Never Say Never

 

“Angelina?”

She pulled the covers over her head. “Go away, Tom!”

 

The little boy persisted.

“Angelina!”

“I said, go away!”

Angelina!

“What?” She flung back the covers at last, folding her arms across her chest. Angelina was only fifteen and didn’t have much of one, but that didn’t stop her being modest about it.

 

Tom blinked owlishly behind his glasses.

“Mum and Dad are gone.”

“What?”

“Mum and Dad are gone. They’re not anywhere. I can’t find them.”

“Don’t be silly. They can’t have just gone.” Angelina swung out of bed finally, poking her feet into a pair of slippers. “Where’s my dressing gown?”

“Here.” Tom held it out. He was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown too, his slippers flip flopping as he walked. His precious bear was tucked under one arm.

“Where are Peter and Michael?”

“Still in bed.”

“Well, it’s about time they got up.” Angelina glanced at the clock. “And we’ll look for Mum and Dad.”

“They’re not here. I’m serious. I’ve looked in their bedroom, the kitchen, the sitting room, the bathroom…” Suddenly Tom was blinking huge wet tears from his cow-like brown eyes. “All their clothes are gone, Angie! So are most of the food and Mum’s jewellery and the good silver! It’s happened! It’s finally happened!”

Angelina felt a cold thread of panic in her chest, but shrugged her shoulders resolutely. “Don’t be silly, Tom. They haven’t gone. It hasn’t happened. Go get Peter and Michael up, and we’ll go for a walk and find them. And we’ll take the dog. Go on!”

 

Angelina brushed out her dark corkscrew curls quickly, tying her dark blue dressing gown around her white nightgown tightly. As an after thought, she pulled on a pair of knickers and a pair of brightly striped socks, and then jammed her feet back into her slippers.

 

It was possible that her parents were still around. Possible that they had just gone for a walk or something. With most of their wardrobe and the good silver. In which case, everything was okay. Then again, it was equally possible that The Thing had finally come to pass.

 

The Thing was what all the children called the strange event, since none of them dared to give it it’s real name: Edict 94. It was a call to arms for the able bodied people of the realm, a way of ensuring the freedom and liberty of their country. In practical terms, it meant that the adults left, goodness know where for, and the children stayed behind. Forgotten. Un-provided for. Un-cared for. Un-cared about.

 

If there were other parents in the village, everything would be okay. If there weren’t… then they’d all gone, gone on the first and last train to leave the station.

 

When the boys came rushing back she combed their hair for them; Tom’s dark mop never fell strait no matter what she did, but Mum always tried. Michael, the youngest, four years behind thirteen-year-old Tom, scowled as she ran her silver comb through his mousy-coloured hair. Peter, her twin brother, with hair that corkscrewed just like hers did if they let it, did his own carelessly, not even glancing in her oval mirror.

 

Then they trooped down the stairs, in single file, Angelina first, Michael holding her hand, Tom behind him and Peter bringing up the rear. She reached for where Sippy’s lead usually hung, but it was gone. Her parents had taken the dog as well.

 

There was nothing else to do. They stood there, awkwardly, for a few minutes. Finally, Peter spoke.

“They’ve gone, haven’t they?”

 

Nobody answered. Michael started to sniffle.

“They’ve gone. On the first train.”

“The train!” Suddenly, a light went on in Angelina’s eye. Peter was perplexed.

“What?” Tom had cottoned on too, because he jerked the door open.

“The train! It’s only ten past eight! The first train of the day doesn’t leave until eight fifteen! We can still catch them!”

 

All of a sudden, they were all racing down the garden path. Tom flung the gate open and sped down the road, but Angelina, with her long legs and more used to running than he was, soon overtook him. Peter was well able to keep up with her, but grabbed Michael’s hand to hurry the boy along, and, by the end of the golden cobbled street when he could no longer keep up, put him on his back and galloped after his twin sister and younger brother, who were hand in hand, Tom’s bear flying from his other arm.

 

It was a good long run to the train station, but they made it in record time, amid the cries of children who’d woken up in the palatial houses of the little village to find their worst fears come true. There’d be a few teenagers among them, but anyone over sixteen would have gone. It was every child’s worst nightmare.

