Pinprick by Matthew Cash Read Free Book Online

ancient train station. Manningtree station looked as if it hadn’t been improved since it was built by Eastern Union Railway in the nineteenth century. The small red-brick buildings with their decorative white verandas lined the two platforms, supported by elaborately gilded black and gold pillars which stood sentry, paintwork flaking with age.
    The train station that time forgot , Shane mused as they passed through the minuscule underpass that went beneath the railway line; anything bigger than a single-decker bus had to drive up and over the tiny overpass that ran on the road beside it.
    The taxi came out of the underpass; to their left were more fields. The fields carried on for several miles over what was known as Dedham Vale which covered the picturesque villages of Flatford and Dedham, the heart of Constable Country, named after the artist John Constable.
    Sheep grazed lazily in some of the closer fields. He watched the horizon waiting to see if he could still make out the large square tower of Dedham church, almost six miles away. At first he thought he had missed it, but then he spotted its white stone glinting in the sunshine. He tried to point it out to Catherine, but when he looked over, she had her eyes shut.
    The main railway line heading towards Ipswich ran at the top of a large bank that ran alongside the River Stour, part of Holbrook Bay. The railway line continued through a series of factories that had been built at the lower part of Brantham in the late 1800’s by British Xylonite Ltd, who purchased 130 acres of farmland to build their factory. They produced plastics and films and supplied most of the non-agricultural employment across the villages.
    At the foot of the bank was a large field pocked with rabbit holes, where a herd of cows sat together in the shade of the hedgerows. A footpath ran from the road on a raised bank at the edge of the field and carried on under the railway line and through to Manningtree.
    Nestled in the next field, Shane spotted the old stone pillbox that was left over from the Second World War. He and his mates used to play in there. To get inside, he remembered, they had to crawl through the small opening and along an L-shaped tunnel. Once inside, it was hexagonal in shape and about ten feet tall. The main part was about eight feet square, with foot long, three-inch wide slots cut into the thick stone walls. These slots allowed the soldiers to point their guns out and fire at the enemy. He remembered it being full of old rusted beer cans and smelling strongly of urine.
    They’d just crossed over the river, which acted as the border between Essex and Suffolk, and entered Brantham when the buzzing in his head reached a crescendo, an intense shrieking high-pitched volume that felt as though his brain would explode. Shane yelled out and clutched his head in hands, his face reddened and veins popped up on his bald head, the cut he had started bleeding. The taxi driver immediately pulled the car over.
    Catherine, frightened by Shane’s sudden outburst, could do nothing but stare worriedly. The taxi driver turned around to see what was wrong and saw Shane hunched over with his head in his hands.
    “What’s wrong with him? Is he okay?” he asked Catherine.
    Catherine snapped out of her trance and put an arm around Shane.
    “What’s the matter? What’s happening?”
    The taxi driver got out of the car and ran around to Shane’s door. By the time he got there Shane was sitting up. The seizure or whatever it had been appeared to have passed. He looked at Shane’s bright red face, his bloodshot eyes and dry lips.
    “Are you alright mate?”
    Shane merely nodded and ran his hands over his face, Catherine handed him a tissue for his cut.
    “I’m fine honestly.” He smiled reassuringly at Catherine and he meant it. Whatever had caused his tinnitus to increase so rapidly had stopped. The taxi driver got back into his seat and the journey continued.
    “So what was that all about?