The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  ‘Revenge?’ Betty said, softly.

  ‘I think,’ I said, rubbing my arm, ‘that Fenalik has more pressing matters to attend to. He... it... must have come for the statue. Perhaps it has learned where it is now. Maybe even about the Ritual of Cleansing. It certainly wouldn’t hang around then for--’

  I stopped, clamping my mouth shut as the noise of something scraping against stone came from somewhere below us. Somewhere on the staircase. After a moment, the noise came again, a little louder this time. Someone - or something - was ascending the stairs.

  ‘Colonel...’ Grace said, holding on to my arm. I nodded. The scraping grew louder, slowly getting closer. We were caught like bears in a trap. I remember thinking that I hoped the creature would take Grace first, so that she wouldn’t have to watch what happened to the rest of us.

  ‘Do not be afraid, Grace,’ Milos said, holding his arm through the bars of his cell. Grace did likewise, and their fingertips touched in the middle.

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ she said, looking into his eyes, which looked tired and sad under the thick, soiled balaclava.

  ‘Look!’ Betty cried, and we stared at the staircase as a trembling, bloody hand reached up the steps. A human hand. Slowly, a hunched, tattered figure in a torn black robe crawled into view as he inched his way painfully up the steps. As he pulled his way up, his hood fell back to reveal matted hair and a blood-soaked, ravaged face.

  Milos muttered an oath in Czech. As he neared the top step, the man raised his head and looked at us. Under the scarlet mask of blood, his face was white as a sheet. It was a superhuman feat of endurance to ascend the minaret in his current state. He reached into his robe and pulled out an iron ring, upon which several keys dangled, and tried to get to his feet but only managed to stumble onto his knees. Then his whole ruined body was racked with coughing, and when he lifted his head the floor was spattered with blood.

  He tried to stand again and, failing, he collapsed against the door of Milos’s cell. He looked up again and seemed to see me for the first time.

  ‘Duke...’ he said, in heavily-accented English. ‘Duke?’ He seemed to be phrasing it as a question.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, quickly. ‘The duke, our mutual friend. He sent you?’

  The man said nothing further, but looked down at the key ring in his hand, as if trying to remember what it was for. For a dreadful moment I feared that he would die right there, the means of our escape maddeningly out of reach just outside our cells, but after staring at the keys for several agonising seconds, he selected one, and pushed it into the lock of Milos’s cell door. He turned the key with a grunt, and the clunk that echoed from the lock mechanism was the sweetest sound I can remember hearing for a long time.

  Knowing that his task was complete, the robed man let out a long, pained sigh, then collapsed against the door of Milos’s cell, blood running from his nose and mouth. Milos was forced to push the slumped form out of the way as he swung the door open, but the man was already beyond caring what happened to his mortal frame.

  Milos plucked the bloody key ring from the man’s cold hands, and within minutes we were all free, stepping from the small cells that we had thought to die in. Grace and Milos hugged each other tightly, but briefly, as all of us wished to leave as soon as possible.

  ‘Wait!’ Betty said, as I started down the staircase. ‘Julius!’

  We had all forgotten the unfortunate Professor Smith, an innocent pawn in Mehmet’s plot. He had still not regained consciousness after his brief period of lucidity. We peered in at the pathetic figure huddled on the floor in Betty’s cell. Even now, the chest rose and fell softly.

  ‘We can’t leave him, not like this!’ Betty said.

  Milos stepped into the cell, and looked back at the rest of us.

  ‘You go,’ he said. ‘I will see to the professor.’

  He held Betty’s gaze for a moment, and she nodded, once, sadly. Grace followed us down the steps, sobbing softly but understanding, as Milos knelt next to our old friend. Within a minute he was descending the stairs too, and Professor Smith’s terrible ordeal was finally over.

  ‘What if Fenalik is still here?’ Betty asked as we continued.

  ‘We’re not staying in this damn place a moment longer, Betty. We’ll take the risk.’

