I didn’t ride that train for very long, because it became quickly apparent that I was heading west, the opposite of where I wanted to go. My stolen cell phone had been wrecked during the great Sienna beatdown back in the station, which left me with only the knowledge I’d Googled before I lost it—that the train to York went east, through Berwick-upon-Tweed and Newcastle upon Tyne (seriously, these names).
That meant I was in the wrong place, heading the wrong direction, so as soon as I saw a train passing in the other direction, probably only a mile from the station, I hopped over immediately, as lightly as I could, and lay as flat as a pancake upon the roof of the carriage.
We pulled back into Waverly a few minutes later, and the place was all abuzz. I rolled over as the train doors whooshed open and people began to stream out. In the distance I could see a big, black sign with yellow LED bulbs telling me where each train was going. To get to York, I’d need a different train, probably on the other side of the station given my luck.
When I studied the list, and then my platform number, I realized I had gotten a break—a very small one; the platform I was seeking was only two down, and the next train to York via Berwick and Newcastle was only ten minutes from departing.
I lay on the roof of that train, flat as I could, for nine of the longest minutes of my life.
Little breaks of conversation reached me, stuff about how there’d been a fight on the other platform, probably a gang or something, but they’d cleared out as soon as they heard the boys and girls in blue coming. Boys and girls in yellow vests, I reckoned, given what I’d seen of Police Scotland. It was a fun little bit of gossip, but fortunately I didn’t hear the name “Sienna Nealon” mentioned, so that was a plus.
The station announcement started to warn me that the train for York was departing. I leaned over; the platform next to me had more or less cleared, so I rolled off and landed lightly on the concrete, looking around as surreptitiously as one can look when you’re trying to figure out if a mob of angry, mind-controlled people is lurking somewhere, waiting to tear you apart.
I made my way slowly toward the train to York, trying to act casual and probably failing because I was all bloody and my sleeve was dangling on my right side where Mr. Blonde had torn it to pieces with his metal powers. Lucky for me he was pretty weak, comparatively, or he might have just hurled a few trains onto me and called it a day.
The York-bound train started to pull out of the station just as I was moseying up. There was no sign of security personnel, and no one was waiting here now, so I started to slowly walk the length of the platform as the train started to chug out. I looked away from the windows, where the passengers were sitting, some of them staring out but most of them looking at books or their phones.
I waited again until the last car, and then, with a look back to make sure no one was watching—they weren’t, the platform was clear—I took a running start and leapt onto the top of the train to York, going flat as quickly as possible.
With any luck, that mob had run back to Rose and told her I was headed west while now I was going east. Of course, that girl—the one who waved at me—she was an odd addition to this formula. It had almost been like she’d pulled them off of me, but…if she had, it was probably only to keep them from murdering me into tiny pieces before Rose got her chance.
No, everybody still hated me and either wanted me dead or wished me serious ill, that I was pretty sure of, this blond girl notwithstanding.
The train rattled and rolled over the Scottish countryside, and I watched it go by for a while before I closed my eyes, and let the rough ride and the sound of the rails sing me off to sleep.
33.
The ride to York was long and breezy, the train rolling along under a grey sky. No chance of a sunburn for my pale skin here; I was going to bask in the lack of warmth atop the rattling carriage as I waited for it to get to its destination.
We passed through Berwick-upon-Tweed, I presumed, then Newcastle upon Tyne, the cities rolling by like a slightly older version of what you’d find in the heartland of America, but with an old-country kind of feel to them. The stylistic differences were striking, and it drove the point in like a stake to my heart that I was far from home and my return was still uncertain.
Rose was out there, somewhere. It was surprising I hadn’t seen her show up in Edinburgh, sending that metal-shooting guy in her stead. Of course, Mr. Blonde could have been a meta hired gun, along with the blonde lady, maybe financed by the US government since they were after me. I’d tossed the shattered cell phone I’d stolen just in case, sinking it in a river as we’d rolled past.
My geography of the UK was a little hazy, but I was pretty sure that once we’d passed Berwick we were back in England. I would have let out a little sigh of relief—hell, I might have; I was still breathing heavily—but I wouldn’t have been able to hear it over the rattle of the tracks.
York station was a long, barracks-like half-tube, with arching apertures for trains to roll in and roll out. I saw it from a ways off, smaller than Waverly and fairly obvious even before I heard the announcements rolling over the speakers inside the train car declaring we’d reached our destination. The train shuddered to a stop and the doors opened to disgorge the passenger cargo.
I waited, the hum of people moving about a pleasant background noise. No chance of falling asleep now, I thought, my pulse quickening. Some passengers were getting off, others were getting on, and I decided that the time had come for me to make my escape.
Rolling off the back of the train, I once again avoided contacting any of the metal on the tracks, even though I was fairly certain that the power was supplied by an apparatus up top. That done, I jumped casually up onto the platform, drawing only one set of eyes, a frown and a shrug from a woman passing by who didn’t look too closely at my face, instead turning her roller suitcase and heading off toward the exit.
I tried to keep my right arm—scene of the worst of the shrapnel injuries, though there were a few good bloodstains on my belly too, coupled with some cuts to my shirt and hoodie—huddled away, as though someone might come by and give it a good slap on the wound. The injuries themselves were just about faded away now, but the blood remained because I lacked a facility to clean myself up.
York Station had already grown quiet, the passengers having filed off quietly, and the ones going to this train already mostly onboard. I walked past people that were largely focused on their smartphones, and was thankful for the lack of scrutiny. I needed a break.
I was still thinking that when I made it to the exit and found someone standing there, waiting for me with a stern look upon his face. Grey hair, a silver mustache, and leaning on a cane like an old British lord or something.
Wexford.
“Hello, Sienna,” he said quietly, standing like an oak planted right in my path. He wore a tired smile, and one that I found—for the moment—incredibly reassuring. “I hear you’ve run into a spot of difficulty.”
34.
Reed