Follow You Home

by Mark Edwards

The overnight train to Sighisoara, due to leave Budapest at eleven, was running late.

She took her Kindle and a bottle of water out of her bag and settled back on the double seat, upholstered a long time ago in grey velvet, trying to get comfortable.

Although we had befriended a number of couples on our trip around Europe in a transient way, exchanging email addresses and Twitter usernames, I preferred to observe someone first, make sure they weren’t crazy before engaging in conversation.

She was several inches taller than him, about five foot ten, so when standing she towered over him, reminding me of Olive Oyl and Popeye.

He was about forty, stocky, with cropped hair and an acne-scarred face. He had no luggage. Even though most of the seats in the carriage were empty, he sat diagonally opposite Laura and me.

‘I’m Ion,’ he said, opening two more cans and taking a sip from his. ‘And this is Alina.’

‘So you’re from Romania?’ Laura asked Alina, trying to draw her in. ‘Yes.’ Laura waited but no more words were forthcoming. ‘She’s from Sibiu,’ Ion said. ‘That’s where we’re heading now, to see her folks. I can’t wait to see if Alina’s mom is as smoking hot as her daughter.’

‘So where have you been on your journey round Europe?’ he asked, looking from Laura to me.

This reminds of the scene on the bus in The Man Who Knew Too Much with James Stewart and Doris Day

This was life, really lived, really experienced, a passage of magic that would flash before our eyes when we died. And to share it, to live through these experiences together, meant that Laura and I were closer than ever.

Jake. He was the one person, apart from Laura, with whom I could be fully open and honest.

After Romania we were going to head north again: Russia, Germany, then Scandinavia. The Tour was scheduled to end on my thirty-fifth birthday in Stockholm. Then we would fly home, back to London.

‘Let’s swap,’ I said to Laura, and she moved to the window seat so she was out of the stranger’s direct line of vision.

Tonight, she wore shorts, because it was hot, not because she enjoyed being stared at.

wasn’t allowed to talk about my app until it was officially announced; I had signed a confidentiality agreement. I deliberately aimed the question towards Alina, whose reticence was making me uncomfortable.

‘We’re going to collaborate on something, aren’t we?’ He rubbed her knee. ‘So, what, you’re a writer?’ I asked. Before he could open his mouth, Alina said, ‘He does nothing.’ The volume was turned down on his smile. ‘That’s a little unfair.’ This was interesting: the sudden crackle of tension between them.

Alina, to my surprise, jumped up and slipped through the door, helping the man onto the train, carrying his case into the carriage. The old man, who looked strong and fit enough to be able to handle the suitcase himself, thanked her in his own language then headed off to a seat at the other end of the carriage.

Flattered by how interested and impressed Ion seemed—I was used to my friends’ eyes glazing over when I said anything at all about the app—I temporarily forgot all about my confidentiality agreement.

Uh oh I think that’s a BIG mistake

She pulled a face, torn between her desire for sleep and her dislike of breaking rules.

The man was staring at her again, the tip of his tongue resting between his lips, one leg jiggling up and down. Slowly, he looked away, a smirk on his face.

I’d been dreaming I was in a coffin and someone was knocking on the lid.

‘They’re not here,’ she said to me. ‘What?’ The guards watched as I scooted onto the floor beside her, sticking my hand into the front pocket where I always kept our passports, tickets and money.

Ion and Alina stole them.

Moments later, the train heaved into motion, and as we stood there, stunned, someone appeared at the window where we’d been sitting originally, before we made the idiotic decision to move: Ion, a shocked expression on his face.

They reminded me of the Tolkien books I’d read as a teenager, the hobbits setting off on a treacherous journey in search of the Ring.

‘If I were you,’ Alina said, ‘after this I’d get on the first plane out of here.’

don’t want to be reminded of it. I don’t want everyone to know about it. Please, Daniel, do you promise me?’

was about to suggest that we go back and check when Laura said, in an urgent whisper, ‘Look!’ Something lay on the path ahead. It was immediately obvious what it was, but I had to stoop to make sure, picking it up and holding it out to Laura. It was Alina’s boot. Black, leather, the zip half undone. ‘Oh my God.’

I knew, with every instinct, every scrap of learned and inherited knowledge, that this was a bad place. That we needed to turn around, right now, and get away. That we shouldn’t take another step towards this building, should not pass through that door, must not go inside. But then we heard another cry, a strangled sob from inside those stone walls, and as the silence descended again, Laura and I walked towards the house, towards the door, as if our legs had a will of their own.

Out we came, bursting from between the trees, back onto the path, stumbling in the half-light, almost falling, one of us catching the other, stopping only to scoop up our backpacks from the edge of the forest. We ran all the way into town. We didn’t talk. We didn’t look back.

The room was musty, stale, smelled of alcoholic sweat and dirty clothes which exploded from the overstuffed laundry basket. Used mugs and painkiller packets and unread books threatened to push each other off the bedside table.

crockery. I hadn’t been able to sleep, not properly, for three months.

My app, Heatseeker, was due to launch in the spring. Until then, I had little to do, though I kept telling myself I needed to start work on something else. I was waiting for inspiration to strike.

Poor Jake had been forced to endure several nights sitting with me while I got drunk and openly mourned my relationship. It was particularly frustrating for him because I wouldn’t tell him what had created the fracture that tore Laura and me apart.

I wanted the rain to wash away the memory of what we’d seen and done.

Flash. My hand on the warped wooden door. Flash. A face as white as bone, twisted in torment.

Flash. Laura, stumbling on the crooked staircase.

Like me, she was thinner, her face paler; there was a new translucent quality to her skin. Her cheekbones were visible, her jawline sharper. Her fingernails were bitten like mine, something she never did before, berating me for the bad habit that left my cuticles in a permanent state of ruin.

‘I thought you’d be understanding. You’re the only other person who knows what I went through.’ ‘What we went through.’

It’s fucked up out here, I wanted to say. It’s fucked up and there are monsters. Don’t believe people when they tell you there’s no such thing.

Laura shot me a beseeching look. We will never speak about it, she had said on the way back from Romania. Promise me.

The last week or so she’d felt like she was being watched. She kept seeing a figure flickering in her peripheral vision, but every time she looked the figure was

gone.

Since Romania, the shell around her heart, like the spider’s skin, had been ripped away, leaving it exposed. She was in constant pain, unable to bear the sight of others suffering. And she had realised that she was never going to heal here. That was why she had to get away.

An image appeared in her mind: she and Daniel running along the tracks towards the town, stumbling and tripping but staying upright, the sun rising, her throat raw from screaming. And Daniel had caught hold of her arm and—

She lurched towards the edge of the platform, arms windmilling. She could see the mouse, frozen between the rails, and she was falling, falling, and a roaring noise came from the tunnel, air blasting along the platform, the train rocketing into the light . .

She was sure she could feel the imprint of hands on her spine.

she’d clung to the man who saved her, she’d seen a figure pushing hurriedly through the crowd away from her. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. She couldn’t . .

time. I met Laura, via Jake, and fell in love for the first and only time. Laura

was everything I’d ever wanted: well-read, arty, passionate and principled. She encouraged me to embrace my true nature, to do the things I enjoyed without worrying about the image I projected. She helped me figure out who I am. I filled our flat with gadgets and she made it come to life with clutter and candles and bright colours.

So far, all I had managed to talk about was what had happened leading up to the walk along the rail tracks.

I had told her what happened on the train, about finding ourselves at the deserted station with the feral dogs.