Hell Train
HELL TRAIN
Christopher Fowler
SOLARIS
For Kim Newman,
who unwittingly set the
train in motion.
First published 2012 by Solaris
an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,
Riverside House, Osney Mead,
Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
www.solarisbooks.com
ISBN (ePUB): 978-1-84997-317-5
ISBN (MOBI): 978-1-84997-318-2
Copyright © 2012 Christopher Fowler
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
Also by Christopher Fowler
Roofworld
Rune
Red Bride
Darkest Day
Spanky
Psychoville
Disturbia
Menz Insana
Soho Black
Calabash
Plastic
Breathe
Paperboy
(Autobiography)
B
RYANT
& M
AY
Full Dark House
The Water Room
Seventy Seven Clocks
Ten Second Staircase
White Corridor
The Victoria Vanishes
Bryant & May On the Loose
Bryant & May Off the Rails
The Memory of Blood
C
OLLECTIONS
The Bureau of Lost Souls
City Jitters
More City Jitters
Flesh Wounds
Sharper Knives
Personal Demons
Uncut
The Devil in Me
Demonised
Old Devil Moon
‘There is little chance for a
person to exercise the imagination
today in this complex, programmed
society we have.’
Peter Cushing
‘For a while,
we really were a family.’
Christopher Lee
CHAPTER ONE
THE SCRIPT
I
T LOOKED LIKE
a house from a horror film, and it was.
As the red MG bounced along the narrow country lane, Shane Carter cleared condensation from the windscreen and Down Place appeared before him like a slightly down-at-heels fairytale castle.
The damp A-Z in the glove box had been missing the page he’d needed most. The secluded track that led away from Windsor and the A4 had been un-signposted and a devil to find, but at its end appeared an extraordinary bow-fronted 17
th
century mansion that sat by the banks of the Thames, surrounded by elms and willows, encircled by curlews and crows and geese. Its crenelated battlements had received a fresh coat of white paint some while back and the building had been renamed Bray Studios—apparently Hammer was once again looking for ways to save money, and had turned it into a sound stage.
Lately the grand house had stood before cameras so often that it was a wonder cinema audiences didn’t greet it as an old friend when they watched unsuspecting victims clatter up its drive, peering nervously at its darkling windows, framed against thunderstruck skies. He’d heard that Hammer was good at this sort of thing, re-dressing buildings so that they could be used over and over again.
He took the approach slowly, savouring the appearance of the building through his windscreen. Bernard Robinson, the studio’s production designer, was a master at using the mansion’s rooms for each of his films, lightly making them over with new drapes and furniture. Staircases were covered and corridors cut in half, gardens were sown with gravestones and transformed into cemeteries, bedrooms became morgues and libraries, cellars and mausoleums were turned into laboratories and surgeries. Within a few hours, an ordinary sitting room could be reshuffled, ready to go before the cameras as a Gothic asylum. The men and women who worked at the Hammer Film Studios made small marvels.
But Hammer, he’d also heard from friends over at Universal in Los Angeles, wasn’t the studio it had once been. The writing was on the wall. The horror boom was coming to an end. Kids were getting wise to all the old tricks. They were laughing instead of gasping. Even the critics had stopped throwing up their hands in horror, and were dismissing the films within a few bored lines.
Shane drove his rented MG into the gravelled courtyard, respectfully avoiding a spray of stones, and ratcheted up the handbrake. He swung his leather briefcase from the passenger seat and headed for the building’s main entrance.
Only in England,
he thought, tilting his head. Hollywood had the brash frontage of MGM, but one of Britain’s leading film studios—at least, now that Rank appeared to be gearing down production—had found a home within an old country house. And not—he liked this part—through any sense of heritage or its own inflated self-importance, but simply because it was cheaper to be based here, and its bosses could motor from their Knightsbridge homes in under an hour.
Out here it feels like 1935,
he thought,
not the Fall of 1966. The world is changing, but not in jolly old England.
For a working studio, the place seemed oddly quiet. There was no sound other than the patter of falling rain and the racket of crows. There was no-one to meet him in the chilly wood-panelled reception hall, so he made his way to the first floor. Security was non-existent. Here he was greeted by an awkwardly tall young woman who rose from her desk to shake his hand with excessive vigour.
‘You must be Mr Carter, such a pleasure to meet you. We’re enormous admirers of your films. Please do come in. I’m Emma Winters, Mr Carreras’ assistant. You’re a little earlier than we expected. Can we get you a cup of tea?’
He had heard it was rude to refuse tea in England. ‘Thank you,’ he said, sitting down. Odd that she used the plural when mentioning the company, as if they were an ordinary English family and he had simply come for an afternoon visit to their house. It made a refreshing change from schlepping through the backlot to the icebox air-conditioning of Hollywood studios, exchanging false pleasantries with men who wished him dead.
