The hat mounted at the crown of the pile of rags next to the dog suddenly came to life and a face leered up at me from beneath it. My first thought was that the dog had a twin brother but then I realised that this face was, in actual fact, human. He looked older than time itself with the skin on his face like a filthy shirt that was still yet to meet the acquaintance of an iron.
��Un who migh� you be?� said either the dog or the man, I couldn�t quite decide which. �Wha� ya doin� on ma train?� This time I was seventy-five percent sure that it was the man who was speaking. Each syllable sounded like he was chewing on shards of glass and there was a constant deep rumble coming from the general area of his chest which was probably down to the thick deposit of unmoveable phlegm that no doubt resided there.
I didn�t know who I was more frightened of: him or his canine friend.
�The name�s -� I cleared my throat as I didn�t like the way those two words had come out, making it sound as if I�d just inhaled a fair whack of helium. I tried again. �The name�s (ah, that�s better, I thought) Valentine, Sam Valentine,� I gave him the usual pitch, acting as if I wasn�t scared out my boots.
�Sounds like a kin� o� ladies perfume,� he garbled crabbily and scratched somewhere underneath the blanket (that covered all but his scrawny head), which provided obvious relief. His fingers then appeared, looking like spindly bits of straw, and, bringing them up to his nose he took in the enjoyable aroma of the fingers, containing the pong of whatever they had just scratched, with clear delight, like someone sampling the bouquet of a vintage wine.
I then asked a question which was like a bride�s nightie: unnecessary. �So what do you call yourself?� I enquired indignantly. I didn�t take too kindly to having my name made fun of; the last guy who�d done that had ended up with a bust lip leaving me with a black eye, two broken fingers, bruised ribs and a smile like a chessboard, after the fight that had ensued after his remarks regarding my name.
�Ne�er you mine - this here, this ma train�� he explained again, his dog nodding in unison, saliva flying here, there and everywhere - though not only from the dog�s mouth. ��a believe Sir tha� you stowin� away on ma train.� His hand moved so rapidly that all I saw was a quick flash of wrinkles. There was, quite unsurprisingly, a swirl of flies buzzing around his person and it was this that his hand had passed through. He opened his crumpled fist, all the time licking his lips with the anticipation of one who�s won a free meal at the Savoy. He didn�t present an opportunity for me to see what had been inside his palm, as it was almost instantly inside his mouth. He enjoyed a few chews before swallowing greedily whatever it had occupied the interior of his jaw.
�Urgh!� he spat. �Bluebottles! A hate bluebottles!� He then repeated the process just as quickly and this time, on his second attempt, he said with a smack of his lips, �Now tha�s be�er. A lo�ly juicy moth. Quite a rare delicacy.�
I felt like being sick - not figuratively but literally.
�That�s disgusting,� I said, caring little whether he was insulted or not.
He cackled, the phlegm in his throat making it sound as if he was gurgling a glass of water. Then came the coughing. Whatever exercise he missed out on, seated there on the straw-carpeted floor in the corner of this dingy carriage, he made up for during the coughing fits. For such a fickle frame it surprised me how he managed to create such noise. Like a steam train fading into the distance, he eventually finished. Out flew a mouthful of what looked like tea, though I knew to be otherwise and beside him it landed with a soggy, sickening splash.
The train rolled along slowly, so slowly in fact that the option was open for me to merely jump into the passing meadows, with only the possible injury of a sprained ankle to endure should I land wrong. But what would be the point or purpose of such an act? True, I�d be out of the smell-able ratio surrounding Mr It�s-been-twenty-plus-years-since-I�ve-seen-what-the-inside-of-a-bath-tub-looks-like, but I�d be in the middle of who-knows-where with only the constant throbbing pain from my savaged hand (as a result of getting a splinter lodged in it late last night, remember?) to keep my thoughts occupied.
I went and settled back in the opposite corner, all the while keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the dog that made the Hound of the Baskerville�s appear like a pink poodle named Fifi.
Eventually, after I�d finally grown used to the look the mutt was giving me, realising that its face was naturally set in a constant growl, my thoughts began to wander, for the first time since waking - due to obvious distractions - back to the objective of my employment. Yesterday, after watching the rider of my horse doing a convincing impression of a cannonball, I thought then I was in a putrid position, but since then I had only dug myself deeper. If I carried on in this fashion I�d soon be striking oil.
I closed my eyes. Anyone who didn�t know me - okay, anyone who either did or didn�t know me would say that I was merely falling asleep. I may have been giving that impression, but really I was giving my eyes a rest in the effort to meditate more intensely.
A change in pitch of wheels against track caused my eyes to flicker open. We were slowing down. The old fly-eater was still where I�d seen him last, though the amount of insects surrounding him had significantly lessened. Either his stomach was fuller, or the flies were starting to get wise to his tricks.
The day outside, as well as my spirits, had certainly brightened; I didn�t know why but after my bout of deep meditation I felt confident, like back in the old days when I was still wet behind the ears.
�Good!� muttered the old man grumpily as he watched me getting off �his train�. �At leas� now al be able to ge� some sleep. I ain�t been able to ge� any sleep thanks to ya snorin� for the pas� two hours!�
Cheeky schmuk, I thought but was gleeful to be out of his and his dog�s company. Wherever I now was (as I could see about as much of the destination as Ray Charles thanks to the endless train stretching into the distance) I hoped above everything that they had some establishment that sold my reason to live. Scrambling over the couplings I saw, for the first time, my destination.
Cankers Creek read the tattered sign above the door to, seeing as it was the only structure for as far as the eye could see, the waiting room that was barely big enough to cater for a family of mice. My first impression had led me to believe that it was merely just an outhouse.
The sandy landscape behind it sloped to the peek of a ridge. I had two choices: either risk checking out what was on the other side of that ridge giving the train that was still stationary behind me chance to get started, or put up with another how-ever-many-hours counting the amount of flies my good friend could put away. Like a gambler down to his last two bucks, risking the lot on one last roll, I went for it.
As slight as the climbing slope had appeared my legs still ached as I reached the halfway mark between the train behind and the ridge in front of me. True, I�d never been one for exercise, nor, to the contrary of what any opinions might suggest, was I old. I was in the prime of life� ahem