 

“We can stop them.” Angelina muttered under her breath. “We can stop them. We can stop them! We can stop them!”

 

But she needed all her breath for running.

 

Topping the green embankment that looked down on the lines, she screamed in delight; the train was still there! The train was still there! They went tumbling down the siding as the whistle sounded, running down as it started to move, stretching out pale hands to the windows where men hid their faces behind newspapers, women behind fans or veiled hats.

 

“Stop! Wait! There’s some mistake! Stop! Please stop! You’ve taken our parents! Please come back! Please stop! Take us with you! Please don’t go! Don’t go! Don’t go!”

 

They didn’t know if anyone had heard their cries. One young woman in a blackbird wing blue dress must have, because she broke down into tears, burying her face in a handkerchief. Michael had slipped off Peter’s back but the older boy had him by the hand and dragged him along. Angelina had let go of Tom, who was tiring, falling back. The train was gathering speed. It passed them. They were running on the tracks behind it. Peter let go of Michael, who fell, and made a last desperate lunge, grabbing the rails of the little platform at the back and pulling himself on. He turned, holding out his hands for Tom, for Michael, for his sister Angelina, but Michael was far behind, Tom couldn’t keep up and longer and was falling back with tears in his eyes. Angelina was almost there, her hands outstretched, her hair and dressing gown flying out behind her. She’d lost one slipper but she ran on. Her breath came in sobbing gulps, tears running down her face. She wasn’t going to make it. He stretched out, yelling for her to run just a little further. She’d make it! She had to make it!

 

Then her foot went down and her ankle twisted and his sister was just a sobbing heap of white and blue on the rails, with Tom the only one still standing, still running, slowly coming to a stop, his bear dangling from one arm as the train sped away.

 

Someone grabbed Peter from behind and yanked him into the carriage.

 

“How the hell did you get on? Who are you? What… Oh shit. We’re moving. Belle is going to have my guts for a nose canella.”

 

Angelina lifted her head. She could hear a whistling, a rushing sound, like a train moving. But it was getting louder, not quieter.

 

“Tom, Michael! Get off the tracks! There’s another train coming!”

 

That’s when she realised that her foot was quite firmly wedged between the sleepers, and wasn’t moving.

 

* * * * *

 

Peter was flung around, and came face to face with a tousle haired young boy only a few years older than himself. They had the same roundness of face, the same pointed chin, and there was something similar in the mop of untidy hair, although Peter was dark and curly and this other boy had a long, silky black ponytail. Other than that, there were few similarities; in fact, they looked at each other as though they were some alien creature from another world.

 

The boy had pale skin and dark eyes, like he didn’t see the sun a lot, and the longest lashes Peter had ever seen on a living person. There was a multitude of silver studs in his left ear, including places he’d never thought you could get a needle through, another in his bottom lip, and a silver chain around his throat. He wore a black shirt with lacing at the neck, a long black coat of some shiny stuff and black trousers so big that they covered his feet completely.

 

“Who are you? What on earth are you doing, anyway?”

“I was raiding the supply carriage.” He gestured to a pair of bags, both almost full with tins and packets and wrapped bundles from the crates around them. “But right now I’m trying to plot a way to get us off this rust bucket. What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m trying to get my parents back.” Peter replied, like it was obvious. The boy raised one of his eyebrows – which was thin and dark and carefully arched – and then snorted.

“I wouldn’t bother if I was you.”

“What d’you mean? I’ve got to get them back!”

“Go on then. But don’t come crying to me when the guards fling you off. I’d point out we’re going about eighty miles an hour at the moment and that’ll sting something chronic.” The boy turned back to his bags and started stuffing more cans and things into the bags.

“What are you going to do?” Peter picked up one of the tins that had rolled away from the boy. It said ‘Pineapple’ on it, with a very simple picture of one underneath.

“Me? Wait here and hope the guards don’t find me until we get to the next station. They’ll have to slow down even if they don’t stop, and that’s my best chance of jumping ship without getting a nasty bump on the noggin. Shouldn’t be more than twenty, thirty miles.”

