Read Online The Detective's Daughter by Lesley Thomson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lesley Thomson
Ads: Link
when he tried to shout the sounds were lost in yawning blackness. Beakers of tea and coffee, books and bags slid gracefully off tables. Suitcases tumbled out of netted racks and blocked gangways as ceilings and floors changed places. He was alive to noises only experts would identify: cogs loosening, axles shearing off, metal grinding and snarling. The engine was swallowed up by the hole in the hillside.
The urgency in the air was intoxicating, yet the engineer in him worried that the collision and consequent vibration would weaken the tunnel roof and expose mistakes. The driver’s cab should survive, he calculated as the engine roared out the other side dragging carnage in its wake like tins tied to a wedding car. The second carriage had telescoped into the first. Too late he blew his whistle: this was the best part and he had looked forward to it but his ribs hurt as if splinters of glass had lacerated his organs and his nostrils filled with the stench of rotting roots and claggy soil. The train careered off the track and came to rest beside a watering can.
Jonathan had been proud of his tunnel, excavated into a mound of topsoil; it was high and wide enough for the rolling stock. He surveyed the damage: there were cracks around the opening which would develop into critical fissures and fatally undermine the structure if not repaired.
‘You went too fast.’ Jonathan dared to be cross with Simon. He rubbed his hand on his shorts leaving a bloody stain; he had been biting his thumb. Someone would be displeased with him; at this moment, dazed by the incident, Jonathan could not remember who that would be.
‘You’re a scaredy-cat, Justin.’ Simon was matter of fact.
Justin, for that had been his name for four months now, shuffled his feet to alleviate pins and needles. Simon sat with his legs apart; there was a graze on his knee from football. Justin’s legs were skinny and pale; his football shorts flapped around his thighs, like a skirt, Simon said.
Simon says: Justin’s a girl.
Simon says: Justin’s a weirdo.
Simon’s willy lolled in the depths of his shorts; everything about him was bigger. Justin concentrated on the tunnel in case Simon caught him staring and called him names. He was fretting about the incident, and wanted to be alone to inspect his train.
The kitchen garden had been a secret but, falling into a routine of going there instead of the playground, Justin grew careless and Simon had seen him. He sneaked up when Justin was doing the opening ceremony for his new cut and cover railway tunnel behind the greenhouse.
‘Can I have a turn?’ Justin should not have to ask for a go with his own train.
‘Unfortunately you cannot. I need to perform more test runs.’ Simon was imitating him. He knew nothing about engineering or trains, Justin fumed.
Simon shoved the engine along flattened soil that Justin had weeded and designated a ‘sand drag’ – intended to prevent a catastrophe such as this. He had not taken human error into account because he did not make mistakes. He would have liked to have installed a Moorgate control but lacked the tools. There were no actual rails; he had constructed the track along a section of earth he had punched flat with a brick. Justin dreamed of real tracks raised on ballast. Simon was pressing down on the engine’s tank until it sank into the mulch at the foothills of the compost heap.
‘Stop doing that with your mouth.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘You were. I don’t want to have to get cross with you.’ Simon put on a girl’s voice. Justin did not talk like that, but did not point this out. Simon tried to shift the engine, but soil had clogged its wheels and it was mired.
Justin sifted soft earth; he must wash his nails before supper or Miss Thoroughgood would tell him off. She was leaving at the end of term so everyone was supposed to treat her nicely. Simon’s nails, all nine of them, were clean. Justin turned so that Simon would not see his mouth
The urgency in the air was intoxicating, yet the engineer in him worried that the collision and consequent vibration would weaken the tunnel roof and expose mistakes. The driver’s cab should survive, he calculated as the engine roared out the other side dragging carnage in its wake like tins tied to a wedding car. The second carriage had telescoped into the first. Too late he blew his whistle: this was the best part and he had looked forward to it but his ribs hurt as if splinters of glass had lacerated his organs and his nostrils filled with the stench of rotting roots and claggy soil. The train careered off the track and came to rest beside a watering can.
Jonathan had been proud of his tunnel, excavated into a mound of topsoil; it was high and wide enough for the rolling stock. He surveyed the damage: there were cracks around the opening which would develop into critical fissures and fatally undermine the structure if not repaired.
‘You went too fast.’ Jonathan dared to be cross with Simon. He rubbed his hand on his shorts leaving a bloody stain; he had been biting his thumb. Someone would be displeased with him; at this moment, dazed by the incident, Jonathan could not remember who that would be.
‘You’re a scaredy-cat, Justin.’ Simon was matter of fact.
Justin, for that had been his name for four months now, shuffled his feet to alleviate pins and needles. Simon sat with his legs apart; there was a graze on his knee from football. Justin’s legs were skinny and pale; his football shorts flapped around his thighs, like a skirt, Simon said.
Simon says: Justin’s a girl.
Simon says: Justin’s a weirdo.
Simon’s willy lolled in the depths of his shorts; everything about him was bigger. Justin concentrated on the tunnel in case Simon caught him staring and called him names. He was fretting about the incident, and wanted to be alone to inspect his train.
The kitchen garden had been a secret but, falling into a routine of going there instead of the playground, Justin grew careless and Simon had seen him. He sneaked up when Justin was doing the opening ceremony for his new cut and cover railway tunnel behind the greenhouse.
‘Can I have a turn?’ Justin should not have to ask for a go with his own train.
‘Unfortunately you cannot. I need to perform more test runs.’ Simon was imitating him. He knew nothing about engineering or trains, Justin fumed.
Simon shoved the engine along flattened soil that Justin had weeded and designated a ‘sand drag’ – intended to prevent a catastrophe such as this. He had not taken human error into account because he did not make mistakes. He would have liked to have installed a Moorgate control but lacked the tools. There were no actual rails; he had constructed the track along a section of earth he had punched flat with a brick. Justin dreamed of real tracks raised on ballast. Simon was pressing down on the engine’s tank until it sank into the mulch at the foothills of the compost heap.
‘Stop doing that with your mouth.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘You were. I don’t want to have to get cross with you.’ Simon put on a girl’s voice. Justin did not talk like that, but did not point this out. Simon tried to shift the engine, but soil had clogged its wheels and it was mired.
Justin sifted soft earth; he must wash his nails before supper or Miss Thoroughgood would tell him off. She was leaving at the end of term so everyone was supposed to treat her nicely. Simon’s nails, all nine of them, were clean. Justin turned so that Simon would not see his mouth
Similar Books
