The Destination

When Claire Singh woke to the sounds and bumps of the rolling train, she found herself lulled by its movements. She rubbed her eyes, stretched her toes, and lazily glanced around the carriage. Despite no memory of boarding, she felt an unquestioning acceptance of her new surroundings and enjoyed the intoxicating familiarity of waking somewhere different than where she'd drifted.

Claire was experienced in the practice of waking in strange places. Her father called it "star travel", when all it took was a good night's rest to find herself waking somewhere new; a borrowed bed, a chicken-filled bus, sometimes an entirely different country. Like magic.

Of course, she’d long realized it was simply her father lifting her from place to place while she slept, but she would never admit the discovery. She decided she would savour being carried, since she would soon outgrow his arms. It was lucky she was still quite small for an eight year old. Long and light like a feather.

The tracks shook beneath her, rattling the yawn she let free. Claire had never been aboard a train, and found it fascinating. She'd been on plenty of boats. Plenty of buses. A fair amount of planes. She was thrilled to finally experience the rush of machine; evergreens blurring past her window, iced with a thin veil of snow. The seat next to her was empty and she lifted her legs to it, stretching them away from the wide, idle man sat across from her.

“You ought to take yer feet down, little miss,” he said, not unkindly. He was looking out the window. She complied.

“Is my father in the loo?” she asked, pointing to the seat next to her. She wondered then, if trains had loos. She felt the pressures of a full bladder and prayed this one did.

“Oh, no. No, no, I’m quite certain that seat is empty.”

Claire paused, thinking.

“Could you point me to it?” she asked, finally.

“To what?”

“The loo.”

He furrowed his brow for a moment and nodded, pausing to cough dramatically into a small yellow pocket square, gesturing behind her. She nodded in thanks, weaving through the swaying aisle, grateful the seats were quite empty, only a few scattered people there to observe her clumsiness. She imagined she looked like the stumbling drunks she’d often seen in her travels. She hoped no one would think she was a drunk.

The lavatory was small but uncramped, and she found herself feeling much better once she’d relieved herself and washed her hands, returning to the carriage. She shivered slightly, goose pimples lining her arms. She would need to ask someone about the temperature. Or perhaps another passenger would have a quilt she could borrow. She zipped her jumper as high as it would go, returning to the aisle.

To her surprise, the seats had filled considerably. Many of the passengers were wrinkled with age, but one woman stood out, young, bonneted, red cheeked, a baby bounced in her lap. She smiled at Claire, who blushed and returned the grin before hurrying back to the only remaining empty seat, the large man nowhere in sight.

She sat, unsettled. She was quite sure she hadn’t felt the train stop. She supposed the new passengers must have swapped from a different carriage; perhaps her father had as well. She stood, scanning the rows, but his bright ginger hair was nowhere in sight. She sat again, and decided she would search the other carriages soon, maybe ask for the whereabouts of their luggage. She thought of her favourite jumper, its shiny ladybug buttons and warm knit. It would layer nicely. She folded her arms across her chest, teeth chattering.

Next to her now was a teenage boy, and she fought the urge to scowl. Claire had many unpleasant memories of teenage boys, particularly her own tormenting cousins. This boy was pimply and sat straight, reminding Claire of her cousin Samesh, the worst of them. Once, when she was five, he’d dangled her by the legs above a hideous, frog-filled pond. She’d been unaware of its depth and terribly scared of toads, so of course she’d been horrified, wailing and shrieking until he let her fall.

She’d sat up, slumped in less than a foot of murky pond, toads scattering like ants in rain. Samesh’s shrill laughter only making her cry more. Her father hadn’t done much; merely slapped him across the head and told Claire to stop her tears.

“Hello,” she said, not to the boy, but to the couple across from her. The man was in a dark tuxedo, the woman in a poofed, white dress that swallowed her knees, a veil puffed behind her hair, pinned in an elegant beehive. Claire supposed they were on their way to get married, and thought this was quite exciting.

“Oh! Hello, you.” The woman said this as if greeting an old friend. “I’m Viola, this is my Charlie. And who might you be?” She was cheerful and sported an American accent, visibly excited by the chance for interaction. Her husband grunted, his attention contained to the newspaper in his lap.

“Claire Singh, nice to meet you. You look very pretty,” Claire said, and the woman beamed.

“Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest–isn’t she sweet, Charlie? Charlie and I are just so pleased to be here, so pleased.”

Claire nodded politely.

“We’re on our honeymoon, can you believe it? The wedding is such a blur, I hardly remember it. Had one too many flutes, if you know what I mean. But I can’t blame myself, really, the waiters, they kept it comin’, walking around with that huge platter, even though Charlie–”

“Flutes?” Claire interrupted.

“Champagne, sweetheart, champagne, in these tall, thin glasses, bubbly with a hint of peach, oh it was a miracle I got down the aisle, filled with all that bubbly. The ceremony was on a gorgeous cliffside at sunset mind you, so it wasn't terribly bad to be drinking, it wasn't as if it was a morning wedding. But I had to walk in these, so you can imagine the fuss.” She lifted a leg abover them, a towering, white heel punctuating the air.

Claire shifted uncomfortably in her seat, blushing. She never knew women could be drunks. She noticed the boy shift his gaze toward the woman’s lifted skirt. Claire glared at him.

The woman waited for a response, although not long, and huffed at Claire’s apparent lack of interest, allowing her leg to fall. She returned her attention to her husband, who was still engrossed in his readings.

“Charlie, my neck is awful sore,” she whined. She pouted her bottom lip. He continued reading.

“I suppose mine is too,” he said, matter-of-factly, offering no suggestions for relief. The four sat in silence for a while then, the man with his paper, his wife folding her arms expectantly (what she expected, Claire couldn’t guess), the boy’s head craned to watch the window. Claire was pleased to have the window seat but hated the feeling of the boy’s eyes on her, and so she pretended to also be taken by the sights, even though the trees and snowy horizon had melted together into a boring, watery landscape.

The train was going faster now. She shivered.

“Charlie-baby, I’m bored,” the woman said suddenly, Claire jumping from her trance. “Pass me my ticket stub. Case they ask for it while I explore the cars.”

“I ain't got your stub,” he said gruffly, turning the page of his newspaper. Claire realized she hadn’t heard the rustle of paper until then. Had he been staring at the same two pages all this time?

“Well, I don’t have it!” his wife said loudly, her voice carrying above the steady hum of passengers.

Claire wondered if she should ask to accompany the woman; perhaps they could find her father. She considered it for a moment, searching the carriages with a drunk, then felt her chest tighten. She slowly inched her fingers toward each of her pockets, patting and feeling.

She didn’t have a ticket.

What if the woman was right–what if they checked? How would she explain that she’d awoken here, without her father, without a ticket? Surely they would find him, and he’d have it. But what if they couldn’t track him down in time? Would they force her to jump to the snow, the train still swift in motion? Her father had warned her many times never to get caught travelling without papers; without a ticket or stub or at the very least, identifications. Her heart raced in tune with the clutter of wheel to track.

“None of us got tickets, kid.”

Claire winced, turning to the boy. The couple was bickering amongst themselves, too preoccupied to have heard him.

“You don’t have a ticket?” she whispered, sceptical. He wove his fingers together, cracking each of his knuckles in a swift, jerking motion.

“Don’t need one.”

“Of course you need one,” she spat. She despised his smug demeanour.

“Not ‘til they decide where they’re sending us,” he said.

Claire considered this. Surely her father hadn’t packed them onto a random train heading any which way.

“What do you mean?” she asked, harsher than she’d meant to. She attempted to soften her face, concealing her disgust with a small smile. He sighed.

“They keep us on here, okay, ‘til they decide where we’re going. Our destination. Then you get your ticket. Understand?”

Claire nodded, although she didn’t. Why on earth would anyone board a train where one didn’t get to pick the destination? What had her father gotten them into?

“How long since you woke up?” he asked, picking at his fingers. She noticed they were surprisingly neat, the tips of his nails shaped in perfect, pearly crescents.

“Um.” She paused, thinking of how to answer. “I’m not sure. It was earlier.”

He looked up from his hands, squinting at her. His nose was lopsided; it reminded Claire of her uncle’s after he’d gotten into a vicious pub brawl.

“Earlier, as in, today?”

She returned his squint.

“Just now, really.”

"And did you go to the loo?"

Claire blushed, allowing herself to frown.