“The next town down the line from us is Goatford.” Peter replied, folding his arms. “It’s an hour and a half on the train.”

The dark haired boy straitened up. “Oh, shit. Over a hundred miles. Are you sure?”

“Yes. We went once. With our parents.”

“That’s a long walk.” He brushed his fringe, which was long and spiky, out of his face. “Belle will just have to come after me, I guess.”

“Who’s Belle?”

“My amigo.”

“Your what?”

“My comrade. My partner.” He sighed at Peter’s blank expression. “Someone who’s travelling with me at the moment.”

“Oh.”

“Give us a hand, mate, we’re going to need a lot of food.”

“We?”

“Well, you want to get back to your friends too, don’t you?”

“My…” Peter jumped to his feet suddenly. “Oh God! My sister! My brothers, they’re still…” He lunged for the door, but the boy grabbed his arm. He was surprisingly strong.

“Didn’t you hear me, thick head? We’re going fucking ninety miles an hour! You’ll die if you jump out there and although that would mean I wouldn’t have to put up with your whiny voice for a hundred and twenty miles or so, I can do without the trauma of watching your broken body lying on the tracks as we’re speeding away. You got it?”

Peter jerked his arm free, wheeling around, tears springing to his eyes. “I’m going to find my parents…”

“You can’t. I’m sorry… you just can’t. Or you will get thrown off, I promise you. Wait, what the hell are you-”

 

The boy lunged for Peter’s arm again as he flung the door open sharply. They were confronted with rows and rows of trunks and bags, leading up to another door. The dark haired boy breathed a sigh of relief, slamming Peter against the door by his shirt lapels.

“You idiot!” He hissed, their faces inches apart. “You right little idiot! What if there’d been a guard there? You’d have got us both fucking killed! Normally, mate, since it seems you’ve got a death wish I’d just let you go out there and get thrown off, but then, y’see, they’d find me. So from now on… don’t fucking do anything unless I say you can, or I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself.”

“You couldn’t kill me even if you wanted to.” Peter snarled back. The boy’s hand disappeared under his shirt and came out holding a long knife, at least seven inches long with a curved tip and a wicked edge.

“Can’t I?”

 

* * * * *

 

“Oh God oh God oh God I’m gonna die…” Angelina yanked at her ankle until it hurt, desperately trying to pull it free. She could feel the rough sleepers pressing splinters into her delicate skin, hear Tom screaming at her to get off the tracks, hear Michael crying his eyes out. She saw Tom run towards her in the dizzy blur of colours and light that flowed into her panicking eyes.

“Don’t be an idiot! You’ll get run over!”

ANGELINA! Get up! Please get up!” He was backing away, the train now visible, hurtling towards them on the gentle curve of the track coming up to the station.

“What the…” A different voice, an unknown. “Get away from the tracks! What are you idiots doing? Get off the railroad!”

“I CAN’T!” She screamed, finally breaking down and beginning to cry. Not delicate, lady-like tears. Great, gulping sobs. “I… don’t… wanna… DIE!!!

And then someone hit her from behind, flung her forward towards the train. They were yelling at her, but she wasn’t sure why, she could hear them over her own howling. Someone was twisting at her ankle and it hurt, and the train was getting closer and it hurt so much and she was gonna die here and the steam engine was roaring like a dragon as it charged closer and closer…

 

And then suddenly something hit her ankle bluntly and she was flung sideways and pinned to the ground and the train was passing over her, darting over her in a thunder of gears and a scream of escaping steam and it didn’t hurt at all, not at all…

 

And then the train was gone.

 

“You stupid fucking bitch!” The person lying next to her sat up sharply, her eyes bright and panting hard, and glared at her. “You almost got us both killed! What the hell were you doing on the railroad tracks in the first place?”

Angelina wasn’t listening. She was crying with joy. And then she screamed, because her ankle was suddenly on fire like rivers of white-hot lead were racing up the nerves.

 

“Angelina!” Michael flung his arms around her neck, crying, although she wasn’t at all sure why. Tom clung to her waist, and he was crying to. And she was crying, and clutching at her ankle, because it hurt so much. And the other girl, the girl who’d pulled her out from under a train, was just watching them.

