Hell Train (16 page)

‘How does it work?’

‘Like God, in mysterious ways. Michael has a brilliant business head, like his father. But how anything gets done—well, that’s the question. We’ve always rather muddled along. Nobody saw the horror thing coming. It was the X certificate that made us, you know. We were making crime thrillers, potboilers, terribly tame stuff. Jimmy Sangster’s scripts were always good, but it was adding the big X into our title treatments that got the kids in.
X The Unknown, The Quatermass Xperiment,
such a simple idea. It made them feel they were seeing something their parents wouldn’t approve of, something forbidden.’

‘But reinventing Dracula and Frankenstein, that was clever—’

‘Those films were only around a sixth of our output. We didn’t know they’d work until the censor started complaining. And then the newspapers—well, now you can’t imagine the uproar but at the time you’d have thought we were inciting teenagers to commit murder. After that it was a red rag to a bull, and I suppose we baited poor old John Trevelyan a bit. You know, put a bit of extra gore into the scripts for him to remove. And all in glorious Technicolor. The vicars of Britain and their county wives were up in arms.’

‘And now?’

‘Michael’s more worried about the Americans than he lets on. They’re taking bigger chunks of the profit, taking more creative control. Every picture has more lawyers working on it than the last. And the box office admissions aren’t what they were. We can’t go on forever. It upsets Michael that we’ve never been able to crack American television. We tried a series in 1958—’

‘
Tales of Frankenstein
. What went wrong?’

‘Oh, the usual. The networks got nervous. Problems with the subject matter. The Americans remain rather a mystery to us. No manners, our producers reckon, all in it for the money. They hold the purse strings. The rising empire always lords it over the fading one. Michael doesn’t think they’ll have the upper hand forever, though. He thinks the East will eventually make the West look like paupers. Hong Kong has a very robust film industry. He’s already looking for an output deal with them. You could help to turn our fortunes around, Shane. We need new blood.’ She laughed. ‘Rather appropriately.’

‘Well, I think I’ve nailed the first part of the script. If I can get the rest right and deliver by Friday, maybe we’ll make a hit and save the company.’

‘Things aren’t quite that desperate yet, but one can see which way the wind is blowing. They don’t know where to go next, you see. I think our films need a bit more oomph. We don’t have much success with our young male leads. Some of them have the right look, but they never really seem to come alive, if you know what I mean.’

‘Did you go to film school?’

‘I did a course at the LFS, but I think I got the job because I could type and I have good legs. Women don’t think of coming into a business like this. They haven’t got the confidence.’

‘Would you help me?’ Shane rose from the bed and looked around for his shirt. ‘Read a few pages back, make sure I’m following the house style.’

‘What’s in it for me?’ A smile touched her lips.

‘If I get the job, I get to stay.’

She pushed at his bare chest, shoving him back onto the bed. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

‘We have all night.’

‘You need your sleep. Besides, I know the landlord here and I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. He puts a lot of our talent up. I have my reputation to think of. Not that I make a habit of this. I’m a nice girl.’ She rose and dressed, pushing her hair back in place. ‘I’ll pick you up at around eight thirty and bring you to the studio. I want you fresh and full of ideas by tomorrow.’

After she had gone, he closed the window to trap her scent in the bedroom, unscrewed the cap from a bottle of Haig whisky and removed the dust cover from the typewriter.

Then he climbed back on board the train.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE CONDUCTOR

T
HEY WERE ON
the move again. Isabella ran back along the corridor, looking for Thomas. He and Miranda had started off toward the guard’s van shortly after their journey had begun, to undertake a mysterious mission that would pay their passage. Only Miranda had re-emerged, chased by some kind of bone-yellow hell-demon, and now she was dead.

Isabella rubbed her forehead, wondering if she was suffering from hallucinations. And yet even as the thought struck her, she felt sure that what she had witnessed was true. The train—they had accepted its invitation to board, and now there was no way off, and no way back.

She reached the door of the guard’s van and opened it. Inside stood a battered, magnificent coffin wrapped in chains, but there was no sign of the little vicar.

There were signs of a fight, though—something violent had happened here; splinters of wood, drag marks to the guard’s van door, which stood wide open. She slid it shut. The creature that had pursued Miranda must have emerged from this.

