The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  ‘He wanted to move against his father,’ Neville said. ‘He couldn’t be seen to be doing it directly. So he sent the first idiots he could find.’ He sighed. ‘I told you, stupid bloody foreigners.’

  ‘What a ridiculous plan!’ I said aloud. ‘How could he know we would be successful?’

  Milos shrugged. ‘He didn’t. Maybe it didn’t matter. We were bait. A distraction, right until the end. He probably was surprised when you actually started to acquire pieces of it.’

  ‘And we even took care of that terrible Fenalik creature for him!’ Grace said. She looked across to me, her face red. ‘Violet, Professor Moretti – killed for nothing!’

  ‘I would not be surprised if this ritual to destroy the statue does not even exist,’ Milos said. ‘Just another lie to get us moving. Beylab died to give the lie more weight.’

  The truth settled upon us like a disease, sapping our strength. The whole trip, based upon a fiction! All those deaths, our friends tortured and lost, for nothing! We had done everything Mehmet Makryat could have dreamt of, right from the start. How he must have thanked his dark gods he ever found such willing agents for him as we were!

  ‘But... why? What does he want with the thing?’ I asked. Milos shrugged.

  ‘I do not think he is the type to come here and explain his plan to us.’ He sighed. ‘There is nothing left for us to do. Nothing to do but die.’

  I looked down at the horror that the professor had become, and I shuddered at the fate that awaited us.

  In this last, it turns out I was wrong. The cramps, the tingling, the pins and needles which I have been feeling since the night at the graveyard - I am not alone in experiencing them. All the others have as well. Last night I could not sleep because of the throbbing in my arms, the aches in my legs, and my skull. My skin is tightening. Twisting. Corrupting. When Milos translated the words that Selim Makryat had spoken in the temple, we knew for sure.

  I ask, by the powers of Sedefkar and the Skinless One, for the torment of the flesh to be endured by those corrupted by it!

  It is happening to us, just as it happened to the Comte Fenalik. Fenalik was not human, even then. Despite the torment, despite the pain, he could survive the twisting and warping of his flesh. We cannot.

  We are trapped. There is no hope of escape, and even if we could escape our cells and somehow leave the mosque, we would still be doomed. The pains get worse hour by hour. I do not think it will be long.

  Julius has not regained consciousness. If the Lord is merciful, he never will. As for the rest of us... we do not talk so much. There remains little to say. I wonder if I will have the courage to end it, before it is too late.

  I feel such a fool for dragging us all into this mess. Such an idiot for getting us all killed. I was so completely taken in, and I am glad I am locked in here on my own. I couldn’t look them in the face any more.

  My arm aches painfully. I do not know if I shall write more. Such a terrible place to end, here in this dark tower, when outside there is sunshine and light and life.

  I am sorry.

  End of Part Eight

  Part Nine – The Flight

  Colonel Neville Goodenough’s Personal Notes, Wednesday, November 25th , 1925

  Fenalik.The Brothers of the Skin. The duke. Mehmet.

  Only a fool fights a war on two fronts. What does that make us?

  I cannot sleep. I am starting to realise that I shall probably never sleep again. When I lay down to try, I hear the wind of the north in my ears, and feel the arctic chill. Ever since that damned amulet. I know now that the voice I hear... or rather, feel... is not Lilly’s. Logically I know that. But the call, the urge to travel to it becomes stronger every day.

  It seems that this won’t be a problem, however, because the damned itchiness is getting stronger too, not by the day but by the hour. It is a peculiar feeling. Not painful, exactly, but uncomfortable. Almost a rippling sensation, followed by pins and needles. I have no doubt it won’t be long before the pain starts in earnest.

  A day, and night, and part of another day, and still we saw or heard no sign of our captors. Grace assured us that they have visited her several times a day, to throw food into her cell, or to shout words at her which she couldn’t understand. Not for us. It seemed that the new leader of the cult was even less interested in his prisoners than his father had been. Milos eventually ceased rattling his cage door and shouting, at my request. It served only to upset the ladies. There seemed to be little to do other than wait to see what got us first – the starvation, or the corruption of our skin.

  At some point in the afternoon, Grace suddenly stood up, and called across to Betty.

