The Chronicles of Narmo by Caitlin Moran

Author:Caitlin Moran
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448192731
Publisher: Penguin Random House Children's UK

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Bat

Wolverhampton Train Station in summer. It’s quite nice, actually: three day-glo orange bins, a burgundy newspaper kiosk, a couple of empty Coke cans and the odd train. A group of students huddle at the dry end of the platform in a soggy, Marmite saturated heap, their fashionable knapsacks digging into their shoulders, the rain dripping into their Doc Marten boots. They resemble little rain-drenched beetles.

The rain is pouring down, venomous in its attempt to wash away the concrete; pounding on the nasty, cheap benches with the middles ripped out; trying to cry away the litter and the smoke and the greyness.

The tannoy is broken and, as the train pulls into the station with its hypnotic whir, all the wet beetles scuttle forward hopefully.

It is not their train.

They seep back, disappointed.

An angered squawk sends the porter scurrying from his little hut towards the train, but he is too late, as a door is flung open and a leg clad in dark green, scratchy wool trousers is put on the ground in much the same way Queen Victoria would have alighted if she were alive and inclined to wear that sort of thing.

Denis, a promising art student, peeked out from under his dripping hood, took note of the legs’ owner with the habit of his artistic training and, for years afterwards, particularly following vicious curries and promiscuous oysters, wished he hadn’t.

A purple tartan jacket, worn over a vermillion shirt, was ornamented in places with various wild animals leaping in various directions. A string of pearls counterset beautifully the burnt-ochre tam-o’-shanter with pom-pom on a thread. Both lumpy tan suitcases clashed with everything.

The face resembled a particularly weathered gargoyle, with the added bonus of an unhealthy dose of the holier-than-thous ingrained into its countenance through the years.

It was female.

It was moving in his direction.

It was the Bat.

Josh was slumped in his room, bending plasticine animals into rude positions. It was a restless day: it seemed unwilling to admit it was Monday, felt like it was made out of congealed grey flannel, and tasted dirty yellow.

Josh had tried reading, but the words had not been in a friendly mood. They had mooched off the page, muttering about ‘meeting their mates at a football match’ and ‘promised lifts’. He had tried watching the telly, but there were only old black-and-white films on, with lots of people called Celia telling Johnny to do it for her sake.

It was one of those days.

‘Yew. Yew there. What are you doing?’

‘Um, waiting for a train,’ Denis answered, wondering if he might be slightly foolish in doing so.

‘Well,’ said the Bat, in a manner that conveyed the utmost distaste. ‘Really.’ She retreated into her mind for a minute and came up choking, metaphorically speaking.

‘Tell me, where does one find a tixi around here?’ she asked, rearranging the paisley shawl draped around her shoulders.

‘A what?’ Denis asked desperately, wishing he’d walked to Manchester instead.

‘A tixi, my laddie, a tixi. Are you devoid of comprehension?’

‘Well, he is a student,’ one of his best friends said, from the relative safety of distance.

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