Hell Train

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Why, you must know about the Arkangel’s first trip.’

  ‘I seem to remember something,’ she began. ‘Something people said in the town. But I was young, I wasn’t supposed to hear. My mother always said little girls—’

  ‘—should be seen and not heard. Oh, boy, I’ve heard that a few times.’

  ‘But I think my uncle was there.’

  ‘Indeed he was.’ But before he could continue, the nightingale began to sing again, an aria from Gounod’s Faust. The china girl raised her arms straight out and spread them wide as her voice rose in scale. The sound was different now, slightly harsher. ‘There’s a bit of a pitch problem there,’ the Professor admitted. ‘Nothing that can’t be fixed with a little elbow grease.’

  She felt his hand in the small of her back, urging her to take a closer look. A warning signal sounded in her brain. He was pushing her harder now, his fingers pressing against her spine, and the doll’s voice was rising, becoming more shrill. Her nightingale song had turned into the startled shriek of a child in pain.

  ‘Wait,’ said Isabella, ‘stop.’

  The doll’s face was a pink china heart, but her eyes looked tormented. Isabella tried to take a step back, but the nightingale’s arms slid forward and locked themselves around her, gripping ever tighter.

  She had realised her mistake too late. She tried to move, but found herself pinned. The doll’s arms were pushing together, starting to crush her. Its mouth opened and shut, opened and shut, and she caught glimpses of glistening red inside like the innards of an animal. Isabella yelped in fear.

  ‘That’s it, little lady, you just cry out now,’ said the Professor, laughing. ‘Isn’t going to do you no good, ’cause everybody on this train is dead except you and your friend the vicar, and he ain’t going to be around for much longer neither. Oh, and there’s someone on board you won’t get to meet. He’s in charge of the whole shebang. We’re just his slaves. Yessir, you’d better pray you never meet him, ’cause there’s fates much worse than death, if you know what I mean. So you just yell out now, and all it’s going do is make the other passengers excited.’

  Isabella twisted and turned as the doll screamed in her face and its grip grew tighter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE ESCAPE

  NICHOLAS HAD CARTWHEELED into the long grass at the edge of the station platform at Blankenberg, and lay on the wet soil, panting. He tried to assess whether any limbs were damaged. His right leg hurt at the knee, and he had landed badly on his left wrist, but nothing appeared to be broken. With a grimace, he pulled himself upright. Below, the track twisted back on itself in a broad loop, like a railway line on a board game. The Arkangel was pulling into Zoribskia station. It was hard to see from where he sat, but the waiting passengers looked as dishevelled and strange as the rest of the travellers he had seen on board.

  Climbing to his feet, he found himself still smeared with the Brigadier’s blood, but his mind felt different, unclouded and clearer. Now that he was away from the train, he seemed to be free of its baleful influence.

  He thought back to the events that had led him to jump from the Arkangel. He had vanquished his nemesis, but more importantly he had admitted the truth about his desertion. Moments later, he had leaped into the unknown.

  Miranda was dead, the victim of her own greed, and Thomas could not be trusted. Nicholas had seen the lascivious look in his eye, and felt sure it would be the path to his undoing. Each uncovered flaw would lead to destruction, just as his own fear of dying had almost proven the undoing of him. The vicar’s lust was his weakness, but what was Isabella’s? Her innocence? Was that a mark of human frailty? Her curiosity? Either way, she would be no match for the wiles of the train.

  But what did he care? He dusted himself down, testing his leg. Isabella was just another girl in a long line of bored and boring village beauties whose heads could be turned by any man with a mellifluous voice and no stains upon his shirt. He had found girls like her wherever he travelled. He owed her no loyalty. If he had left her in Chelmsk, one of two fates would have awaited her; she would have been raped by the arriving soldiers, or protected by Josef until they had gone. But Josef had been left far behind, and he had abandoned her to her fate.

  But if he didn’t care, why the hell couldn’t he get her out of his head?

