Traintober 2024: Day 28 - Plot Twist
That’s not Philip:
Of all the engines who worked at the Big Station, Philip the boxcab was possibly the one who had the biggest personality. He was young, eager and entirely on the wrong side of too overconfident, much to the consternation of the big engines. The little engine had been brought in to help shunt coaches and trucks around the station, but unfortunately, he was distracted very easily.
“Gordon! Gordon! Race me!” “No Philip, I have to prepare for the express,” reminded Gordon, trying to stay calm. “But whyyyyyyyyy,” whined Philip loudly. Gordon’s eye twitched. The big engine moved to head to be refuelled, hoping Philip would get the hint. Philip did not. The little boxcab trailed after Gordon, whinging and whining about how unfair it was that Gordon wouldn’t indulge him in a race, especially cause they were the two fastest on the railway, surely! Philip could beat Gordon in a race, why wouldn’t Gordon race him?
“I’m not busy, after all,” Philip added, trying his best to annoy the big engine into cooperating. Gordon wondered absently if he’d been too harsh on Thomas for being cheeky, all the way back in the early days. After all, even Thomas wasn’t this bad. “Don’t you have to arrange the express?” retorted Gordon. Philip snorted, his eyes lighting up with mischief.
“Nah! It’s not that important anyway – let’s go, let’s go let’sgolet’sgolet’sgo!” Gordon reached his boiling point, his safety valves popping as he erupted furiously.
“GO AND ARRANGE MY EXPRESS, NOW!” roared Gordon. Philip shook, stunned, before glaring defiantly back. “You’re a big meanie,” he snapped, sticking his tongue out petulantly before zipping away. Gordon sighed, and set about either finding another engine to fetch his coaches or getting them himself.
As Gordon left, he muttered under his breath. “I do wish Philip would learn some competency for his work.” And then he was gone, speeding down the line with headlamps swaying in the cool evening breeze.
Back at the Big Station, something was very wrong. Paxton, the other station pilot, couldn’t find Philip. The Class 08 checked everywhere, from the sidings to the harbour to the station and the sheds – but there was no sign of the little diesel boxcab. Duck joined in the search when he finished his last passenger run of the day, followed by Oliver, Stafford and finally Charlie, who told so many awful jokes that Duck very nearly shoved him off the end of the quay.
But still nothing. All five had to concede defeat and head back to the sheds, where they told the others about the missing engine. “Let him stay missing!” huffed James. “The yards ran smoother when he wasn’t here.” “That’s an awful thing to say,” snapped Duck. “Philip is just young – I’m sure he’s doing his best.” “Duck, please,” sighed Henry. “We keep trying to get along with him, but he just doesn’t care about doing his work. The smallest thing distracts him! You know where I found him last week?” “Where?” “On the mainline! He’d chased a butterfly half the way to the Junction and I very nearly turned him into a sardine can!”
Duck winced – he had to admit, Philip had done similar on his branchline, though that had been because he was following a sailboat as it made its way along the coast. He’d bumped right into Douglas, who’d torn the poor little boxcab a new one about railway safety.
It was not comforting to know he was not learning.
Duck was about to retort when the engines all heard Philip’s horn. The little engine rumbled into the sheds, looking very different. His paint was scratched all over, his number having been altered so it looked much closer to sixty-six as opposed to sixty-eight. His headlamp had been shattered by something, though what none of the engines could tell. And then there was Philip himself – his eyes were entirely the wrong colour, their former dark brown now a weird, almost red tinge. His almost always present smile had fallen flat, and they had a slow, calculating look about them.
None of the engines spoke for a long moment. “Philip, there you are,” James finally said. “You’ve ruined your paint. You need to go get it cleaned up at once.” “It should be fine,” ‘Philip’ replied, his words slow and halting, as if trying to predict what the other engines would do or say. Again, the engines all just stared, not sure what to say.
“Are you… sure?” checked Duck. Stafford and Charlie both cowered a little more behind the Pannier, a little spooked and afraid. ‘Philip’ considered. “Yes,” he replied, a little quicker this time. Duck hummed in consideration. “Well, you shouldn’t have run off like that. You made everyone worry for you. Now go get off the main road, Paxton needs to collect Gordon’s coaches when he returns.”
