Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

  Rachel nodded and wiped her nose. She must look a complete wreck. She shivered and pulled the blanket around her.

  “Do you know which way? I tried through Doctor Ferguson’s office but—”

  “You can’t get out that way. You can’t walk or run out of here. Now listen to me. It is not cold. You are not here.”

  Rachel looked at her blankly. Her teeth were chattering.

  “You need to control this process. You need to escape this delusion. Let go of this.” She waved her arm around to indicate the padded cell and everything beyond it.

  “It’s not real?”

  “It’s real and it’s very dangerous. If you stay here, you really will become part of the mind of a mad man. And you’ll die here when he does.”

  “You said it’s not real. I don’t understand.”

  “You put yourself here. To escape it, you have to believe it’s not real. You can will yourself out of here and back to reality. You’ve done it before.”

  Rachel’s head was swimming again and she found her hope dying. It was all so confusing. She wanted to lie down and sleep. “But I just go back to Kings Heath station every time and I don’t know which is real anymore. I try to stop Deirdre from jumping in front of that train and no matter what I do it always—”

  Kath grabbed her chin and forced her to look into her eyes. “Maybe you should ask yourself not why you keep going to the station to save her. Ask yourself why they’re trying to stop you doing it?”

  “Mr Parker?”

  “And the rest.”

  “They’re figments of my imagination. I really am mad. I belong here.”

  Kath suddenly hugged her. “You do not belong here. You put yourself here. The station is the only way out of here. Now, as soon as you go back there, try to relax, try to think calmly, rise above it all. There’s a very easy way out of there.”

  “I’m so tired.”

  “Then you’ll be back there very soon. And when you are, you have to work out how to escape.”

  “I want my Dad.”

  “Listen to me, Rachel. You have no father anymore. Your grandma too. They’re gone. You tried to create an imaginary perfect world where you could have them back, but it’s a mirage. You can get back to them, but not like this. It’s a dream. The longer you stay here the more dangerous it is. The station is your way back home.”

  “They tried to burn me alive there.”

  Kath hugged her again. “I know. It’s horrible. It’s your own personal nightmare world. But so is this. It’s the next level down. You have to go upwards. The station is the way out. And Deirdre is the key. You have to help her. Can you try?”

  Rachel nodded but she didn’t believe it.

  “It’s hard for me to help you, Rachel, because I can’t really teach you anything. I’ve suspected for a long time that you’re more powerful than any of us. I think Mrs Hudson is beginning to see it now. You have skills we’ve never seen before. You can create entire worlds with a thought. Do you understand how awesome that is? You just have to learn to control it. I can’t help you do that. It’s up to you now.”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  “Good girl.”

  Kath motioned her to lie back down. She kneeled and held Rachel’s head and stroked her hair. “You go to sleep now. I won’t leave till you’re there. Remember what I said.”

  Rachel mumbled agreement and enjoyed the comforting sensation of her head being stroked. She was sucked into blackness in moments.

  — 28 —

  WHEN SHE OPENED HER eyes to the platform, it was just as it had always been before: a lonely, foggy neighbourhood station at night. But she wasn’t in her asylum smock, she was wearing a 1950s tweed suit she’d seen Olive wearing in old photos, stockings, court shoes, white silk blouse with sailor collar and pillbox hat. I made this, she thought. I created this with my thoughts. I can do anything.

  She looked up and down the platform. A train was pulling out. The train on which she’d arrived that time. In a few minutes, Deirdre Foster would walk onto the platform and enter the café to order her last drink before throwing herself under the nuclear train.

  As the train hissed away into the distance the sound of a man whistling rose in the air. Parker was up the platform, waiting for her, determined to stop her and make sure that Deirdre died.

  The fog swirled. It seemed angrier than the previous times, as if it were aware of her intention to put a stop to all of this, as if it sensed her threat. For just a moment she saw the grey blur of Sergeant Webster strolling up and down the opposite platform, waiting for someone to put a light on. The footbridge was a dim arch suspended in the air. Another man up there, leaning on the rail, a cigarette glowing. Bernie Powell.