  ‘Mrs Sunderland... what about the duke?’

  I lifted my head as Betty appeared, tired and confused, at the door of her cell.

  ‘What about him, dear?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe he can help? Can you contact him?’

  ‘The ruddy duke!’ I said, standing. ‘Why on earth would he help us?’

  ‘Because... well, because Mehmet has taken over,’ Grace said.

  Milos stood as well. ‘That’s a good point. He may not be happy about the change in management.’

  Betty sighed. ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? The candle burned down, don’t you remember?’

  Grace chewed her lip. ‘Well, maybe... maybe you don’t need the candle, really! I mean, the duke said in his letter it was ‘a magic of the mind’. Maybe the candle is just like... like--’

  ‘Like one of Violet’s outfits,’ Betty said, with a half-smile on her face. ‘A distraction. Something to focus on!’

  ‘What nonsense,’ I muttered.

  ‘Have you got any better suggestions, Neville? Or are you keen to rot away in this cell until our skin tears itself apart?’

  I decided not to reply. Betty can get very irritable when she is tired.

  ‘Here! Here!’ Milos called, suddenly sounding excited. He pushed his arm through his bars, holding it out towards Betty’s cell. In his hand, he held a small silver box. His lighter.

  ‘What have we got to lose?’ Betty said, reaching through her own bars.

  ‘Our sanity?’ I said, but only to myself. Milos couldn’t quite reach Betty’s outstretched hand, so he threw his lighter across the small gap between them. Betty caught it easily. I forgot how disarmingly nimble she is.

  ‘Wrap it up,’ Milos suggested. ‘It will grow hot.’

  Betty nodded. Foolish though the plan was, I felt a surge of excitement. I silently berated myself. The cell was going to feel all the smaller when Grace’s hopes were dashed.

  Betty flipped open the lid of the lighter, and tested the flame. It lit first time. She released the catch.

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘What were those words?’

  ‘Nala... something?’ Grace said. ‘Talaroh, something like that?’

  Betty frowned, then smiled. ‘I still have the letter! I forgot!’

  She fumbled in her pocket, and pulled out her battered diary, the one she had been scribbling in all morning. Flipping through the pages, she let out a little gasp of triumph, and unfolded a sheet of vellum that had been tucked in between the pages. She held it up to the dim light, moving her lips as she memorised the words.

  ‘Got it,’ she said, folding the vellum back into the diary and placing it back in her pocket. She flicked the lighter open again, closing her eyes as she murmured the words.

  ‘Nay-vah-rho. Nay-vah-rho,’ she said. In the flickering flame she looked like some charlatan medium, like the ones she tried to drag me to after Lilly died.

  ‘Ta-la-rho, Ta-la-rho,’ she continued. The flame continued its dance.

  ‘Nay-vah-rho. Nay-vah-rho,’ Betty repeated, an air of desperation edging into her voice. As she continued to chant, she opened one eye to peer at the lighter.

  The tense moments passed, all of us staring at the tiny flame, listening to Betty whisper those ridiculous words. I could stand it no longer.

  ‘B
etty,’ I said. ‘It’s not working. Stop. Just--’

  And then we heard it, a quiet whisper, but it seemed to echo around the small tower so that each of us understood it perfectly.

  ‘Mrs Sunderland?’ the voice said, through the lighter. ‘What is going on? Why have you contacted me?’

  The duke sounded confused, and angry - a long way from his usual slimy charm.

  ‘We currently have the pleasure of being the guests of some friends of yours, Monsieur,’ Betty said, casually, but her eyes betrayed her surprise that Grace’s plan had actually worked. No response was forthcoming for a moment, and during the long pause I started to wonder if we hadn’t all imagined the voice out of desperate hope.

  ‘I see,’ the duke said, eventually. ‘You are in the minaret? At the Shunned Mosque?’ His voice was calmer now. I could almost hear the cogs in his mind turning as he wondered how to turn the situation to his advantage.

  ‘Delightful company you keep, Monsieur,’ Betty said. ‘I can only assume we are not in the first-class section of their accommodation.’

  ‘Let us drop our pretences, my dear Mrs Sunderland. You know of the cult. And I know you for a liar and a traitor.’

