Hell Train

by Christopher Fowler

  Perhaps the damned weren’t all under the control of the Conductor. She felt that Professor Io had acted out of grief, and, being a wily showman, could not easily be kept in his place. Besides, if he had been her test, what flaw of her nature had he been trying to expose? She had to be on her guard. She could still be in danger.

  ‘Can you tell me, what is the name of the next stop?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ said Isabella.

  ‘I’ve been on so many trains in the last few days, I’m really feeling rather too exhausted to care. But I imagine it goes to the border. What is our final destination?’

  ‘It’s been removed from all the maps.’

  ‘Ah, the war, I suppose. They’re being careful about security.’ He reached forward and offered his hand. ‘Dr. Arthur Freely. I’m not supposed to be on this train.’

  ‘No, none of us are.’

  ‘And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’ His kind eyes twinkled at her.

  ‘I am Isabella.’

  ‘Well, Isabella, what is a nice young lady like you doing by yourself on a train in the dead of night, not knowing where she goes?’

  ‘I was travelling with an Englishman, but he fell from the train.’

  ‘Good lord! Do you suppose he’s all right? Are you all right?’

  ‘I don’t know. Everything has been...’ She stopped herself, wary of giving out too much information. He looked like an elderly angel, but for all she knew, he might be a lizard, a vampire or the Devil himself.

  ‘Forgive my questions, you must think I’m terribly rude. An unchaperoned young lady travelling alone, please allow me to set your mind at ease. I’m on my way back from the Far East,’ he explained. ‘Burma, actually. I missed my connection. The war, everything’s upside down. A dreadful crossing, missed trains, and then this one appearing out of the blue. It’s not on any schedule, did you know that? The porter was unable to give me any information. Rather a rude fellow, I thought.’

  ‘It is all very mysterious,’ Isabella cautiously agreed.

  ‘But that’s the war for you. I was lucky to get this far, really.’

  Above him, the steel box shook suddenly and its straps rattled. Dr Freely looked up in concern. ‘I’ve been collecting specimens for the Royal Gardens in London. They sent me to Burma in search of entomological anomalies. Made quite a find up there. But I don’t think it’s very happy being taken from its home territory and jostled around.’ He pointed to the luggage rack.

  Isabella was amazed to be having such an absurdly sensible conversation. She was still thinking of Thomas’s bloody heart in her hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘what do you mean?’

  He pointed to the box. It was buzzing violently. ‘It will make my reputation. An entirely unknown species, smuggled out of the densest part of the jungle.’

  The train seemed to be speeding up. Isabella looked at the darkened windows. ‘I think our destination...’ she began. ‘We really have to find a way off the train.’

  ‘I agree. There was a terrible commotion in the corridors earlier. Some rowdy soldiers, a lot of shouting. I heard some awful singing that sounded like shrieking cats. Then it sounded like someone was running along the roof. What was going on out there?’

  ‘Evil, sir,’ she replied. ‘A powerful evil.’

  ‘Then perhaps we’re safer staying in here. It is the way of the world at the moment. Everything is in upheaval, and I’m afraid it will only serve to make us mistrustful of our fellow men.’

  She looked at him uncertainly. He seemed to divine her thoughts. ‘But of course, how thoughtless of me once again. A stranger on a train, whatever must you think. I left my spouse behind in Mandalay. Here. A pretty little thing.’ He showed Isabella a cracked sepia photograph of his wife. Pretty was hardly the first adjective that jumped into Isabella’s mind. Dr Freely’s wife had a face that could send a dog under a table. ‘I must get back to England. I don’t know how long I can keep it alive, you see.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘My specimen. Coleoptera Freely. Well, I haven’t sorted out the proper Latin name for it yet, so I have taken the liberty of appending it myself.’ Above them, the box shook and threatened to fall. ‘I wonder if it’s unhappy about being kept in the dark? Would you like to see?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  Before she could protest further, Mr Freely rose and took down the box. He hesitated to open the lid. ‘A word of warning. Don’t get too close. It seems to get over-excited by females of the species.’

  He carefully loosened the leather straps and opened the lid of the box. Inside was a wooden cage, which he gingerly raised. Hardly daring to look, Isabella peered between the bars.

  Inside was a fist-sized, boring-looking green and black beetle clutching the end of a twig. Relieved and glad of the distraction, she turned her attention to the insect and moved closer for a better look.

  The insect suddenly split its carapace, revealing large iridescent emerald wings. Then it opened its mouth—a mess of whirling, spinning thorn-like claws. It made a rapid clicking noise like fingers being fed into a rotary fan. Isabella jumped back.

  ‘And it’s hungry all the time,’ said Mr Freely.

  ‘What is it?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea. It was living in a Fever Tree. Acacia Xanthophloea. I made the cage from its bark. Apparently that’s the only thing that will hold it.’ He put the cage back in its box. ‘I say, you really don’t look at all well. Can I get you something?’

  Isabella felt faint. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw blood. The compartment was overheated, and the events of the evening had exhausted her. It was almost midnight. ‘Thank you. Some water, perhaps.’

  Mr Freely rose and left the compartment, happy to help.

