Lionboy Part 19

The front of the station was bright and busy, so they skirted around to the back. The tracks, Charlie knew from the map, led out behind the facade they were approaching, so they took a dark, quiet street down the side. The strange new creature fell in behind them, keeping to the dark corners and the walls as the others did.

The houses were dark. The lions sloped from garbage heap to closed-up snack cart, from dim doorway to darkened stairwell, landing in shadows, being shadows. The street led into the freight yard, where the lions found some mail carts and lay quietly beneath them, out of sight, panting a little as they rested. The creature found a separate one. No one was talking. Charlie was reasonably sure that the fight wouldn't break out again while he went ahead to check out the best way to get to the Orient Express.

He strolled back around and into the station. He wanted to run, but he didn't want to draw attention.

He knew it was supposed to be at platform one.

There it was.

He strolled up the platform. His legs were tense and his feet heavy.

The train was fine and high and long-so long that the front of it extended beyond the end of the platform. Beyond that, the tracks faded into darkness, to be lit only by the headlights of the trains pa.s.sing beside them. And just beyond that darkness was the freight yard, dark and closed now, where the would-be stowaways were waiting. All they had to do was come around through the darkness to the front of the train, and get on board on the far side, hidden from the light and crowds of the platform side. There was no train on that far side. No one on the platform. With just a little luck, n.o.body would notice them at all. There was no time to spare.

Charlie hurried back to the lions, who hooded their eyes again. The timing was good: twelve-twenty. "Quick!" Charlie called, low and hurried. "Before another train comes. Good luck! Quick!"

Yellow eyes flashed. Charlie flipped himself onto the youngest lion's back with all the skill of a trick rider, and they were off, hurtling out and across-speed gave them invisibility. All the time Charlie's mind was flicking over the things that threatened them: Who is this new creature? Does he put our plan in danger? Where would Rafi and Troy be by now?

The freight yard led directly to the tracks, gleaming beneath the lions' paws. They lifted their feet high to avoid the cold metal, stepping over onto the wooden slats.

Huge and dim in the darkness with the station lights behind it, the train looked tremendously tall. Charlie hoped and hoped that he had not underestimated the height, and that the lions had not overestimated their strength and prowess. And anyway-they were all tired by now.

First, the engine and fuel car. Then the luggage car: their destination. No one would be there to hear them as they jumped aboard.

Go go go! Charlie urged, silently, in his head as he hopped down from the young lion's back. Charlie urged, silently, in his head as he hopped down from the young lion's back.

The lionesses went first. One, two, three, they slunk along in the darkness by the wheels, seemed almost to halt as they swayed back on their haunches, and then took off in the great curving leap that brought them silently and magnificently onto the roof of the train. How could he have doubted them-these fabulous animals whom he had seen bounce all over the ring cage? Of course they could do it.

Next, Elsina. She wasn't as strong or practiced, but she had the energy of youth, and her aunts and mother were there to catch her.

Then the new creature. The jump was no problem to him. He was so big, he almost could have stepped on, but he gave a short, powerful leap with his strong back legs.

Next, the oldest lion. Charlie was worried about him too-he was old, could he make it?

The oldest lion looked superciliously at the train, calculating the height in his mind, and he took a few delicate paces back. Then he shook his head and seemed to change his mind. Rather than take a running leap, as the lionesses had done, he paced directly to the front of the car and swiftly, elegantly, scrambled up on the maintenance ladder. All six lions were now lying flat, spread-eagled on the roof. Charlie couldn't see them at all. Just as it should be.

He glanced around him. Nothing. n.o.body. His heart was hammering. A few platforms away an engine was starting to chug and rattle.

The young lion was now preparing to leap, and Charlie was thinking that he too might take the maintenance ladder. And just at that moment, he heard voices.

The young lion flashed his yellow eyes at Charlie, blinked, and flew. He was right to, of course, because though there is only very little excuse for a young boy to be wandering alone in the dark on a railway track, there is even less excuse for a lion.

It was the extra engineer and the extra conductor, coming on duty a little late, frankly. The engineer was complaining about having to come out into the dark, on the tracks, to the cab.

Although the bulk of the train was between him and them, Charlie dropped to the ground. He was right by the gap between the cars. Did he dare scurry farther out of view? He really did not want to have to explain himself. Not now. Not after all they'd been through.

It was cold and wet and grubby down on the track. He could smell metal and dead leaves and damp wood. The wheels towered huge above him. He tried to think himself invisible. "I am a pile of rags. I am an old plastic bag," he said quietly under his breath. "I don't exist, you can't see me, you'd never notice me, I'm just some glop left over after the storm . . ." He peered under the heavy, dirty car links, hoping and hoping to see legs walking along on the other side of the train, legs that would belong to people who would walk on by, and get on the train, and never see him, and never know that he existed.