  Betty nodded, because it was exactly what she wanted to hear, and we quickly descended the steps and back into the Shunned Mosque. The corruption grew worse by the hour.

  I will not document the sights that met our eyes in the mosque, save to say that short of scrawling his own name out of entrails and blood, Fenalik had left as clear a signature of his presence as I ever hope to see. The Brothers of the Skin were no more. A few pitiful survivors remained, and there was more work for Milos and myself. We emerged from that abode of horrors into the twilight of Constantinople’s streets. Within a couple of hours, we were standing outside our hotel. A brief discussion with the clerk allowed us to return to our old rooms. Entering them felt strangely dreamlike, even though we had only been away a few days. To see my case open on the floor as I had left it, and to find my clean suit hanging in the wardrobe, where I had put it before we had set off for the graveyard, was surreal. To have experienced all we had, to find the room unchanged, felt wrong, somehow.

  We have no time for philosophy. Mehmet must be intercepted. We have to get on board that train somehow. Milos was speaking of a private air service that may be able to get us to Milan before the Orient Express arrives there.

  Once again, the light of dawn is creeping through the windows, and I have spent another night without sleep.

  I will wake the others. We must be underway as soon as possible if we are to catch Mehmet, and save ourselves.

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Thursday, 26th November

  For the first time in a long time, we are in luck! An old friend of Milos’s has agreed to take us to Milan aboard his aircraft. The flight will take some ten hours, setting off at midday; so long as there are no delays that should see us safely in Milan several hours before the Orient Express arrives!

  I have flown a few times before, but never at night. Milos assures me it is safe, and that the aeroplane we will be travelling on has some special modifications; extended fuel tanks, strong lights and so on.

  Time is of the essence now. We won’t get another chance. This morning I awoke to find my legs covered in thick sores, which oozed blood as I moved. My skin feels tight and almost as if it isn’t mine any more. At breakfast, I noticed that the skin around Neville’s eyes, which had slowly returned to normal after the incident with the duke, was starting to darken to a nasty purple, and he constantly fidgeted and scratched at his wrists.

  There is nothing to do for the moment but wait. We are heading to the airport soon. Milos and Grace are together in their room.

  So, the duke is our ally once more. Temporarily. Neville was right - he can’t be allowed to have the power either. Three enemies. The odds are not with us. But we’re British! Well, most of us are. And where there’s life, there’s hope, I always say.

  It’s time.

  Letter from Grace Murphy to her mother, sent from Constantinople, Thursday, 26th November

  Dearest Mother

  You know, mother, that I am not always good with words, and I’m sorry that I don’t write to you as often as I should. You always told me if I didn’t have anything nice to say, then it’s better not to say anything at all, and I’m afraid that I rather took that advice to heart.

  That came out wrong, of course. It always does when I try to express myself. I know you worry about me, and I have given you cause, complaining about Mrs Sunderland and her friends. She is a dotty old bat, sometimes; most times, actually. And she has dragged us into something this time that may mean... it may mean this is the last you hear from me, mother.

  That doesn’t matter, though, mother. I know that seems a strange thing to say. But it’s true. None of it matters, because I am happy. That’s what I wanted you to know. W
hatever happens from now, it was worth it. Whatever you hear about us, however this may end, you must believe that it was all worth it, because I found him, and he is worth all of this and more.

  That’s all I can say, mother. I hope to see you again, and despite everything I love you.

  I can’t write more. It’s time for us to go. But whatever happens, remember this, and know that I found happiness.

  Grace.

  Diary of Mrs Betty Sunderland, Friday, 27th November

  I still don’t understand quite how it happened. Perhaps it was some last cruel trick of the statue, or maybe the change in the train itself affected us, even high up as we were? All I can do is write it down, and see if it makes any more sense on paper than it does in my head.

  Aeroplanes have changed greatly even in the few short years since I last ventured into one. Young Neville[53] entered the Royal Air Force after the Great War, and was kind enough to take me up in his biplane a few times, but I never much cared for the sensation then. This Junkers that Milos had arranged was a totally different kettle of fish – one big engine on each wing, another one at the front. It sat on the runway like a gleaming silver dragonfly, and I was quite taken with it.

