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

Richard, suddenly cool inside, saw Arnold was either mad or with the other side. Not the other side as in the Soviets (though that was possible) but the other side as in beyond the veil, the Great Old Whatevers. Maybe he’d been normal when he first boarded the Scotch Streak, who knows how many nights ago – now he was one of Them, aligned with Annette’s “It”. The conductor wore an old-fashioned uniform, a crimson cutaway jacket and high-waisted flyless matador trousers. His tie-pin was the crest of the long-gone London, Scotland and Isles Railway Company. His cap was oversize, a child’s idea of railwayman’s headgear.

He resisted an impulse to take Arnold by his antique lapels, smash him through a partition, throw a proper teddy boy scare into him, get the razor against his jugular, demand straight answers.

“Thank you,” he told the conductor. “A refill would be appreciated.”

Arnold took the jug and walked off. Annette, greatly upset, was about to speak, but Richard made a gesture and she bit her lip instead. She was up to speed. It wasn’t just the train and the spooks. It was the people aboard, some of them at least.

“What is it?” said Vanessa, picking up on the wordless communication between grown-ups. “A secret? Tell me at once. You’re not to have secrets. I say so.”

Annette laughed indulgently, at the girl’s directness. The corners of her eyes crinkled in a way she hated and tried to avoid, but which Richard saw was utterly adorable. She was far more beautiful as herself than the make-up mask she showed the world.

“No secrets from you, little thing,” she said, pinching Vanessa’s nose.

The little girl looked affronted by the impudence and stuck her fork into Annette’s throat.

“Don’t call me ‘little thing’,” she said, in a grown man’s voice. “You French cow!”

II

Richard scythed a white china dinner-plate edge-first into the little girl’s face. The plate broke, gashing Vanessa’s eyebrow – it would leave a scar. Blood fountained out of the child-shaped thing.

She gave out a deep, roaring howl and held her face, kicking the underside of the table, twisting and writhing as if on fire.

Richard looked across the table at Annette.

She held her hand to her throat, fork stuck out between her fingers, blood dribbling down her arm. Her eyes were wide.

“Didn’t see . . . that coming,” she said, and slumped.

The light went out in her eyes.

Vanessa’s hooked little fingers scrabbled at Richard’s face, and he fell out of his seat. The child hopped onto his chest, pummelling, scratching and kicking. He slithered backwards, working his shoulders and feet, trying to throw the miniature dervish off him. Her blood poured into his face.

He caught hold of one of her braids and pulled.

A little girl yell came out of her, a Mummy-he’s-hurting-meee scream. Was that the real Vanessa? Something else was in there with her, whoever she was, whatever it was.

The girl was possessed.

It had been hiding, deep in the blanks of her mind, but had peeped out once or twice. Richard hadn’t paid enough attention.

And now another of the group was gone.

Annette Amboise. He’d only known her a few days, but they’d become close. It was as if they knew they would be close, had seen a future now cruelly revoked, had been rushing past this long night, speeding to get to a next leg of their journey, which they would take together.

All that was left of that was this monster .

As Vanessa shrieked, Richard hurled her off. He got to his feet, unsteady. He looked to Annette, hoping she was unconscious but knowing better. Slack-mouthed, like a fish, she toppled sideways, towards the window, slapping cheek-to-cheek with her equally dead reflection.

Arnold was back – not from the direction he had left. He carried a full jug.

“The lady won’t be needing this now,” he said.

The conductor ignored the frothing child-thing, who was crawling down the aisle, back seemingly triple-jointed, tongue extending six pink-and-blue inches, braids stood on end as if pulled by wires. It was like a giant gecko wearing a little girl suit, loose in some places and too tight in others. As its limbs moved, the suit almost tore.

One eye was blotted shut with blood. The other fixed on Richard.

The girl hissed.

Then the Gecko became bipedal. The spine curved upwards, straining like a drawn bow. Forelegs lifted and became floppy arms, hands limp like paddles. The belly came unstuck from the aisle carpet. Snake-hips kinking, it hopped upright. It stood with feet apart and shoulders down, as if balancing an invisible tail.

“Vanessa,” said Richard, “can you hear me? It’s Richard.”

Hot, obscene anger burst from whatever it was. He flinched. Annette might have been able to reach the girl inside, help her. That was her Talent. His left him open to emotional attack.

He stood his ground.

The label around the Gecko’s neck was soggy with blood, words washed away, black shapes emerging.

He reached out and tore the label away. It left an angry weal around Vanessa’s neck.

“Mine,” she said, in her own voice. “Give it me back, you bastarrrd,” in the thing’s masculine, somehow Scots voice. “Mine,” both voices together, blasting from her chest and mouth.

He rubbed his thumb over the bloody card. Scrapes came away. The label was actually an envelope, with a celluloid inner sleeve sealing strips of paper. He clawed with a nail, and saw number strings.

The couriers were decoys, after all.

“Give me those,” said the Gecko.

Richard knew what he held. Not numbers, but a numerical key. Put in a slot, they could bring about Armageddon.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, talking to the thing.

The smile became cunning, wide. The unblotted eye winked.

“Give me back my numbers,” it said, mimicking the girl’s voice.

He could tell now when it was trying to fool him. Could tell how much she was Vanessa and how much the Gecko.

“Conductor,” she said. “That man’s got my ticket. Make him give it back to me.”

“Sir,” said Arnold. “This is a serious matter. May I see that ticket?”

Richard clutched the celluloid in his fist. He wouldn’t let Arnold take the Go-Codes. He was with the Gecko.

Vanessa’s eye closed and she crumpled. He had a stab of concern for the girl. If she fell badly, hit her head . . .

Arnold’s gaze had a new firmness.

“Sir,” he said, holding up his ticket-clippers. “The ticket.”

By jumping from the girl to the conductor, the Gecko had got closer to him. But it wore a shape he was less concerned about damaging.

He stuck the Go-Codes into his top pocket, and launched a right cross at Arnold, connecting solidly with his chin, staggering him back a few steps. He’d perfectly hit the knock-out button, but the thing in Arnold didn’t pay attention. It lashed out, clipper-jaws open, aiming for an ear or a lip, intent on squeezing out a chunk of face.

Richard ducked and the clippers closed on his sleeve, slicing through scarlet velvet, meeting in the fold. He hit Arnold a few more times, hearing school boxing instructors tell him he shouldn’t get angry. In his bouts, he always lost on points or was disqualified, even if he pummelled his opponent insensible. What he did in a fight wasn’t elegant or sporting, or remotely allowable under the Queen-sberry rules. He had learned something in the blanked portion of his childhood.

From a crouch, he launched an uppercut, smashing Arnold’s face, feeling cartilage go in the conductor’s nose. The clippers hung from Richard’s underarm. They opened and fell to the juddering floor, leaving neat holes in his sleeve.