The Remarkables (The Remarkable Owen Johnson, part 1) by A. D. Elliott Page A

brother, but glad that he was safe.
    “Very nice.”
    “Have you been there?”
    Mrs Argyle stared out of the window, not fo cussing on anything particular. “A couple of times. A long time ago now, though…” She looked lost in thought.
    Owen decided that it was best not to bother her with any further questions. The train briefly stopped at the next four stations, with only a handful of passengers getting on and off, none of whom chose their carriage. He examined his bloodied reflection in the window. “I’m going to get changed out of these clothes.”
    “Hmmm? ” Mrs Argyle turned her head to him and looked at his bloodied school uniform.  “Oh, good idea. Sort your hair out as well,” Mrs Argyle replied before resuming her distant gaze on the English countryside.
    Owen made his way into the adjoining carriage where the toilet was. Closing the door behind him he stared at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t realised how much blood he had in his hair. He switched on the taps and dipped his head under the water, being careful not to disturb Mrs Argyle’s handiwork that was keeping his wound closed. The small sink meant he could only wash the top of his head so quite a lot of blood remained, but it was certainly an improvement. He took off his shirt and used it to dry his hair, then changed into the jeans and t-shirt he had packed for his trip to the pub.
    He had one last look in the mirror and tried to tease his hair into a respectable style. Abandoning this as a fruitless task, he exited the toilet and made his way back to Mrs Argyle, who was engaged in a heated conversation with the ticket inspector.
    “Ah!  Here he is!” Mrs Argyle pointed towards Owen. “I was just explaining that you had both of our tickets.” Mrs Argyle was nodding emphatically.
    “Oh, err, yes.” Owen frowned at his neighbour who continued to nod and grin, looking slightly demented. He put his bag on the table on the opposite side of the aisle, and reached in it for his ticket.
    “ Here’s mine.” He offered it to the man, casting Mrs Argyle a questioning glance.
    “That’s fine ,” the inspector said after he had scribbled something on it and handed it back. “And your grandmother’s ticket?” He indicated toward Mrs Argyle.
    “Oh .” Owen pretended to search in his bag for the non-existent ticket, hoping for inspiration or Mrs Argyle to intervene. “Yes, it’s in here somewhere. Grannie? Do you remember where you put it?” he asked Mrs Argyle, fighting back a grin.
    “ I gave it to you to put in the bag! You haven’t lost it I hope?” Mrs Argyle admonished dramatically. “He’s so careless!”
    Owen stared back at her. “I thought you took it out,” he replied, deciding that she could get herself out of this increasingly uncomfortable situation.
    “You need a ticket to ride the train, madam” the inspector advised.
    “I understand how the transport system works, thank you young man!” Then with a snap of her fingers to over-emphasise a thought she had seemingly just had, she added: “I remember now. Your machine ate it.”  She folded her arms and glared back at the man, challenging him to argue further.
    “Oh that’s very unlikely , and in that rare situation you wouldn’t be allowed through them.”
    “ You’re quite right, what a clever man you are,” she said, in the most insincere manner Owen had ever heard anyone use. “No I remember, now. One of your helpful colleagues let me through, said it wouldn’t be a problem as the nice and understanding staff on the train would never question the word of a senior citizen.” Mrs Argyle was smiling, but her hands were closed in fists.
    “Which man was this? That’s totally against procedure.” The inspector was apparently immune to Mrs Argyle’s attempts at flattery.
    “ Why don’t you call the station? Man in a uniform, didn’t catch his name,” Mrs Argyle said through gritted teeth, her smile persisting despite the muscles and sinews in her