Deadly Encounters

by Wycherley, Jeannie

  She cooed as I slackened my grip. I was dimly aware that I was going to miss yet another train to Exeter but I couldn’t leave her at the bottom of the steps, not with the crush of people advancing on us.

  “Let me help you to the top of the stairs,” I said, perhaps hoping that she would protest that I had done enough or something similar, but she didn’t. She merely held her basket out to me. I took it—along with her plastic bags—while she tucked her arm through mine and with her free hand held on to the railing as we climbed the steps slowly, slowly, until we were back out in the early evening sunshine.

  Once we were at the top I handed the basket over. “Will you be ok now?” I asked.

  She offered a half smile. It was all I could do not to look away in disgust. Her teeth were black and yellow, her lips dry and cracked. She flicked her tongue over her lips and for a fleeting moment I saw an unusually pointed tongue, crusted a thick, furry green.

  Startled, I blinked.

  When I looked again, she’d closed her mouth.

  She rummaged in the basket among the packages, weighing each one in her hand and considering it. She settled on one which she handed to me.

  I started to protest but she dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “You’re kind,” she croaked. “It’s important to be kind.” Before I could respond she had spun around and walked quickly away. She was suddenly incredibly agile for an old woman who had fallen down the stairs. I watched her go, puzzled, and then, tucking the package into my bag with one hand while fiddling with my pants and tights with the other, I raced for my train.

  ***

  By some miracle I made it. The train was slightly delayed and the gates were closing as I shot through them. I threw myself through the first set of doors and heard the imperious whistle from the guard. The train lurched, and we were off. My heart hammered with exertion, my breath ragged and uneven.

  The train was crammed. There were students sitting on their rucksacks outside the toilets. Looking into the carriages I could see men in business suits with their newspapers and iPads, neat young women with their Kindles and mobile phones, and a variety of Asian tourists with maps and bags of food.

  As the train left the station I urged one of the students to move, and popped into the loo. It was such a relief to be able to pull my damn tights down and release my bladder. I thanked the gods heartily for smelly train toilet cubicles.

  Done, I tidied myself up. I was a revolting combination of sweaty and dusty. My hair was beyond redemption and my face an unappealing shade of salmon pink, but finally, collected enough to pass muster with the general public, I exited the cubicle and stepped over the students once more to begin the hunt for a seat as the train picked up speed and rocked a little over the rails.

  With difficulty, I fought through a number of carriages, each equally as packed as the one before it. I was beginning to give up hope and resign myself to standing, at least as far as Reading, when something blew across my field of vision. A feather fluttered down from the overhead baggage store. I watched it settle on my right shoulder. It was bright yellow. I brushed it off, and it flew gracefully through the air and landed on a vacant window seat. I’d assumed the seat was taken because it was covered by a bag and a coat.

  Smiling as pleasantly as I could I leaned down to the gentleman in the aisle seat. “Is that one taken?”

  The slightly overweight chap—dressed in the requisite business suit with tie at half-mast and clutching a can of cheap lager, signalling the weekend was indeed upon us— looked up at me and grunted. I widened my smile further, resisting the urge to sarcastically enquire whether his bag had paid for its seat. After an eternity he stood up and stowed his belongings overhead. I slid in and settled next to the window.

  Finally, I could relax.

  I let my mind wander freely. The outskirts of London passed smoothly by. I was entranced by the large Victorian buildings and imagined the landscape hadn’t changed much over the past century. What ghosts inhabited the old buildings and churches? What stories could the old factories tell? I fell into a reverie for a while, lulled by the gentle movement of the train, the warmth of the day, and my own tiredness.

  The buffet cart rattled into the carriage, jerking me back to consciousness. “Anything from the bar for you? Cold drinks? Snacks?” chimed a voice.

  I riffled through my handbag to locate my purse, but found the package the old woman had given me instead. Wrapped neatly in white paper, it was about the size of a pair of socks and probably weighed the same.