But if it had come from the coffin, why was the lid now closed, and what was that noise coming from inside? She knelt down beside the casket, placed the flat of her hand on the wood, and listened. It must be Thomas who lay inside. Exhausted by his efforts to escape, he had fallen still, but she could hear him panting for breath. There couldn’t be much air within.

Isabella felt a sting in her hand and looked down to see blood on her palm. A gold crucifix was sticking out of the crack in the lid. She wiped her palm and watched as it moved back and forth. In one last desperate attempt at freedom, Thomas had torn his cross from his neck and had jammed it into the seal of the lid.

Rising, she frantically searched the van for something to use, and spotted the shovel. She raised it high and slammed it into the crack between the two halves of the lid. The shovel blade slid in easily and sank deep, stopping when it encountered flesh. There was a pained yell from inside. Isabella twisted the blade with all her might and felt the wood crack.

Gasping and retching, Thomas burst from the splintered coffin. He clutched at his throat, trying to speak. He was sweating violently and white-faced, his terrified eyes starting from his head.

‘Isabella—the creature—’

‘Calm yourself. There is nothing to be done.’

‘My wife—I saw it all, like some terrible feverish nightmare! I fear I have gone quite mad—the minions of the Devil, stalking the earth, and only a servant of God is privileged to see them!’

‘No, I saw the creature too. Stay here,’ she told him. ‘Get back your breath. I must find Nicholas.’ She could not bear to tell him what had happened.

‘I need to...’ He reached out to her in thanks.

‘No time now. You must rest and restore your strength. Please, I’ll come back shortly. I must go.’

She ran back along the corridor, to where she had last seen Nicholas. She found him slumped in a compartment, holding his head.

‘You saw what was happening to Miranda,’ said Isabella. ‘Why could you not save her? Why could neither of us—’

Nicholas shook his head in puzzlement. ‘I saw it and yet I didn’t, not truly. Did you?’

‘Yes, but it was as if it was somehow happening in a dream—and yet it was all so clear to me. And the other passengers, they all appeared to be in the same state. What is happening to us, Nicholas? The Conductor—he holds the key to this.’ Isabella grabbed his hand and pulled him from his seat.

‘What do you mean?’ Nicholas demanded to know, even as he allowed himself to be pulled along by her.

‘The
Arkangel
is not just a train.’ She peered in at the compartments as they passed. Passengers stared into space or dozed, oblivious to the horrific events that had unfolded outside. ‘Look at them all, you’d think they were dead. They are not of this earthly existence.’ She pointed ahead. ‘Don’t you feel it? We are different to them. We live and breathe, and feel. Look there. I see him at the end of the carriage.’

The lights flickered as the
Arkangel
shook over badly joined rails. Isabella and Nicholas were thrown against the corridor wall, but the Conductor never lost his balance. His straight back was turned to them, his pale hands knotted behind him. He seemed utterly unperturbed by the events of the last few minutes. A terrible thought occurred to her. Perhaps what was taking place now happened on every trip, over and over, and once started, it could not be stopped.

‘We have to speak further with you,’ Isabella demanded. ‘You must tell us what is occurring.’

‘You are just passengers on your journey, as others have been before you, and others will be after.’ The Conductor turned and gave a graveyard stare.

‘Ask him specific questions or all you will get is absurd riddles,’ Nicholas warned.

‘We want to know about the train,’ said Isabella. ‘What is the
Arkangel
?’

‘You have not yet earned the right to that knowledge,’ said the Conductor.

‘You make it sound like some kind of a game. Well, what if we don’t want to play? We can just get off at the next station.’

‘If you do, the game is over and you are lost.’

‘What do you mean we’re lost?’

‘By boarding the
Arkangel
you entered into a contract. If you leave before you are tested, you forfeit your soul. If you fail your test, you are damned for all eternity.’

‘Oh this is madness!’ cried Nicholas. ‘This is the twentieth century, man. Your peasant beliefs hold no more credence. The war has brought about the end of superstition. Men are killed by the machines they have built to destroy one another, not some—’

‘What would happen if we found a way to win?’ asked Isabella.