‘Philip’ smiled; it wasn’t quite the huge beaming grin that the engines were used to seeing on the little boxcab. It was smaller, less natural and more calculated. “I can do that,” he said. “They go in the… coach sheds, right?” “Carriage sheds,” sniffed James. “What did they even try to teach you young engines?!” The little boxcab hummed lowly, and slunk away to wait for Gordon. The moment he was out of earshot, the shed erupted in chatter.
“That’s not Philip, it’s an imposter!” exclaimed Duck. “We need to do something!” “Like what?” “An exorcism maybe? I don’t know!” Duck wracked his brain for an idea, but none were forthcoming. “If only Edward wasn’t being overhauled, he’d know what to do!” There was a long pause, before finally Henry spoke up.
“What if we… did nothing?” “Did nothing?!” “Think about it,” Henry went on, ignoring Paxton’s outburst, “Philip is completely clueless and causes us so much trouble – but this new engine, whoever it is, seems like they’ll do their work. All we need to do is keep an eye on him and try our best to steer him into being a really useful engine so that we don’t have to deal with Philip being an idiot and nearly causing us yet another accident.” “Edward wouldn’t agree to that,” Duck reminded Henry sternly. “Well then it’s a good thing Edward isn’t here,” Henry retorted. “If anyone asks, he had a long think about his future on this railway – we might just make a good station pilot out of him yet!”
“This seems immoral,” Paxton said quietly. “That’s because it is,” came the blunt addition from Duck. “You’re suggesting we do nothing while the real Philip is… is… what is even going on anyway?” “He might be… uh… possessed,” said Stafford quietly, the other engines straining to even hear him. “Trevor told me about it – it’s when evil spirits sneak into a person or engine and take them over. They’re supposed to want something… but I don’t know why they’d want Philip.”
The engines all shared a long look, none of them really wanting to admit it…
… but they all wanted to wait and see what happened.
‘Philip’ seemed to change overnight. After a few days’ worth of slightly painful adjustment, he seemed to click into what was needed. Trains ran smoother than they had in months. ‘Philip’ was a natural at shunting, zipping through the sidings and doing the work asked of him with ease. Even Sir Topham Hatt was impressed!
“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “But you’ve really smartened up, Philip. I’m rewarding you with a new coat of paint.” ‘Philip’ just smiled his weird, slightly stilted smile. “Thank you, sir,” he replied. He was repainted the next day, getting a very smart new livery that he barely cared for at all, instead focusing on his work. James could have wept for joy when he realised his train was arranged and prepared before he’d even gotten to the platform for an entire week.
But none of the engines at the Big Station told anyone about what had happened on that odd night, keeping it a closely guarded secret. The weeks passed, and the engines kept up the charade. It was clear to them that this engine was not Philip – he had the wrong accent and his horn sounded vaguely like the screams of the damned – but they had grown fond of him, of having their trains on time and of having an orderly yard.
‘Philip’ was good at his job, kind, quiet, and when he did speak he had an absolutely brutal dry wit that had even Gordon howling with laughter.
“I still don’t like it,” muttered Duck one evening, nearly three months after ‘Philip’ had shown up at the sheds. “We don’t know why he’s here at all.” “Oh shush,” huffed James, his eyes focused on the TV the crews had left in the corner of the sheds for the engines. “The big plot twist is coming – I bet he’s been sleeping with her sister.”
Duck rolled his eyes – James was way too invested in a recent Mexican telenovela which a local channel had been playing. “Aye, it is a devil in my husband’s skin!” Duck and James both stared at the television as the major plot twist turned out to be that the husband was secretly possessed, and had been engaged with the maids, the sister and a weirdly attractive uncle of the wife.
“No,” Duck snapped. “You are not going to suggest Philip should act like that.” James just chuckled. The two looked over to the shed doors as they heard a familiar rumble.
The little boxcab rounded the last bend and raced into the sheds, much too fast.
“Hi guys! It’s been weird – I was lost! But I’m back now – the vicar told me that he ‘helped’ me but I didn’t understand. Who wants to race?”
James and Duck shared a look; Philip was back.
For a few days, all was quiet. The engines once again were forced to carefully navigate this unfamiliar engine in Philip’s body, only this time it was the original once more. And Philip hadn’t learnt a thing despite having spent six months possessed. He still raced about far more than he ought to, not really focusing on his work but rather the first thing that intrigued him. He ended up in all sorts of crazy positions, including somehow getting shunted onto the middle of the Midnight Goods and going halfway across the island behind a slightly peeved BoCo.
