The Newton Prophecies

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Clinton sat at the back of the train, watching the couple stare blankly in his direction from the front. He tried not to stare. He looked at the many ads for Apple iPods and half naked women, supposedly smelling of Chanel No5, plastered along the walls above the windows.
         His stomach twisted. His skin crawled. They were staring right at him. He felt it in his gut. They didn't say a word. No notable expression on their faces.
         At one point he sensed fear. However that was gone before he realized it was there. Whatever devious event they had planned. It was huge, and he had to figure it out.
         The train squealed to a halt. The doors slid open.
         The couple didn't move. Neither did Clinton.
         The entire train unloaded. No other passengers came aboard. When the doors closed and the train sped off toward High Street, Bayswater, and Paddington Stations, Clinton grabbed his favorite book and started to read.
         They have to know I'm following them.
         He didn't look up when the train stopped the second time, or the third. He saw them in his peripheral vision, sitting. He read, trying to be casual. Trying not to reveal how shaky his hands were, how much sweat pored from his forehead.
         As the train slowed the fourth time, he saw the couple shift in their seats. This is it. They're getting off.
         He looked up. Crammed his book into his bag and waited for the train to stop.
         The doors opened.
         The couple didn't move.
         Crap, he thought. He had already shown he was getting off. If he sat back down now, they'd know for sure; who knows what they'd do.
         Clinton stepped off the train and gaped at the sign overhead.
         Paddington Station
         Damn it!
         The doors slid closed and the train squealed away. They had suspected him. They were testing him, and he failed--miserably.          The only question was: Had he foiled their plan? Or, did they never intend to get off at Paddington Station.
         Clinton shook his head in disgust and sat on a bench. Gazing at a large decorative clock mounted on a cast-iron post, it occurred to him. He missed diving competition. He practiced for months for that competition; it was all he thought about when not tackling the occult; yet he had gotten so caught up in the pursuit, he forgot about school and the swim team.
         Damn it!
         Just then a sharp dressed couple carrying black bags caught the corner of his eye.
         They got off!
         They walked hastily down South Wharf Road into the heart of Saint Mary's campus.
         The room number struck him like brick to the head. 326.
         My God, he thought. Can it be?
         The irony was incredible. The year before, his mother had spent a month at Saint Mary's struggling to recover from a life ending case of pneumonia. Clinton had stuck by her the entire time, often wishing she would die so he could carry on with his life. When she finally did, he hated himself for wishing it. Now he was going back.
         All thoughts of school vanished. He was a staunch believer in fate, and this was fate ... times twenty.
         Without a wavering thought he clutched his bag in his arms and raced to catch up with the sharp dressed couple.

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