  “Anything from the bar for you?” The young woman was addressing the man sat next to me now. I hastily returned the package to my bag, found my purse, and ordered a double gin and tonic and a bottle of water. I downed the water in one and then started on the gin and tonic. With no delays we could expect to arrive into Exeter at around eight-ish. Alleluia.

  I settled back again, nonchalantly scanning my fellow travellers. The guy opposite was an older man. He looked distinguished, clean-cut and handsome, but his white shirt had a brown stain above the nipple which I found rather disconcerting.

  With a flash of recognition, I realised that the man next to him was my adversary from the Paddington entrance. He was the one who had knocked the woman down the steps. I stared at him. For all his rushing, where had it got him? He was still on the same train as me. He was young, early twenties, but his suit suggested he was paid well and thought he was going places. I glowered at him. He turned to look at me quizzically. I gave him my best hard glare and pointedly turned to look out of the window, well aware of how ridiculously passive aggressive I was being. I didn’t give a flying fart.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later it was beginning to get dark and I needed to pee again. The G and T had worked its way through nicely.

  Magic.

  I excused myself to my chunky seat mate, who took it as a personal affront that I had to make him move once more, and headed for the toilet.

  As I washed my hands, I peered in the mirror. I looked tired. It had been a long day. I leaned closer to better examine the wrinkles around my eyes.

  The lights went off.

  My breath caught in my throat in surprise. I automatically put my hands out to steady myself, laying them flat against the wall in front of me, but it was so dark I could hardly see them at all. My face was still just inches from the mirror.

  Shadows crossed in front of me. I looked for my reflection. Curious eyes narrowed in a frown. Were they mine? I peered into the blackness, saw a tiny speck of light... no, two little pins of light... coming closer, getting larger. I leaned in, and suddenly a face leapt out of the mirror at me. It was human of sorts. Its eyes were a murky mustard yellow, its nose a snout above lips that rolled back, and teeth that snapped and snarled at me.

  I shrieked and shot backwards, colliding with the locked door behind me and banging my elbow hard. My feet started to slip on the floor and I stared up at the mirror in fear. The shadows there swirled like a green and golden mist. I recoiled in horror as a hand stretched out towards me, illuminated by a light not of this world. The nails were long and curled; the fingers grimy with muck.

  The lock of the door stabbed me in the back. I turned and scrabbled with it. For a moment, in my panic, I couldn’t make it work. Sharp nails scratched the fabric of my shirt. Whimpering, I finally managed to slide the lock, fling open the door, and leap into the vestibule.

  The train’s lights flickered on.

  I stood alone in the corridor, my elbow throbbing. The open door of the toilet swung gently in time with the rhythm of the rocking train. I could see my reflection in the mirror, standing open mouthed and pale. The circles beneath my eyes deeper and darker than before.

  I took a tentative step forward, inched my way back into the toilet cubicle, and reached out. The glass was cold and hard. My fingertips left smudges. The mirror was a mirror.

  Nothing else.

  I laughed nervously. What a bloody idiot!

  I returned
shakily to my seat. It may have been my imagination, but the carriage seemed quieter than before. I smiled at Mr Chunky and squeezed back into my seat. The distinguished chap with the stained shirt who had been sitting opposite me had disappeared, probably to the bar, I decided.

  I willed my heart rate to slow down and stared out of the window at the dusk beyond. I wasn’t really seeing anything, just concentrating on bringing my breathing under control, but a flickering in the window caught my eye. Someone in the seats on the opposite side of the carriage was standing up. I realised I could see a great deal of the carriage reflected in the window. What a great way to people-watch.

  The train headed into a tunnel. The lights in the carriage dimmed, brightened, and then went out again. Someone, somewhere, giggled. Mr Chunky, sitting next to me, swore under his breath. I shifted uneasily in my seat, looking towards the door at the end of the carriage, thinking of the mirror in the toilet. For a moment I could see nothing in the dark, but then, beyond the glass I saw a swirling green mist filling the vestibule like a revolting dry ice. Distinctly lit, it rose from the floor and climbed the walls. I watched as insidious fingers with long muck-encrusted nails curled around the doors, pulling them open. The noxious and poisonous mist spilled into the carriage. People around me coughed and retched.

