Midnight Sun

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He was almost home before they noticed him, and by then he had crossed half of England. As the June day lumbered onwards, the railway carriages grew hotter and smokier and, like the stations where he had to change trains, more crowded. On the train out of Norwich he had to convince a motherly woman whose lap was hidden by a mewing wicker basket that he was being met at Peterborough. Having to wait for trains was the worst part; at Peterborough, and at Leeds almost five hours later, the stations were caves full of giants, any of whom might seize him. But once he was on the train out of Leeds to Star-grave, he thought he was safe. It never occurred to him that the closer he came to home, the more likely it was that someone would recognise him.

His breaths tasted of the musty carriage, his heart sounded loud as the train. He wished he could have bought something to eat, but the fare from Norwich had left him only a few pennies of his savings. He swallowed dryly and breathed hard until he no longer felt threatened by the early summer mugginess and the rocking of the train as it raced through the suburbs towards the Yorkshire moors. Each time it stopped, the bleak slopes beyond the houses seemed closer and steeper. Fewer people boarded at the stops than left the train, and by the time it reached the open moorland he had the carriage to himself.

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