 

The strange girl brushed a wrist across her forehead, wiping away the sweat but leaving a streak of something black, and shook her head in despair.

“What the hell were you doing on the railroad tracks?” She repeated, this time in exasperation. Tom glanced up at her, his glasses in one hand so he could mop at his eyes, and mumbled a reply to the tall, black and green blur.

“Trying to… get our parents back…”

“Oh, for the love of Christ.” She rolled her eyes, then knelt down, taking Angelina’s ankle in her hands and rotating it gently, causing Angelina to gasp and cry in pain. “Right… that’s broken. I’ll wrap it up and get you back to the village but then you’re on your own, okay?”

“You’re going to leave us?” Tom put his glasses back on quickly and fell over backwards.

 

The word ‘loud’ did not to this girl justice. Neither, really, did ‘scary’. Her hair was black, streaked with various shades of green, and pulled back into a ponytail with a tatty black ribbon. Her eyelids had been painted a poisonous shade of green, and her lips were black; there was an emerald in her nose and two tiny black spheres on her cheekbone. Both ears were a mess of black and green rings and ribbons, all interwoven and tied together. She had black boots with green laces that reached her knees, and black and green striped stockings, and black jeans cut off into shorts, a green tank top and a black leather jacket that wasn’t quite long enough but had a pair of green fairy wings embroidered on the back, and black and green fingerless gloves, and black and green nails. She glanced sideways at him and raised a pierced eyebrow.

“Look, it’s not my fault you’re all idiots. I’ve got to follow that train and get my friend back. Although it’s not my fault he’s an idiot too…”

“The train?” Michael lifted his head, and suddenly burst out crying again. “Oh noooo… P-P-Peeeeteeer!!

“What the…?”

“Our brother.” Tom explained, getting to his feet quickly. “He… climbed onto the train…”

“Oh, Jesus.” The girl lifted up Angelina easily, rolling her eyes. “This is all I need. I hope ‘Pan doesn’t kill him by accident.”

Kill him?

“I’m joking, I’m joking…” Gritting her teeth, the girl in black and green carried Angelina towards the station. “Make yourself useful, go and find me a first aid kit.”

“Why did you break her ankle?” Michael stumbled alongside the two girls as Tom ran on ahead. The girl scowled at him.

“You’d rather I left her under the train?”

“No… but you didn’t have to break it…”

“It wouldn’t come out!” She snapped, glaring at the little boy. “Dammit, I can tell I’m not going to like you.”

 

There was a pause while Michael sucked his thumb thoughtfully, although really he was much too big for that.

“Why do you dress so funny?”

Halfway through her next step forward, the girl swept one of her booted feet out sideways, smacking Michael in the shin and tripping him so he fell flat on his face. He started crying again.

 

“Bloody kids…”

 

* * * * *

 

“I… I can’t believe my parents are only a couple of carriages away and I’m just sitting here!” Peter punched a crate angrily, and then winced. The strange boy, who was sprawled across the floor and idly smoking a cigarette, opened one eye lazily and rolled it in contempt.

“Look, they’re gone. You’re never getting them back. Accept it and give it up.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do!” Peter snapped back, his hands curling into fists. The boy sat up sharply.

“Keep your fucking voice down or I’ll shut you up properly!” He snarled in a low voice, jabbing the smouldering roll up in Peter’s direction. After several seconds of silence, he lay back again, taking a long drag on the battered cigarette and watching the smoke curl towards the ceiling. Slowly, Peter sank to the floor, dejected, and to his horror tears started trickling down his cheeks.

 

“Look.” The strange boy sighed with some exasperation, still staring at the ceiling. “This just keeps happening, you know? It happened to your parents too. Give it another twenty years or so and it’ll happen to your kids. It’s best to just get on with it and not dwell too much. I mean… once you get back to your village and whatever…”

“Shut up! You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about so just shut up!” Peter burst out, the tears coming even faster. Yet again, the strange boy flung himself upright.