  Betty bristled. ‘How dare you! I should--’

  ‘I saved your life, on the train to Istanbul. I made no threats against you, and we had an agreement. You were not at the station. My friends were very disappointed. I did not think I deserved such treatment, Mrs Sunderland.’

  ‘So they arranged a trap for us! They tried to kill us at the graveyard!’ Betty said.

  ‘You left us no choice. I was very open about what I wanted. I am sorry you could not reciprocate.’

  Betty was silent, miserable. She looked like a schoolchild caught outside after curfew. The damnable duke had her on the back foot already.

  ‘Betty!’ I called. ‘This isn’t helping! We don’t know how long we can talk!’

  Betty nodded. Whether the duke heard my voice or not, I don’t know, but he only seemed to respond to her.

  ‘I thought the candle was burned out,’ his voice echoed eerily from the flame. ‘How did you manage to contact me again?’

  ‘I’m using a lighter,’ Betty said, grimacing as she talked. ‘I’m getting cramp!’ she mouthed to the rest of us.

  ‘Fascinating,’ the duke said. ‘Perhaps you have more skill in this area than I thought. Maybe--’

  ‘Never mind all that rot,’ Betty said. ‘We haven’t much time. Your leader, Selim, is dead.’

  The duke paused again.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, sadly. ‘I know. I still have some loyal friends at the mosque. Not many, although perhaps more than I realised.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could explain what on earth is going on?’

  ‘Hm. You saw what happened, did you not? Mehmet, Selim’s son, has always been interested in power, though I did not realise quite how much. I am thankful I was unable to attend the ceremony in person. He almost certainly would have arranged something rather unpleasant for me.’

  ‘Why?’ Grace shouted across to Betty, who repeated the question.

  ‘Mehmet is... misguided. He believes we are fools to worship our dark lord, the Skinless One, following his plans. Mehmet has plans of his own. The Simulacrum gives him great power.’

  ‘This ritual to destroy it--’ Betty said.

  ‘Is a fiction,’ the duke replied. ‘I know of no way to break the artefact. I must say, when I encountered you in Lausanne, I was surprised and troubled by the extent of your knowledge. I ordered that your friend Professor Smith be questioned further--’

  ‘Tortured, you mean, you swine,’ I muttered, but the duke continued, oblivious.

  ‘... but he seemed unaware of your mission. I was most perplexed. Now I understand. Mehmet has been manipulating you the whole time, just to be in a position to take control.’

  ‘He impersonated the professor,’ Betty said. ‘Back in London. It is how we learned of this.’

  ‘Mmm,’ the duke said, as if this was not news to him. ‘He was in London to keep an eye on the professor, before he disappeared. He must have realised the old fool was on to something, and taken his opportunity. He may have seen something in your group that I, I must admit, could not. Still, it was an insane plan. He is a foolish boy.’

  ‘A foolish boy with the Sedefkar Simulacrum, and your cult!’ Betty said.

  ‘Yes,’ the duke agreed. ‘It is a problem. The Skinless One will not look favourably upon the abuse of his gift.’

  ‘This gets us nowhere,’ Milos said. ‘We need help, now.’

  ‘Do you know what Mehmet plans to do?’ Betty said.

  ‘I have an idea,’ the duke said. ‘He has spoken to the cult. He is already on his way back to London.’

  ‘London?’ Betty said. ‘Why London?’

  ‘As part of his cover, he had a small shop there, selling occult items and paraphernalia. I forget the name of it.’

  ‘I know it!’ said Betty, suddenly. ‘One of my rivals! In Islington! ‘Mysteries of the Orient’! How could I have been so stupid? It opened up a few months ago, though it never did much business.’

  ‘Business was not on his mind. I do not know for sure why he returns there, but I can guess. I imagine by now that all of you are feeling the effects of being separated from the statue, yes?’ the duke said. Betty nodded, forgetting that the duke could not see her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We can feel it.’

  ‘It will kill you soon,’ the duke said, matter-of-factly. ‘Mehmet is not immune to this, I suspect. He has displeased my master, the Skinless One, and doubtless the corruption affects him too.’

  ‘So why London?’ Betty repeated.

