Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy. Christopher Byford

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СКАЧАТЬ I was in my mid-twenties, had slept with a handful of girls, and nothing even came close to that feeling.’

      ‘Delightful analogy, dear,’ Misu flatly retorted, watching the birds above call to one another.

      ‘All of a sudden I had adopted this new life. Without my grandfather beside me to push me, I needed others to do so. I needed people I trusted to see this thing through. I needed people to keep me steady.’ Something broke in Franco’s voice, which Misu had never witnessed before. It was a vulnerability – small but considerably telling. Abandoning any notion of what was appropriate she allowed her hand to drift upon his. It landed in reassurance, flexing tightly.

      ‘Tell me about it.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I want to know what the fuss is about. If you put it like that, you owe a woman’s pride to indulge in every sordid detail.’

      And so, Franco obliged, baring all.

      * * *

      ‘How’s it going, slacker? That coupling rod braced back up?’ Pappy was growing impatient at how long such a simple task was taking.

      Franco had both hands tightly wrapped around the length of a wrench handle. He jerked downward, giving his hands respite for a second between heaves. Begrudgingly the bolt gave slightly each time, tightening over and over. Though there was still more give left in it, forcing Franco to redouble his efforts. Without warning the wrench slipped from the bolt head and swung through the air.

      ‘Bastard!’ Franco cried out, waving away the burning that plagued his hands in turn. ‘It would be braced back up if you stopped asking me every five minutes! Do you have any idea how awkward these bolts are? They were sent to test me, I swear.’

      The old man rested an arm on the engine cab in disbelief. He had spent the last few hours sweeping and polishing, driving away the accumulated build-up that haunted every pipe, handle, and gauge. Whilst not clean in the conventional sense it was easily suitable for the first attempt at coaxing the locomotive to move.

      ‘Really? You’re asking me that? Of everything you’ve done, including rebuilding that pain-in-the-ass left cylinder, you expect me to believe you’re bested by a bolt of all things?’ Pappy quipped. Didn’t the boy remember how long he’d spent living on the rails? Repairs were commonplace. There was no complaining about broken this or impatient that. Either you learnt how to fix the vehicle, quickly, or you stayed to watch the crows circle in impatience.

      ‘Bested nothing! It’s just being difficult is all; doesn’t want to get set in place.’ Franco took stock of his tool and tried once more. It was unthinkable that a single bolt was going to get the better of him. There was a series of increasingly strained heaves that climaxed with a torrent of abuse at the offending fastener.

      ‘Quit being soft then! What did I say? Brandish the stick when it misbehaves. Do I have to come down there and show you how to correctly do up a bolt? Shall we start at the beginning while we’re at it? Lesson one. This here that you’re looking at is what’s called a train …’

      Franco hunched over himself, tossing the instrument into a nearby toolbox. It’s introduction knocked it onto one side, spilling the rest sideways.

      ‘Yeah, all right, drop the sarcasm, old-timer. It’s on. That’s the last of them. Let me get my breath back and we’ll get it lowered back down.’ Franco gasped, tossing his leather gloves aside. His palms burnt, indented with the recess of the tool despite adequate protection.

      ‘After I check it,’ Pappy insisted.

      ‘Yes, after you check it. It’s like you don’t trust my handiwork …’ Franco peeled his vest from his torso, tossing it to the dirt. The afternoon sun had been scorching, making him a fool for slaving away for so long. Curse this heat and curse those damn troublesome bolts. He swiped at a water tap head, dragging out the connecting hose for relief, dousing his scalp in water.

      ‘Trust, nothing. It’s sensible to double-check another’s work. Prevents accidents.’

      Water sprayed from Franco’s lips, bringing relief. Using the tap, he filled up a pair of tin cups and drank his, hungrily, speedily reaching to refill it once more. The second was passed to Pappy, who sat himself down on the side of the engine steps.

      ‘What do you think about tomorrow?’ Franco sipped from his cup. If he was honest this whole affair was making him feel quite queasy. It wasn’t the hardships of learning every aspect from scratch, though they were taxing. It wasn’t the sheer urgency that his grandfather demanded they worked with, though it was significantly draining. No, the unease came about whenever Franco envisioned attempting to start the train up. For six years it had been simply a shell, an abandoned husk seemingly rooted to the scrapyard by its own fate. To envision it in movement was preposterous. All this dedication would amount to naught. Doubt was beginning to gnaw away at him despite the accomplishments made.

      So what if it didn’t start? They had done everything possible to coax a second chance of life from the locomotive. It was almost depressing to think that after such toil things were in the hands of fate or some other unscrupulous force. At least they had given it a shot. At least they had tried.

      Pappy nursed his cup, keeping his own concerns silent. Unlike Franco, he didn’t fret over the chance of the train being nothing. His mind was set on logical solutions to possible eventualities.

      ‘I think we’ve done all we can do, but if the old girl doesn’t want to start, we gotta encourage her. What’s with your face?’

      ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

      ‘The hell you don’t. You look about as sour as a bottle of milk left in the noon sun. Out with it. Not getting second thoughts, are you?’

      ‘Never. Just anxious, is all.’

      ‘We’ve come too far to back down now. We both have. See, our lives have been set on a course like these here rails. No deviation from any of that – even if you wanted to. You’re fixed on your destination, Franco. Ain’t nothing you can do but to just shut up and accept where you’re heading.’

      Pappy burst into a series of rasping coughs. Franco watched him finally suppress them with large gulps of water.

      ‘Curse this infernal dust,’ he griped, spitting whatever had collected in his throat out into the sand.

      Franco smiled, taking another mouthful in turn, though he felt his expression descend to a frown behind the tin.

      The walk of the yard tracks was done by gaslight, uneventful bar crossing some of the more excitable rats. Sleepers and rails were swept when they saw fit, for a drift of sand could cause problems for the virgin voyage – if it happened of course. These concerns were spoken about seriously and with equally serious length. Franco questioned almost every part of the locomotive, contemplating most imaginary difficulties with concern.

      Pappy reassured him with strict mechanical logic when the assumptions of failure were a possibility – no matter how remote. He explained in as much depth as needed why this wouldn’t break, that wouldn’t burst, or why something or other wouldn’t come spinning off in motion. For most of these reservations, it was enough allowing Franco to move on to the next. For the ones where imagination had gotten the better of him, Pappy simply returned various insults, their tameness appropriate to the thought’s complexity.

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