“Oh, don’t I? At least you’re old enough to take care of yourself, I was four! Ever try explaining to a four-year-old that Mummy and Daddy aren’t ever coming back? You-” His face contorted with contempt. “Got thirteen, fourteen bloody years with your parents! At least you’re going to remember them! So stop acting so fucking put apon because you’ve got it easy, you stupid piece of shit, and you have no idea what you’re talking about. So you shut up.”

 

There was a long silence while the two boys glared at each other. Finally, the strange boy snorted angrily and lay back again, resting his head on one of his hands and turning his attention back to the cigarette. Peter chewed his lip for a few minutes, picking up any of the fallen tins that rolled towards him and examining them mutely. Eventually, he started building a tower.

 

“You hungry?”

“Nope.” The boy replied, rudely. Then, glancing up, he saw the empty look in Peter’s eyes and sighed loudly.

“Look, kid, I didn’t mean to be that harsh on you…”

“’S okay.” He mumbled, trying to put the tin of peaches he was holding onto the pyramid and knocking it over in the process. The strange boy sat up, folding his legs.

“Nah, I’m serious. That was cruel, and it’s not like you’re on the emotional strait and narrow right now.” He held out his hand. “Forgive me?”

Peter looked at it glumly, then sighed, brushing his hair out of his face and shaking the proffered paw. “Alright.”

“Great! Now, lets eat!” The boy started sorting through the fallen tins. Despite himself, Peter smiled a little.

“I thought you said you weren’t hungry?”

“Changed me mind. I’m always hungry.” Glancing at the label of one particularly garishly labelled tin, he made a face. “Mmm… tinned tongue of ox.”

“I think you got lucky there, I’ve got tinned broccoli.”

“Bloody Mary, is there anything they won’t tin?” The boy rolled his eyes, tossing the tongue over his shoulder and grabbing the next one. “Now this is more like it! Treacle pudding.”

“That’s not food, that’s dessert!” Peter burst out, laughing despite himself. Chuckling, the boy dug in his pockets and produced a couple of pieces of cutlery and, of all things, a tin opener.

“Nobody to stop us eating it, though, is there?” He held up the crockery. “Whadda ya want, fork or spoon?”

“I’ll take the spoon.”

“Excellent choice! And if treacle pudding is to be our main dish…” The boy plucked another tin from the pile with a flourish. “How about peaches on the side? No cream, but we’ve got condensed milk and that is certainly not to be wasted.”

“Are you not having anything savoury?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” He pointed up to one of the corners that looked like it contained half a butcher’s shop. “I got a decent sized piece of salt beef in the bag, but there’s still some left and it’s alright cold. And there’s a fine selection of cheeses, in other words a couple of blocks of really greasy stuff that stink to high heaven ‘cus I’ve already nabbed the best of it, a fair old bit of namby pamby posh stuff in tiny little tins and glory be, lots of hardtack biscuits!” He chuckled softly, glancing around. “A veritable feast if I don’t mind saying so myself.”

“Seems to me you’re stealing most of it.” Peter interjected, taking a bite of treacle pudding. It wasn’t at all bad cold, with a dollop of condensed milk on top.

“’S not stealing. ‘S redistribution of foodstuffs.” Popping the top off a tin of peaches, the boy took a swig of syrup. “I mean, Belle and I eat whatever we can find normally, this is a real treat for us.”

“Whatever you can find?”

“Yeah, I mean… I can snare rabbits and she’s a damn mean shot with a sling so we get meat and that, and there’s normally farmers fields and that to nick stuff out of, and not that I’m one to blow me own trumpet,” And here the boy winked. “I’m a pretty dandy cook over an open fire, but the going can get pretty tough sometimes. Once we ended up living under a bridge by a damn army base for two weeks, living off anything we could find. It would have been all right if it was a bridge over a river or something, but no… it was just a dry ‘fortification’ ditch. ‘Cept when it rained, of course, when it became a mud bath, but at least then we had water. At one point all we had for three days was nettle leaves and a potato. It wasn’t even a big potato.”

“What happened?” Peter’s eyes were bright with excitement, and he was smiling. The boy must have noted the improvement, because he happily continued the tale.

