Last Train to Cork City
By
Brendan Gerad O’Brien
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Brendan Gerad O’Brien on Smashwords
Last Train to Cork City
Copyright © 2011 by Brendan Gerad O’Brien
Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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A story from Dreamin Dreams, the collection of short stories by Brendan Gerad O’Brien, also published on Smashwords at;
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/21881
Last Train to Cork City
Richard Mann braced himself against the blustery wet night as he darted across the road to the letterbox that was set in the old brick wall of the Post Office. The trees rocked wildly and the rain blew in waves across the solitary streetlight as he checked the two letters for the very last time.
He sighed deeply and dropped them through the slot.
It had to be done - he knew that! Sooner or later it had to be sorted out, and it might as well be now. So he timed the letters to arrive by the first post on Friday.
Back in the car, he wiped the wet from his face with his hands, annoyed that, even though the decision had finally been made, he still wasn’t able to stop his mind flooding with guilt at the emotive words that he’d used in those letters.
The first one was to Bridget, his wife of twenty years.
With her flame coloured hair and slate-grey eyes, he once thought she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world. She loved him too, of course. But somewhere along the way the light began to fade until eventually those same eyes looked back at him with total indifference. So now they were both just drifting along from day to day, tolerating each other, going out to work in the morning and coming home again at night.
And Richard Mann knew tonight wouldn’t be any different. By the time he got home, she’d have already eaten. She’d ask politely how his day had been as she put his meal on the table, but she’d turn away and carry on doing something else as his answer drifted past her. He’d go for a shower, read the paper, and she’d watch television late into the night.
Maybe if the children were still at home, maybe if … well, it was too late now, anyway.
The letter simply said;
‘Bridget,
You knew in your heart that this day would come, and I only hope that we can part with dignity. By the time you get this letter I’ll be far away, starting a new life somewhere else. I want nothing from you, so you’ll never hear from me again. And you’ll never find me anyway, even if you wanted to.
Richard.’
The second letter was to a girl who was also called Bridget. Everyone called her Bridie, and she was very special to Richard Mann.
Richard Mann smiled as he remembered how, years ago when they’d first met, he used to call his wife Bridie. But, as their lives slipped into a more formal routine, the endearment began to sound hollow, so she became Bridget again.
The deep sigh that he gave caused a patch of the windscreen to steam up, and he wiped it away quickly as he wondered again how different everything would have been if the factory where he worked hadn’t recently gone through a desperately bad period. A crucial order from one of their key customers had been cancelled suddenly, throwing the whole operation into turmoil, and it was touch and go as to whether the factory could survive such a serious calamity.
Luckily, a new company took over fairly quickly, but they wanted far more stock than the machines could cope with. But, grateful for still having a job, everyone agreed to work twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week, until the situation was resolved.
What fascinated Richard Mann was that both he and Bridie Cox had worked in that same factory for so many years, and it was only when they were thrown together under such enormous pressure that he actually first noticed her.
Even though the hours were long and hard, most of the shift-workers still found time for a quick drink and a laugh on the way home after work, and Richard Mann and Bridie Cox realised that they were very comfortable in each other’s company, and they seemed to gravitate naturally towards each other at every opportunity.
It was only when the crisis eventually passed and things started to return to normal, that they both realised they couldn’t just slip casually back into the usual routine of eight hour shifts and not seeing each other so often. It was not so easy to just let go of what they had.
So what used to be a snatched tea break alone behind the sheds now became a whole lunch hour together in the canteen, and the quick drink in the pub after work turned into a drive in the country. They looked for reasons to work late at the factory, or go away on training courses together, and eventually it started to consume them both to the point that they seemed to be constantly talking about making the ultimate break from their partners.
A friend even offered to rent them a couple of rooms in her house.
But, of course, Richard Mann was well aware that, for Bridie, it would mean making such an enormous sacrifice. Her husband, Tom, was a good man, and a loving father. And he worshipped Bridie.
One thing Bridie knew for sure was that Tom would be desperately hurt, so she had no way of knowing how he would react if he ever found out. And he would certainly never let her take the children from him, not without a fight.
