The Time Traveller
15: Kesheard 1-04-84
It didn't happen all at once. It never does. It came in, splintered in dribs and drabs, crashing like a rough sea against the sea wall.
We were in the coach, when something hit the windscreen hard. The whole window cracked and the driver was forced to bring the coach to a skidding stop. Of course, the band were naturally nervous, having been in that crash earlier in the tour. It was a bird, a big black bird that had hit the windscreen. It was impossible to tell what kind of bird, as it was almost totally obliterated by the impact. They were all forced to take a Train the rest of the way, the coach being beyond immediate repair and another not available for a few days. It looked like it was the Train or nothing. At least the Woodrowe’s had us. At least there was that.
During the day, I had gotten into a discussion with Corakayla about things - this and that - when she revealed a hidden truth about her I had no idea was there. She told me how she had once had an abortion, when she was younger, to a boy she had messed around with at the time. She told me how she had wanted someone to tell her it was alright, to trust them, she would be looked after. But nothing. No one was there for her, and when, a couple of years later, she had a miscarriage, it had devastated her. She said that the only thing that had helped her, had drawn her out of her despair was the music of Woodrowe.
I completely understood this. I could see how music soothed the pain with invisible magic that not even the makers of that music could foresee. I had no words for her, though, and I don't think she wanted any. I think she just wanted someone to know, to share the pain, to take some of the weight from her shoulders. I saw a much calmer Corakayla after that. And she insisted I call her Cora from now on. Corakayla was foisted upon her, and now she felt it didn't suit her.
Things were changing. I’m not sure anyone noticed though, but me.
The gig that night was naturally a little run of the mill. They tried to put it behind them, ignore the fear they felt, and when it was over, the traipse to the Train Station was subdued at best.
I remember the balloon, one of the number of balloons that are released for the encore at the gigs, trapped inside the net, caught, alone, lost with no purpose. It didn't even struggle. It simply let it happen and didn't try, didn't force its way out of captivity. Freedom. Something it either didn't desire, or was torn from it by the oppressive netting, or part of it snagged against a joist or part of the lighting rig. I identified with that balloon, except that I couldn't remember why?
“This is all a joke, surely?” muttered Ben, ever the stoic. I didn't know to what he was referring, so I looked round.
The carriage was First Class, as one would expect, isolated from the rest of the Train, but it wasn't to this he was referring. The seats had been slashed and graffiti had been sprawled over the wood and windows, the mirror and floor.
“Oh stop complaining, Ben. We might think you’ve never been on a Train before.” spoke Callum sarcastically as he lifted himself into the carriage. Everyone else followed and Ben brought up the rear. For us it was fine, for the Woodworms, we had travelled in far more squalor, traipsing up and down the country to see this band. At least this time, I don't know - it felt more real?
“Well, it’s undignified, for a band of our status.” muttered Ben further, as he too climbed into the carriage. Callum fell into a fit of laughter. Susie and Comfy, Eddy and Loffie, they were in their own worlds anyhow. It didn't matter to them. We settled down, as much as we could, and out came the alcohol, as it usually did. That warmed us up a little. But it wasn't enough.
It was never enough.
No. No, no, no -
#
I don’t get it. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
I thought - I felt - the situation needed livening up. I thought it was a good thing. I thought - oh, I don't know what I thought, “Go on then, Comfy.” I said eventually, “Do your little trick for us.”
“What you talking about?” asked Susie, as Comfy stood, preparing himself.
“You wait and see. Go on Comfy!” encouraged Viv, clapping excitedly.
Comfy made an exaggeration of preparation, what with the silly little stretches, clearing his throat, all to the amusement of the intoxicated Woodworms. It was at times like this that the adult became the child, and the drunk became the reckless.
We were screaming with excitement. Susie perched on the edge of the bench, Ben looked over distractedly, Eddy couldn't care less as he attempted to suck the face off of Loffie -
Comfy had built upon his trick somewhat. The door was usually opened first, he would make an exaggerated run up, a funny little trip and he would thrust himself arms first through the open door window, dropping his legs down, dangling, inches from the floor. It couldn't have gone better, a flawless perpetration of his party trick, for the new audience. We were all whooping and hollering, screaming and calling his name. Susie looked anxious but watched even as we did.
A noise, a rumble, it was coming from the floor, like a slow building earthquake. And we saw it, the light. The light was coming toward him, toward Comfy. The screams turned from exhilaration to naked fear as Comfy’s face changed to one of horror. He tried to scramble to the step, to pull himself in though the door. Noises, voices, all mingled into one sound of danger and hands were thrust out, grasping, pulling at Comfy’s arm. Comfy wasn't looking at the hands. He was staring at the silhouette of mortality shone in those Train lights hurtling at breakneck speed toward him. He gasped words with no meaning, his hand turned into a claw, scratching to gain purchase on anything thrust in front of him. It was Viv’s hand, cut and bleeding, scratched, that still thrust out for Comfy. It was a split second, but a flash of a face that would last eternally. Inevitability.
The look had fallen upon Comfy’s face as he turned his head to see us, more directly staring into Viv’s eyes. His face said, all at the same time, I’m scared, I’m sorry, I’m dead.
Within that flash of a half second, what had once been Comfy disappeared to be replaced by a honking Train rushing past.
#
I suppose I expect too much from others, that they fit to my extremely high standards. See, I’m empathetic. They’re sympathetic. When I used to bunk from School, why did the Teachers, the Wag Officer and my Parents not try to find out the root of the problem?
I hated authority. I was sure the Teachers were out to set an example to others using me. That, or I was depressed, scared and in need of love.
Those around me would either help a bit until they were bored, eventually to bury their head in the sand, or claim they didn’t know what to say or do, when I was in those moments of desperation.
Perhaps it wasn’t their responsibility to care for me, look after me, judge when I needed help or endeavoured to find out what it was and how it could be solved? I know, given the opportunity, it was what I would have done. I’ve even noticed within me a notion of perfection, turning into a form of Obsessive Compulsivity.
Maybe only I can see it. Maybe no one else cares? Maybe I shouldn’t expect them to, when they have problems of their own.
Oh, poor Brian Donald. Never to be forgotten.
Rest in peace, Comfy, mate?
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