  All three of them would try to stop her, she knew. What did she have on her side? Only a notion that she might have somehow created all of this and might be able to control it. She had no idea how, though.

  She entered the rest room and closed the door behind her.

  Renee was at the counter, polishing a cup, just as always. “Good evening, madam,” she said.

  Renee had a different voice this time, like she was impersonating the Queen. Because I’m dressed like a woman, because I look posh.

  Rachel sashayed over to the counter in the manner of middle-class women she’d seen in black-and-white films. They walked into a café like this as if they owned it and personally employed the old dear behind the counter. She needed Renee to help her and if she acted like she was a barrister’s wife it might just work.

  “Hello there, Renee. Could I have a brandy, please? Dreadfully cold night.”

  “Certainly, madam.”

  She could see Renee frowning, wondering where she’d met this woman before — it was always the first time for Renee.

  “Better make that two brandies. I have a friend coming right through that door in about...” She looked at the clock. “Thirty seconds.”

  Renee forgot she didn’t know this woman at all and poured two shots from the Coronet bottle, uncorking the bottle with a pleasant pop.

  Rachel took out her purse and paid Renee with a reassuringly large banknote, collected her change without looking at it and turned with the two glasses of brandy as the door creaked open.

  Deirdre Foster walked through. She had a glow in her eyes and a half smile on her lips, like she was trying to stop herself laughing out loud at a fond memory, wrapped in an orange check peacoat, but still shivering.

  Rachel stepped towards her.

  “Hello, Deirdre. I’ve got your brandy. Come and sit here with me.”

  Deirdre froze, shocked. If you disrupt their script, they don’t quite know what to do. Rachel sat over by the window, with authority.

  “It was a brandy you wanted, wasn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

  Deirdre sat opposite, as if in a trance. Rachel pushed the brandy across the table, the glass scraping on sugar granules.

  “Dutch courage,” said Rachel, more softly so that Renee wouldn’t hear. “Before you throw yourself in front of the nuclear waste train.”

  Deirdre stared bug-eyed now, a thousand questions rushing to her throat and tripping each other up. A single syllable escaped:

  “H—”

  Which might have been an attempt to say the word”How?” but Rachel ignored it.

  “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

  Deirdre put the glass to her lips and sipped. Too much. She coughed, choked, wiped her mouth. Those eyes, too bright, staring again.

  Rachel was all business now. She’d turned into a glamorous cold war spy grilling an innocent patsy. This is what you’re going to do for me and if you don’t I’ll take out this pistol and shoot you right here, darling.

  “Don’t ask me how I know,” she said. “I just do. You’ve come to throw yourself in front of that nuclear train as a protest, but there are three very dangerous men outside on that platform who are going to stop you.”

  Panic in Deirdre’s eyes now. “Wha
t men? Police?”

  “One of them, yes. He’s harmless. The other two are much more powerful.”

  She let it linger, knowing Deirdre would think they were MI5, determined to stop an anti-nuclear protest.

  “They’re going to kill you before you throw yourself in front of that train.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Well you are, aren’t you?”

  Deirdre looked ashamed suddenly.

  “It won’t change anything,” Rachel continued. “You can only change things by being alive to make a difference. Your being alive will make a hell of a difference.”

  “How?” Sarcasm now. Bitterness.

  “Trust me, Deirdre. I know.”

  She was lying. She knew now that those men out there wanted Deirdre under that train. She didn’t know why. But they’d tried to stop Rachel from stopping Deirdre repeatedly. All she knew was if she stopped Deirdre, it might end this nightmare.

  “I don’t understand this at all.”

  “Take another drink.”

  Deirdre obeyed.

  This was proving to be much easier than she thought. The next thing was to get Renee onside.

