Blood Tracks Page 9

  Gina shook her head. “I can’t do that,” she rasped. “I’ve got to keep going. There’s somewhere I need to be.”

  She coughed. The thick diesel fumes from the docks were stuck in her throat. She stood up straight, preparing herself to start again, concentrating on taming her breathing. Then Gina set off once more, focusing on every step. Soon her arms were pumping and her spine was rodlike, adjusting her balance as she got into her stride. She felt the change – like a struggling car that had just shifted into the right gear – and her body began to flow. As she quickened her pace and her heartbeat rose, she realized how much she’d missed this feeling.

  She ran past the imposing Victorian warehouses that lined the docks, so magnificent in their day, now left to crumble. She turned off the congested road, away from the roaring juggernauts and crossed over to the canal. The miles of pothole-ridden towpaths had provided Gina and her dad with one of their training routes. They would run along them, playing a game of “spot the shopping trolley” in its pea-soup water.

  She looked over to the allotments. Gina’s breathing faltered as she picked out her dad’s patch, neglected and overgrown amongst the well-tended plots. She felt guilty that she hadn’t been back to work on it; that her time and energy had been consumed by her enquiries. She knew that her dad understood; she had a job to do. She refocused on the towpath and pounded on purposefully.

  After a couple of miles Gina left the canal and slowed to a walk. She turned into the deserted cobbled street and shuddered, chilled to the bone. Over the last eight months she’d always known that she would have to return eventually, no matter how distressing, but the thought of coming back here had been too overwhelming – until today.

  In the cold light of day, Gina was determined to absorb every last detail. She stood at the spot where her father had parked the car that night, surveying the row of boarded-up terraces and the peeling paint on the useless street lamps, before continuing along the cobbles, towards the bridge. Gina tried to brace herself for the feelings that this visit might stir up, but nothing could have prepared her for being here again, as her thoughts and senses took her straight back to that night.

  With each step she took closer to the bridge, Gina felt the rising panic and confusion that she’d experienced as she’d run barefoot from the car, calling out in the darkness for her dad.

  She found herself automatically retracing her steps. Gina ran across the old stone bridge, just as she had that night, when she’d hoped beyond hope that she’d find her father standing on the other side, the screeching train nothing to do with him. Now she could see how the cobbled street quickly petered out, she could see the trees and bushes flanking the bridge; she remembered how they’d scratched her flailing arms as she’d frantically thrashed at them, called into them, “Dad! Dad! Are you there?”

  That night, peering into the darkness, she’d imagined the trees were denser, not the scrappy collection of neglected bushes and spindly saplings that greeted her now… And the smell of it? Gina closed her eyes and inhaled: the aroma of rotting leaves and blocked sewage pipes sailed up her nostrils. She snorted the air out; it smelled different. That night, despite the driving rain, some other smell had penetrated the air… What was it? Something nice, not putrid. But what? Think, Gina! She closed her eyes again, willing her brain to dredge up the smell. A strange mixture…flowers and spices, perhaps? Yes, even in the throes of panic, it had registered as a surprisingly pleasant odour. Could it have come from some scented plant amongst this unimpressive patch of greenery?

  She started to walk amongst the bushes and trees; maybe she could find it, sniff it out? But with each step her feet sank into boggy earth that released only rotting fumes into the atmosphere and caked her trainers in mud. She shook her head in frustration and retreated. Why was she wasting her time looking for some flower? That wasn’t what she came back for.

  Gina walked onto the bridge again, running her hand along its bumpy sides. Stopping in the middle, she looked over the chest-high wall just as she’d done that night. The blood had drained from her face at the sight of the stationary train down on the track. Suddenly she could see herself – it was like having an out-of-body experience – rushing to the end of the bridge and scrambling down the muddy embankment, then sprinting along the sharp gravel on the side of the tracks, not even flinching as the stones punctured the soles of her feet. She watched herself, standing in front of the towering engine, the searing beam of the train’s headlights illuminating the dancing rain as she shielded her eyes and looked up at the driver in his carriage, his petrified expression speaking louder than any words. That’s when she’d known for sure; that’s when she’d started to scream.