  Isabella was different from the rest. She was more than merely innocent. She was the very spring of life.

  Sharper-witted now, Nicholas realised he had been a fool. She had found a way under his skin, and perhaps—against all the odds—he had finally met a girl who could tame him. Yet he had abandoned her at the moment of her greatest need.

  Now he was seized with the need to make amends. He had to board the train once more. It was the only way to know for sure. She was probably frightened, hating him for leaving the way he did, but what else could he have done? He had known the station was approaching, and they had not. It had been the only way out.

  He could not leave her to fight on alone.

  Nicholas limped down the hill toward the distant platform. The Arkangel stood in the station, almost as if it was waiting for him, daring him to try and board. He dropped lower through the grass, and found the going easier. The stations were really no distance from one another; the track had been forced into its circuitous path by a succession of rocky outcrops.

  In another few minutes he was no more than a dozen yards from the rear carriage. The engine’s pistons pumped and it breathed steam, preparing to leave once again.

  Ignoring the pain in his leg, he ran harder. The platform was in darkness. He could see no guard or stationmaster, only passengers who had been refused the right to board. The carriages were pulling out and the engine quickly gathered speed, but he was pacing beside the train. He looked in through the windows and saw bright, empty compartments, just as he and Isabella had seen when they first ran for the train—an illusion provided to lure the innocent. For all he knew, all Hell was breaking loose in there again.

  He was beside one of the door handles now, ready to board and take his chances with Isabella. He reached out to open it, but his weak right leg folded beneath him and he fell sprawling, almost slipping from the platform under the thundering wheels. Gripping his leg in pain and rolling over, he watched as the Arkangel thundered past, too fast to board.

  I’ve failed her, he thought. There’s nothing I can do now.

  Hobbling back to the ticket office, he watched as a pair of Bulgarian soldiers dismounted from their motorcycles and strode onto the platform. They headed to the ticket office and began a drunken argument with the collector over some perceived transgression.

  Nicholas backed out, and ran to one of the bikes as quickly as he was able. Its engine was still warm, and the ignition was operated by a single switch.

  He had ridden a motorcycle before, but had trouble turning on the headlamp. The train was building speed, leaving the station behind. He set off after it.

  The road ahead was filled with potholes and poorly lit, but it appeared to follow the tracks. There was no other traffic. Accelerating as much as he dared, Nicholas followed in the wake of the speeding locomotive.

  Zoribskia had been the last station marked on the Arkangel’s route. Unless it made an unscheduled stop further down the line, he would have to try and board it from the speeding bike. That meant drawing alongside the open observation platform and jumping in, but to do so he would have to leave the road and somehow cross the gravel track. He knew it was an almost impossible feat at the speed he was travelling. He could be killed in the attempt, but there was no other choice open to him.

  I finally get the freedom I craved and now I risk everything for a girl I barely know, he thought. What an idiot. He had almost drawn level with the train. He needed to wait until the bed along which the track had been laid was the same height as the road. His headlamp picked up the line of bushes, broken fences, scrub and rocks that separated him from the railway. He had to get closer.

&nbs
p; The red tail-light of the train swung back and forth in his beam, taunting him. The Arkangel appeared as deserted as the Flying Dutchman. His front wheel was almost level with the rear buffer. He twisted the throttle and the bike surged forward.

  Ahead he could see a point where the road crossed the track—the railway line dropped down to lie flush with the stones. As he approached, he gripped the handlebars with his right hand and reached out with his left, but the bike quickly became skittish and unstable.

  He looked up and caught sight of a dark figure standing at the rear of the train. The Conductor was at the rail, watching him. The crossing-point was approaching fast. Pushing forward harder still, he drew alongside the train and rose in his seat, disengaging his right leg.

  Then he leapt.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THE DOLL

  ISABELLA COULD NOT catch her breath.

