Carriage Number 9
 
Lucy and her mother ran frantically up the ramp from the car park, into the ticket office, and out through its main door on to the station platform. A chill wind billowed behind them, carrying their huge deep breaths away to another place. ‘Thank goodness we bought our tickets yesterday,’ her mother managed to say in between yet more erratic gasps as her heart rate began to calm down. ‘I hate missing trains – you have to wait so long for the next one, and just think of all that useful time being wasted!’
 
Lucy looked up at her and smiled. It was always like this – hurrying to get to places, never having left enough time to enjoy the anticipation. Still, the relief somehow made it all worthwhile. And here they were, ready for a journey to Aunt Sal’s, with all that it entailed – laughter, anecdotes, and chocolate and giggle loads of gossip. These trips always ended too soon. But there was always another one planned - put straight in the diary as they were leaving. Every time. Even Lucy made sure of that.
A blue and red nose glided smoothly along the grey track, coming slowly to a rasping stop. Two alluring figures, a young girl and her mother, climbed on board, as electronic doors beckoned them in with a wheezy sigh. Plenty of seats – they were spoilt for choice! Lucy dived into a bright orange window- seat and her mother plonked herself down opposite, wiggling her large bottom into the padded contours of a single section – she would not want to be accused of spilling into someone else’ s specially-allotted area! (Even if she was heavier than she used to be.) But she didn’t want to ruin the day’s prospect of feasting and fun with such annoying details.
 
Lucy found her mother amusing.  Wispy blonde hair framed a podgy, rounded face. Her blue eyes were always bright and excited; glinting with life and the promise of what still lay ahead – there was still so much to do! Weddings, holidays, a novel to write, new friendships to be made and a myriad of other fine things. And all before she was 60.
 
Lucy was calm and mature; her small-bones were dressed in clothes which perfectly complemented her elegant shape. She was wise beyond her years.  Her eyes were deep and seemed to penetrate the depths of another world, only she had never been there. What indeed haunted that chasm? Where did she go to in those moments of peace, of reflection, when left alone with her thoughts? Her mother studied her closely as Lucy looked out of the window at the speeding patches of green and brown, at the posh houses and graffitied walls of surburbia, at blurred streaks of passing trains, and a grey, white-splashed sky.
 
Staines. Screech of tired brakes. Virginia Waters. Feltham. Sharp, ear-piercing whistle. Clapham Junction. Cold air. Endless stops. The steady rhythm made Lucy’s mother fall into a light sleep. At least she didn’t snore. Now it was her turn to study this worn-out woman - though time had been kind to her, leaving her with an attractive glow, an honest warmth. Lucy felt satisfied, relieved, content.
 
The tunnel was very black and it shouldn’t have been there. They had come this way many times before. Lucy couldn’t remember it. She could not recall a long, straight line through an unlit corridor of blackness. The blackness seemed to invade her; she could not understand her feelings – fear, confusion, panic. And silence: there was nothing – a cold stillness; not even a whisper; not a cry, or moan; not even a distant voice. Just her, alone in this space.

‘Lucy!’ Her mother woke with a start. ‘Where are we? Are we nearly there? I must’ve dozed off.’ It was broad daylight. Everything had suddenly, in a nano second, returned to normal. ‘We’ve just come out of a tunnel, Mum,’ Lucy volunteered in a shaky voice. ‘You must’ve missed it.’
 
‘Oh – you’re imagining things. There’re no tunnels on this line – we've done this trip a thousand times. You must’ve been dozing, like me.’
 
‘No, Mum, I wasn’t. Maybe, we’ve had to change tracks and have now rejoined our proper one.’
 
‘Lucy, don’t be mad – we’d’ve been told about that. You’re as bad as me,’ her mother said, laughing quietly at Lucy’s supposed embarrassment.
 
Lucy felt irritated. She had not fallen asleep. She was frightened. This coldness had touched her deep inside and still, mysteriously, seemed to lurk. Nothing made any sense. Had anyone else shared her experience? She looked around, but could see no one. She stood up – they surely could not be alone in the carriage. But they were. Her heart fluttered; it seemed to miss a beat. Her mother was amused by her behaviour. Teenagers! Whatever, next.
 
Lucy sat down. She looked out of the window, trying to focus on something in the distance in order to regain her calm.  Her breathing started to become regular and easy.  She turned back towards her mother, who was staring into space – her mind clearly on other matters.
 
She glanced again at the window and suddenly screamed; an ear-piercing wail brought her mother back to the land of the living: ‘Goodness, gracious me – what on earth’s going on?’ Lucy’s mother leapt out of her seat – no doubt a primal reaction to stress. ‘Get away from the window! Look! What’s there?’
 
‘Nothing! Nothing. You are having a bad day, dear.’
 
Lucy could see a young girl, with long, flowing hair. She was banging on the window. She was crying, sobbing madly. Her clothes were flailing about in the jet stream; her body was being buffeted against the glass. The window slowly began to move, as if an invisible hand was pulling it down. Lucy stared, transfixed. She couldn’t move. No sound came from her tightly-clenched throat. The girl floated into the carriage and landed on the seat next to her mother, who had now returned there, somewhat annoyed by Lucy’s peculiar behaviour.
 
The girl’s face was pale, almost white. Her hair was matted and wet, wind-ravaged and ragged-looking. She wore dark-blue denim jeans and a thin, over-sized viscose top. A black jacket hung loosely around her shoulders. She gripped her hands tightly together and kept drawing them to her mouth. She rocked, rhythmically, but never relaxed into the seat. She stared hard at Lucy; her pale eyes penetrated the very depths of her soul. Lucy continued to stare; she could not utter a single word.
 
‘Lucy! What wrong with you?’ She could hear a distant voice, as her mother yelled frantically at her. Time had been suspended and she knew that she was trapped in this moment, unable to go forwards or back. She could not reply, as she felt herself slipping into the blackness of fear and disbelief. ‘Lucy, I’m going to pull the Emergency Cord. Do I need to – are you in trouble?’ No reply. No movement.
 
Lucy’s mother was leaning towards her and was now holding her hand. She was starting to panic. Lucy’s face was ridged; her eyes, fixed and the pupils, dilated. She was clearly having some sort of a fit, but her body was taut, unmoving. She could offer her no comfort. She stood up and rushed over to the pull the red cord. She was gasping for breath.  The train came to an abrupt halt, its screeching brakes adding to her shouting heart.
 
Lucy assimilated all that she saw. The girl started to form shapes with her mouth; eventually, words came out: ‘It should have been you. They took me. They took me. It wasn’t my time: it was yours. I’ve come for you! Then I can go back. Can’t you see? It should be you – you were on the train on the day that it happened.’
 
‘No! No! Mistakes aren’t made. I’m staying here. Go away! Go back to where you belong.’
 
‘I belong here.’
 
‘For God’s sake, go. Go!’  Lucy’s fear-stricken reply split the air in two, causing her mother to collapse by the doorway, overcome by shock. She was still slumped on the floor when the crew found them in carriage Number 9. There were no visible signs of a struggle. There was no blood. There was no obvious disturbance. Everything seemed to be quite in order – chairs in tact; bags on the seats; window and door, both closed. No other passengers were able to help the investigation: they had been alone. The mother must have rung the cord.
 
Looking back at the rail company’s records, a rather sharp clerk noticed that on the ninth day, of the ninth month, exactly nine years ago, a young girl had been tragically killed as she crossed the tracks at her village station. All to save a few minutes.......of time.