  “Now trust me, Deirdre, those men outside are ruthless, vicious killers, and they’re going to kill you before you throw yourself under that train. No one will know about it. You won’t ever be a martyr. You will be killed messily and disposed of and it will all be for nothing.”

  Deirdre drained her glass. “Who are you?”

  Rachel knocked back her brandy in one. It stung her throat like a liquidgold flame. “I’m the girl who’s going to save your life.”

  She stood up, knocking the chair back, lifted it in one hand, took it to the door and wedged it under the handle.

  “What on earth are you doing?” called Renee.

  Rachel didn’t have a police badge to flash but the way she turned and addressed Renee with her cut-glass accent and gaze of total authority, it was as if she’d flashed one anyway. “This woman here is in grave danger. There are three men outside who intend to kill her and we need to stop them.”

  Renee dropped the cup she was polishing. It shattered china around her shoes. “What the bloody hell?”

  The door handle turned. Rachel slammed the top deadbolt across. Someone shoved at the door. She slammed the bottom deadbolt.

  “Throw me the key!”

  “You can’t lock that door.”

  “Do it! Now!”

  Renee threw the key across the room with a whimper.

  Someone shoved the door again. Rachel caught the key, slid it into the lock and turned it. Someone kicked at the door.

  “Let me in! Whore! Abomination!”

  Rachel saw the horror in Deirdre and Renee’s faces. They believed her now.

  Mack the Knife, which had been playing on the radio, suddenly cut out and Doctor Ferguson’s voice crackled from the set.

  The patient seems very confused at times — inclined to be irritable. He seems to get more confused every day. Has an exalted sense of his own well-being.

  Rachel looked from Deirdre to Renee. Had they heard it? They showed no confusion. She decided to keep it to herself. The last thing she needed was to give them reason to think she was mad.

  The window shattered as Parker’s cane came through it, covering Deirdre in glass. Renee yelped. Rachel rushed over and slammed the wooden shutters, throwing the catch across.

  “Oh my Lord,” cried Renee. “What are we going to do?”

  Rachel yanked Deirdre away from the window and shoved her towards Renee’s arms.

  “We’re going to fight them.”

  — 29 —

  THE GLASS CONTINUED to smash behind the shutters. Parker was hacking at it with his cane just like he’d pushed at the station master’s door: again and again and again with no purpose, locked in a repetitive spasm. Someone else was banging at the door now. It must be Bernie Powell.

  “There’s another one!” cried Renee. She went for the phone and dialled. “Hello? Operator? Please help. This is Kings Heath—” Renee’s mouth fell open.

  Rachel could hear the flatline from across the room.

  “The line’s dead,” said Renee.

  “They’ve cut it,” said Rachel.

  Rachel was behind the counter now, opening drawers, scattering cutlery.

  Renee just stared, the receiver still in her hand. “What’ll we do?”

  “Do we have any weapons?”

  “Weapons?”

  “We need something, Renee, or we’re done for.”

  Renee pointed.

  Rachel pulled out a cake knife. “It’s something, I suppose.”

  She looked at Deirdre, who was hugging her belly now and had a faraway look.

  Her daughter is in there. My mother. She must survive or there is no me.

  Rachel walked over to her and handed her the knife. “Here. If any of them come near you, just slash at them.”

  Rachel froze, sniffing the air.

  Deirdre pointed at a dark pool of liquid creeping under the door. The stench of petrol.

  “Renee. Is there a back door?”

  Renee shook her head, unable to take her eyes off the stain creeping across her floor.

  “Renee? Are you sure?”

  “There’s a window. In the storeroom. It’s very small.”

  Rachel snatched Deirdre’s arm and pulled her through to the storeroom, a tiny cubicle lined with wooden shelves stocked with tins. The window was tiny but they might squeeze through it. Renee brought a wooden chair in and Rachel stepped up and shoved the window open.

  “I’m going through first. Then you hand me the knife. Then you follow me, okay?”