  I sat up straight, alarmed, ready to clamber over Mr Chunky in my efforts to get away from the mist.

  The train rushed out of the tunnel with a roar and the lights blinked on again.

  My adversary, sitting diagonally to me, was smirking. He had obviously smelt my fear in the dark. I scowled at him again and threw myself back in my seat. I had a lot of room. Mr Chunky had disappeared.

  Nonplussed I glanced around. The carriage was half empty. How could it be this empty? We hadn’t even made it as far as Reading yet. I looked at my watch. We should have passed Reading. Forty minutes from London. I’d been on the train longer than that.

  Bewildered, I turned to look out of the window at the passing scenery. Generic but beautiful. British fields and rivers, farms and hamlets. Peaceful, green, and homely. Gorgeously rural. Not unusual enough for me to recall from previous journeys. My stomach churned. Was I on the wrong train?

  No, no, I wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t. What the hell was going on?

  I badly wanted to ask him Mr Smug if he had noticed anything odd, or find out where the next stop was, but his curt arrogance, his holier-than-thou attitude, and the image of the old woman falling, falling down the steps at the station prevented me from opening my mouth. I was struck mute in the face of his overwhelming selfishness.

  I perched on my seat, my back rigid, my breathing shallow.

  My life remained on pause for less than five minutes. With a whooshing sound like an enormous monster breathing in, the train entered another tunnel and the lights went out again. I hooked my fingers claw-like into the arms of the seat and stared once more at the door to the vestibule.

  The mist rolled in again, thick and green. Tendrils slunk down the aisle, curled around seat legs, reached up at the shadows occupying those seats. Once again I heard coughing and wheezing. A whimper was abruptly silenced.

  This time when the train hurried free of the tunnel and the lights blinked on, I could hardly bear to look up. There were maybe six people left sitting in the carriage.

  “Sarah?” I heard a woman call. “Sarah?”

  “What the hell?” Finally, Mr Smug was waking up to the fact that something was seriously wrong with this Penzance express. He moved into the aisle to take in his surroundings.

  “Where is everyone?”

  I started to reply when the train viciously slammed on its brakes.

  A woman behind me screamed as we were all flung forwards. Mr Smug was catapulted down the aisle, landing on his backside by the glass door. I was thrown forwards in my chair, my stomach colliding painfully with the table. The train was screaming as the wheels tried to get purchase on the track. Metal ground against metal. The noise filled my head, pulsated through my body, and rang deafeningly in my ears. Then I was thrown backwards as the train finally ground to a halt.

  There was silence in the carriage. The few of us left were completely stunned.

  I could feel the vibration of the idling engine beneath my feet. Elsewhere there was only silence. Mr Smug clambered to his feet. His face was bleeding. It might have been his chin or his mouth, I couldn’t tell.

  Three or four voices were babbling behind me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I stood so that I could join in the general confusion and feel part of it. Safety in numbers. There were three women and two men in the carriage in addition to me and Mr Smug. I began to ask whether everyone was all right, really just to have something to say, when the lights flicked off again.

  Someone screamed. I assumed it was the same woman as before. There always has to be a screamer. Someone else moaned.

  I remained still. Something brushed against me, something dry and dusty, a long-dead corpse. I shuddered. For a moment the air was fetid, the stench of rotten meat and spoilt milk was overpowering. I gagged and turned my head away, inching away from that putrid stink. I heard a moan come again and then stop. Seconds later the lights were back on, the train was still idling, and I was alone in the carriage with Mr Smug.