He gave a short laugh, grinning at her, seemingly pleased, although she couldn't understand why. She noticed his teeth were crooked, bent and filled with gaps.

“You went to the loo! So you’re freshly ‘ere then! Where abouts are you from? You’ve got a posh lip, don’t tell me you’re from London. Do you know the town, Epping?”

Claire felt her face become hot, disturbed by the boy’s peculiar focus on lavatory talk and hometowns. She was from London, and his knowing that made her nervous, even though she was hardly ever there.

She didn’t know what she was doing, talking to all these strangers. Her father had always encouraged her to make friends with the various people in their travels, it was “good to be worldly”, he always said. But she’d also been taught, by the rare, concerned adult, not to engage with people she didn’t know.

An aunt had once told her (in great, terrifying detail) about the dangers of travelling as a young girl. The only comfort she’d offered Claire after this talk, was to say that the bad strangers–the ones that plucked you off the streets–preferred prettier girls. This had calmed Claire for a moment (people often told her how spindly and awkward she looked), until her aunt had added that "perverts were perverts for a reason, and liked children of all kinds". Claire had been freshly seven when she'd heard this, and this was the last family visit her father had allowed for nearly a year, on account of the resulting nightmares.

Since then, she’d hardly talked to any of the strangers on their travels. She wasn’t sure why the fear had seemingly dissolved aboard the train; perhaps the comfort of being surrounded by rows and rows of potential witnesses to whatever interactions she would have. But her father would be pleased with her progress. He’d been quite cross in recent months due to her new fear of strangers. Her stomach twisted in memory of the anger.

“Your aunt has no idea what she’s saying, she’s just jealous you’re seeing more of the world than she has in a lifetime.”

Claire hadn’t been convinced after this lecture, but she’d nodded as though she did. Her father was increasingly upset by her nightmares, much less forgiving of her waking cries, and he did little to hide his agitation. It was clear their once seamless travels were made tricky by her misery and fear of people. He often muttered words like “burden” and threats of leaving her in London with the very aunt he spoke of now.

They were sitting outside their current motel, eating leftover peanuts from the plane, another night of sleep disturbed by Claire’s early waking. She'd had an especially cruel nightmare, one with a beastly nine foot man who snatched her in the streets, holding her in his dungeon with rats that bit and chased. When she woke screaming, her father had sent her to cry outside so he could continue sleeping, and had only just joined her now, to smoke.

Claire's stomach rumbled. Her father ashed into the empty peanut wrapper, his eyes scanning the open yard.

“Hey. See that bloke, over there? Sitting next to the–yes, that one. Go up to him. Ask to bum a pound for the slot.”

“I’m not hungry,” she lied. The man had been watching them from afar, seated in a shabby lawn chair outside his motel door. Now his eyes were pulled away as though he’d heard them. Claire felt uneasy.

“Go on. Now,” he ordered. Claire complied, walking toward the man whose attention had once again returned to their direction, the smell of cheap soap and smoke growing stronger with each step. She stopped in front of him, forcing herself to recite the words she’d replayed in her head.

“Hello. I was wondering if I could borrow a pound for the slot.”

The machine was humming next to them. Its light flickered, illuminating the rows of bagged crisps and sweets. The man had a thick beard, which made it hard to read his expression.

“Borrow? You gonna pay me back?”

Claire swallowed.

“No sir, I suppose I meant, could I have the pound. Please.”

The man laughed heartily, peering over her shoulder, presumably at her father. She laughed politely, her heart racing.

“I’ve got a few notes in my room. Come on in.”

“Oh, I could just, um, I could just wait here,” she said quickly. The man was already standing, towering over her.

“Nope, you’ll have to help me look. Can’t remember exactly where I left it.” He jingled the key, pushing into the room. Claire took the moment to whip her head around, silently begging her father to call for her return. He watched her, his face and posture unchanging.

“Alright, in we go.”

Claire wiped the sweat building at her hairline, following the man inside.

The room was lived-in, boxes of papers and magazines scattered without pattern, half empty cans and bottles stacked into pyramids. With a small click the door closed behind them, Claire’s eyes desperately scanning the room for signs of the money.

“Do you have a wallet? A jar of some kind I should look for?” she asked, shifting her weight from hip to hip.

“No, no, just some notes. Somewhere.”

