Page 1 of Suddenly Beck

Chapter One

Nat

‘When life gives you lemons, crack open the tequila.’

I may have lost my mind, I’m not entirely sure. Seeing as I’m only in my twenties, I’m way too young for a mid-life crisis, but considering the fact that I’ve technically just run away from home, I guess I could label it teenage rebellion. It may have come ten years late but what the hell, better late than never.

My body jerks sharply to the side as the train speeds over another tiny kink in the tracks. There’s an almost imperceivable vibration that hums below the soles of my brand-new Converse.

The countryside flies past the window in a blur of greens and browns, a field… cows… brambles… sheep… more sheep… another field… I glance up, my aching head pressed against the coolness of the reinforced glass as I stare at the sky in all its pouty, turbulent glory, as temperamental as a teenager in moody slashes of grey and black punctuated with heavy dark clouds.

Rain pelts against the window, driving hard in a loud clatter only to ease up to a light mist for a moment before returning to another hard driving wave against the glass.

A sudden clanking behind me, draws my attention from the scenery, and I turn to see a rather cumbersome, rectangular trolley inching up the narrow aisle pushed by a portly woman who looks to be in her sixties. She’s wearing a GWR uniform with a slightly skewed name badge pinned to her ample chest. Her hair is a no-nonsense cloud of mouse brown with silver roots blatantly peeking through, giving the unsettling impression of being able to see her scalp. Her pale, shimmery blue eyeshadow is applied so thickly it holds up her penciled on brows like scaffolding, but her brown eyes, when they land on me, are soft and warm.

‘Would you like anything, love?’ Her voice has a faint northern burr to it as she smiles kindly, showing a row of slightly wonky teeth.

My curious gaze trails along the trolley to the wire racking stuffed with Quavers, Hula Hoops and McCoy’s crisp packets. Alongside a Snickers bar sits an obligatory ‘healthier alternative’ some sort of oat bar in transparent packaging, which looks about as appealing as chewing soggy cardboard. Stacked at the end of the trolley, beside a couple of neon bottles of Tango, is an assortment of anaemic looking packaged sandwiches. I glance at the one labeled prawns and mayo and inwardly grimace at the grey substance squished between two limp slices of brown bread.

‘Um, maybe just a coffee,’ I answer faintly after a moment.

I’m struggling to remember how long it’s been since I last ate. The past twenty four hours are still a blur in my mind, a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions and thoughts. My stomach rolls, clenching in hunger, but there’s no way I’m playing Russian Roulette with the unappealing contents of that trolley.

I watch as her hand hovers over two towers of neatly stacked paper cups. ‘Medium or large?’

‘Better make it a large,’ I murmur, glancing back at the window, feeling the edges of a headache tightening at my temples and the tension rigid in my neck.

She picks up the large, insulated jug and begins to pour. Setting the cup down on the table in front of me, she lays a tiny, sealed cup of milk and a couple of packets of sugar on the table beside it, adding a little plastic stirrer.

‘Two pounds thirty, please, love.’

I scoot onto one hip and reach into the pocket of my jeans. Laying the crinkled orange train ticket on the table, I glance at the contents of my open palm, there’s an empty chewing gum wrapper, a crumpled five-pound note and a paper clip… Where the hell did the paperclip come from I wonder absently as I hand her the fiver. She pokes a coral tipped finger into her plastic change pot and counts out several coins, which she hands to me with a smile. ‘Thank you for traveling Great Western today.’ She nods before grasping the handle of her trolley and heading down the aisle to pause several seats on to greet another commuter.

Pushing the milk and sugar packets aside, I pick up the cup gingerly, desperately needing the shot of caffeine, and take a tentative sip to avoid burning my mouth. I grimace. I needn’t have bothered being cautious as it’s barely lukewarm and tastes disgusting. I take another stubborn sip, forcing the bitter liquid down and shuddering involuntarily. It’s not the quality of coffee I’m used to, but as it’s the best I’m likely to get for the next several hours, I may as well suck it up.

My father would be horrified if he were here in my place. His finely honed tastes run more towards handpicked coffee beans from an endangered Nicaraguan forest, which have been carefully hand crushed under the feet of poor orphaned tribes’ children and delicately seasoned with the lost souls of virgins, rather than instant coffee on board the London to Cornwall rail service.

My brow folds at the thought of my father, and I snort quietly under my breath, not that he would be caught dead on a train. Aside from a highly lucrative career in investment banking, he also comes from old money, and as such, is an unmitigated ass and unapologetic snob.

An Elliott, I can almost hear his condescending tone, would never demean himself by using public transport that is for the peasants. It was a hell of a way to be raised, and why, at the age of twenty-six years old, this is my first proper cross country train journey. Hell, it’s my first time doing a lot of things.

I thought it would be more exciting. As a boy I’d been desperate to ride the train, my imagination fueled by images of the Hogwarts Express, but the reality is, it’s slightly grimy, smells a bit funky, and as with everything else in my life, has turned out to be a bit of a disappointment.

I gulp down another mouthful of cheap coffee, and it may be my imagination, but I’m sure it’s starting to taste a little better, either that or my tastebuds have gone numb. Setting the cup down, my mind drifts once again, lulled by the gentle swaying of the train. I don’t even flinch at the sudden whoosh of a train on the adjacent tracks speeding past in the opposite direction. The rain hammers at the window beside my head, beating out a restless staccato as my thoughts once again return to last night, and I find myself unconsciously lifting my hand to rub the phantom pain in my chest.

I’d always accepted that the trajectory of my life was finite, a course plotted out for me since conception. What I’d wanted for myself had never been a consideration, or even a conscious thought. There was only duty coupled with the bone-weary weight of familial expectation. Admittedly, I’d had a very privileged upbringing, but it’d come with so many invisible strings and conditions, I often found myself wondering if it was worth it. It was like living in a goldfish bowl, endlessly swimming in circles because it was all I’d ever known and infinitely safer than the overwhelming vastness of the ocean.

All that had changed after last night. I’d broken that damn goldfish bowl, smashed it to pieces, and now, there was no going back. With that silent admission came a strange mixture of fear and guilt pounding in my chest, flirting around the edges of full-blown panic, but woven in amongst the nerves is a faint, very thin shred of… hope.

I’d expected to feel oddly liberated once I left, but instead, I feel a curious kind of numbness. Maybe it’s shock. I glance over to the large black waterproof backpack sitting on the seat beside me. All it contains is some new clothes and underwear, my toiletries and a paperback novel I’d purchased at Paddington Station. That’s it, my whole life in one bag, and if there’s one thing, I’ve learned over the past twenty-four hours, it’s that it’s scarily easy to disappear from your own life.

‘Tickets please.’

I look up at the sound of a throat clearing to see the guard eying me suspiciously. Giving him a perfunctory smile, I slide the ticket off the table and hold it toward him. He doesn’t take it, instead he leans over and glances at it before giving a grunt of approval and moving further down the carriage. Digging in my backpack for the book I settle in comfortably and open the first page. I can’t remember the last time I’d read for pleasure. My father had always considered reading to be a waste of time unless it was some dry, academic tome that could double as a doorstop.

I sink a little further into the worn, padded seat, losing myself to the story and giving my overactive brain a welcome respite from an incipient breakdown. It’s a strangely cosy little cocoon with my jacket wrapped around me, the hum of the train beneath me and the gloomy rain pattering against the steamed-up windows.

A short while later I feel the train slow to a stop, and a crackly announcement echoes through the carriage, barely legible beneath the layer of static.