  I was also quite taken with our pilot – a dashing young Devonshire man with dark hair and an easy infectious smile. He told us his name was Captain Ashley Laycock, although as he pumped our arms enthusiastically he asked us to call him Ash. He was charming, friendly and excited. I think even Neville, initially suspicious of the whole trip (he muttered that ‘Panzer Luft’ sounded like ‘some ruddy Hun company’ when Milos told him), was relaxed by Ash’s manner and confidence.

  Otto, Ash’s co-pilot, was quieter but friendly enough in his way, and although Neville bristled when he realised that Otto was German, he had the good grace to keep quiet. We boarded the aeroplane in high spirits, delighted to find comfortable seats within. I asked Neville why we couldn’t just fly all the way to London and wait for Makryat there, but he pointed out that there was the small matter of the Alps in the way. No aeroplane would ever get high enough to get over them, he said, because the air was too thin.

  Ash and Otto loaded our luggage, such that it was, into the back of the ‘Valkyrie’, and even offered us drinks whilst they carried out some final checks. The aeroplane couldn’t begin to match the luxury of the Orient Express, of course, but after several glasses of port the inside of one metal tube looks much like the inside of any other!

  As we settled in, Ash popped his head through the small door from the cockpit and told us cheerfully that we were about to take off. Soon, the Valkyrie began to taxi down the runway and within a minute we were in the air, looking down at Constantinople as we flew higher and higher.

  ‘We are underway!’ Ash called from the cockpit. ‘Enjoy your flight! Otto will be out to serve you a light meal shortly!’

  My feelings were mixed as I watched the immense city slowly disappear behind us. Constantinople was a city of wonders, but it had turned into a place of horrors for us. We had lost so much, and had so much more to lose, but I couldn’t help feeling that I would return one day in better circumstances. Then I shook my head, and reminded myself that the important thing was surviving the next few days, never mind planning out the rest of my life.

  As promised, Otto was soon on hand to supply us with a light lunch, and more brandy, so the afternoon passed pleasantly enough. Although it was a little chilly, flying was not an unpleasant sensation. I spent my time gazing out of the window and marvelling at the snowy landscape below us. The afternoon turned into evening, and the sun disappeared all too quickly below the horizon. I was acutely aware of the dangers of night flying, despite Neville’s repeated assurances that a tri-engine plane was ‘fail-safe’.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, as he pointed this out to me for the fifth or sixth time. ‘And that’s the word they used about the Titanic, too,’ I muttered.

  ‘Actually,’ Neville said, ‘I believe that was “unsinkable”.’

  Then he stopped, and frowned, looking over my shoulder to the area where the wing protruded from the fuselage. I followed his gaze. We could see nothing in the darkness, but a slow, coughing splutter was audible where there should have been the reassuring hum of the engine.

  ‘Neville?’ I said, but he shook his head – whether to shut me up or to try and shake the noise out of his head, I am not sure. Whichever it was, his plan was futile, because the splutter continued, and so did I. ‘Neville?’ I said again. ‘What is that noise?’

  The splutter turned into a choke, and then a clank, and then nothing. I looked over to Grace and Milos, to see if they could reassure me more than Neville was – and saw that, to my alarm, they were not looking in our direction. They were staring out of the window on their side of the aeroplane. Grace had an expression on her face that I suspect more or less exactly mirrored my own.

  ‘Milos!’ I hissed across the aisle. ‘What is going on?’

  Milos turned his balaclava-clad head to me, his body tense. ‘I think that one of the engines may have...’ His voice tailed off as he stared out of the window beside me.

  ‘Two of the engines,’ Neville said, ominously.

  As one, we turned our heads towards the front of the aeroplane, where a worryingly-familiar splutter was emerging from the cockpit door. As we watched, Otto stepped through the doorway. His worried expression told us everything that we needed to know.

