The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 20

by Stephen Jones (ed. )

  A couple of young guys in grey hoods and leather jackets came in, regular customers. They looked bored and vaguely angry. As they ordered beers at the bar they kept looking across at Danuta, and were clearly talking about her.

  “Do you have a history with these guys?” asked Josh.

  “No,” said Danuta vehemently. “They go to the same church as my parents.”

  The boys kept looking. When Idzi was called over to share their drinks, a rift formed in the company. Small towns were the same the world over; everyone knew each other, outsiders were to be pitied or envied in equal measure.

  Idzi asked Danuta to come over and join his pals. He was polite enough, seeking his guests’ permission to take her away, but as she rose Nick felt something bad. “She’s Catholic,” he reminded Josh. “She’s clearly torn up about the idea of leaving her home and family behind. Would you do that for her? Just don’t screw around with her when we get back to London.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Josh was excited about having such a breathtaking girl hanging around with him, but he wasn’t going to stay faithful for long. He liked Nick, he was someone whose advice you’d listen to. He was earnest and corruptible.

  “She wants to get out of here, Nick.”

  “She seems conflicted.”

  “I’m not dragging her away. She’s old enough to look after herself.”

  “You’re not just going to dump her on the street if you break up with her.”

  “Let’s drop it.”

  They drank too much. Another bottle of vodka was opened, and that was soon reduced to empty glasses and a few sticky rings on the table. Idzi and Danuta came back to join them with a fresh bottle, a local brand without a label, possibly homemade. That was when the trouble kicked off.

  Idzi and Danuta had been arguing in their own language, and it was obvious that the barman thought his former girlfriend was making a big mistake.

  “Hey, she can make up her own mind,” Josh interrupted.

  “I know what I am doing,” Danuta agreed. “I am not a child.”

  “You went to London and he seduced you,” accused Idzi. “You broke your vows.”

  “Oh Idzi, don’t be such a child—” They lost the rest of her reply as she switched into Polish.

  Idzi started to shout. The change in him was sudden and frightening. Danuta was too good for them, they were fucking English pigs who should stay away from good Catholic girls, they should forget they ever met her and go back to their own country, where everyone knew the girls were all whores.

  Josh pushed back from the table as Nick and Danuta attempted to keep him down. Idzi’s pals looked as if they’d been waiting for this moment, and came over to join in. When Josh threw his shot-glass on the floor and tried to land a punch on Idzi he found himself pinned down by the others, who slammed him back against the food counter. He kicked out at them, but one of Idzi’s friends picked up the grill’s steel carving fork and swung it over Josh’s face like a pendulum.

  The Europop disc jammed on a particularly inane phrase. It took Nick a moment to work out what was happening. He suddenly imagined Josh stuck like a moth on a pin, pierced through the cheek as one of the fork’s tines held him in place on the counter’s oak carving board. The boys were feinting at each other, jabbing and dancing back to a safe distance, but somehow the fork connected and raised a single crimson tear just below Josh’s eye.

  As Josh threw himself at the others, Nick pushed Idzi out of the way and snatched the fork back before any more damage could be done. Danuta screamed “Stój!”, and Nick was finally able to pull Josh aside.

  The trio followed them, tumbling out of the club, with Nick and Danuta pulling at Josh. The wound on his face was mean but not serious. Idzi was throwing out a good line in nationalistic slurs, but the worst seemed to be over. At least the police hadn’t been called.

  Idzi must have landed one insult too many, because suddenly Josh slipped from their hands and ran back, kneeing the barman in the groin, kicking at his head as he went down. Nick forced Danuta to stay where she was, but by the time he got there things were serious. Josh kicked hard at Idzi’s face, the alcohol instantly drawing blood to his flesh. Nick tried to haul him back, but could not stop the blows from hammering down. He heard the sound of Idzi’s head repeatedly cracking against the foot of the railings, and it made him feel sick because he knew that the boy was being killed.

  When Josh stopped, it was as if he suddenly realized what he was doing. Swaying from side to side, he seemed barely able to stand. He stared down blankly at the writhing body on the pavement. Nick examined Idzi’s face. Under the blue neon his blood was black as spilled oil. He was still conscious, moaning softly. Nick realized there was a good chance that his skull had been damaged.

  Danuta pulled at the pair of them, repeating “You have to go,” over and over again. Idzi’s pals had run off, but she felt sure they would soon return with others.

  The hotel was silent and asleep. They had not unpacked their bags, so it was easy to leave. Idzi knew where the visitors were staying – there wasn’t anywhere else in town. His friends would quickly figure it out. As soon as Danuta said she would settle up with the manager, Nick knew that she wasn’t planning to come back with them.

  “It’s the only way,” she said. “They’ll see that I’m still here and will realize they beat you. That’s all they want.”

  Danuta kissed Nick and gave Josh the briefest of hugs; she could not bring herself to do more. She watched them go, but Josh did not look back. There was no chance of finding a taxi – they had picked up the incoming one at the airport – but the train station was less than a mile away, so they set off on foot.

