On Borrowed Time

Chapter 1

1

Gary Stoddart quite liked the early shift. It meant departing Nottingham at four minutes to five in the morning, but would see him home not long after lunch. Besides, what could be better than watching the sun rise as he drove his train through the beautiful East Midlands countryside?

He watched a small number of early-morning commuters boarding the carriages as the 5.49am service came to a brief rest in Oakham, before it would set off again, along the South Shore of Rutland Water and on to Stamford.

There’d been a stunning mist sitting on the fields between Melton Mowbray and Oakham — something which’d probably have cleared within the hour, and which drivers working later turns wouldn’t get to admire. There was always something about crisp early mornings that excited him. And this early morning was as-yet unbroken. Although this was the first eastbound service of the day, there’d usually been at least two earlier westbound trains by now — not to mention a slew of overnight freight. But nighttime engineering works further along the line meant Gary’s train was the first of the day, breaking through the virgin mist of the Rutland countryside.

With his new set of passengers on board, Gary pulled away from Oakham Station, pleased to see he hadn’t caused too much frustration on the level crossing in the centre of town, and started to gather speed as the train headed south.

This was his favourite part of the run. Once the train was clear of Oakham it’d follow the A6003 and enter the tunnel which ran under the village of Manton, before the track split and headed east between Rutland Water and the A47, then dipped under the Great North Road and into the picturesque market town of Stamford.

He’d always found it rather odd that the train line went directly underneath Manton, when it could just as easily have gone round it. Then again, he only drove the things; he hadn’t built the line.

The overnight engineering works meant speed restrictions had been put in place on this stretch. Gary didn’t mind, even if his passengers did. The joy of driving a train wasn’t connected with speed. And in any case, it gave him more time to enjoy his surroundings — something he knew he’d never grow tired of.

The train gathered speed, piercing through the mist as it began to soar over the A6003, the entrance to the Manton tunnel opening up ahead. As it did, Gary noticed something that caught his eye. His instincts kicking in, he cut the throttle and hit the brakes, praying he’d spotted it early enough.

The morning had been damp, and the friction wasn’t kicking in anywhere near as quickly as Gary would’ve liked, despite the speed restrictions that were in place. In a split-second, he made the decision to slam on the emergency brakes, adrenaline pumping in his chest and his stomach lurching as he realised what was about to happen.

He did exactly what he’d been trained not to do, and closed his eyes. He waited for the inevitable, sickening noise as the train screeched to a halt, jolting him in his seat.

Silence. A brief moment where he wondered if he’d dreamt the whole thing.

Slowly, Gary opened his eyes and looked out through the windscreen of his cab.

It was the detail that struck him first. The fabric. The gentle sway. The milky whites of the eyes. It was only a second or two later that his mind registered the dead body hanging just inches away from him.