But they did see him.

"What's that?" said one in French.

"Je ne sais pas," said the other. said the other. I don't know. I don't know. They came over and peered. "It's a person-a child." They came over and peered. "It's a person-a child."

Charlie's heart sank. He had to think quickly.

What was his priority? To get on the train.

What must not be allowed to happen? Not getting on the train.

When was the train leaving? Any minute.

What would make these men put him on the train?

Think, think, think.

Bingo!

"Mummy! Mummy!" cried Charlie pathetically. "I want my mummy!"

He started crying-just a bit. It was quite easy to fake, because his feelings were were running high, and actually-now that he was crying it out-it was true, he did want his mum, badly, although that would not be quite how he would have chosen to express himself on the subject. running high, and actually-now that he was crying it out-it was true, he did want his mum, badly, although that would not be quite how he would have chosen to express himself on the subject.

"He's lost," said one of the men. "What are you doing down there? Are you all right? Here, get up."

Charlie stood, trying to look as small, young, innocent, and pathetic as possible. They had to see him as lost and sad, because otherwise they'd see him as trouble and bad, in which case they'd cart him off to the stationmaster . . . Charlie rubbed his eyes. His face was filthy.

"Where was the platform?" cried Charlie. "I was looking for Mummy and there was no platform . . ." All of which was true, of course. He was was looking for his mum and there looking for his mum and there was was no platform. But the drivers took it to mean-as Charlie had hoped they would-that he had fallen off the train. So now they began to worry about getting into trouble for not having a platform beside the train, and putting small boys in danger. And the nearest car was the first-cla.s.s car. They didn't want any fuss from worried mothers and irate fathers with expensive tickets and high standards of travel safety. no platform. But the drivers took it to mean-as Charlie had hoped they would-that he had fallen off the train. So now they began to worry about getting into trouble for not having a platform beside the train, and putting small boys in danger. And the nearest car was the first-cla.s.s car. They didn't want any fuss from worried mothers and irate fathers with expensive tickets and high standards of travel safety.

The engineer and the conductor looked at each other, perplexed.

Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up, thought Charlie. It was 12:28 according to the station clock.

They were in a hurry-in fact, they should have been in the cab ten minutes ago. It was due to leave. They didn't want trouble.

"Oh no," said the guard. "There's Monsieur Blezard."

A small group of people led by a man in a very sharp uniform was marching determinedly down the platform.

The engineer rolled his eyes.

So they did what Charlie hoped they would do: They picked him up, opened the door of the train, and popped him inside.

"You're all right now," said one, looking firmly at him. "You don't need to mention it."

Charlie smiled bravely. "I won't," he said. "I'll just find my mum."

The trainguys rushed on up to the cab, and the head engineer swore at them for being late.

Charlie, knowing that the lions had seen and understood what had happened, looked up and down the elegant wood-paneled corridor in which he found himself, and heaved a ma.s.sive sigh of something like relief.

He couldn't quite believe it.

12:29.

The first door on the corridor was open. He slipped in and swiftly locked it after him.

He was in a bathroom. It was fancier than anywhere he'd ever seen before. The sink was porcelain, with a pattern of pink rose-buds scattered across it. The toilet seat was polished dark wood. The little table was gla.s.s. The little curtain was crisp lace. The towels were fluffy and white. The walls were wood-paneled, and there was a small painting of a lady in a pink dress, on a swing, surrounded by garlands of pink roses and two fat little cupids. It reminded him of Madame Barbue on her horse, and Pirouette flying through the heavens of the big top on her trapezes. Nothing could be less like slimy ca.n.a.l sides, dangerous ledges, filthy railroad tracks, trash-filled dens. He had to blink.

Gosh, he was tired. This had been a long, long day. He sat down on the polished toilet seat and finally, finally, let himself take a breath. He was here on the train. The lions were too. All had gone more or less according to plan in the end-except for the new creature, of course, with his teeth and his howl. He wasn't part of the plan. He was-well, what on earth was was he? he?

In thirty seconds the train would leave.

Please G.o.d, please everybody, keep Rafi away for thirty seconds.

It smelled wonderful in here-like Christmas and honey and oranges. For the moment, the lions would just have to look after themselves. The new creature would just have to look after himself. Charlie was in a warm, dry place, about to leave for Venice, and he was exhausted. He pulled a fluffy white towel toward him: The moment the train started to move he would sleeeeeeep . . . sleeeeeeep . . .

The distant sound of a dog barking was almost part of his dream . . .

But it wasn't. It was here. Right outside the crisp white curtain. Loud, insistent, and accompanied by shouting, in English and French. Charlie jerked his head up.