The man lifted an empty pizza box, lazily peering beneath it.

“Alright. Do you mind if I look?” she asked. He nodded, gesturing to the room.

She looked under everything in sight, carefully returning the garbage and possessions back to how she’d found them, the man having allowed himself to sit on the edge of his clothes-filled bed, watching her with interest. She tiptoed through the littered floor, her heart racing, tears stinging and blurring her eyes. She wondered if the man was lying about the money. Should she lie? Say she had somewhere to be? Would her father be angry if she returned empty-handed?

“I can’t,” she said, hiccupping, “I can’t seem to find it, sir.”

The bed groaned beneath him as he stood. Claire bowed her head, hiding her tears.

“You know what, cheeky mistake on my part. Forgot it’s in my pocket,” he said. Claire kept her head bowed, sniffling. She heard the crackle of released velcro, a one pound note entering her field of vision.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, reaching for it. He nodded, folding the wallet, returned to his back pocket.

“That’s on me. But if you’re ever lookin’ to make somethin’ extra, I could hire you to do some chores for me. Little cleanin’, little errand runnin’, little this and that.”

Claire nodded, her stomach churning with repulsion.

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” she said, grateful to know her father had already planned their departure for that very evening. She thanked him again, backing toward the door and releasing herself into the warm morning air. She quickly stabbed the machine’s buttons, selecting her father’s favourite flavour of crisp, her eyes stuck to the man’s door. She reached into the bottom of the machine, the crisp bag light and airy, running for their room.

Her father was nowhere in sight. The makeshift ashtray was cold. She slammed her fist against the door for several minutes, begging and sobbing until he finally allowed her in.

Claire shivered now, frowning. She thought of the way the boy had stared up the woman’s wedding skirt; she realized the repulsion reminded her of the man at the motel. The way he looked at her. It made her feel dirty.

The boy was watching Claire expectantly, waiting for her to answer his questions–most of which, she’d already forgotten. He’d taken off his paperboy cap to reveal black, oily hair, slicked down and flat. He actually did remind her of an old fashioned paperboy from the films her father liked, even without the cap, which he’d bunched in his fists, knuckles white. When Claire looked up from his hands, the wonderment in his gaze had been replaced with a curled scowl.

“I’ve never been to London, actually,” she lied, panicked, his frown deepening. The bride’s attention suddenly perked toward Claire. She smiled sweetly, adjusting her veil.

“My daddy’s been to London. London England. He said he just loved the accents there, never heard prettier talk,” the woman said, fondly, as though the earlier offense had never occurred. Claire smiled gratefully and faced her, using the moment to angle herself away from the boy.

“I like the way you talk as well,” Claire said. She did like the Americans; of the ones her father had introduced her to prior to her fear of strangers, they always teased her for the way she spoke, but in a kind, playful way. And she admired the way they spoke boldly and openly to her, as though she were a grown-up. Claire decided it was forgivable that this woman had once been a drunk, as long as she wasn’t one now.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest. Isn’t she just the sweetest, Charlie?” Claire blushed, opening her mouth to respond. “What’s your name, honey?”

Her mouth fell shut. The woman watched her, head tilted, waiting. She lifted a hand to massage the back of her neck.

“Claire Singh,” she said finally, forcing herself to return an uncertain smile. The woman’s grin stretched wide.

“What a pretty name. I’m Viola, this is my Charlie. We’re on our honeymoon, can you believe it? The wedding is such a blur–”

Claire’s smile smoothed into a tight line. She stood, quickly shoving past the boy in her push toward the aisle. Once again, the seats had somehow emptied considerably despite the train’s consistent clatter of movement, and she walked the aisle swiftly, her mind spinning.

“What a rude little girl,” Claire heard behind her. She desperately scanned the remaining filled seats, searching for the kind eyed woman from before, neither her nor the baby anywhere in sight. Claire rushed for the loo, but the door had disappeared. Had she not gone the same way as before? She was certain she had.

Panic filled her chest. The only other door was one that read “Dinner Carriage. Approved Passengers Only.” She was not an approved passenger. She didn’t even have a ticket.

She looked back to her seat. The bride’s attention had already returned to her husband, but the boy was standing in the aisle now, facing Claire. From a distance, his eyes were dark. He was taller than Claire had imagined, his legs long and lean.

