Stephen (ed.) - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

“ Star, News and Standard !” shouted competing 60-year-old “boys”, hawking the evening papers. Kruschev was in the headlines, shoe-banging at the UN. The Premier wouldn’t be such a growling bear if he knew Uncle Sam’s pants were down for up to 18 hours at a time. If his Sputnik spied a gap in the curtain, Old Nikita might well lob a couple of experimental hot ones just to see what happened.

“Don’t even think about it, kiddo,” said a voice close to his ear. “World’s safe till midnight, at least. After that, it gets blurry . . . but Madame Amboise sees all. Worry not your pretty little head.”

He recognised Annette from her perfume, Givenchy mingled with Gauloise, before he heard or saw her. She spun him round and kissed both his cheeks, not formally. Her wet little tongue dabbed the corners of his mouth.

For the trip, she had turned out in a black cocktail dress, elbow-length evening gloves, a shiny black hat with a folded-aside veil and a white fox-fur wrap with sewn-shut eyes. This evening, she wore lipstick – thin lines of severe scarlet. She posed like Audrey Hepburn, soliciting his approval, which was certainly forthcoming.

“That’s the spirit,” she said, patting his cheek.

He had a mental image of Annette in her underclothes – black, French and elaborate. It flustered him, and she giggled.

“I’m doing that,” she said. “It’s a trick.”

She slipped off her shoulder strap to show black lace.

“And it’s accurate,” she added. “Sorry, I mustn’t tease. You’re so easy to get a rise out of. I don’t get to play with anyone in the know very often.”

She tapped the side of her head and made spooky conjuring gestures.

Under her brittle flirtatiousness, she ran a few degrees high, trying to shake off a case of the scareds. That, in turn, worried him. Annette Amboise might come on like the Other Woman in a West End farce, but in the Diogenes Club’s trade – not to mention actual war – she was a battle-proved veteran. All he’d ever done was switch some wires. If she knew enough to be frightened, he ought to be terrified.

“Aren’t the arches magnificent?” she said. “They’ll be knocked down in a year or two. By idiots and philistines.”

“You’re seeing the future?”

“I’m reading the papers, darling. But I do see the future sometimes. The possible future.”

“What about . . . ?”

She puffed and opened a fist as if blowing a dandelion clock. “Boom? Not this week, I think. Not if we have anything to do with it. Of course, that’d bring down the arches too.”

She touched the stone with a gloved hand, and shrugged.

“Nada, my love,” she said. “Of course, that’s Magic Fingers’ speciality, not mine. Laying on of hands. The Touch That Means So Much.”

Annette took him by the arm and steered him into the station. A porter followed, shoving a trolley laden with a brassbound trunk, matching pink suitcases, a vanity case and a hat-box. Richard had one item of luggage, a Gladstone bag he’d found in a cupboard.

“There’s our leader,” said Annette, pointing.

Harry Cutley sat at a pie-stall, drinking tea. His own personal cloud hung overhead. Richard wondered whether Edwin would show up to see them off, then thought he probably wouldn’t.

Annette stopped and held Richard back.

“Darling, promise me you’ll be kind to Harry,” she said, pouting, adjusting his tie as if he were a present done up with a bow.

Richard shrugged. “I didn’t have other plans.”

“You don’t need plans to be unkind. You’re like me, a feeler . Try to be a thinker too. Heaven knows, I won’t be. You and Harry aren’t a match, but a mix. Don’t be so quick to write him off. Now, let’s go and be nice.”

Harry looked up and saw them coming. He waved his folded newspaper.

“Where’s Myles?” he asked.

Neither Richard nor Annette knew. Harry tutted, “Probably puffing ‘tea’ in some jive dive.”

“Tea would be lovely, thanks,” said Annette.

Harry looked at the mug in his hand.

“Not this muck,” he said, sourly. The woman behind the counter heard but didn’t care.

“Supper on the train, then?” said Annette. “Sample that famous Scotch Streak luxury?”

“Just make sure to keep the chits,” cautioned Harry.

“Don’t be such a grumpy goose,” said Annette, leaning close and kissing the lecturer, who didn’t flinch. “This will be a great adventure.”

“Like last time?”

“Well, let’s hope not that great an adventure.”

Harry pulled back the sleeve of his tweed jacket and showed a line of red weals leading into his cuff.

“Puma Cults,” commented Annette, “ miaou .”

Richard gathered Harry and Annette had both come off the Edgley Vale case with scars. The Most Valued Member had put that successfully to bed. An Away Win for the Diogenes Club. No points for the Forces of Evil. Harry even smiled for a fraction of a second as Annette purred and stretched satirically.

At once, Richard understood the difference between his Talent and Annette’s. He received, she sent. He picked up what others were feeling; she could make them feel what she felt. A useful knack, if she was in an “up” moment. Otherwise, she was a canary in a mineshaft.

Suddenly, Myles was there.

“Hey, cats,” he said, raising an eyebrow as that set Annette off on more miaous . “Ready to locomote?”

“If we must,” said Harry.

Magic Fingers dressed like a cartoon burglar – black jeans, tight jersey, beret, capacious carpet-bag. All he needed was a mask.

Passengers travelling First Class on the Scotch Streak had their own waiting room, adjacent to the platform where the train was readied. On presenting tickets, the party was admitted by a small, cherubic, bald, uniformed Scotsman.

“Good evening, lady and gentlemen,” he said, like a head-waiter. “I’m Arnold, the Conductor. If there is any way I can be of service, please summon me at once.”

“Arnold, the Conductor,” said Harry, fixing the name in his mind.

Annette made arrangements to have her extensive luggage, and their three underweight bags, stowed on the train.

No extra-normal energies poured off Arnold, just polite deference. Considering his age and Richard’s style, that was unusual. In the conductor’s view, purchase of a First Class Sleeping Compartment ensured admission to the ranks of the elect. The passenger was always right, no matter what gaudy finery he wore or what gunk was slathered on his hair. Richard realised Arnold was the see-no-evil fellow Edwin had mentioned. The man who was not haunted. The conductor might be immune to ghosts, the way some people didn’t catch colds. Or he could be a very, very good dissembler.

The waiting room wanted a thorough clean, but a residue of former glory remained. While Second and Third Class passengers made do with benches on the platform, First Class oiks could plump posteriors on divans upholstered in the Streak’s “weeping bruise” purple. Complimentary tea was served from a hissing urn – which made Cutley mutter about wasting threepence (and collecting a chit) at the pie-stall.

Framed photographs hung like family portraits, commemorating the naming ceremony (there was that Lady Lucinda who Catriona disliked), the inaugural runs of 1928 and 1934 (Lord Kilpartinger in an engineer’s hat) and broken speed records. Nothing about Inver-deith Bridge, of course.

Other passengers arrived. Two young men might as well have had “Secret Courier” stitched to their hankie pockets. They had adult-approved US navy crew-cuts and wore well-fitting civilian suits which didn’t yet bend with their bodies. Matching leather briefcases must contain the vital envelopes. Annette cast a critical eye over the talent; one nudged the other, who cracked a toothy smile that dimpled in his corn-fed American cheek.