  Now she was gripped by a sudden compulsion and before she could give herself time to change her mind, she’d heaved herself up onto the side of the bridge. She found herself on her knees, sideways on the narrow ledge. Her hands gripped the edges of the rough stone. She didn’t dare turn her head, so instead stared straight along the wall until she plucked up courage to move into a crouching position, balancing on the balls of her feet. Gina blinked as cold sweat from her forehead trickled into her eyes. She released her hands from the security of the wall, flattening her feet against the stone. Then, painstakingly, she inched her way up into a standing position before sliding her feet to face the train tracks. Once extended to her full height she chanced a look down, but the dizzying distance to the ground upset her balance and she wobbled like a wrong-footed gymnast on the high beam. She rocked back and forth, her arms flapping, but she held her nerve, steadying herself just as the sudden blast of a distant train horn drew her focus down the tracks.

  Immediately her brain was telling her to climb down to safety but her eyes were transfixed by the sight and gathering sound of the great metal beast in the distance, veering from side to side as it hurtled along the track.

  Standing there, with fear and adrenalin careering through her veins, the questions that she hadn’t dared to ask herself were suddenly unleashed.

  Is everyone else right? Did Dad stand up here like this? Could he really have left me in that car knowing he was coming here to kill himself? What the hell was going through his head?

  The train was approaching at a tremendous speed, but Gina was still in the world of her own thoughts: Is Tom telling the truth? Was Dad depressed – not thinking straight? But then why was he depressed? Was it an illness – one of those chemical imbalances in the brain – or did something else cause it? Did he have a terrible secret that he couldn’t live with any more? A life we didn’t know about? Would he have climbed up here, feeling terrified or calm, waiting to jump in front of seventy tons of speeding metal?

  Her glazed eyes came back into focus as one, two, three shrieking blasts of the train’s horn confirmed that the alarmed driver had spotted her. It was only a minute or two away.

  She panicked as if she’d just been shaken awake in the middle of sleepwalking. Guilt swamped her. How could she think such treacherous thoughts? NO! Dad would not do this…! But how the hell am I going to prove it?

  The racket of the approaching train shook her insides, turning her legs to jelly.

  Get down, you silly cow! she ordered herself. She bent her knees, bracing herself to jump backwards onto the ground when, suddenly, she heard a voice behind her, shouting above the noise of the engine.

  “Excuse me. Can I help you?” It sounded like a nervous shop assistant.

  Gina turned her head slowly and saw the young man edging towards her. The train was almost at the bridge.

  “Where the hell did you come from? Get lost, will you? I’m fine!” Embarrassment made her sound harsh.

  “You don’t look it. Don’t panic. I’m just going to come a bit closer.”

  “Stay away!”

  He craned his neck and saw the train racing towards the bridge. The driver sounded the horn again.

  “Come on, don’t go ruining my day.” He faked a smile, his heart in his mouth. “Look at you
, you’re gorgeous, imagine what you’re going to look like if you jump in front of that train.”

  “Shut up. I’m not going to jump.”

  “Great,” he said, unconvinced. “So what are you then? One of these weird adrenalin junkies? That’s fine by me, really, whatever floats your boat, but just get down, will you, you’re making me nervous.” He held his hand out to her.

  Gina ignored it.

  “At least tell me your name so I can tell the police when they come and scrape you off the tracks.”

  She glowered at him out the corner of her eye, concentrating on keeping her balance. “It’s Gina,” she snapped.

  “Well, lovely to meet you, Gina. I’m Declan.”

  “I know,” she replied curtly. “Declan Doyle – you went to my school.”

  “What? I thought you looked familiar. You used to have long hair. Gina. Gina Wilson…” Declan paused. “Oh God…your dad…this bridge? THIS BRIDGE! Oh, please, Gina, come down.”

