A Journey from Hell

"Is something on fire? What smells smoky?" the child asks, looking unreasonably excited at the prospect of a fire on a sealed, moving train.

"I don't know sweetheart, but I don't think anything could really catch fire in this weather. Besides, we could always escape by jamming the door open and getting out into the rain," you reply, smiling down at him. You look back out the window, where rain is pounding, dragged into a backwards streak by the motion of the train.

Disgusting, cold, watery rain. It is outrageous that today is the only day I could get away. Couldn't it have been a sunny, dry afternoon?

Looking into the dim window, you think you see a faint glow reflected in your eyes. Maybe something is on fire, you think nervously. This thought skitters away, interrupted by the ding of the conductor starting an announcement.

"Good afternoon everyone, I hope you've had a pleasant trip so far. Unfortunately, the weather has caused several lines to fall on the tracks, and the train will be terminating at the next station."

"Oh no," you mutter.

"Does this mean we're gonna miss our flight??" the boy asks anxiously. Bouncing in his seat, he fiddles with the zip of his coat. "But I spent so long packing, and I want to see dad!"

I immediately start to panic. I don't give a damn about seeing 'dad', I just need to get us on the flying machine. Locomotives have existed for SO long - how are they still getting thwarted by a little bit of rain?! This is what I get for sleeping through the 20th century.

While I fume in silence, you and the boy have picked up the bags and are waiting by the doors to go (shudder) into the rain. All around us, coats are going on and hoods are going up. I make sure your hood is tight and your gloves are on before we step onto the new platform.

The cold moisture in the air instantly makes me shrink back. Despite my weakness, I manage to guide you speedily into the protection of the station. Sweet warmth beckons from the open doors, the yellow lights a beacon in the cold. We step through the doors, suddenly surrounded by hundreds of similarly inconvenienced travellers. It has been an age (or six?) since I saw so many people in one place, probably not since I left that stinking sweat-river Tangier. I miss it now, the brutal sun and absence of rain. This cold, wet place is my nightmare.

In my haste to get indoors, I may have overlooked the child.

"Elliot? Elliot!" You cry, breaking free from my control. I curse internally, this is not going to speed up the journey. You try to reverse direction back onto the platform, but the throngs of travellers dragging large suitcases through the cramped doors have you trapped. You drop your bags in the walkway, blocking the path. Pushing now, you get back to the doors to a chorus of 'hey's and 'ow's. I am displeased to discover that I cant stop you from going outside, but I can make you focus on the crowd - the last of the passengers are coming up to the doors and we can already see that Elliot is not out there.

"He must have been carried inside by the crowd," I push into your mind, loathe to stay out here just for a child. You spin around and shove your way back to where you dropped the bags. Thankfully, they haven't been moved. Lost bags would have slowed us down even more. I focus on your bags, making sure your hands are tightly clutching the handles, before moving on to find that foolish child. Whipping your head around, you look for your son. You spot a help desk on the other side of the station and push directly towards it, moving slowly through the crowds.

"Please help! I lost my little boy in the crowds!" You start shouting from meters away, frantic with worry. I let you rant, hoping to speed up this boorish process with hysterics.

"Calm down ma'am," the attendant says, apathetic. "How old is he?"

"Seven!"

"And where did you last see him?"

"At the doors of the train, before we got off!"

"And you weren't holding his hand?" He says, looking up from his computer and raising an eyebrow. How rude. Children are witless, but really! It's his fault for not remaining close by. We can't be always holding hands!

"I don't know what happened," you say, tears welling in your eyes. "Normally I never lose sight, but with the rain and the crowds..."

"Whatever. Lets put a call out. What's his name?"

"Elliot," you say, tears trailing down your cheeks now. The moisture is unpleasant.

"Okay, take a seat over there. Someone will probably spot him," he says, picking up a device. I stop paying attention once he starts speaking into it. Your mind is fully focused on Elliot, not the real challenge of getting on the flight. I listen through your ears, hoping a passer-by will give me an idea to get us to this 'airport'.

"...must get to the taxi queue quickly if we wish to make it in time..." I hear, from a wrinkled old bat walking past with her husband (I presume). She looks as harried as I feel, bedraggled with wispy hear escaping her damp hair. This sounds promising, 'making it in time' is a goal that we share.