  ‘The most likely answer is that he has found the Ritual of Cleansing. It can prevent the effects of the corruption. Reverse it.’

  Milos, Grace and I looked at each other.

  ‘The corruption can be stopped?’

  ‘Yes,’ the duke said. ‘With the ritual. Mehmet must have it, back in his shop in London. Why else would he be hurrying back there?’

  ‘But London?’ I insisted. ‘Why there? Why not perform the ritual here?’

  ‘The ritual is delicate to set up, Mrs Sunderland. It requires several hours of preparation, with rare materials. Mehmet probably does not feel safe enough to carry it out here.’

  ‘We must get that ritual,’ Milos said. ‘We must get out of here! Now!’

  ‘It seems that, once again, we have common goals, Mrs Sunderland,’ the duke was saying. ‘You need the ritual, or you will die. I need Mehmet stopped. The Simulacrum allows him to don another’s skin. The process is not pleasant for the victim, not to mention fatal. After he has completed the ritual, he will have the power to perfectly impersonate anyone in the world. Anyone at all. In the hands of a man as ambitious as Mehmet, that is a dangerous skill indeed.’

  ‘The king--’ Betty whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the duke. ‘Or the president of America. Or France. Or... anywhere at all. You have seen what he is capable of. You would not wish to live under his rule, Mrs Sunderland.’

  ‘And why do you want him stopped?’ Betty asked.

  ‘He dishonours my master,’ the duke said, simply. I thought of the poor man who had choked to death on his own skin in the bathhouse, and wondered about the kind of honour that this ‘Skinless One’ considered appropriate. I knew that we couldn’t allow either the duke or Mehmet to have final possession of the Simulacrum.

  ‘Mehmet travels to London in a way that will be familiar to you, Mrs Sunderland. The Orient Express. I plan to intercept him en route. Your help would be appreciated in this matter. Afterwards, I can help you. With the ritual, and with anything else you may require.’

  ‘How can we trust you?’ Betty said.

  ‘I might ask the same question of you,’ the duke replied. ‘You are the one who has proved treacherous in the past, not me.’

  ‘Why don’t you explain that to Professor Moretti?’ Betty said, her f
ace red with anger.

  The duke paused once more. ‘Perhaps I will. He is very keen to see you again.’

  Betty’s mouth dropped open. The lighter flame sputtered.

  ‘Mrs Sunderland...’ Milos said, urgently. ‘We must escape!’

  Betty shook her head, to clear it. ‘Monsieur, we need to get out of these cells if we are to help you. Now.’

  ‘But of course,’ the duke said. ‘I shall contact one of my remaining loyal friends. He shall attend to you shortly. It has been, as ever, fascinating to talk to you, Mrs Sunderland. We shall meet again soon.’

  The lighter flame flickered once more, then died. Betty dropped it on the floor and cried out, rubbing her wrist.

  ‘We can’t trust him,’ I said. ‘You all know we can’t let him have that statue either.’

  The rest stood in silence. Milos nodded solemnly.

  ‘Let’s worry about that when we’re on the other side of those bars, Neville!’ Betty said. As I opened my mouth to reply, a dreadful agonised scream echoed up the stairs.

  ‘What the--?’ I began, but another dreadful cry chased the first into the minaret. Then another. And another. We heard shouts, and the sounds of gunfire and running feet. I thought of the caves in Postumia, and whispered the word on everyone’s mind.

  ‘Fenalik.’

  Betty winced, as if she was afraid just saying the word would draw the creature to us. For all we knew, she was right, and so we stood, shivering in the cold silence, whilst the screams, cries of terror and gunshots continued below us. We all stared at the narrow stone staircase that led up into our prison, and held our breath.

  After a time, the cries of terror subsided, until all we could hear were the faint sobs of the dying. Eventually, as the sun dropped steadily towards the horizon, even these faded into silence.

  ‘Do you think...’ Grace whispered, ‘Do you think he’s gone? That he isn’t coming for us?’

  None of us responded for a moment, waiting to see if her voice attracted any fresh horrors, but nothing seemed to happen. It was Milos that replied.

  ‘We don’t matter anymore. Not to that thing. We don’t have the statue any longer. What would it want with us?’