First novel - first chapter
“This is the first chapter from the first (unpublished) novel in the series featuring Grace Marks. I intend to publish it at some stage, I’m just not sure when.”
Plain.
That was the kindest description of the man who was strolling casually past the security cameras covering the railway station’s entrance. The unblinking stare of the cameras followed his every step but, with the peak of his well-worn black cap hiding his eyes and a plain blue surgical mask obscuring the remainder of his face, they captured no identifiable images.
It was 7.45am on a crisp, spring Christchurch morning - cool but not cold. As he made his way to the rear carriage of the TranzAlpine Express, he checked his appearance in the polished train windows. His body shape told the world he should lose a few kgs; the heavy black rimmed glasses hinted at years of staring at computer screens; and his clothes shouted The Warehouse. Over his shoulder, capping his appearance, was his distinctive orange Thule laptop bag. Looking back at him from the train windows he saw a grinning, middle-aged, socially challenged, computer nerd.
The train was slowly filling with excited tourists stowing unfeasibly large bags in the overhead luggage racks forcing him to wait patiently several times as he made his way to his allocated seat near the front of the train. He had boarded at the rear to traverse the train to confirm the onboard security cameras were identical to the ones on the train he had travelled to Christchurch on yesterday – tick.
After the train had been underway for twenty-five minutes, he ambled to the buffet car which he knew opened after thirty minutes. It was the smart move – the announcement that the buffet car was open caused a stampede of coffee deprived travellers. His final breakfast consisted of an egg and ham wrap washed down with an Americano. He also bought a roast beef, cheese and chutney sandwich and a can of pilsner. ‘Don’t worry, it’s for later,’ he said, after getting a concerned look from the buffet car attendant.
Two hours and twenty uneventful minutes later, as the train neared Arthur’s Pass, its speed decreased. It was a bright, blue-sky day, not typical for Arthur’s pass, but ideal for taking photos of the Southern Alps. Letting the excited amateur photographers disembark first, he walked to the station office where he pretended to read the notices in the window. Using the window as a mirror, he observed the platform. People posed for photos, a few stretching cramped muscles and children ran around – nothing out of the ordinary.
The sharp trill of the conductor’s whistle caused the passengers to hurry back onboard as though the train might leave them behind. The face-masked conductor performed a final check, giving him an inquiring thumbs up which he returned. Nodding, the conductor reboarded the train which crawled towards the Otira Tunnel. The station’s security cameras had captured the scene in detail but he knew there were no security cameras at the front of the station – that was important.
He cut a lone figure on the platform, his distinctive orange Thule laptop bag over his shoulder, waving farewell to the train the Southern Alps was in the process of swallowing. When the train had disappeared, he turned a full circle to confirm he was alone. Taking two deep breaths of the cool, sweet alpine air, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. He had done it. He was alone on the Arthur’s Pass platform as planned. If the rest of his plan went as smoothly, Michael Thompson would never be seen again – his body never found.
