best source of information, since he had the creature in his possession.
Back at the flat, I put all my work gear (notebooks, Dictaphone, etc.) into a rucksack along with my MP3 player and Nikon camera, and left home to catch the tube to Euston.
The station was busy as usual. I spent a good twenty minutes in a long queue before buying a ticket for the 12.45 train to Windermere, where I would get a connection to Tryst. With a few minutes to spare I bought some sandwiches and a drink from a food stand, and a paperback from the bookshop. When the train finally arrived, twenty-five minutes late, I was deeply irritated and hoped there would be no further delays.
I found a seat, and soon the train was thundering through the countryside north of London. Most of the other passengers were business people, with some day-tripping families and teenagers making up the numbers. I started reading the book I’d bought, barely registering the train’s passage through Watford, Milton Keynes and Rugby. The journey progressed without incident until, shortly after leaving Nuneaton, a signal failure added another half an hour onto our arrival time. It was becoming increasingly unlikely that I’d be able to get back to London before the last train left from Windermere. It wasn’t the end of the world but I just hoped the story was worth it or Derek wouldn’t be too happy about the expenses bill. I put down my book and stared out of the window at endless fields, rivers and roads, punctuated occasionally by a small town or farm.
At some point I fell asleep, rocked gently into slumber by the rhythm of the train. When I awoke we were pulling into Preston. I sat up, retrieved my MP3 player and listened to music for the next hour until we arrived at Windermere shortly before half past four. I spent the short trip on the connecting train to Tryst thinking of everything I knew about mosquitoes, which was practically nothing.
As the train approached Tryst, the number of passengers in the dilapidated carriage dwindled, until only an elderly gentleman and myself remained. I stepped off the train and onto the platform, surprised by how much the temperature had dropped in so short a time. It seemed as though winter had lost patience and arrived three months too soon.
Far above me was a wide bank of grey cloud that didn’t appear to be moving. I walked into the ticket office and asked for directions to the harbour. The woman behind the window asked if I was going out onto the lake, and I told her I was. She gave me a strange look.
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘You’ve picked a pretty awful day for it, young man. It’ll be pouring down any minute now. And it’s getting dark out there.’ She leaned forward in her chair so that she could see the station entrance through the side of the booth.
I followed her gaze and nodded. ‘Yes. Just my luck. Oh, by the way, when is the last train back to Windermere?’
‘Last train to Windermere,’ she began, turning to leaf through a large folder on her desk, ‘leaves at seven minutes past nine.’
I looked at my watch. It was just after five thirty. Time, as well as the weather, was now against me. I had to make arrangements. It was feasible that I could do the story and just about get back to the station to catch the last train. But by then the last train from Windermere to Euston would have left anyway. I wouldn’t be going back to London that night.
‘You wouldn’t happen to know of a bed and breakfast nearby, would you?’
‘You could try the Rocklyn up the street. They’re pretty good there.’
‘The what?’
‘The Rocklyn Bluewater. It’s owned by an old stage actress – or so she says. Nice lady though. She’ll probably have rooms available at this time of year.’
‘Right. Thank you.’
I stood outside the station for a while. It was getting quite cold and the sky overhead was attracting more and more dark clouds. I sensed approaching rain in the air. Looking to my left I saw the
Back at the flat, I put all my work gear (notebooks, Dictaphone, etc.) into a rucksack along with my MP3 player and Nikon camera, and left home to catch the tube to Euston.
The station was busy as usual. I spent a good twenty minutes in a long queue before buying a ticket for the 12.45 train to Windermere, where I would get a connection to Tryst. With a few minutes to spare I bought some sandwiches and a drink from a food stand, and a paperback from the bookshop. When the train finally arrived, twenty-five minutes late, I was deeply irritated and hoped there would be no further delays.
I found a seat, and soon the train was thundering through the countryside north of London. Most of the other passengers were business people, with some day-tripping families and teenagers making up the numbers. I started reading the book I’d bought, barely registering the train’s passage through Watford, Milton Keynes and Rugby. The journey progressed without incident until, shortly after leaving Nuneaton, a signal failure added another half an hour onto our arrival time. It was becoming increasingly unlikely that I’d be able to get back to London before the last train left from Windermere. It wasn’t the end of the world but I just hoped the story was worth it or Derek wouldn’t be too happy about the expenses bill. I put down my book and stared out of the window at endless fields, rivers and roads, punctuated occasionally by a small town or farm.
At some point I fell asleep, rocked gently into slumber by the rhythm of the train. When I awoke we were pulling into Preston. I sat up, retrieved my MP3 player and listened to music for the next hour until we arrived at Windermere shortly before half past four. I spent the short trip on the connecting train to Tryst thinking of everything I knew about mosquitoes, which was practically nothing.
As the train approached Tryst, the number of passengers in the dilapidated carriage dwindled, until only an elderly gentleman and myself remained. I stepped off the train and onto the platform, surprised by how much the temperature had dropped in so short a time. It seemed as though winter had lost patience and arrived three months too soon.
Far above me was a wide bank of grey cloud that didn’t appear to be moving. I walked into the ticket office and asked for directions to the harbour. The woman behind the window asked if I was going out onto the lake, and I told her I was. She gave me a strange look.
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘You’ve picked a pretty awful day for it, young man. It’ll be pouring down any minute now. And it’s getting dark out there.’ She leaned forward in her chair so that she could see the station entrance through the side of the booth.
I followed her gaze and nodded. ‘Yes. Just my luck. Oh, by the way, when is the last train back to Windermere?’
‘Last train to Windermere,’ she began, turning to leaf through a large folder on her desk, ‘leaves at seven minutes past nine.’
I looked at my watch. It was just after five thirty. Time, as well as the weather, was now against me. I had to make arrangements. It was feasible that I could do the story and just about get back to the station to catch the last train. But by then the last train from Windermere to Euston would have left anyway. I wouldn’t be going back to London that night.
‘You wouldn’t happen to know of a bed and breakfast nearby, would you?’
‘You could try the Rocklyn up the street. They’re pretty good there.’
‘The what?’
‘The Rocklyn Bluewater. It’s owned by an old stage actress – or so she says. Nice lady though. She’ll probably have rooms available at this time of year.’
‘Right. Thank you.’
I stood outside the station for a while. It was getting quite cold and the sky overhead was attracting more and more dark clouds. I sensed approaching rain in the air. Looking to my left I saw the
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