“We found… a hedgehog.”

“A hedgehog?”

“Yup.”

“What’s so special about a hedgehog?”

“Good eating on a hedgehog! I couldn’t sleep, see, on account of being so hungry… and I heard it snuffling around. Damn near got myself pricked to death catching it, almost gave us away, but I got it and we wrapped it in clay and cooked it in a charcoal pit and God in Heaven smite me down if it wasn’t the nicest thing I’d ever tasted.”

Peter chuckled, and the boy grinned back.

“Eventually, we made a run for it with one of the supply carts – fully loaded and everything. I almost cried when I saw they had a tin of custard powder bigger than my head. If there’s one thing I love, it’s custard. We couldn’t get any milk for about two weeks, mind, but just the smell kept me going.”

Licking his spoon, Peter laughed again.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Oh, God…” The boy rolled his eyes. “You had to ask, didn’t you?”

“Mine’s Peter.”

“Nice to meet you, Peter.” Spearing a peach quarter, the boy licked his lips. “Although we’re already somewhat acquainted.”

“And you are…?”

He paused, chewing thoughtfully and avoiding Peter’s gaze, before mumbling.

“’S Pan.”

“Pan? That’s not so bad.”

“Oh really?”

“Well…” Peter swirled a tin of evaporated milk before taking a sip. “You could always be called ‘Pot’. Or ‘Kettle’ or something.”

“Very funny.”

“Is Pan a nickname?”

“Why d’you say that?”

“Because it’s not exactly a real name.”

“Why isn’t it a name?”

“It’s a bit short.”

“It’s not any shorter than…” Pan thought about it for a moment, which looked like hard work. “… Bob, or Ben, or Tim or something.”

“But ‘Bob’ is short for ‘Robert’. And ‘Ben’ is short for ‘Benjamin’ and-”

“Yeah, alright. You’ve made your point.”

“What’s Pan short for, then?”

“None of your business!” He snapped, but Peter was insistent.

“Oh come on…”

“No.”

“Please?”

“I’m not telling you, you’ll laugh at me!”

“Promise I won’t.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Okay, if you tell me what your full name is, promise when we get back to Riverside I’ll take you home and make you as much custard as you can eat.”

Pan’s eyes sparkled, but he looked away.

“No way.”

“I can tell you’re tempted.”

“I can eat a lot of custard, y’know…”

“As much as you can eat. Promise. Cross my fingers!” Peter insisted, doing so. Pan raised an eyebrow, then lifted one hand to scratch his cheek, hiding his mouth in the process, and mumbled:

“’S Marzipan.”

Peter blinked, then tried to suppress a laugh.

“What did you say?”

“I said, it’s MARZIPAN.” He blurted out, scowling. “You think that’s funny?”

“I think that’s hilarious!” Peter was almost doubled up, giggling insanely. Pan rolled his eyes.

“Look, just don’t ever use it, alright? I never asked to be named after a confectionary item. It’s Pan or nothing. And stop laughing!”

“Gotcha.” Wiping his eyes, Peter offered him the tin of treacle pudding. “Pan it is. Unless of course you’d prefer something like, I dunno-”

“Stop right there.” Pan jabbed his fork towards the other boy. “Better men that you have tried and God help me, I’ve never had to disembowel someone with a fork before but I’m willing to try. I don’t need your stupid jokes about calling me ‘Chocolate’ or ‘Toffee’ or-”

“Caramel, maybe?”

“Sugared almond…”

“Sweetie.”

“Confectioner’s- Stop it! You’re making fun of me!” Marzipan glowered as Peter doubled up laughing again. “That’s it, gimme the condensed milk. You’re not having any more of it.”

“Sorry…” Peter held it out. Their hands touched as Pan reached out to take it from him. “I’m not laughing at you, honest. I think it’s a nice name.”

Pan blinked. “Really?”

“Really.” Finally letting go of the tin, Peter smiled softly and started scraping the bottom of the treacle pudding. Pan watched him with a rather peculiar expression before finally looking away, concentrating his attention on the condensed milk.

“Cheers, mate.”

“No problem.”