  “I was just about to,” she shouted back to him.

  “Come on then!”

  Gina jumped backwards to the safety of the ground. She heard a final angry blast of the horn as the train rattled past them and off into the distance.

  Despite her unsteady legs, Gina brushed away Declan’s outstretched hand.

  “I wasn’t going to jump, I was getting down anyway. I just wanted to…wanted to…” Tears filled her pained eyes.

  “I get it. I do,” Declan said gently, a trace of an Irish lilt mingled with his local accent. “You just wanted to know how it felt up there. It’s crazy, but I get it.”

  She frowned in surprise… How could Declan Doyle, of all people, understand?

  She wouldn’t have had him down as the sensitive type, although, to be fair, she only knew him by reputation. He’d been the boy in the year above her who’d used a lethal combination of good looks, charm and cheek to talk his way out of detentions and to brighten up the dullest lesson. She knew that he’d had a talent for football and for bunking off school. Predictably, he’d messed up his exams and had to leave. She hadn’t heard of him since, though his legacy at school had included a trail of broken-hearted girls who’d fancied him from afar and scrawled graffiti on the walls of the toilets, declaring Declan Doyle is fit!

  Yes, Gina knew who he was all right and she wanted to get away from him as fast as possible. She cringed inside. He’d seen her, standing up there on the bridge. It was meant to be private, between her and her dad, but now she had a witness. What if Declan Doyle went around telling everyone; having a laugh with his mates about the pathetic, crazy girl?

  She tried to stride off but shaky legs thwarted her exit as she stumbled past him.

  Declan bent down and helped her up; her face was burning with embarrassment.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, walking on.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” she replied coldly.

  “You should stop, get something to drink. You’re a bit shaky – mind you, who wouldn’t be after standing up there?”

  She glared at him. “I’m fine.”

  “Where do you live? I could get a bus back with you. Make sure you get home all right.”

  “No. I’d rather run,” she said, quickening her pace into a jog.

  But Declan was undeterred, setting off after her, following her across the roads and onto the canal towpath.

  She looked behind and saw him struggling to keep pace with her, his jeans and thick hoodie too cumbersome for running. Gina picked up speed, widening the gap between them.

  He called to her, “Oh, come on now, Gina, have mercy on me.”

  “Would you stop following me!” she shouted.

  “I’m not following you. I just fancied a run myself. I love running! Can’t get enough of it,” he panted.

  Despite herself, Gina couldn’t help but be amused.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he called to her.

  “About what?” she said, her shoulders rising with anxiety as she carried on moving away from him.

  “About you…on the bridge.”

  She stopped and looked back. He was crouching down on the towpath, desperately trying to catch his breath.

  Gina walked slowly back to him.

  “You won’t tell anyone?” she echoed.

  “No, I promise,” he wheezed.

  Her shoulders relaxed and she stretched out a hand to pull him up. “You’re best to stand and then bend forward at the waist, your hands on your knees, and take deep, slow breaths.” She manoeuvred him into position.

  “Thanks.” He looked up, his olive cheeks flushed, his brown eyes gazing at her.

  She swallowed hard. “How come you were down that street, anyway?”

  “I’d just left a mate’s on the next road. I spotted you from the end of the street. I nearly had a heart attack! Do you mind if we walk the rest of the way?”

  “Okay,” she said, mellowing.

  They began to stroll.

  “I believe this canal is in the top ten of romantic walks in Britain,” he said, looking at the festering waters.

  Gina let out a throaty chuckle.

  “You’ve got a dirty laugh.” Declan grinned, raising his thick black eyebrows.

  “Have I? I haven’t heard it for a while.”

  “Well, yeah.” He was suddenly solemn. “I suppose you haven’t had much to laugh about. I’m really sorry…about your dad. It must be crap.”

  “He didn’t kill himself, you know,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Declan squinted in confusion. He was sure he’d heard it was suicide.

  “Didn’t he? What happened then?”