  Deirdre nodded.

  Renee shook her head. “I’ll never get through that.”

  Rachel sighed. It didn’t really matter. They weren’t interested in Renee.

  “Okay. Renee. Here’s what you do. They’re only after Deirdre here. We’re going to make a run for it over the footbridge and out the other side. As soon as we’re out of the window, go to the front door and open it. You’ll be safe, I promise.”

  Renee nodded. Neither of them wanted to raise the matter of whether the door would be in flames by then.

  Rachel threw off her tweed jacket and climbed through the window. Her legs scraped on the catch as she fell down into a narrow alley between the café and the next hut. She took the knife and examined the bright red scar all up her leg and the laddered stockings as Deirdre clambered through. She caught her as she fell. Had they heard them?

  Parker was still hammering at the glass. Bernie Powell was kicking at the door again.

  She held Deirdre’s hand tight. “Are you ready?”

  Deirdre nodded.

  “Then let’s go.”

  She bolted out of the alley and onto the foggy platform, straight into Sergeant Webster.

  — 30 —

  IT WAS LIKE FALLING into a tub of burnt pork. She gagged, almost threw up, staggered back and looked into his burnt face. His hands held her tightly. Fat charcoal fingers, smoking. The putrid reek of scorched, rotten meat coming off him. She was frozen for a moment that felt like eternity, staring at the obscene blister of his face, burnt black scarlet, his eyeballs boiling in their sockets.

  This is how he died, she thought. This is what it’s like to be burned alive.

  His eyeballs bulged further and one popped out and ran down his cindered cheek like a melting egg. He let her go and stumbled back into the fog, his black fingers clawing air, a cake knife stuck in his neck.

  Deirdre stared in horror at what Rachel had done. Somewhere in her mind, Rachel thought, she’s trying to work out why a policeman trying to stop a CND protestor is burning alive. There was no answer to the question. None that Deirdre would ever work out.

  She grabbed her and ran through fog. They heard Sergeant Webster’s burning ghost fall behind them, his black mouth squealing.

  The bridge must be up ahead, she thought. And
then for a terrifying moment thought she might have got it wrong and was running up the platform towards Parker and Powell.

  No, the outline of the footbridge ahead, a ghost bridge in the mist. Behind them, they could hear nothing but Sergeant Webster’s scream. And that meant that Powell and Parker had stopped attacking the rest room and would be following.

  Their shoes skittered on the ice as they flew up the wooden steps. Deirdre fell, yelped like a kicked dog, her knees slamming onto the icy steps. Rachel dragged her up the last few steps and yanked her to her feet.

  She could hear Powell running up towards her. His shadow bouncing up through the mist. Something glinted in his hand. A razor.

  You are not real. You are just a ghost I brought here, she told herself.

  It didn’t work. He still came at her and the razor looked real.

  Deirdre pulled at her. “Come on. Run!”

  But Rachel stayed rooted and, as Powell soared up the slippery steps, she took a run at him and kicked him in the face. His jaw cracked as he flew back, floating through the air, and clattered down the steps, hitting Parker who was limping after him. They landed in a bruised pile at the foot of the steps.

  She almost laughed. They had time now. They’d never catch them. Deirdre had run on. She could hear her scrambling down the steps to the opposite platform. She ran after her, trying not to slip on the ice, trying not to puke from the stench of Sergeant Webster’s burning face, which she could still taste in her mouth and nose.

  She went carefully down the steps and heard Deirdre cry out ahead. Had she fallen? She ran through fog, past the stationmaster’s hut, which was a pile of burnt planks. The bright orange of Deirdre’s coat loomed like a beacon up ahead. She ran towards it and then skidded to a halt, nearly slipping.

  Deirdre was being held by a man.

  The man was Danny.

  The blood drained from Rachel’s entire body in an instant. She felt light, woozy. There was no escape.

  I will not wake up back in that padded cell. I will not let this happen.

  Her knees buckled.