R. Anderson - Wayfarer

Timothy shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not like that.” Well, maybe it was, but he hadn’t planned that far ahead yet. All he’d been able to think of while he was at Greenhill was that somehow he had to get away from there before he went insane.

“What is it like, then?”

The words came automatically. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Right. Because no one has ever felt the way you do.” Paul blew out a sigh. “Fine then, I’ll leave you to your beautiful misery. But if you’re planning to sulk your way through the next three weeks, I may as well drive you into town right now and book you into the hostel. Peri’s got enough on her mind at the moment-she shouldn’t have to deal with your attitude on top of everything else.”

Humiliation scorched through Timothy. To be thrown out of Oakhaven, the one place in England he’d counted on always being welcome…It was the worst thing he could imagine right now. And why? Just because he’d touched some old tree and dared to be curious about what Peri had been doing in the garden? What kind of sense did that make?

“Anyway,” remarked Paul over his shoulder as he pivoted the chair and rolled toward the door, “if you can stop brooding long enough to eat, Peri’s kept some supper for you. Otherwise, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

Timothy waited until the hum of the stair lift receded before slamming the door and throwing himself down on the bed. Anger seethed inside him, and it took all his resolve not to snatch the alarm clock off the nightstand and hurl it across the room.

So that was all he had to look forward to at Oakhaven? Three weeks shut up in the house, with strange things happening all around him that he wasn’t allowed to question, let alone investigate? There was no way Timothy could stand it.

May as well drive you into town right now and book you into the hostel….

He grabbed his backpack and pulled out his wallet, leafing through its contents. The bank card was good for a couple hundred pounds, plus he still had fifty-no, sixty-left over from Christmas. If he was careful, it might just be enough to get by. And if he got stuck, he could always make some money by playing his guitar.

In which case there’d be no need to come back here, except to pick up his suitcase…Timothy shoved the wallet into his pocket, then dumped the schoolbooks out of his backpack and started stuffing clothes in. Halfway through the process he paused to tear a page out of one of his workbooks and scrawl a hasty note:

Thanks for the food, sorry for the trouble.

See you in three weeks.

Timothy

He was just shoving the last pair of his socks into the backpack when the light above his head winked out. Annoyed, he dropped the pack and opened the bedroom door-to find the lights in the corridor still glowing brightly.

A fuse must have blown, but he wasn’t about to go downstairs and ask Peri to fix it. Timothy left the door open and returned to finish packing as best he could. But then the corridor lights flicked off as well, and in the distance he heard the thin chuckle of running water.

No worries, Timothy told himself, though his heart was skittering around in his chest. You left the tap on by accident, that’s all. Feeling his way through the blackness, Timothy followed the noise to find a steady trickle coming from the bathroom faucet. He turned it off-and at the same instant, the lights behind him blinked back on.

Timothy didn’t believe in ghosts. But something was playing games with him, and the knowledge sent electric eels down his spine. Slowly he walked back to his room, braced to confront whoever-or whatever-might be waiting. But he had just reached the doorway when all went black again.

That was it. Timothy leaped into the darkened bedroom, zipped his backpack, and flung it over his shoulder; then he snatched up his guitar case in one hand and his shoes in the other, and fled.

It was an almost impossible effort to slow down and tread lightly on the staircase, but somehow Timothy did it, reaching the front door with barely a creak. As he wrestled his feet into his running shoes he held his breath, sure that at any moment Paul or Peri would come out of the kitchen to challenge him; but no sound came from the far end of the house except the clatter of dishes and the blare of the evening news.

Timothy eased the door open and squeezed out onto the step, clutching the guitar in front of him like a shield. Then he stepped cautiously over the wheelchair ramp, hurried through the front garden, and sprinted down the road toward the village.

The train station at Aynsbridge wasn’t far, not for a seasoned walker: It took Timothy only forty minutes to get there. But by the time he struggled through the door with his guitar case he felt as though his arm were coming out of its socket, and he was glad he hadn’t brought anything heavier with him.

He bought a ticket and sat down to wait, his leg jittering nervously, until the last stripe of sunlight bled into the horizon and the sign above him read:

LONDON BRIDGE: 1 min.

As he walked to meet the train, the man sweeping the platform gave him a quizzical glance, and despite the chill, Timothy felt sweat prickle along his hairline. Any minute now somebody would march up and demand to know what he was doing traveling so late on a school night, and where his parents were-

But this was England, where other people’s children were other people’s business, and no one spoke to him or even moved in his direction. The train screeched into the station, and he jumped onto it. The doors hissed shut, the carriage jolted into motion, and just like that, Timothy Sinclair was away.

A rack of brochures stood by the station exit. Timothy flipped through them, looking for hostels. There seemed to be quite a few within walking distance, but the closest was the Trans-National, a few streets away. Stuffing the pamphlet into his pocket, he picked up his guitar case and headed off.

As he walked, a slimy rain began dripping down the collar of his jacket; taxis honked at him and buses rumbled by. He passed clumps and straggles of pedestrians, all walking briskly and not sparing him so much as a glance. The guitar case dragged at his arm, and the straps of his backpack chafed. Timothy was gazing blearily into the distance and thinking that the hostel had looked a lot nearer on the map, when suddenly he tripped, staggering against a shop window. He looked down and saw with dull surprise that his shoelace had come untied.

Now that was odd. He’d done it up on the train, and he was sure he’d double-knotted it. Setting down his guitar case, he dropped to one knee to fix it-and someone bumped into him from behind.

“Oh, sorry!” said a light alto voice, and a hand came down on his shoulder. Timothy spun around to see a willowy girl with skin the color of tea leaves and dark hair falling in braids to her shoulders. His heart felt weak, and his lips moved in soundless disbelief: Miriam?

No, of course it wasn’t. This girl’s nose was narrower and longer, her lips less full. “It’s okay,” he said, feeling his ears grow hot at his own mistake. “I shouldn’t have just stopped like that. Sorry.”

The girl laughed, a rich throaty sound. “Well, if we’re both sorry, then it can’t be anyone’s fault, can it?” Under the glow of the streetlamp her teeth flashed white. “I’m just glad I didn’t smash your guitar. Off to a gig?”

He had a fleeting thought of lying and saying yes, just to impress her. “No,” he admitted. “Just the hostel.” She looked only a couple of years older than he was, well-dressed and alone; it was probably safe to tell her that much. Besides, even if her accent was pure London, the friendliness in her voice reminded him of home.