Ferryman Read Free Page A

drunks, weirdos, people who wanted to tell you their life stories (which often involved odd alien abductions) and philosophise with you on the meaning of life and other theories. These people seemed inexplicably drawn to her when she took public transport, and she was anxious to avoid them today when she had so many other things on her mind. Her surveillance picked out the free seats and it did not take long to work out why these remained open in the packed train. A mother with her screaming baby, its red face puckered up and angry, sat at one end with a pram and several bags filled with everything a baby could possibly need scattered in dissaray around them. On the other side of the aisle, a few seats down, there was a double-seater opposite a pair of drunken teenagers in blue Rangers’ tops. They were drinking from a bottle of what looked suspiciously like Buckfast hidden inexpertly in a paper bag, and singing loudly and very out of tune.
    The only other option was in the middle of the carriage, squashed in beside a large woman with an array of shopping bags, which she had arranged on the seat beside and across from her in a manner that made it blatantly clear that she did not welcome company. However, glaring or not, she was the most appealing option.
    “Excuse me,” Dylan muttered, shuffling over to her.
    The woman sighed loudly, her displeasure obvious, but she moved the bags nonetheless and Dylan, after shrugging out of her jacket and hauling it and her bag up onto the overhead shelf, settled herself down. A quick root around in her bag on the platform, as she waited her turn to enter the train, had produced her MP3 player and some headphones. Sticking them roughly in her ears, she closed her eyes and turned the volume up high, letting the heavy drumbeats of her favourite indie rock band drown out the world around her. She imagined the bag lady glaring at her and her awful music, and the image made her smile. Too quiet for Dylan to hear, the train groaned and strained, picking up speed as it raced on towards Aberdeen.
    Keeping her eyes closed, she thought about the coming weekend. Nerves and excitement fought for control of the butterflies in her stomach as she contemplated stepping off the train and searching out the man who was all but a stranger to her. It had taken months of persuasion and wheedling for Joan to relinquish the phone number of one James Miller, her father. Dylan remembered how her hand had shaken as she’d dialled, hung up, dialled again, and then hung up. What if he didn’t want to talk to her? What if he had his own family now? What if, worst of all, he turned out to be a huge disappointment? A drunk or a criminal? Her mother had been unable to give her any more details. They didn’t talk, ever. He’d left when she’d asked and never bothered either of them again, also like she’d asked. Dylan had been five years old at the time, and in the decade that had passed his face had become less than a memory.
    After two days of inner turmoil, Dylan had called in the middle of the day, finding a quiet spot in the school playground that wasn’t already claimed by the smokers, amorous couples or gangs. Her hope was that he’d be at work and no one would answer. It worked. After six heart-stopping rings, the answer machine beeped and she suddenly realised that she hadn’t thought about what she was going to say. Panicking, she left a hesitant, rambling message.
    “Hi, this is for James Miller. It’s Dylan. Your daughter.” What else to say? “I, um… I got your number from Mum. I mean, Joan. I thought, maybe, we could meet up, maybe. And talk. If you want to.” Breathe. “This is my number…”
    As soon as she’d hung up, she’d cringed. What an idiot! She couldn’t believe that she hadn’t planned a message. She’d sounded like a bumbling moron. Well, there was nothing to do now but wait. And she had waited. All afternoon she felt sick to her stomach. Biology and English passed in a