  Heading along streets that sloped away to open parkland, they passed the biggest cemetery they had ever seen, hundreds of identical bone-white headstones stretching away to the tree-line. They tried to keep moving along the shifting edge of the shadows, but the moon was bright enough to reveal them. Nick was convinced that they were going to be jumped and dragged back into the dark reaches of the undergrowth.

  They were making a run for it across the clear green space of the park when the others came back, six or seven of them pounding at the ground with planks and iron rods, yelling and wheeling from beneath the trees. Nick could see that the only chance they had of outrunning the gang was to ditch their cumbersome travel bags. It meant losing his new iPod, but that was a small price to pay for not being kicked to death. He shouted at Josh and they threw their cases onto the grass, hoping their pursuers would stop to gather the spoils. Pelting towards the shuttered cafeteria that stood on the far side of the park, they ran into the alley behind and found that it connected through the backs of houses on the main street. By keeping to the pathway they were able to stay shielded in darkness. Nick could hear Josh gasping raggedly beside him. His chest burned with the effort of drawing breath, but he kept up the pace until he could be sure that they had not been followed.

  The squat, featureless whitewashed station stood at the end of a straight lane of pollarded trees, and was entirely in darkness. It was around 3:00 am, and according to the notice board the first train out was not due for six hours. They could only hope Idzi’s pals would not bother heading for the station once they realized that Danuta had elected to stay behind.

  Nick and Josh walked the length of the platform and saw that the waiting room was open. It was dry and clean, and smelled of coal dust. There were wooden benches to sleep on. The authorities were clearly more trusting in Poland – in London, Josh said, the room would have been filled with rough-sleepers and junkies.

  They were stone-sharp and sober now. “Keep near the door,” Nick told him. “We have to be able to get out fast if they turn up.”

  Josh’s face was still weeping blood. His right eye was sore and darkly crusted. Nick had a fierce headache, but he had left the aspirins behind in his overnight bag. He knew they could probably pay to jump an earlier flight, but they still had to reach the
airport in one piece. After a few minutes their breathing returned to normal and they settled down on the benches, sinking low beneath the waiting room window, out of sight.

  Nick pulled his coat tight. The sky was as glossy as black leather, studded with stars to the tops of the trees. There were no friendly lights to be found in the landscape. Nothing but the barren ice-chill of a country night.

  A few minutes later he was disturbed by a faint noise. Twisting his neck, he looked up at the window. The planets above had all but vanished. Clouds were blotting them out.

  He heard the noise again, an uneven tinging sound like ice splitting under a frozen lake. As he listened it evolved and grew, a steady clink like keys swinging from a chain, a rattle backed by the hiss of compressed air. His muscles had frozen on the hard bench, but he swung down his legs and forced himself outside.

  The wind was rising, blasting bitter gusts along the platform. He saw two things: at one end of the canopy, the zigzag of electric torches backed by dark human shapes, moving quickly toward them. At the other end, the distant black bulk of an engine riding the silvered track. Jets of vapour appeared above it.

  “Get up,” he hissed at Josh, “I think there’s a train.”

  “It’s not due for hours.”

  “You’d better hope there is one, ’cause I think they’ve found us.”

  Josh stumbled out onto the platform and looked along the line. “It has to be a goods train, it won’t stop, otherwise it would have been on the timetable.”

  Nick could clearly discern the outlines of several men now. They were silently running across the coal-black shale between the tracks, heading for the station stairs. He looked back at the train, a wavering shape that announced its arrival through the singing steel below the platform. Squares of yellow light bounced over the scrubland beside the line. “It’s a passenger train,” he confirmed.

  The maiden voyage of the Arkangel set the pattern for trips to come. The directors occupied the front carriage. Their respected guests spread through the second and third. As the train chuntered amiably through Wolsztyn, the parents pointed it out to their children; this was where the carriages had been so expertly crafted. Sandwiches were consumed as the train plunged on through dense forest. Conversation became more sporadic. The fathers fell quiet while their wives tended to the children. It was only when the conductor passed through the car with two officers at his back that the mood changed to uncertainty.

  The rhythm of the wheels beat further apart. The train was slowing. As the engine passed trailing clouds of steam, Nick registered the elaborate brass plate fixed below the driver’s door: ARKANGEL. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the men were already on the platform. He could hear them shouting. They would attack long before the train could be boarded.

  As the two events converged, one overtook the other. The men were less than thirty metres away. The train was not slowing fast enough. Its brakes squealed, but the windows continued to flash past. Nick watched in helpless panic.

  Suddenly the group stopped running. They came no closer.

  The end-of-carriage door appeared beside Josh. It had an old-fashioned brass handle, not the electric kind controlled by the driver, and they were able to haul themselves inside. Idzi’s gang stood motionless, staring at them in bewilderment.

  The Arkangel had barely come to a halt before it began to draw out of the station once more. Beyond the far end of the platform was a level crossing. Perhaps it had merely slowed down as a safety precaution.

  They made their way along the corridor. The windows threw harsh light on the startled faces of their enemies. They showed neither anger nor disappointment at the escape. As the train cleared the platform, Nick lowered the nearest window and watched the station recede into blackness. The men had clicked off their torches and were already starting to disperse. It made no sense. Nothing about the night was making any sense.

