Conrad & Eleanor by Jane Rogers Page A

make it a travelling prison, intolerable. He presses close to the window again, and sees the wavering semi-molten shapes of grey industrial units, decomposing and reforming in the streaming tears of rain.
    He’s being stupid. Flights last longer – twelve hours, sometimes more – why get wound up about a non-stop train? But he needs to get off. He needs to get off, to walk, to be in the daylight, in the rain, in a street, in charge of his own speed and direction. He must get off the train.
    When the shapes of warehouses and factories are transformed into houses and blocks of flats; when the train slows its pace, to pass through what is clearly the centre of a city, when there is a tower like Pisa and red stone arches, then he is tight against the door, willing it to stop. It’s too soon for Rome. His geography of Italy is scrambled. Milan? Modena? Somewhere in northern Italy, but will it stop? There’s a rattle of Italian over the PA system, his brain sifts the words for meaning. Stazione Bologna Centrale. Bologna. Thank God.
    Con is on the platform, sucking in lungfuls of cold wet air, checking the signs for Uscita , when he remembers his case. Doors are slamming. He makes a start back for the carriage but it’s too late. With a silent glide before the noise of motion kicks in, the train is off, at walking pace, slow enough to stop, but unstoppable. The train’s next stop is Rome.
    He checks his pockets. Passport, wallet, glasses, phone. OK. What’s in the case? Laptop, papers, clothes, toilet bag. They can send it back from Rome. He can go to the ticket office now and ask.
    He walks through the station, empty-handed and light. The case is not important. Better without it. Newborn. Which is garbage, not least for the cost of replacing stuff; where is money going to come from? How long is he going to last like this? It would be the ultimate defeat to go crawling back to El because he’s run out of money. How much is in his account? He doesn’t even know. His salary comes in on the 20th, so there’s that. But for how long will they continue to pay him, if he doesn’t supply a sick note or explanation? How long does a missing person stay on a payroll?
    It’s been one day. He is not exactly missing. Part of his mind, a treacherous part of his mind, sees himself back at home and at work next week. Sees this as a shameful episode known only to himself – and indeed who else is likely to notice? El? She probably doesn’t know when he is due home. The kids? Ditto. People at work might wonder, since George and the others will be there. But a few days’ absence, that’s nothing unusual. He could stay a couple of nights, do the sights of Bologna and pretend he’s a free man, then go back as if nothing ever was. Dip his toe in the water then run away up the beach.
    There is a faulty switch somewhere in his circuitry. There is something wrong with the wanting and intending circuit. It flickers. He does not know what he wants or what he will do. I am a feather for each wind that blows, he thinks, and the well-wrought, well-thought words comfort him.
    The case will go into Lost Property. They’ll keep it there a few weeks at least. Maybe he’ll go to Rome next week anyway, and pick it up in person. He walks out of the station empty-handed, into a gentle drizzle. Already it seems the mid-­afternoon winter darkness is closing in. Lights shine in the windows of Bologna.

Chapter 3
    E l catches her alarm on the first beep at 6am. She has not really slept, but she must have dozed, because once she is showered and dressed she feels clear-headed. The helpless fear of the night has vanished. She clears the kitchen table – Paul has drained the brandy, naturally – and sits cradling a mug of tea and making a list. She needs to phone Con’s sister Ailsa. Not that Ailsa will have any idea where he is, but it would be very poor family politics