It was a desperately hard choice to make.
Bridie sensed that Tom already suspected something, anyway. She often noticed him looking at her, watching her quietly, as if searching for a sign.
One day he suddenly tried to ask her outright, fumbling awkwardly over his words and stuttering nervously, and she couldn’t bear to tell him the truth. She hugged him close and promised him that nothing had changed, there was nothing going on.
Friday was her day off. She should be at home when the letter arrived.
It, too, was very brief;
‘Bridie Darling,
I know this will be a great shock to you, but I’ll be taking the six fifteen train to Cork City today, Friday, the twenty first.
I’ve got a new job with more money, and, would you believe, a company flat! Isn’t that brilliant? I’m sorry I had to keep it a secret from you. I just couldn’t tell you before now, because I know that it’s going to be the hardest decision you’ll ever have to make, and it would have been harder still if you had time to think about it. I’ve told no one where I’m going, especially at work. That way no one will ever find us. So if you really want to make that new start we talked about, and begin the new life that we dreamed about, meet me at the Railway Station.
See you at six fifteen.
I love you so much,
Richard.’
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On Friday Richard Mann left work as soon as he possibly could, and he took a taxi straight to the station. But he still hit the rush hour traffic, and when he ran onto the platform the noise from the train was drowning out the muffled announcement from the old green speakers up in the rafters.
Doors were already being slammed shut as he pushed through the crowd of commuters, straining for any sign of Bridie.
He scanned the windows of the train, then across to the waiting room. She wasn’t in the cafe, either, and a terrible dread filled his heart. Time was running out. Make or break, he’d said. If she wasn’t there now, then the answer was very clear.
He looked back at the train, and he froze when something sharp pressed into his side.
“Hello, Richard!”
He turned slowly. “Tom?”
“Steady, now. This knife is very sharp. And we don’t want any accidents now, do we?”
“I ... I don’t understand. What do you want?”
“Well now, Richard, I think you already know what I want.” Sour breath tinged with alcohol. “You see, you made one hell of a mistake.”
He manoeuvred Richard towards the car park, where an old Ford Transit van was parked by the bushes.
“Bridie’s away for the weekend, you know,” Tom said casually, a strange, sinister chuckle in his voice. “At her mother’s. She didn’t tell you? Anyway, I opened her letter, you see ... just in case.”
He pulled open the creaking back doors of the van.
“I sealed the letter back up, of course,” he chuckled again. “It’ll be on the kitchen table for her when she gets home. I imagine she’ll be very disappointed she missed saying goodbye to you, but she’ll cover it up. She’s good at covering up her feelings. But she’ll get over it, especially as she’ll believe you’ve gone away forever.”
Suddenly the chuckle became a deep, cruel laugh. “But it’s your own words that I like the best,” he said. “You said you told no one where you were going, so no one will ever find you. Well, now, isn’t that the truth!”
The End
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Thank you for taking the time to read Last Train to Cork City. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would be delighted if you were to visit my web site at http://www.bgobrien.com/ and let me know what you thought of it by leaving your views on my guestbook page.
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Brief Bio:
Brendan Gerad O’Brien was born in Tralee, on the west coast of Ireland, and now he lives in Newport, South Wales with his wife Jennifer and daughters Shelly and Sarah.
As a child he spent his summer holidays in Listowel, Co Kerry, where his uncle Moss Scanlon had a harness maker’s shop, sadly now long gone.
The shop was a magnet for all sorts of colourful characters. It was there that his love of words was kindled by the stories of John B. Keane and Bryan MacMahon, who often wandered in for a chat and a bit of jovial banter.
After serving nine years in the Royal Navy, Brendan progressed to retail management, working as a Department manager with one of the UK’s largest supermarkets.
Now retired, his hobby is writing short stories, twenty of which have already been published individually over the years, and now available in his collection Dreamin’ Dreams, which you can find at:
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/21881
Also published by Smashwords is his first thriller Once On a Cold And Grey September, which you can find at: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/10114
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