‘Well, that would change everything.’ The Conductor made it sound as if the idea was unthinkable.

‘You mean that nobody has ever won.’

‘Of course not. How could they?’

‘We’re wasting our time with him,’ Nicholas told her. ‘Come on.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘We’ll simply get off,’ he said, watching the dark countryside flashing past the window.

‘How would that be possible?’ Isabella dropped into the nearest seat, overwhelmed. ‘You heard his terms. If we alight the train before its final destination, we forfeit our souls. We will be damned for all eternity.’

‘Only if you believe in such claptrap.’

‘I do, Nicholas. It is how I was raised.’

‘And for those who have no faith? What happens to them?’

‘Everyone has faith of one kind or another.’

‘In your small world, perhaps. Not in mine. Not with what I’ve seen of man’s ways. In London a man may be damned and have a whale of a time. And you believe all this credulous claptrap.’

‘Tonight you saw a woman pursued by a supernatural being and torn to pieces beneath this train,’ she cried. ‘What more would it take to convince you?’

But even as she spoke, she knew the answer. If Nicholas was to be tested, it would certainly make a believer of him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE MAJOR

B
EHOLD THE
A
rkangel
.

A diabolical machine, thundering through the turbulent night, pistons pumping, steam building pressure, lights a-flicker. The flashing squares capture so many separate tableaux, their silhouetted inhabitants framed and frozen, each telling its own story, of loves and betrayals, lingering hatreds, hard lives and violent deaths. For a moment the carriages are swallowed by dark trees, then they appear again, rocking and racing through the war-torn world.

The train was moving fast once more on its pre-ordained journey. Nicholas continued to watch from the window, annoyed that Isabella should believe he was no longer the master of his own fate.

‘Miranda failed,’ said Isabella miserably. ‘Thomas is in the guard’s van. He nearly died too.’ Nicholas tried to comfort her but was unable to do anything useful. ‘There are just two more stations before we reach the terminus. Which one of us must confront the Devil now? Who will be next?’

Nicholas had had enough. Jumping to his feet, he backed out of the compartment into the corridor. He needed air and rationality.

‘This is the most appalling superstitious nonsense,’ he told her. ‘Nobody is going to be ‘next’!

Suddenly two British soldiers sprang as if from nowhere, knocked him over the head with their pistol butts and dragged him away.

Isabella screamed. The Conductor appeared in the doorway, blocking her exit.‘You cannot help him,’ he said. ‘You of all people should know that he must do this alone.’ He closed her compartment door, and she found herself unable to open it. She hammered on the window, but the inside blind dropped down as if it possessed a will of its own, as if the train itself was once more choosing to act against her.

N
ICHOLAS SLOWLY CAME
round. The train was moving through the night, swaying softly in a dark lullaby. Everything seemed calm and orderly once more. The back of his head hurt. The horror of Miranda’s death... had that really just been a fever dream? If so, where had she gone?

He looked about. Opposite him slumped a portly, balding man with a fat, weak chin and a clipped moustache, sleeping with his mouth open.

Nicholas rubbed his sore head. The man was wearing the drab olive uniform of a British army officer. He checked his epaulette; the fellow was wearing crowns. A Major.

Something was wrong. He felt constrained. The soldiers who had jumped him had chained his left hand to the door handle. Regulation army handcuffs, cheaply finished but strong and unbreakable. The officer opposite grunted, shifted and snored. The carriage rocked. He awoke with a start and looked about.

‘What the deuce—oh, it’s you.’ The Major’s blue eyes flared at him for a moment, then lost interest.

‘Hey,’ said Nicholas, ‘Why am I like this?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the Major. ‘What did you do with your uniform?’

‘What uniform? What happened?’ Nicholas rattled the handcuff.

‘The war may be over for you, Lieutenant, but you’ll address me as Major Carstairs, damn you.’ He tapped Nicholas’ left wrist with his swagger stick, a gesture intended to remind him why he was handcuffed to the handle of the door. ‘You won’t get away this time. We usually shoot men like you. Thought you’d slip back home in civvy clothes, and instead you managed to get the whole town chasing after you. Not too bright, was it?’