  The porcelain arms tightened their grip still further. How could something so graceful and delicate be so strong? She was being crushed against the doll and found it difficult to draw in any air at all now. Her hair was caught in its joints. She felt herself slipping against the rocking floor, and the doll sang on, more harshly than ever.

  ‘Please,’ she gasped, ‘make it stop, I can’t—’

  The singing was growing more shrill with every passing second. The noise was unbearable. The Professor seemed not to notice. He smiled to himself and tapped his foot along with the music.

  ‘Isn’t that a pretty tune?’ he said, ignoring her pain. ‘I could hear Gounod over and over, and never grow tired of it. Just as well, ’cause I don’t get much choice about that.’

  She felt herself starting to lose consciousness. Her arms were bruising, the joints cracking. It felt as if the very marrow from her bones was being forced out. Seams of fire shot up her spine. She could hear the clockwork ticking now, the grinding of gears, the hiss of tiny pistons. The eyes in the porcelain face seemed to belong to a live girl, and were filled with pain.

  Isabella’s sight and hearing began to fade.

  Suddenly the train lurched as it ran over a set of points, and the doll rocked and threatened to tip over. Isabella used the momentum to push as hard as she could with the tips of her toes. Secured to the doll, she felt her weight pull the pair of them over.

  The Professor was in the process of tapping the ash from his cheroot, and was too late to stop them from falling. Isabella and the doll crashed to the floor, and the china arms split open. Tearing herself free, she kicked out at the doll’s face as the Professor came for her, crying out.

  She looked back at the nightingale and saw the truth; there was a girl inside it. The face was raw and bloody, the teeth and jawbone exposed, the skin of the arms split apart to reveal the meat and bone beneath. The Professor gave a cry of anguish. ‘My precious darling,’ he called out, ‘my little songbird, my poor daughter.’

  At that moment, Isabella knew that the Professor had failed his own test on the train many years before. ‘How could you have done that to your own child?’ she asked, revolted.

  ‘I had no choice,’ he moaned, clutching at her broken, bleeding head. A row of china teeth had fallen out. A dead tongue lolled inside her china lips. ‘She was dying of a rare anaemia, and I was offered the chance to save her life.’

  He pulled the plates of porcelain from her face to reveal the diseased and rotted flesh beneath. Isabella saw the clockwork mechanism that had been inserted into her body to make her sing and dance, the cogs and wires and bloodied pistons that had been woven through her ravaged form.

  ‘The men who built the Arkangel said they could rebuild anything in the world. They saved her.’

  ‘But at what cost?’ asked Isabella, aghast.

  ‘You would give up your soul if it would save a loved one,’ said the Professor, cradling his shattered doll. ‘Anyone would. That’s what real love means. My poor, poor baby. Run now, little girl, run before I tear your head from your shoulders.’

  Isabella rose and fled.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE SIGNALMAN

  NICHOLAS KNEW AT once that his leg had not cleared the motorcycle. Driverless, it twisted and fell beneath him, catching his left boot, turning his body.

  He was not going to make it.

  Throwing up his hands to protect his head and bringing up his legs, he fell short, landed and rolled, slamming into a thick clump of bushes. Their stems were soft, though, and covered in springy leaves that cushioned his fall.

  He raised his head in time to see the train’s crimson lamp swinging away from him. The whistle gave a mournful double hoot.

  At least no limbs were broken. Standing, he looked about; dark hills to the North, low forest to the South, no street-lamps or towns. Rain fell softly on his face. Ahead, a single square of light shone from a cabin. He had no choice but to head in its direction.

  The narrow, brown wooden hut looked like a signal box, and as he approached he could see a bearded bear of a man moving about inside. When he got close, the man came out with a shotgun held at his chest.

  ‘Easy, friend,’ said Nicholas, raising his hands, ‘I’m not here to hurt you.’

  ‘English,’ said the signalman in surprise, lowering his weapon. ‘Well, you’ve chosen a bad time to visit us. What are you doing out here?’