  The insect was still buzzing in its cage. Isabella eyed the box with suspicion. The insect could scent her. It was hammering at the tree-bark cage, trying to get a grip on the bars with its mandibles.

  She felt her curiosity gaining a foothold and tried to fight it, but the beetle was making the most extraordinarily odd noises.

  Isabella took a closer look. It gleamed darkly in the foliage, rather beautiful. The wings were retracted now, so that it hung by its hooked mandibles from a twig, gleaming like a Faberge egg made of black enamel.

  Leaning over the lid of the cage, her crucifix dangled between the bars. When she raised her head, she found herself stuck. The cross was caught.

  She tried to free it, but the crossbar of the crucifix was too wide. A wooden pin held the cage lid shut. Keeping one hand firmly on the lid, she carefully removed the pin. The beetle had dropped back into its foliage and was motionless once more. She opened the lid a crack and freed the cross.

  Outside, the wheels of the train screeched, making her start.

  Turning her attention back to the cage, she quickly closed the lid and sat down.

  But now the cage was silent. It had stopped rattling.

  What if Dr Freely’s prize specimen had become over-excited and had expired?

  She peered into the box, trying to see down through the lid of the cage. It was no good, she couldn’t discern any movement. Lifting the handle, she raised the cage from its box and tried to see inside. Where the beetle had sat was now just a flattened patch of leafage. There was nowhere for it to hide. The cage was empty.

  In the few seconds that the lid had been opened, she had let the bug out.

  Surely that wasn’t possible? She removed the peg once more and checked inside the cage. Could it have escaped in the brief moment that the train had braked and gained her attention?

  She looked around the compartment but could not see it anywhere.

  She searched in the luggage racks. She dropped to her knees and checked under the seats. Was this the test? To make sure that someone’s prized specimen did not escape? Was Mr Freely even part of this, or just a harmless, confused old explorer? She peered into the darkness beneath
the cushions.

  The bug flew right at her. The noise it made was astonishing. The sound seemed to vibrate inside her bones. Its iridescent wings were a dark blur. They were beating a hundred times a second, propelling it with immense force. She threw herself onto the floor, out of its path. It tore the air above her head, ruffling her hair.

  The insect bored straight through the seat and the wall opposite in a shower of horsehair and wood splinters. She rose and stared through the hole. It had gone through into the next carriage.

  She looked up. Mr Freely was standing in the door with a glass of water in his hand, astonished.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE BOY

  NICHOLAS SAT IN the open carriage to await his challenge. He could not allow his eye to stay from the door. He had no idea what to expect. He was shivering and wet, but alive and close once more to the woman he was now sure he loved. He would survive for her sake.

  A small, thin figure appeared in the doorway, too dark to make out, and yet there was a familiarity about it. Reaching out an arm to steady itself against the wall, it made its way toward him.

  It was a boy of seven or eight years, with protruding ears and black hair fringed over his eyebrows in a pudding-basin cut. Thin, pale legs emerged from short blue flannel trousers. He wore a ragged woollen vest and a blue jacket several sizes too large. His brown sandals were torn and scuffed.

  ‘Can I sit here?’ he asked in French-tinged English, studying Nicholas with large dark eyes. He looked as if he was recovering from a serious illness, and had yet to find his sea-legs.

  Nicholas moved over, eyeing the boy warily. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘My name is Jean-Guy,’ the boy replied. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No. I was sitting on the bay looking out at the ships, and then—’ He looked about, frightened.

  ‘You were summoned,’ Nicholas explained. ‘I cannot tell you more.’

  ‘When can I go home?’

  ‘When you have fulfilled your task, I imagine.’

  ‘I cannot stay long. Mama will be angry with me. She is at home, making bouillabaisse for supper. I promised to help.’

  Nicholas had a sudden bad feeling about where the seemingly innocent conversation was heading. ‘Where do you live, Jean-Guy?’ he asked.

  ‘In Nice with my mother.’

  ‘Do you have no father?’

  ‘My mother says my father died before I was born.’

  ‘What is your mother’s name?

  ‘Marie-Helene.’

  At that moment, Nicholas knew he was sitting with his son. He reached forward and hugged the boy. There was nothing of him; he was undernourished and sickly. He wondered what on earth he could say that would not hurt the child, and decided to keep his counsel. Jean-Guy had been summoned to test him. The question was how?

  ‘Do you have anything for me?’ Nicholas asked, releasing him.

  Jean-Guy thought for a minute. ‘Yes, I believe I do.’ He felt inside his vest and pulled out an oilskin packet. He seemed surprised to find it there. Nicholas accepted the packet and carefully unfolded it. Inside was a knife with a chased silver blade. He had won the knife in a game of poker at the casino in Nice, taking it from an Arab who had accused him of cheating. Before they had fallen out, the Arab had explained that the Kusha was meant to be carried in a special compartment attached at the side of his belt. Its double-sided blade was heavy, downward-curving and engraved in geometrical lines, with a filigreed silver grip.

  ‘It’s very beautiful,’ said the boy, reaching out to touch it.

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas, pulling the knife back. ‘It’s very sharp. It has killed many men.’ He remembered the stories the Arab had told him about the blade. ‘Why have you brought it with you?’

