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John said they had to get off the train. There would be a delay in three stations anyway because of flooding on the tracks. Martin asked, not without anxiety, if that meant John was beginning to see the future, but John said no. The river was flooding in the present.
Besides, there was something wrong with the conductor. Don't look, Martin. Martin still caught a glimpse, unfortunately, although the doors had already opened and John was pulling him out of the carriage. A fat white worm was crawling out of a torn seam in the seat fabric.
A young station worker promised that the change would be announced within an hour. "Thank you," said Martin.
"We should probably hire a car from here," John said, pacing the platform. "Maybe make a detour to cover our tracks. Avoid Edinburgh. A couple of hours away, there is a Mrs. Plainsborough, who rents out a room, usually doesn’t ask for a passport. Or rather, she does, but only for show. Cataracts."
"Or we can just wait," Martin suggested. There wasn’t much difference between the CCTV on the train and Mrs. Plainsborough. "Cataracts or not, it’s still the Watcher who had shown her to you."
And what they had seen on the train had hardly had time to spread across the entire rail system. That didn't usually happen. As far as Martin could tell.
John exhaled and glanced at the information board. Martin did too. The line blinked, updating the time, route, and train number. An hour and a half left.
John needed a smoke. Martin bought some water and then joined him outside, where John had found what was probably the most secluded spot in the already deserted surroundings of the station. Martin tried to determine if the cameras could reach here, but couldn't.
John took a drag and closed his eyes, as if the cigarette brought him relief, but also suffering. Martin looked away, ended up staring at his feet.
"You've been smoking a lot lately," he said, just to say something.
John grinned and asked softly, "Is that what worries you? Of all the many dangers?"
"Not only that," Martin muttered. "And not now, not really. And it’s not exactly a worry."
"What, then?"
Martin clutched the cold, wet bottle in his hands and closed his eyes. He really didn't want to answer out loud. But it seemed like he didn't need to, because John was already looking at him, frowning, as if reading illegible handwriting. And then he gasped, somewhat confused.
"It's not like that," Martin began to explain. "I don't want to enjoy it. You know I want you to be okay. No pain, no self-destruction, but. It’s fascinating. Maybe it's because I've been watching from the outside for so long, and pain usually accompanies what happens to you. When you love someone from afar, it all somehow gets mixed up, you start to love everything about them. Even this. Maybe especially this. The thing that's most noticeable. Or maybe Peter did make me lose my humanity after all. I thought I was saving you, but what if I just liked watching? I don't want to leave you alone with this, I want to help, I want this to stop, but what if..."
John kissed him on the lips, slowly, carefully. They touched foreheads. With a sigh, John clicked the button of the recorder in his pocket and said: "I didn't turn it on."
"I know," Martin said. "Statement ends, though."
John had forgotten about his cigarette and was now lighting a new one. He looked tired, almost falling asleep. Sated.
"To hell with it, let's just go through Edinburgh."