  “I…I don’t know yet,” she stumbled. “But now that I’ve stood up on that bridge, I’m even more sure he wouldn’t have done it.”

  She saw pity flood Declan’s face.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped. Her steely eyes made Declan quickly change the subject.

  “How’s your mum doing?” he asked.

  “She’s okay. She copes. Mum, me and Danny – he’s my little brother – we were all getting on with things in our own way, but this bloke’s been hanging around for the last few weeks, upsetting everything,” she said with disdain.

  “Why? What’s he doing?”

  “He keeps ‘popping in’ every day. I wish he’d get lost. We don’t need him. Mum certainly doesn’t need him.”

  “Where’s he come from?”

  “Oh, he’s not a stranger. I’ve known him all my life. His name’s Tom. He was my dad’s boss; a family friend. He owns a warehouse on the docks, he deals with shipments of cocoa beans.”

  “So why don’t you like him?” he asked.

  “I used to think he was okay. Whenever he came round he’d bring me and Danny presents. My dad would tell him to stop, but Tom did it anyway. But then when Dad died, Tom told everyone at the inquest that my dad had been depressed. He said that Dad had hidden it from us because he didn’t want to worry us.”

  “I suppose people do that kind of thing,” Declan said gently.

  “My dad wasn’t depressed.”

  “But why would his boss lie?” Declan said.

  “I don’t know, that question keeps going round and round my head.” Gina tapped her head with her fist. “But there’s other things that Tom has done that make me think he knows something about what happened to my dad.”

  “Like what?”

  Gina suddenly shook her head. What was she doing? This boy had just seen her on top of a bridge and now she was telling him all this! He must think she was a total nutter.

  “Nothing, it doesn’t matter, it’s just he’s a liar and now he’s round our house all the time, trying to play happy families with us. Well, we’re not his family. He should get lost.” She couldn’t stop herself. Her voice was venomous. She noticed Declan looking at her uneasily. “Sorry…I wasn’t always like this,” she said, sadly. “Maybe we should talk about something else. What have you been up to
since you left school?”

  “Well, at the moment I’m lodging with an old lady on Hanover Street, Mrs. Mac. She’s great apart from phoning my parents in Ireland to report whether I’ve been a good boy and checking under my bed in case I’ve smuggled in alcohol. I tell you, I’m living the dream!”

  Gina laughed. “So why are you still here if your parents are in Ireland?”

  “I wanted to stay – have a bit of independence – but I haven’t been very successful up to now.”

  “You working?”

  “I’m in between jobs at the moment.”

  “What was your last job, then?”

  “A paper round in Year Eight,” he grinned.

  She rolled her eyes, smiling. “Well, what kind of thing do you fancy doing?”

  “What is this, my job-seeker’s interview?” he laughed.

  “I’m just interested.”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “But Mrs. Mac wants to set me up with a job in a funeral parlour.”

  Gina pulled a face. “That sounds nasty.”

  “I know! But if I don’t find something else soon, she’s going to drag me there.” Now it was Declan’s turn to change the subject. “So, how’s the old school surviving without me?”

  “Well, the teachers miss you at detention.”

  “God, I was so immature in those days.” He tried to sound sincere.

  “You only left a few months ago.”

  “So I did.” Declan grinned. “And what about you? You’ve got your exams this year, haven’t you?”

  Gina shrugged. “Yeah, I might scrape by, if I’m lucky.”

  They walked side by side until they reached her house, their chat punctuated by frequent laughter.

  She gestured to the green door. “This is me. I’ve made it home safely despite your prophecies of doom.”

  “I was only trying to help.”

  “I know,” she said gratefully. “It was nice of you, thanks.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you around?” he asked, looking hopeful.

  “Not if I see you first,” she replied, deadpan. She turned her back to him, a secret smile spreading across her face. She couldn’t believe it. She’d been dreading returning to the bridge but if she hadn’t gone there today, at that time, she wouldn’t have met Declan Doyle and she wouldn’t be feeling the first spark of happiness since her dad died.