Amos Birchly stood outside the police station. A slightly gormless look covered his unshaven face. Just go in... he thought to himself. His brain had started to bloat with the memories. Go on, you're guilty, give yourself up
He had dreamt of her the night before. Her corpse lying on the drawing room floor, her left side caked with dried blood, it's brownish-red colour spoiling her dress. How he wished that wasn't the way he remembered his sister. He was now no longer the proud elder brother he had been before. He was a criminal. A murderer.
He jumped as a whistling policeman opened the door to the dreary building which towered above him.'Can i help you, Sir?' he asked him. Amos stared at him wide-eyed. He knew. He kept his silence, cowering away from the balding police officer as if he were a hungry predetor. The policeman shook his head and wandered on, continuing to whistle his morning tune. Amos watched him walk around the corner and out of sight, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He couldn't do it. Walking rapidly away from the station, trying not to look suspicious, he kept his head down. Just keep walking, Amos... Everyone who looked his way seemed, in his mind, to be thinking the same thing. Scum. To kill his own sister. Unthinkable. Madness.
Stop being ridiculous, Amos. Get a hold of yourself. They know nothing. Neither did that policeman. Calm down. But he couldn't. He looked up at the dingy sign which hung above his head, its gold lettering scratched and dull. Station. He shuffled into the place indicated with no hesitation. You're running away? Just like that? What happened to being honest?
An elderly man sat at a small desk inside of a glass cabin. Amos approached him with caution. 'May I be of assistance?' the man asked, peering over his spectacles.
'How far do your engines go from London?' he asked quietly.
'Well, the furthest we go is Newcastle, but you can always catch one to Glasgow from there.' Amos nodded, stating his destination would be Newcastle. He payed the man using the only money he had and the man, in return, gave him his ticket.
Carriage 4, two o'clock train to Newcastle, 1971
The young man awoke from an uneasy sleep, rubbing his eyes vigorously. How long had he been sleeping for? The plump, middle-aged woman sat in the seat opposite him smiled. Amos nodded tiredly, to sleepy and ashamed to smile. She held in her hand, a small bundle of cream cloured wool and a pair of knitting needles. In a normal situation, Amos would have attempted to make small talk. Who was it for, what was it, how long had it taken her, anything along those lines. But this wasn't a normal situation.
'If I may be so bold as to ask,' she started, the tone of her voice hinting that it could be an awkward question. 'Who's Marianna?' Amos blushed, his ears turning a hot pink.
'What?' he said in almost a whisper.
'Just, you were calling for her in your sleep,' she explained kindly. 'Thought you might want to know that's all.'
'Oh,' replied a shocked Amos, starting to fidgit a little.
'Probably dreaming about that poor girl back home. You know the one that got murdered?' she said, going off into a bit of a daydream, failing to notice Amos' ears turn from pink to red. 'I could have sworn she was called Marianna...or maybe it was Marion...'
'Yes, yes, that was it,' thought Amos aloud, desperately trying to cover his tracks. 'A grusome business...'
'Well, don't you worry, sir. The police will have that murderer caught before you can say noose!'
That's exactly what I fear.
