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

“Danny!” she yelled.

She scrabbled, tripping over the bloody useless chain, got to her feet, one heel snapped. That had been in her Worst Thing vision. Slipping free of her pumps, she ran towards the end of the carriage, as light flared in the passage beyond. She saw the open door, had an impression of hedgerows flashing by, greenery turned grey in the scatter of light from the train. Danny Myles hung in the doorway, wrists against the frame, body flapping like a flag.

She grabbed for him. Her fingers brushed his jersey.

Then he was gone. She leaned out of the train, wind hammering her eyes, and saw him collide with a gravel incline. He bounced several times, then tangled with a fence-post, wrapping around it like a discarded scarecrow.

The train curved the wrong way and she couldn’t see him. Magic Fingers was left behind.

Tears forced from her, she wrenched herself back into the train, pulling closed the door. It was as if she had taken several sudden punches in the gut, the prelude to questioning, to loosen up the prisoner.

She found herself sitting down, crying her heart out. For a long time.

“Why is your friend bawling?” asked a small voice.

Smearing tears out of her eyes with her wrist, Annette looked up.

Richard was back – from the wrong direction, she realised – with Vanessa. The little girl held out a handkerchief with an embroidered “V”. Annette took it, wiped her eyes, and found she needed to blow her nose. Vanessa didn’t mind.

“Danny’s gone,” she told Richard. “It got him.”

She looked up at her colleague, the boy Edwin Winthrop had confidence in, the youth she’d entertained fantasies about. Recruited at an early age, educated and trained and brought up to become a Most Valued Member. Richard Jeperson was supposed to take care of things like this. Harry Cutley lead this group, but insiders tipped Richard as the man to take over, to defy the worst the dark had to offer.

She saw Richard had no idea what to do next. She saw only a black barrier in the future. And she swooned.

Act III: Inverdeith

I

He had nothing.

Annette was out cold. Harry was missing in action. Danny was finished. He was no use to them, they were no help to him.

Richard was at the sharp end, with no more to give.

Vanessa tugged his sleeve, insistent. She needed him, needed comfort, needed saving.

Nearby, in one of these shifting carriages, the NATO couriers slept. And others – Arnold the Conductor, the scary vicar, Mrs Sweet, that cockney medium, more passengers, the driver and fireman sealed off from the rest of the train in the cabin of the locomotive. Even if they didn’t know it, they all counted on him. With the Go-Codes up for grabs, the whole world was on the table and the big dice rattled for the last throw.

The Diogenes Club expected him to do his duty.

He had the girl fetch chilled water in a jug from the galley, and sprinkled it on Annette’s brow. The woman murmured, but stayed under. He looked at Vanessa, who shrugged and made a pouring motion. Richard resisted the notion – it seemed disrespectful to treat a grown-up lady like a comedy sidekick. Vanessa urged him, smiling as any child would at the idea of an adult getting a slosh in the face. With some delicacy, Richard tipped the jug, dripping fat bullets of water onto Annette’s forehead. Her eyes fluttered and he tipped further. Ice-cubes bounced. Annette sat up, drenched and sputtering.

“Welcome back.”

She looked at him as if she were about to faint again, but didn’t. He shook her shoulders, to keep her attention.

“Yes, I understand,” she said. “Now don’t overdo it. And get me a napkin.”

Like the perfect waiter – and where was Arnold? – he had one to hand. She dabbed her face dry and ran fingers through her short hair. She’d like to spend fifteen minutes on her make-up, but was willing to sacrifice for the Cause.

“You’re lovely as you are,” he said.

She shrugged it off, secretly pleased. She let him help her to her feet and slid into one of the booths. Vanessa monkeyed up and sat opposite. The child began to play, tracing scratch-lines on the tablecloth with a long-tined fork.

“I tried the communication cord,” she said. “No joy.”

He got up, found the loose loop of cord, examined it, sought out the next alcove, pulled experimentally. No effect whatsoever.

“Told you so,” she said.

“Independent confirmation. Harry Cutley would approve. It counts as a finding if we fill in the forms properly.”

Richard sat next to the little girl and looked at Annette, reaching out to catch a drip she had missed.

“Harry’s gone?” she asked.

Richard thought about it. He calmed, reaching into his centre, and tried to feel out, along the length of the train.

“Not like Danny’s gone,” he concluded. “Harry’s on board.”

“What’s he doing when he goes quiet like that?” Vanessa asked, interested. “Saying his prayers?”

“Being sensitive,” said Annette.

“Is that like being polite, minding his ‘P’s and ‘Q’s?”

Richard broke off and paid attention to the people immediately around him.

“Something missing,” he said. “Something’s been taken.”

“Time, for a start,” said Annette. “How long have we been aboard?”

Richard reached for his watch-pocket, then remembered he’d retired the timepiece. There was a clock above the connecting door. The one in the ballroom carriage seemed to keep the right time when all others failed. The face of this clock was black – not painted over, but opaque glass. It still ticked.

“I won’t carry a watch,” said Annette, “but I’ve an excellent sense of time. And I’ve lost it. How long was I unconscious?”

“Ages,” said Vanessa. “We thought you’d died.”

“A few seconds,” said Richard.

“See,” said Annette. “No sense of time at all.”

Richard looked at the nearest window. It was black glass, like the clock – a mirror in which he looked shockingly worn-out. Even when the overhead lights flickered, which they did more and more, he couldn’t see out. He didn’t know if they were rushing through England, Scotland or some other dark country. He felt the rattle-rhythm of the train – that, he knew, came from rolling over slight joins between lengths of rail, every ten or twenty feet. The Scotch Streak was still on tracks.

“Have we passed Edinburgh?” said Annette.

Edinburgh! That was a way out, a way off the Ghost Train!

From the station, he could phone Edwin, have the Club use its pull to cancel the rest of the journey, get everyone else out safely. Danny’s death was justification for calling off the whole jaunt, shutting down the line. The couriers could be sent across Scotland in a taxi. It would take longer, but they’d be surer to arrive intact. If anyone wanted to start World War III, they’d have to wait until after lunch.

Then, he could think of something else to do with his life.

What life?

“I have a picture of the station in my mind,” said Annette, concentrating. “Passengers get off, coal is taken on. They try and do it quietly, so as not to wake the sleepers, but you can’t pour tons of anything quietly. I can’t tell if I’m seeing ahead or remembering. My Talent seems to be on the blink at the moment. ‘Normal transmission will be resumed as soon as possible’. There’s a black wall . . .”

“We’ve already stopped once,” said Vanessa, in a small, scared voice. “In Scotland.”

This was news. Richard couldn’t imagine not noticing.

“Quite right, miss,” said Arnold the Conductor, coming back from where the First Class Carriages should be. “I’ve clipped the ticket of the Edinburgh-to-Portnacreirann passenger. Just the one. Not what it used to be. Ah, someone’s made a bit of a mess here. Don’t worry. We’ll get it cleaned up in a jiffy. Madame, might I bring you more water? This jug seems to be empty.”