  ‘I was on the train that just passed through.’ Nicholas pointed along the track. ‘I jumped from it.’

  ‘Wait, you were on board the Arkangel?’ He raised the gun again.

  ‘Yes, but I escaped before harm could befall me.’

  ‘You’re lying. No-one escapes that train. I’ve worked on this line for two decades and I see it pass at this time each year, when the August moon is full. I know what it is, and what it does to people.’

  ‘Then you know that every passenger must undertake a wager with the Devil, and the outcome decides his fate.’

  ‘I come from Chelmsk,’ said the signalman. ‘Of course I know.’

  ‘That is why you speak English.’

  ‘Yes, we had a teacher from England but—’

  ‘He was shot, I know. I’m Nicholas.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘And I am Dimitri.’

  ‘I need to get back on board that train.’

  ‘What? Are you insane, man? If you really escaped as you say you did, then you know by now that your very soul was at stake.’

  ‘There is a girl on board. She has not yet been tested, but she will be, and I fear she will fail. I need information.’

  ‘There are things about the Arkangel it is best not to know, Nicholas. Not if you value your sanity.’

  ‘Have you ever been on board?’

  Dimitri gave a hoarse mirthless laugh. ‘I was raised to be afraid of that accursed engine. I have stayed out of its path ever since.’

  ‘Tell me, where does its journey start, and where does it finish?’

  ‘Now, that’s an interesting question. It emerges from the line beyond the foundry in Chelmsk, but I know not from which station, or if one even exists. And the journey ends...’ He raised his hands and moved them apart. In thin air.

  ‘The maps on board are all obscured. What happens?’

  ‘After it passes Zoribskia it goes further down the line beyond this point. The tracks past here branch in several directions, inland and to the coast, and another that passes over a viaduct, but the Arkangel takes none of them. One minute it is on the line, and the next it is not. There is something you must understand about the train. It was built in this world but belongs to the next. What you see from outside, and what you see from inside—they do not match.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘My son was taken, and just before the train disappeared, he too, jumped. But he was not so lucky as you. He spoke to me of the sights he saw, and how his soul would remain on board no matter what happened to his physical body. Moments later, he died in my arms. I buried him beside my signal box, where he had loved to play as a child.’

  �
�I’m sorry.’

  ‘There are many of us who lost children to that monster,’ said Dimitri, his voice sharp with bitterness. ‘There is no way of fighting it, any more than there is of fighting the Devil himself. Believe me, if there was a way I would have thought of it.’

  ‘Still, I have to try,’ Nicholas replied. ‘I cannot let Isabella face her fate alone. How far is it before the train vanishes?’

  Dimitri pointed behind him. ‘Not so many kilometres from here.’

  ‘Then I am lost.’

  ‘The distance is not great, it’s true. But the train must slow down as it heads into the forest. It passes this way but once a year, and until it heads off into the netherworld it is subject to our laws of nature. The Arkangel is taller than all other trains that pass, and the forest grows thick and deep, so that the topmost branches of the trees catch its carriages. When it reaches the wood it reduces speed, and the stoker must cut away the obstructions.’

  ‘Could I board it there?’

  Dimitri glanced at the clock on his wall. ‘You would have to be fast. Even now, it approaches the forest.’

  ‘Do you have a vehicle?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘No,’ said the signalman, ‘but I have a horse.’

  ‘Then I must try.’

  ‘Friend, I do not doubt you but I would not allow a man I have just met to take my horse, even if I was related to him. However, I will take you.’ He closed the door and ran down to a tumbledown stable. ‘We must go right now if you are to succeed in your mission.’

  There was no time to saddle the enormous black stallion that Dimitri released from its stall. He swung his bulk onto the animal’s bare back and reached down, pulling Nicholas up as if he was weightless. ‘Hold on tight,’ he warned. ‘Every second we lose bears the train farther from us.’

  They set off, reaching a crossroads and cutting over the meadowland that led to the forest.