But… Philip wasn’t stupid. Naïve, perhaps. But not stupid. And in those few days, he began to notice something; he began to see it in the corners of his eyes when the other engines thought he wasn’t around.
They sighed more, when they saw him. They pursed their lips at the sound of his horn, as if hoping or expecting a different noise to come out. They scowled at his perfectly polished paint that he loved, having made his driver repaint over the smart livery with his own preferred, zanier one.
Engines like Gordon and James had infinitely less patience for his antics than before, as if their slight fondness for him had been replaced by disdain, barely masked behind a veneer of indifference. Engines like BoCo, Bear, Charlie or Oliver who had been supportive of his attempts at learning the yard before now just watched on silently, as if what they saw in front of them didn’t quite line up with what they had in their minds.
Something was wrong.
The worst thing for Philip was seeing the shift in Duck and Paxton. The two had gone from being perhaps the only two in the entire yard who genuinely liked him to being little more than distant colleagues. Whatever had happened during the time he’d been lost, wandering through an infinite woodland with a million different places to explore, it had given the others a reason to just… watch him.
Always watching, always judging. None of them seemed to like the outcome of these judgements, always pretending to be looking elsewhere whenever Philip caught them. All of the others would attempt a smile, but it felt weak. Lacking.
Philip felt rather alone, and it hurt.
It didn’t take him too long to find out why. Philip had been heading back to the sheds after another disheartening day, rumbling quietly alongside the sheds, when he overheard the engines inside.
“It’s not the same,” hissed Gordon. “He’s not the same!” “Why did the vicar have to fix it,” agreed James. “The yard was finally running so smoothly!” “Well, it’s done,” snapped Duck. “And we have to live with it. The other Philip is gone, and we need to get used to this Philip again.” “I wish we didn’t have to,” admitted Charlie, almost silently. “He doesn’t even try and learn, he just flutters about. I miss the other Philip.”
Philip fled from the sheds before he could hear any more. He couldn’t take it – all his friends had said they preferred another Philip, that they weren’t happy with him. They didn’t want Philip, they wanted a different engine. They wanted a different engine wearing his face, working with his engine. They wanted a version of Philip that he wasn’t. They didn’t want him.
His friends didn’t want him.
His friends didn’t even like him, they just dealt with him while missing a ‘Philip’ only they had met.
Philip ran to see the Fat Controller. Surely he would be able to do something! But when Philip entered the Big Station, all he saw with Sir Topham Hatt shaking his head as he poured over a spreadsheet.
“And he was doing so well the last six months,” the Fat Controller sighed. “I’d hoped Philip was finally being really useful – perhaps I was too hasty.”
Philip hid in the carriage siding, his mind whirling. None of his friends wanted him. His owner preferred a different version of him. They spoke of a him that had existed when he was lost as if he was better, more reliable. More useful.
The Fat Controller wasn’t sure if he was really useful or not.
Philip went to the yard foreman the next morning, before any of the other engines awoke. He was in tears, barely able to speak around the painful lump in his throat. He was transferred that same day, grabbing some empty trucks and vanishing out of the yards.
Philip would end up working in the diesel yards at the far end of the line, where Douglas had found Oliver so many years ago. The diesels here just snarled and growled at him every time he tried to introduce himself, snapping orders and glaring at Philip until he completed them. In time, a different engine passed by, heading for Sodor. He looked like a truly ancient steam engine, his paint rough but showing signs of recently being touched up. He had a stern look on his face, though it lightened some as he vanished out the other end of the yard.
Philip had been entirely replaced now; his friends and his controller had even bought a new engine to take over from him, to finally give the Big Station the care and attention Philip hadn’t had the capability to give before.
He gave his new yard far too much attention, scuttling between rusting hulks, constantly forced to keep his cab down and moving. If he even considered trying any of the many fun activities he’d enjoyed back at the Big Station, he was verbally ripped to shreds, the other diesels sneering and rolling their eyes whenever they caught sight of him.
Philip should have stayed in that infinite woodland, chasing butterflies and enjoying his life. Why had he ever left?
Philip cried himself to sleep, and never stopped sobbing.