And suddenly, he was moving toward her.

Without hesitation, Claire pushed through the door and held her breath. She found herself immediately stared at by rows upon rows of dining passengers, elegant cloth tables lit by candlelight, luxurious cuts of meat and seafood fanned across long, silver platters, desserts garnished with syrups and glittering fruits carefully arranged on tiered stands.

The sounds of clattering forks and knives halted to a stop, the loud dinner conversations suspended mid-sentence.

Claire stiffened, counting the seconds in her head. Whatever awkwardness she faced here certainly couldn’t be worse than the strangeness of the previous carriage. She wondered if the boy would dare to follow her, but the seconds continued to pass, and she realized he must not have had the nerve.

She could feel the heaviness of the silence, the sharpness of their watchful eyes. This carriage felt dreamlike, almost as if they weren’t on a train at all; it was somehow even colder than the last, and the sound of track and movement had disappeared, the walls windowless. She trembled, bewildered to see the passengers unphased by the harsh chill, most dressed in short, sleeveless cocktail gowns.

“Hello. I’m so sorry to intrude on your dinner. I’m looking for my father.” She said this bravely, her voice nearly free of a single quiver despite her shivering. The long room filled with murmurs.

“Oh, this one’s so young. Quite young.”

“Poor thing, must be scared half to death. Hah!”

“–alone, lookin’ for her father, poor dear.”

Claire wanted nothing more than to cry, but despite her body’s attempts to release tears, her eyes remained empty. She slowly retreated, pressing her back into the door, the carriage suddenly erupting with the clamours and roars she’d heard in the brief second before the room had silenced in her entrance.

She watched the room erupt into chaos. They devoured the endless array of platters, ripping the shelled fish apart with bare hands, slurping the meats and their juices. The same dirtied hands ravished the tiers, unswallowed meat merged with mouthfuls of pastry. The feeding was ravenous; Claire was reminded of the time Samesh had forced her to watch the bloodied scene of chickens released to the mutt he kept fenced away from the rest of his father’s farm.

She felt sick. As with her lack of tears, there was nothing to release from her throat, despite her stomach’s screams. She turned swiftly, urging the door to open, but the moment she pulled its handle, two hands spun her back toward the horrible room.

“Please, I didn’t mean to intrude!” she cried, her eyes clenched shut. In the silence that followed, she kept them tightly closed, unprepared for the horrible stares to ensue from the room once again.

“It’s alright, Claire.”

Without opening her eyes, she gasped, thrusting herself into the arms of the speaker.

“I was looking for you,” she sobbed, tearless. Her father held her for a moment before pulling himself back, gently gripping her shoulders at arms length. She opened her eyes, smiling up at him. The scene behind him had transformed to a much more polite crowd, leafy salads poked with long, thin forks, a faint, delicate chatter replacing the roar.

“It’s alright, Claire,” he repeated, returning the smile. Claire felt her stomach retighten into an uncertain pinch, but ignored it, grateful to hear the hoarseness of his voice, the gravelly cadence she’d known all her life.

“Where are we going?” she asked. He dropped his arms to his side, smiling strangely.

“I believe we were on our way to America.”

Claire felt her apprehension replaced with a familiarity. Yes, she remembered now. They were travelling to America. Alaska. She remembered her father’s pride in the deal he’d gotten for the boat tickets. The logging job he’d arranged. They must already be in America now, travelling by train to whatever hostel or motel they’d find themselves in for the next several months. What an adventure.

“America. I do like the way they talk in America,” she said, moving toward him. He ignored her advancements, gently spinning her toward the door.

“It’s alright Claire. We’ll be there soon. Go find your seat, I’ll be there in just a moment.”

Claire found herself walking back into the carriage she’d awoken in. She shivered, ignoring the nagging feeling she’d forgotten to ask her father for something, and strolled effortlessly through the aisle to the only remaining seat. An elderly woman was mumbling under her breath in a different language, her eyes cast to the ceiling as if she was also trying to remember something. Claire sat next to her, across from a tuxedoed man. His bride appeared to be speaking to the old woman, rambling eagerly despite the lack of returned interest.

Claire supposed they were on their way to get married, and thought this was quite exciting.

“Hello,” she said politely.

“Oh! Hello, you.”