  In desperation I stumbled into the aisle looking for the others but there was no sign. Luggage nestled in the baggage racks, Kindles and tablets lay on tables and seats—blinking at the ceiling. Handbags had been left un-minded, while newspapers were strewn on tables and abandoned unread. Drinks and sandwiches, mobile phones, and all manner of paraphernalia were strewn across the floor. I hurriedly picked my way through the detritus to the exit at the far end of the carriage and ran across the vestibule to the next carriage. That carriage was empty of people but also full of belongings.

  I had an urge to walk the length of the train, but I knew I would find the same thing in every carriage. And if I went to the driver’s pod, what then? Would that be empty too? Is that why the train had stopped?

  “They can’t just have disappeared!” came a voice behind me, loud in my ear. I jumped a mile.

  “Jesus! Do you flaming mind? You scared the crap out of me!”

  “Touchy, touchy,” he muttered. He picked his way back into our carriage, and I followed him. The electric door slid shut behind me with a clank and a hiss.

  Then it clicked.

  I stopped walking and turned back. It had clicked. I examined the door from a distance. The click had sounded like a lock. There was no obvious evidence that there was a lock on the door. Surely these days the damn things were electronic and controlled by sensors and stuff. Something hi-tech that I didn’t understand. I stepped closer to the door. It didn’t reopen. I waved at the sensor. Nothing. This door was not going to open.

  I ran down the carriage, kicking mobiles and bottles of drink out of my way as I went. Mr Smug cowered away from me as I approached him, perhaps assuming I was going to attack him, but I pushed past him and reached for the door at the opposite end of the carriage. The one I had been using to visit the toilet.

  The door opened with a shush as I approached and I slowed, relieved. But just as I reached it, it closed with an angry hiss and again I heard the tell-tale click of a lock.

  It was hopeless. My shoulders slumped. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening, and I didn’t know what to do.

  This time when Mr Smug approached me, he cleared his throat. “Both of the doors are locked,” I told him. My voice sounded strangely matter of fact.

  “They’re on sensors,” he said, master of the completely bloody obvious. “Here. Mind out.”

  I stepped out of his way and observed as he stepped towards and away from the door, dancing on the spot and waving at the sensors. Eventually he resorted to brute force by heaving on the door handle, before hammering on the glass with his fists. The doors did not budge.

  “The sensors must have failed. The train has failed. That’s why the lights keep g
oing off. That’s why we’ve stopped.”

  “And that’s why everyone else has disappeared, is it?” I asked shortly.

  He picked up a small rucksack from the table next to him and then put it down again, his face draining of colour.

  “They all got off.”

  “No. They didn’t. We haven’t stopped anywhere. No-one who joined the train at Paddington has gotten off. Not at a station at any rate.”

  We studied each other in silence. He looked young now, a small boy, and less the arrogant business graduate or whatever he happened to be.

  The lights went out. Flickered on again. Simultaneously, we glanced nervily at the ceiling. I swallowed, my throat dry. The lights were dimming as though the power was draining out of them. We were running out of time.

  Behind him, through the glass door I could see the green mist running across the floor, an unholy fog dashing around; tentacles exploring the corners, rivulets chasing after themselves, until they hit an obstacle of some kind—a wall, a door, a rucksack—but they were quick to adapt, to work out that they could climb. Searching for freedom? Searching for victims? Searching for a way to get at us?

  What was happening and why had we been saved until last? The fetid mist had rolled past both of us several times. There must have been a reason for that. Was it because we had been sitting centrally in the carriage? Maybe, but the other travellers, including the distinguished gentleman, had been among the first to go.

  As I stared at the roiling mist I spotted a heap on the floor. Perhaps someone had dropped their coat. The lighting was weaker, and the shadows growing longer, making it increasingly difficult to see, but I realised I could see the heap of clothes swelling. A small flash of bright yellow among it was growing larger. The mist tumbled and swirled and the heap became a lump, twisting and bubbling among the swirls. The lump grew and grew, the flash of yellow widened. I realised I was watching the unfurling of a body. A small woman with a dark grey coat and a canary yellow scarf.