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

“Bad beast, man,” said Myles, fingertips to metal.

As Annette said, his talent was to read inanimate, or supposedly inanimate, objects. He was qualified to evaluate the locomotive.

“Got a Jones in it, like a circus cat that’s tasted blood, digs it, wants more.”

“That’s a comfort.”

Myles clapped his shoulder, magic fingers lingering a moment. Briefly, Richard felt a chill. Myles took his hand away, carefully.

“Don’t fret, man. I’ve known Number 73 buses go kill-crazy. Most machines are just two steps from the jungle. No wonder witches don’t dig iron. Come on, Rich. ‘All aboard for the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe . . .’ ”

Arnold blew his whistle, a shrill night-bird screech. It was answered by a dinosaurian bellow from the locomotive. The steam-whoop rattled teeth and scattered a flock of pigeons roosting in the Euston arches.

“The train now standing at Platform 14,” said an announcer over the Tannoy, sounding like a BBC newsreader fresh from an elocution lesson, “is the Scotch Streak, for Edinburgh, and Portnacreirann. It is due to depart at seven o’clock precisely.”

Richard and Myles stepped up, into their carriage. The wide, plush-carpeted corridor afforded access to a row of sleeping compartments.

“You’re next to me, Richard,” said Annette, who had been installing Vanessa nearby. “How cosy.”

He looked at Magic Fingers, who shrugged in sympathy – with a twinge of envy – and went to find his place.

Richard checked out his compartment. It was like a constricted hotel room, with built-in single bed, fixed desk (with complimentary stationery and inkwell) and chair, a cocktail cabinet with bottles cradled in metal clasps, wardrobe-sized en-suite “bathroom” with a sink (yes, marble) and toilet (no gold seat). A second bed could be pulled down from an upper shelf, but was presently stowed. From murder mysteries set on trains, he knew the upper berth was mostly used for hiding bodies. Richard’s Gladstone bag rested at the foot of the bed like a faithful dog. His towel and toiletries were stowed in the bathroom.

At first look, everything in First Class was first class, then the starched white sheets showed a little fray, and that greyish, too-often-washed tinge; the blue-veined sink had orange, rusty splotches in the basin and a broken plug-chain; cigarette-burns pocked the cistern. KINDLY REFRAIN FROM USING THE WATER CLOSET WHILE THE TRAIN IS STANDING IN THE STATION said a framed card positioned above the toilet. In an elegant hand, someone had added TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

Richard thought he saw something in the mirror above the sink, and had to fight an instinct to turn. He knew there would be nothing there. He looked deeper into the mirror, peering past his pushed-out face, ignoring a fresh-ish blotch on his forehead, searching for patches where the silvering was thin. He exhaled, misting the mirror. Rune-like letters, written in reverse, stood out briefly. He deciphered DANGER, WARNING and FELL SPIRIT, then a heart, several Xs and a sigil with two “A”s hooked together.

“Made you look,” said Annette, from the corridor. She giggled.

He couldn’t help grinning. She was hatless now, languidly arranged against the doorframe, dress riding up a few inches to show a black stocking-top, shoulders back to display her fall of silky hair. She drew her “AA” in the air with her cigarette end, and puffed a perfect smoke ring.

She drew him along the corridor. They joined Harry and Myles in the next carriage. The ballroom in Lord Kilpartinger’s day, it was now designated the First Class Lounge.

Magic Fingers found a piano, and extemporised on “The Runaway Train”, which Annette found hilarious. She curled up in a scuttle-like leather seat.

At the far end of the carriage sat the vicar – probably working on a sermon, though his expression suggested he was writing death threats to be posted through the letter-boxes of nervous elderly ladies.

Arnold passed through the carriage, and informed them the bar would be open as soon as they were underway.

“Hoo-ray,” said Annette. “Mine’s a gimlet.”

She screwed a fresh cigarette into her holder.

Arnold smiled indulgently and didn’t tell Myles not to tinkle the ivories. They were First Class and could swing from the chandeliers – which were missing a few bulbs, but still glinted glamorously – if they wanted.

“Impressions?” asked Harry, who had a fresh folder open and a ball-point pen in his hand.

“All clear here,” said Annette. “We’ll live past Peterborough.”

“This box has had its guts battered,” said Magic Fingers, stuttering through a phrase, forcing the notes out, “but we’re making friends, and I think he’ll tell me the stories. ‘The runaway train came over the hill, and she ble-e-ew . . .’ ”

Harry looked at him and prompted, “Jeperson? Anything to add?”

Richard thought about the little girl’s ageless eyes.

“No, Harry. Nothing.”

Harry bit the top of his pen. The plastic cap was already chewed.

“I hope this isn’t a wasted journey,” said the Most Valued Member. “Just smoke and mirror stories.”

“It won’t be that,” said Annette. “I can tell.”

The whistle gave out another long shriek, a Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan yell from the throat of a castrated giant.

“ ‘. . . and she ble-ew-ew-ew-ew

Without even a lurch, as smooth as slipping into a stream, the Scotch Streak moved out of the station. The train rapidly picked up speed. Richard sensed pistons working, big wheels turning, couplings stretching, the irresistible pull . . .

He had a thrill of anticipation. All boys loved trains. Every great mystery, romance or adventure must have a train in it.

“ ‘. . . the engineer said the train must halt, he said it was all the fireman’s—!’ ”

Myles’s piano-playing was shut off by a crash. The lid had snapped shut like a bear-trap.

The jazzman swore and pulled back his hands. His knuckles were scraped. He flapped them about.

“Pain city, man,” he yelped.

“First blood,” said Annette.

“The beast’s impatient,” said Myles. “Antsy, itchy-pantsy. Out to get us, out to show who’s top hand. Means to kill.”

Harry examined the piano, lifting and dropping the lid. A catch should have held it open.

“Catch was caught, Haroldo,” said Magic Fingers, pre-empting the accusing question. “No doubt about it.”

Harry said the lid could easily have been jarred loose by the train in motion. Which was true. He did not make an entry in his folder.

Annette thought it was an attack.

“It knows we’re here,” she said. “It knows who we are.”

They were on their way. Outside the window, dark shapes rushed by, lights in the distance. The train flashed through a suburban station, affording a glimpse of envious, pale-faced crowds. They were only waiting for a diesel to haul them home to “villas” in Hitchin or Haslemere and an evening with the wireless, but all must wish they were aboard the brightly-lit, fast-running, steam-puffing Streak. Bound for Scotland – mystery, romance and adventure!

Richard found he was shaking.

Act II: On the Scotch Streak

I

Over the train-rattle, Annette Amboise heard herself scream.

She was in the corridor. The lights were out. One of her heels was broken, and her ankle turned.

The train was being searched, papers demanded, faces slapped, children made to cry, bags opened, possessions strewn. She’d soon be caught and questioned. Then, hours of agony culminating in shameful release. She’d hold off as long as she could. But, in the end, she’d break.

She knew she’d talk .