  Nick took in their surroundings. The locomotive was an old steam engine, attached to a tender. It rode the rails sounding as if it had a beating metal heart. He had seen such machines in movies, but had never been aboard one. The carriages were old and shabbily luxurious, compartmented salons finished in green and cream paint work, with inlaid wood panels and opaque glass light mantels.

  Letting themselves into one of the single compartments, they settled on green baize seats. The heating was off, but at least they were getting away. Nick smelled mothballs and damp wood, coal, tobacco and cracked old leather.

  The train had picked up speed and was now racing through dark woodlands.

  “I had a map,” he announced. “It was in my travel bag. I think there’s only one railway line running out of Chelmsk. We have to reach the coast eventually.”

  Josh wiped a bloody smear across his cheek and closed his eyes. There was nothing to do but settle back and wait for the ticket inspector to reach them. They still had their wallets, passports and credit cards.

  “Have you looked at this train?” Nick asked him. “The sconces have brass birds on them.”

  “Sconces?” repeated Josh, opening one eye, incredulous. “What the hell are you on about?”

  “The fittings, the light fittings. They’re carved like birds of prey. The same design is etched on the mirrors.”

  Josh squinted up. “Are they wearing crowns?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re eagles,” he said, yawning. “Polish eagles. It’s an old train, what do you expect.”

  The weather was turning. The clouds that had buried the stars were now lowering over the treetops. Rain began to patter against the windows. The train laboured up an incline. Blasts of steam were rhythmically expelled from the engine’s lungs. The carriage rocked back and forth like a crib, but Nick was too wired to sleep. The rain beat audibly on the roof.

  He felt the carriage pass over a set of points. Rising, he swayed out into the corridor, pushed down the window once more and looked over. The train had passed onto a branch line that consisted of single track. The forest was so close now that the branches of trees were brushing the sides of the carriage.

  “I’m going to see if there’s anyone else on board,” he called back to Josh. “I think we just left the main line.”

  “Do what you want.” Josh rolled his head against the seat’s antimacassar, summoning sleep.

  Nick tacked along the rocking corridor. The crowned brass eagles were on the walls here, too, their wings outstretched. Josh was right; it was the Polish eagle. But these were different. Their talons were knotted together by a coiled, scaly snake. Brass door handles were anchored with spiked, feathery wings. There were more snakes, cut into the moiré patterns of the woodwork, stitched into the green linen blinds, etched in the glass panels of the compartment windows.

  There were only three carriages. In the third he found an elderly conductor, avuncular and dusty, with a luxuriant grey moustache. Seated on a tiny fold-down banjo stool, he had managed to fall asleep, which was a skill in itself. His uniform was not standard Polrail issue. A badge sewn onto his cap depicted the eagle tethered by the serpent. Nick shook him gently. The conductor seemed surprised to see him, and asked him something in Polish.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “I am asking where did you get on?”

  “At Chelmsk.”

  “We do not often stop there anymore.” He sounded as if he might fall back to sleep at any moment.

  “Well, you slowed down long enough to climb aboard.” Nick tugged his wallet free of his jeans pocket. “Can I buy two tickets?”

  “You do not need tickets.”

  “Surely I have to – ah—”

  “You have made a mistake by boarding this train.”

  “You don’t go to the coast?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Well, is there a station where we can get a connection?”

  “There is, and we must stop there, but it is not for you.” He checked his watch and rose on old bones, grimacing. “If you k
new about us you would not be here at all.”

  “It slowed down, so we got on.”

  “Well, you would not have done so.” The conductor was turning to go, moving with difficulty, as if he was walking on artificial legs. Nick noticed that the knees of his trousers had been ripped and badly restitched by hand.

  “Hey, it was an innocent mistake.” Nick had no idea why he was apologising.

  “No one is innocent on board the Arkangel.” He passed through the connecting passage into darkness.

  Nick made his way back along the carriages, passing the length of the train, but there was no one else in any of the compartments. He returned to the sleeping Josh and sat opposite with his forehead against the cold glass, watching the streaking rain. A sudden compression of air in the carriage told him they were rushing through a station. A sign flashed before his eyes, defying him to comprehend it: WOLSZTYN. Then it was gone and they were back out in open countryside.

  The wheels beat against the rail joints with a comforting dickety-dack. You never heard that sound on British trains anymore. The carriage rocked back and forth. The window shades rattled. A white flash illuminated the horizon, throwing the forest into relief. Seven, eight seconds, then thunder. The next gap was smaller. They were rolling into the storm.

  Josh twisted in his sleep. In the mists of his mind he could discern the faint outlines of menacing grey faces with dark eyes and open mouths. He was backing away from them along an endless raised platform, but was moving too slowly to stay beyond their reach. The poor yearning creatures were ragged and thin, barely corporeal, more like charcoal drawings than flesh and blood. They extended their arms desperately in his direction, moving nearer, yet even as he felt the brush of their cold fingers he thought they would not harm him. They merely sought human warmth. Their unwashed stench rose in his throat as they swarmed on every side, pressing their filthy hands into his mouth, pushing down against his ears and eyes, pulling him away from the world of the living . . .