"You must stop the train! You must stop the train! Il faut arreter le train! Il y a des-des animaux a bord! Il faut arreter le train! Il y a des Il faut arreter le train! Il y a des-des animaux a bord! Il faut arreter le train! Il y a des-"

Charlie stared at the curtain. Very, very slowly, he lifted the corner.

"Listen, man, you must stop it! They're criminals, they're runaways . . ."

It was Rafi. He looked appalling. Wet, furious, shouting, with green sc.u.m smearing his leather coat, and blood down his face, his lips gray, his arm hanging limp, and his big ugly dog s...o...b..ring at his feet, jumping and barking, as if desperate to get at the car and tear it up piece by piece.

A guard was shouting at Rafi-telling him to control his dog.

Someone shouted "Fou!" "Fou!"-madman!

The train was beginning to creak and crunch. Doors were slamming, guards shouting to one another.

Charlie couldn't see whom Rafi was yelling at. He couldn't see what was happening.

"Stop the train, man!" Rafi yelled. He looked like a lunatic.

Charlie pressed his face to the cool gla.s.s of the window.

Rafi turned. His little beard was matted with blood. His eyes were livid.

He saw Charlie.

Charlie saw him.

The whistle blew. The train lurched. In slow jerks, Rafi's furious face disappeared from view.

CHAPTER 19.

Charlie was asleep, his head on a fluffy white towel folded up on the edge of the sink.

He was not disturbed by the footsteps of the seven lions on the roof of the train as they cautiously prowled around, looking for a place to lie safely through the night, snug in a pile, as far out of the wind as possible. He slept through the rattle and hum of the train speeding up as it left Paris, heading south. He slept through the polite, gentle French voice of the conductor inquiring whether everything was just so, and was anything else required, and through a smooth English voice replying "Yes, yes, thank you so much," in a way that clearly meant "Now just go away and don't bother us."

Even the shock of Rafi's wild, riverswept face at the car window, caked with blood and fury and demanding that the train be stopped-even that could not keep Charlie awake. He had been working, and planning, and running, and fearing, and in this moment, in this clean warm place, with the train rushing him away from everything he feared, not a thing in the world could keep him awake. Sheer relief had knocked him out.

Charlie was dreaming that he and his mother and father were all at home around the kitchen table eating fish sticks and playing a game of Scrabble. Charlie was extremely happy in this dream, and had no plans to leave it. Mum was being particularly clever, making words Charlie didn't know, like "spasmodiacal" and "leaven-some." Actually, perhaps they weren't real words. Dad was laughing. Their hands were squabbling over the board: hers pale and strong, his big and black and silky-skinned. Charlie was putting his hand out, in the dream as he had so often in life, to see his brown-ness next to them, when he was awakened by a sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door.

Charlie bolted awake in a state of shock. Where was he? What was happening?

"What?" he cried.

A gruff foreign voice was saying, "All right, you can come out now."

Charlie shook his head, trying to clear it. He had been very deeply asleep, very deep in his dream of home.

"Open the door," said the voice. "You must be very tired, it's late for a youngster. Come on out and Edward will make up a bed for you."

Charlie was so amazed that like a sleepwalker he stood up, opened the door, and stared out at the person who had called him. It was a fat, dark man in a gorgeous purple dressing gown.

"Dear oh dear," said the fat man. "Edward-pajamas for my young friend. Washing can wait till morning. Are you hungry?"

Groggily, Charlie admitted that yes, he was.

Ten minutes later he was sitting up under tartan blankets in a small, tight, incredibly clean train bed, with a chicken sandwich on a heavy white plate with a gold crown on it, and a large gla.s.s of milk-or rather, a goblet of milk. Really, he thought, this gla.s.s could only be called a goblet, with its leg, and the weight of it. It's so-gobletty.

Gobletty. That's not a word.

Should be, though. Nice word.

Two minutes after that, he was fast asleep again.

Eight hours later he was awakened by the smell of bacon. He'd become used to his ropelocker bedroom on board the Circe. Circe. He had sort of considered it home. But this tiny bunk was really very comfortable, and so deliciously clean. He yawned, and tried to roll over, but it was difficult. He was tucked in very tight-rolled in like a caterpillar in a chrysalis, because it was so small. He had sort of considered it home. But this tiny bunk was really very comfortable, and so deliciously clean. He yawned, and tried to roll over, but it was difficult. He was tucked in very tight-rolled in like a caterpillar in a chrysalis, because it was so small.

Had he perhaps died, and gone to heaven?

He was in a tiny compartment, with a little window outside of which a cold, bright, clear morning was racing past. Inside, all was as snug and luxurious as could be imagined.

How very warm it was. And dry. And comfortable.