Being by Kevin Brooks Read Free Book Online

ached.
    ‘What do you want me to do?’ Kamal said.
    ‘Give me an hour or so. Just sit here and wait.’
    ‘I’ll have to answer their questions. Ryan will want to know everything.’
    ‘Just give me an hour, hour and a half. Then you can tell him whatever you want.’ I pointed at the stationentrance. ‘There’s a phone box over there. You can ring the hospital. Tell him… tell him…’
    ‘Tell him what?’
    I shrugged. ‘Tell him what you like. I don’t care, tell him anything.’
    Kamal smiled. ‘I’ll wait here for as long as I can. You have my word.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    I put the pistol back in my pocket and picked up the briefcase from the back seat.
    ‘Where will you go?’ asked Kamal.
    ‘I don’t know.’
    I dropped Kamal’s wallet and car keys into the rucksack and zipped it up.
    ‘Well…’ I said.
    Kamal held out his hand. ‘Good luck.’
    I looked him in the eye as we shook hands and I wondered briefly if I’d ever see him again, but somehow I knew that I wouldn’t.
    I stepped out of the car and buttoned my jacket.
    I breathed the air.
    It smelled of wet fields and iron.
    I leaned into the car to say goodbye, but a sudden searing pain knotted my stomach and I closed the door without speaking.
    Goodbye, Kamal Ramachandran.
    Thank you.
    I’m sorry.
    I slung the rucksack over my shoulder and headed towards the station.
    ∗
    I didn’t trust him. I learned a long time ago not to trust anyone. I couldn’t trust him. He’d do whatever he thought was best for him.
    Was he good?
    Was he bad?
    What did he think I was?
    Good or bad?
    It didn’t matter.
    Trust, faith, good, bad… none of it matters. All you ever do is what you have to do. Follow your desires, fulfil your needs, escape from pain. That’s all there is to it. Kamal would do whatever he had to do, and it wasn’t worth thinking about.
    The telephone box was at the bottom of a slope at the station entrance. I went inside, took Ryan’s penknife from my pocket and sliced through the telephone cord.
    Inside the station, the ticket office was closed and the toilets were locked. I walked out on to the platform. A cold wind was blowing, whipping close to the ground, whistling around the empty buildings. The station clock said 20:04:42.
    I sat on a bench and crossed my legs.
    I wondered what I looked like. A reasonable tramp? A drunk in an ill-fitting suit? A scarecrow? An outlaw? It didn’t matter. There was no one there to see me.
    I looked around. The rain was coming down harder now, gleaming white in the stark station lights, making everything look harsh and unreal: the dull silver shine of the tracks, dirtied with wads of waste tissue; the sprawlingyellow weeds dripping in the lowlight of arches and walls; red doors, blue doors; the sand and scrap of the station fringe.
    I wondered if it was all an illusion. The rusted railway machinery, the wires and wire supports, the padlocked sheds, the Coke cans and crisp packets, the mysterious numbers painted on the trackside walls… it all seemed real enough, but what if it wasn’t? What if there was something wrong with me? What if I was seeing things that weren’t there? How would I know? How could I tell the difference? For all I knew, everything was an illusion - me, the hospital, Ryan, Casing, Kamal…
    The rails started humming.
    I looked up and saw the lights of an approaching train. I got to my feet and watched it pull into the platform. It rattled and slowed… rattled and slowed… rattled and slowed… and finally ground to a halt. I glanced inside, looking for unwelcome faces, then I opened the door and got on the train and immediately went looking for a toilet.
    The train sighed – pishhh – then settled on its metal sound and lumbered slowly out of the station. Inside the rattling toilet cubicle, I let out a long wheezing fart and emptied my bladder. The toilet bowl was stuffed full of creamy-white paper. I stood there peeing for a long time, steadying myself with a hand