  ‘I’m afraid to say--’ he started, but he got no further.

  ‘The engines have stopped,’ Milos said.

  Otto nodded, silently.

  ‘All three? How is that possible?’ Neville called. Otto shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot say, colonel. We have fuel, everything should be working well. But we have the situation we have. There is no need to panic.’

  ‘No need to panic?’ Grace said. ‘Why not? How on earth can we land in the dark?’

  ‘Captain Laycock is looking into the situation now,’ Otto said, calmly. As he spoke, the whole aeroplane juddered and jarred, and then dropped like a stone. The awful falling sensation must have lasted only a second or so, but it felt like much longer. Grace screamed as we fell, and I think I may have done too, but within moments the aeroplane was smooth again. Ash shouted something in German and Otto quickly returned to the cockpit.

  I felt strangely calm after the drop. I looked out of the window, into the darkness, and found in myself only relief that the whole mess would soon be over. I only felt sorry for Grace, and Milos, to have escaped death in Constantinople only to have it track them down in the skies above Europe.

  As I peered into the black night, I began to make out an eerie green light, coming from somewhere thousands of feet below us. It was something travelling along the ground at high speed – high enough speed that it was keeping up with us. I think, perhaps, I knew what it was even then. A part of me knew that escape from our fate would not be as simple as an aeroplane crash.

  All the while, a frenzied discussion in German had been occurring at the front of the Junkers. The plane juddered and skipped through the air as our pilot, Ash, appeared in the doorway. His face was pale, but he was obviously trying to keep his expression light. He smiled at us.

  ‘It should not be possible,’ he said, apologetically, ‘but I’m sorry to inform you that all our engines have failed. I am also sorry to inform you, that to keep the aeroplane light for its long trip, we do not have enough parachutes for all of us.’

  ‘How many do you have?’ Neville asked.

  Ash frowned. ‘Two,’ he said. ‘But do not worry. We have a plan.’

  I looked out of the window and again saw the green light, closer now.

  ‘There is a light, below us, moving at a similar speed. We are aiming towards it. I must ask you all to get ready.’

  ‘A light? What light?’ Grace cried.

  ‘Miss Murphy,’ Ash said, suddenly looking tired, ‘Please try to remain calm. Otto thinks the light may be a train.’

>   ‘A train,’ Neville said, flatly. ‘What sort of train can travel at a hundred miles an hour?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Ash conceded. ‘Nevertheless, it is our hope. We will attempt to glide alongside, and you will jump onto it.’

  Grace and Milos were on their feet now. ‘Jump onto a moving train?’ she asked, managing, just, to keep the panic from her voice.

  ‘We will be travelling at the same speed,’ our pilot said, soothingly. ‘It will be simply like jumping on to a train at a platform, I assure you.’

  Neville looked at me, and I thought about his gammy leg, and his gout, but Ash was right. We didn’t seem to have much of a choice.

  ‘Right then!’ I said, standing up. ‘We’d better get ready, then.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Ash, smiling. ‘If we could all stand near the doors, Otto is trying to get us close.’

  I looked out of the window as we moved towards the exit. The green light was much closer now. It seemed to pierce through the darkness better than any headlight I had ever seen. Now we were lower, I could make out faint light coming from the carriages behind it. It was clearly a train, and though I could make out no other details I knew in my heart which train it was. I peered at the green light at the front again. It was very peculiar, and now that we were closer I could tell that it was three separate lights, arrayed like a triangle, right at the front of the locomotive. Looking at them made me feel very uncomfortable, though at the time I couldn’t say why. It was almost as if the lights were looking back at me.

  The Junkers wobbled violently, breaking my gaze, and knocking me into Milos, who steadied me.

  ‘Do not be afraid, Mrs Sunderland,’ he said, gripping my arm, and I had no time to explain that I wasn’t. Not of the aeroplane crashing, at least.

  Our pilot was standing beside the door to the plane.

  ‘We are close,’ he said, his hand on the door.