  The boy’s brow furrowed. His countenance was so melancholy that he almost moved Nicholas to tears. ‘I think you have to kill me with it,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s what the man said. I’m to give you a message. The message is this: you have a choice. Kill the son you abandoned, or kill yourself. That’s all he said.’

  So this is the nature of my test, thought Nicholas bitterly. I’m to trade my life for the life of the son I walked away from when I was but eighteen years old. How can I choose? The lad means nothing to me. And yet—

  He looked back at the shaking boy, sitting with his thin arms wrapped around him, and drew him close. ‘Don’t be frightened, lad,’ he said. ‘I won’t harm you.’

  But the choice needed to be made. ‘How long do I have to decide?’ he asked.

  ‘You must make your decision before we have sat together longer than five minutes, or we are both lost,’ said Jean-Guy tonelessly.

  There had to be a way out, but the test seemed to present an impossible paradox. If he made what he suspected was the righteous choice and saved the boy’s life, he would die, stranding Isabella alone. But if he chose the selfish path, he would surely fail the test and lose his soul. The boy wiped snot from his cold nose and stared at him with huge sad eyes.

  ‘Tell me something of your mother,’ said Nicholas, anxious for clues.

  ‘She misses my father.’

  ‘Surely she found another father for you?’

  ‘No, she could not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She loved my father very, very much and prays for his soul each night before she goes to bed. She is a good Catholic. Our neighbours are mean to us because she has no husband.’

  ‘Do you go to school?’

  ‘No, I must help my mother make paper flowers to sell in in the Cours Salaya.’

  Nicholas was overcome with shame. To have fathered a boy and walked away, leaving his mother in penurious circumstances when he was winning fortunes at the gambling tables, was abhorrent to him now.

  He picked up the knife and felt its weight. Touching his thumb against the blade, he watched as a pearl of blood formed on his skin. He could cut his own throat and barely feel a thing.

  But what of Isabella? How would she survive? Guiltily, he realised that the train was forcing him to ask questions about his own nature that he had never asked himself. ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he told the child. ‘But if I leave, how will you return?’

  ‘I think I am just supposed to close my eyes, and I will awaken at home,’ he said solemnly. ‘I will either awaken there, or in paradise.’

  Nicholas told himself that he had intended to go back and see Marie-Helene when the time was right, but he doubted that this was the truth. How can I prevail if I can’t even be honest with myself? he thought. ‘Tell me about your life,’ he said.

  ‘Each morning I arise at five and eat with my mother, and we make the flowers. Then we go into the market with them, returning home at midnight. It is a hard life for both of us. We have no-one else but each other.’

  The train rattled over a set of points and began to descend a hill toward its final destination. ‘You must make your choice now,’ said the boy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE HUNT

  ISABELLA AND THE elderly etymologist headed out into the corridor. Isabella carried the cage containing the fever tree leaves, and Mr Freely had collected his net, but if the insect could bore through a solid wooden wall, there seemed to be little chance that it would be stopped by some pieces of string on a bamboo pole. Isabella cursed herself for giving in to her curiosity, and knew that the only way she could win now was by stopping the beetle before it came for her.

  ‘It must be in the next carriage,’ said Mr Freely. ‘It can’t go far.’

  ‘Why not?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘It uses up too much energy. It will need to feed.’

  In the next compartment, a fat farmer’s wife sat with stale cabbages piled at her feet and her eyes shut. Mr Freely and Isabella gingerly entered.

  ‘Please, Madam, don’t be alarmed,’ said Mr Freely, raising his hands in a placatory ges
ture, ‘we have a rare beetle on the loose. Have you seen it?’

  The fat lady made as if to speak, but when she opened her mouth no sound emerged. Instead there was a terrible whirring noise and the bug drilled out. It must have entered from the back of her neck. She coughed blood over the shocked pair, her eyes widening in pain and terror.

  As she fell forward, the bug roared up to the ceiling, hovered motionless for a moment like a hummingbird, then dived back into her, burrowing another hole, this time through her coat and shirt and the fatty flesh of her chest, and out with a bloody explosion into the wall behind.

  Mr Freely peered into the splintered hole in amazement. ‘Incredible,’ he exclaimed, not without a hint of admiration.

  An eruption of wood and a crack of glass brought them running. As the bug smashed its way from compartment to compartment, causing havoc, they were barely able to keep pace with it.

  ‘I said to Mrs Freely we must take it alive,’ panted her husband. ‘We have to recapture it. We may never get a chance like this again to study such an exotic creature.’

  The insect was powering its way through to another cabin when the drone of its wings suddenly stopped. Cautiously, Isabella and Mr Freely peered in but could not spot it.

  They entered slowly, searching the seats, but the compartment appeared empty. ‘Wait—over here.’ Mr Freely pointed to the entry hole in the wall, but no exit.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Isabella. ‘There’s nowhere else for it to go.’

  ‘We have to trap it. It’s a female. It’s looking for somewhere warm to lay its eggs.’

  Isabella bent down, searching the seats. As she looked, she felt something moving slowly up her leg. She turned in time to see the beetle disappearing under the hem of her dress.