the station clock, squinted at the time and exhaled in an attempt to remain patient.

      Another step closer. More small talk made by those in line. The one in front was smoking like he was on fire, wafts sailing over his shoulder and traversing down into Franco’s face. He held both his nerve and his breath. The man ahead then tapped the ash from an ill-made roll-up, letting the breeze carry it away and land upon Franco’s oil-soiled jeans. Franco tried to ignore it. It was late and an argument would do nothing to help his already sour mood. He checked the station clock again. It had barely moved since last time.

      At long last he was next. The smoker ahead grumbled about this and that, his conversation patchy and only half listened to, before he suddenly erupted with a deep guttering laugh.

      Finally, it was Franco’s turn. He casually greeted the man behind the counter with a nod and presented the prepared paperwork in a bundle. It was separated and scanned with a modest amount of conversation made. Franco spoke only to confirm the train’s designation and its cargo, and to declare no contraband was on board.

      The drum of the rubber stamp across paperwork was loud and routine. Franco said nothing, letting the station hand do his work. He didn’t flinch at the occasional flick of the eyes in his direction, condescending ones to be sure. He responded to the questions promptly, the same as everywhere else they pulled into, with the answers already prepared. Yes, he was young to be at the front of a train like this, or any train for that matter. Yes, he understood the contraband restrictions. Yes, he understood the taxation in this region. No, all that didn’t give this outpost an excuse to mark Franco up by another three per cent and assume he’d not notice.

      Hauling was hard work. The more you pulled, the greater the profit, though it put the engine under greater stress. Many a train had broken down in the Sand Sea, its owners greedy and misjudging the limits of their vehicle. He had seen plenty abandoned so far out in various states of decay, the vehicles left on sidings to be consumed by the unforgiving desert. Maybe their owners made it back to civilization somehow. Maybe scavengers feigned assistance and took out the drivers, leaving the carcasses to be picked clean of anything of value. Sometimes the risk outweighed the reward.

      Franco looked to the side and further down the platform. Reams of crates were designated floor space with trolleys and trucks back and forth from the stationary trains over some twelve platforms. It was quite the busy operation and, thankfully, a decent payer out this way.

      The last paper was stamped and the documents passed back over.

      ‘Bay thirteen, shipments B through E. Hand your manifest to the station hand in red. He’ll organize to get the goods unloaded. He’ll sign you off, then you need to come back here for payment.’

      ‘Cheers.’ Franco grunted, turning to leave.

      ‘Hey, kid,’ the man interrupted, crunching up his features in thought.

       Oh, here it comes.

      ‘You go steady out there,’ he offered, showing genuine concern, a rarity these days. ‘Your log shows you pulling a lot of jobs in the last month. It’s unhealthy to be working so hard. Try to find time when you can. Understand me?’

      Franco did understand. He understood the sense of urgency he was under and having to haul further afield each job just to get a decent amount in the purse. Other people didn’t have his overheads. The train had needed servicing a month back. There were the supplies for the long hauls, unexpected costs that arose during travel.

      Then there was the pay for the doctors and subsequent medication.

      ‘Yeah.’ Franco tipped his head. ‘Thanks.’

      Franco opened up the goods cars and let those on the platform do their work. Sitting on the steps of the footplate around the engine boiler, Franco sipped coffee from a battered tin cup, alternating between a mouthful and a draw of a cigarette. The station lights did their best to blot out the flood of stars that rode the black sea of the night sky like a million pinprick boats of white. The moon was, naturally, immune to this attempt to usurp its radiance and contested fiercely with its full illumination.

      As barrows and trolleys rattled up and down ramps, Franco spent the time indulging in a moment of contemplation, the closest he could get to relaxing. He caught an hour of much-needed sleep during unloading, with his waking being a less than gentle bang of a fist on the footplate.

      With payment collected, Franco took himself to the lonely engine cab of the train and stoked the boiler before fiddling with the myriad of gauges. When satisfied, he took the Eiferian 433 out with a departing whistle, its headlamp illuminating the track ahead in blackest night, stumbling forward for the next leg of its journey.

      The tracks clattered over and over until the steam reached the outer rail lines, which moved through canyons and passed over the grand bridges suspended above colossal dunes. The Eiferian 433 cut a path through the cold and indifferent night with its driver fixated on the route ahead. Their next destination would take a few days of travel and if that meant forgoing a little sleep it wouldn’t be the greatest of losses. He could take to his bed once he arrived. What mattered was reaching the trading post in question before anybody else and claiming the majority of the goods to transit. That was how the best contracts were won. That was how the money was made.

      Franco was so absorbed on the journey, that he failed to notice the shape come up behind him. The shadow, who had silently advanced past the train’s tender to the young man, reached out – but before he could make contact, Franco noticed and yelped in surprise, his roll-up landing on the cab floor.

      ‘What the fu—! Damn you, old man, you nearly made me drop dead from fright!’ he protested, reaching down to reclaim his smoke.

      Pappy shuffled over, cackling in amusement before struggling to clear his throat. The single oil lamp in the cab covered his thinning face with a warm yellow, barely penetrating the straggling misshapen beard that had wildly grown in the last month. Most of his movements seemed stiff and hampered, with walking taking significant effort. He shouldn’t have been out here.

      ‘I always took you as a hardier fellow. If a simple scare can stop your heart, then I worry about your future,’ the old man croaked in amusement. He shuffled over, utilizing a nearby handrail for stability to counteract the relentless rocking. Finally, he found СКАЧАТЬ