Walking around the oak-beamed room, he found himself standing before a set of framed monochrome photographs, each one featuring a familiar face. Peter Cushing as Doctor Frankenstein, Christopher Lee as Dracula, and beside these kings of horror a royal gallery of character actors and starlets: Nigel Hawthorne, Andre Morell, Ingrid Pitt, Veronica Carlson, Barbara Shelley and the ubiquitous, endearing Michael Ripper, who seemed to play every servant and innkeeper in the Hammer world, here seen in a ludicrous piratical costume in
Devil Ship Pirates
. Shane imagined walking into the studio canteen and finding them, all these familiar faces assembled in the morning, ready to start work on another mummy, werewolf or vampire film.
Shane had grown up on the monster movies of the nineteen fifties and had eventually worked as a script editor on Roger Corman’s Edgar Allan Poe adaptations for AIP, who copied the idea of reusing lush widescreen sets and creating a stable of stars from Hammer. In place of the avuncular Cushing they had the eye-rolling Vincent Price, and for Hammer’s straight man, Francis Matthews, they had chosen the newcomer Jack Nicholson.
Like Hammer, AIP employed a regular roster of directors, lighting cameramen, set designers, makeup artists, prop-builders and wardrobe mistresses to give their films a distinctively familiar look. The two studios were virtual mirror-images of one another, so it made sense to come here, especially since he was out of Corman’s company now. He’d complained about the studio’s cost-cutting techniques once too often, and found himself to be less irreplaceable than he’d imagined.
He’d been meaning to take a trip to England to see his sister, who had married an English architect and was living in Hampstead, and had hit upon the idea of calling on Hammer to see if there was any chance of finding work with them. It was a notoriously closed shop, but he had talked to an old girlfriend who worked as a stenographer in Wardour Street, and she had put him directly in touch with Michael Carreras, who seemed to be the most senior production executive, although nobody could remember his actual job title.
‘My dear fellow, so sorry to keep you waiting!’ Jovial and rubicund, with heavy black glasses, a shock of thick greying hair and a black moustache that made him look slightly disreputable, Carreras was nattily dressed in a grey striped suit and silk tie, and strode cheerfully toward him with an outstretched hand. In the other he was holding a fat cigar. ‘We’ve been having a bit of a to-do with the censor this morning—but when are we not?’
‘I’ve heard a few stories about British censorship,’ said Shane. ‘We have the same kind of problems, I assure you.’
‘Yes, our chief censor John Trevelyan is a lovely man, utterly starstruck although he’d be the last to admit it, but we’re forced to play a rather absurd game with the board. They’re forever on about the amount of blood we use, the viscosity, colour and so on. John absolutely refused to budge on
Plague Of The Zombies
, and he’s been getting twitchier than ever lately. Ministers are probably breathing down his neck. So I’ve been looking at some revised sequences.’
‘What are you working on?’ asked Shane, following Carreras to his office.
‘It’s been a busy year for us. We finished
Frankenstein Created Woman
a couple of months back and should be wrapping
The Mummy’s Shroud
next week. Having a bit of difficulty getting the final sequence right. How to crush a mummy head. We’ve been experimenting for weeks. We’ve made quite a mess of the workshop, I can tell you. Come on, grab yourself a seat. Has anyone offered you tea?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Jolly good.’ Carreras seated himself opposite. ‘We’re trying to produce four horrors a year, but scheduling is always tricky and right now we seem to have a full stable and no riders, as it were.’
Shane was unfamiliar with such oblique sporting metaphors, and Carreras was forced to translate. ‘Everyone’s here, raring to go. Freddie Francis is itching to direct something new, Peter and Chris are pretty much twiddling their thumbs—Peter’s in Whitstable, but that’s just a few hours away, and we’ve some lovely girls lined up for the screamers; the female roles. Alas, there’s no script. Hence my pleasure in seeing you today.’
Have I misheard?
Shane wondered.
Am I being offered the chance of a job just like that?
‘I don’t know whether you’re familiar with any of my work,’ he began. ‘I haven’t had a chance to update my CV.’
‘But of course,’ said Carreras. ‘We’re huge admirers of the Poe adaptations. All those lovely rich colours, quite startling. Roger’s a man after our own hearts, frightfully clever at cutting corners and making money.’ It sounded rather a backhanded compliment. ‘I’m never quite sure where those films are meant to be set—Italy, possibly? The set designs seem to be Verona meets Vegas.’
‘I was really only a script doctor on those,’ Shane admitted. ‘But I wrote a couple of other films that I’m kind of pleased with.’
‘
Ah yes,
Edge Of Night
and
The Creature In The Lighthouse
. Both jolly good, I thought. Shame you had to show the creature in that last one.’
Shane was amazed that anyone had heard of them. They had shown in a handful of cinemas, and only in the less particular states. He was pretty sure there had been no international distribution. ‘I agree, we should never have revealed him,’ he said apologetically. ‘The lighting was too bright. And Laurel Canyon makes a crummy substitute for the Spanish coast. You could see the joins in his rubber suit. I still cringe in the last reel.’