The word 'taxi' sounds naggingly familiar. I cast my mind back through the years I spent trapped in that drab attic... There was an event once, when I first woke up in this cold country. When he was excited to have caught me, before he realised that I wouldn't help him. He dragged me downstairs for a tedious 'wizards' party - but I managed to thwart him simply by manifesting as a thread of incense smoke emerging from my lamp. His guests assumed he was playing a jest with them, hah! The memory gives me pleasure. I also recall seeing the black automotives outside the window that night - the ones with the lights on top! Some of his guests claimed they 'caught' the vehicles, oddly. They seemed rather too heavy and quick for those dullards. Regardless, they said 'taxi' on the light, and they seemed to driven by fat old men who took strangers around their bailiwick. This could work.

I try to push you to go to the taxi queue - surely Elliot can find his own way there? - but your mind is spinning and I can't get a foothold. We wait. As the minutes trickle by, you become more agitated, and I more frustrated. Finally, unable to bear it, you approach the counter again.

"Has anyone seen him??"

"No ma'am," the attendant says, not looking up from his computer. "I'll let you know the minute someone calls in."

"Can't you just look at the security cameras and try to spot him?"

"No," he says slowly, like you are an idiot for asking this. This 'help desk' is named very incongruously. "That would be a breach of our security policies. You'll just have to..."

"MUM!" You hear a cry behind you, and spin so fast that it takes you a moment to spot him in the crowds. He is struggling to push past all the bags and people between himself and the help desk. You cry and spring into movement, more tears (gross) rolling down your cheeks.

"Yay... a happy ending." I hear the desk attendant mutter.

"Where were you?" You demand once we reach the boy.

"Lost you in the crowds," he shrugs. "I was looking everywhere for you but then some random lady pointed out the help desk so I figured I would come here." He grins, clearly unphased by the stress his mother has been under. People continue to push by us, all on their way to various alternative transports. I nudge you to get the bags left at the seating area, and you grab his hand and drag him to the seats before pulling him into a tight hug.

"I was so worried," you say into his hair. I only let this go on for a few seconds before I nudge you again, pushing harder - we are running out of time.

"Lets go to the taxi queue, maybe we can get one to the airport yeah?" You say, guiding the boy along. Your hand is so tight around his and the comfort you feel from his tiny grip is palpable, even to me. It's actually rather nice - like warmth, but coming from the inside.

To my horror, the taxi queue is outside again - and long. I retreat deeper, feeling the moisture sap my strength. I wait, impatient and grumpy. Curiously, I am not the only one. I see the faces around me and 'impatient and grumpy' seems to apply to every one. I wonder if it is the rain, or the queue that bothers them so? Humans are so fond of water, it must be the queue. I have observed that waiting is something humans are particularly averse to. I naturally enjoy periods of stillness, so their impatience is usually foreign to me. Today, however, I feel positively human in my irritation.

After a metaphorical eternity of waiting, we reach the front of the queue. The rain has soaked through the shoulders of the jacket you wear and I worry that I will never recover from this watery decay. The taxi approaches our position, the yellow halo created by the glowing 'taxi' sign is positively divine. As you load the bags into the rear end of the vehicle, I hear a commotion along the line. You tentatively walk to the other side of the carriage and climb in. The smell is atrocious - the accumulated reek of dozens of wet humans. You don't seem to mind, only relieved by the newfound hope that we might make our flight. I feel fresh kinship with you, what a novel experience today is.

As the taxi pulls away, we hear shouting in the queue again and you lean over the boy to peer out the window. I am aghast to see my heretofore captor, surrounded by people. My shock bleeds through to you and you gasp, simultaneously confused at the sound. The boy looks as well.

"Isn't that our weird neighbour?"

"Yeah, it is... I wonder why he's here?" You question, noticing the forked wooden stick in his hand and the manic look in his eye. We only glimpse him briefly as the taxi pulls away, but it is obvious that he is causing a scene. The uniformed officers that protect the station were congregating around him, and he seemed to be shouting at them. Relief floods me at his predicament. With a touch of luck, we will be in the sky before he can find me again.

"Mum, why are you smiling?"

"I... I don't know."