The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  ‘Captain Laycock,’ Grace said, suddenly looking to the cockpit, ‘what about Otto? How will he--’

  Ash shook his head, once, running his hand through his hair. ‘We drew lots,’ he said, his jaw muscles clenching. Then he opened the door and wind blasted into our suddenly small and vulnerable tube, and further conversation was impossible.

  We must have been no more than twenty-five feet above the ground. Just beside and below us, one of the train carriages rumbled and sped along the track, impossibly fast for a train. ‘GO!’ Ash screamed above the wind. I suddenly thought of all the trees, high verges and bridges along a train track, and realised our peril.

  ‘GO!’ Ash shouted again. Grace approached the doorway, squeezed Milos’s hand once, then jumped. She landed feet first upon the train, then immediately fell onto her back, gasping for air. She rolled onto her side, then reached out a hand and clung to the roof for dear life. Within moments, Milos landed next to her, falling just as she did, and grasping her arm.

  Neville pushed me forwards. ‘Go, Betty! Go!’ he shouted in my ear, and before I knew it I was falling through the freezing winter air. I landed painfully face first upon the roof of the train – but not as painfully as I expected. The carriage that I landed on was soft, spongy, and surprisingly warm. I had no time to wonder what was happening. Grace and Milos grabbed me, and I rolled over to see the aeroplane, enormous, gliding silently above us as the carriage rattled and rocked below.

  Neville stood in the doorway, and I could see Ash yelling something behind him, though the wind snatched the words from his mouth. Neville bent his knees, but as he jumped the track pulled the train away from the Junkers, and the gap widened alarmingly. Neville cried out as he fell, but like lightning Milos had leapt to the side of the carriage, extending his arm. Somehow, Neville grabbed onto him, swinging down and bashing onto the side of the train.

  Milos grimaced with effort as he pulled him up onto our perch. Our pilot thumped onto the roof of the train just as Neville clambered up and for a few seconds we all lay, shocked and dazed at our change in circumstances. Captain Laycock saluted his friend as the aeroplane pulled away into the night. The Junkers disappeared in a heartbeat, but we all knew the chances of Otto surviving were almost nil.

  The first of the night’s horrors was over. There would be more to come.

  * * * * *

  The train which we entered, shivering, shaking and shocked, was indeed the Orient Express, the train that had carried us faithfully (if not entirely safely) through Europe and beyond; yet, it was not the same. A change had come over it – the first inkling of which I had encountered when I landed on the roof.

  The carriage that we stumbled into – one of the sleeping cars – was deserted. The guard post at the end of the corridor, where normally one of the Wagons-Lits conductors sat, ready to attend to his demanding guests’ every whim, was empty. Several of the room doors were open, and not a soul was in sight. As we walked through the empty carriage, I looked through the window. The landscape was shooting past at a phenomenal rate, at least two or perhaps three times the speed we had grown accustomed to, and the car jumped and rattled accordingly.

  ‘Makryat?’ Milos asked, as we walked down the corridor.

  ‘I expect so,’ Neville replied. ‘Someone is certainly in a hurry to get to Paris, anyway.’

  Ash, our pilot, was becoming increasingly confused, both by the bizarre occurrences and our apparent easy acceptance of them.

  ‘Don’t worry, Captain Laycock,’ I said, as kindly as I could. ‘There’s more going on here than meets the eye.’ Unfortunately, this seemed to alarm the airman further, so I decided to keep quiet from then on. We ventured further up the train, and in the restaurant, lounge and salon cars we found the answer to one mystery, at least. The carriages were packed with passengers – smoking, drinking, pacing, arguing, and demanding answers from the Wagons-Lits staff. They were doing their utmost to reassure their worried passengers, but there’s only so far a calm demeanour and a polite smile can take you in such a situation.

  We received many strange looks as we entered. I suppose our appearance was... well, that of a group of people who had recently jumped out of a crashing aeroplane onto a moving train. One of the passengers, a portly balding gentleman with a small waxed moustache, approached us and began barking questions at us in French – though it may have been Belgian.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Neville said, pushing past him, leaving him red-faced and fuming. The commotion attracted the attention of a harried-looking man at the other side of the carriage. Recognising us with obvious relief, the chef de train, the thin Frenchman who had helped Neville when he lost his eye, hurried over to us.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ the thin man said. ‘Mrs Sunderland! Colonel Goodenough! What... what are you doing here?’

  Neville sighed. ‘It’s a long story, old chap. Bit of a prang in our aeroplane.’ The chef de train frowned in confusion. ‘It doesn’t really matter,’ Neville continued. ‘But perhaps you could tell us what is going on? It’s just possible we may be able to help.’

  The Frenchman looked us up and down, his gaze lingering on Ash and his tattered flying jacket. He nodded, leading our little group to the quietest part of the car he could find, and leaning in towards us conspiratorially.

  ‘Something is wrong with the train,’ he whispered. ‘Everyone is frightened.’

  Neville nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘When did it start?’

  ‘Somewhere in Yugoslavia, I think. A few hours ago. We... we found it impossible to enter the engine car. The door was... sealed.’ The thin man winced as he spoke. ‘Now the same thing has happened to the fourgon. That’s when the train began to speed up.’

  ‘Where are we now?’ Milos asked.

  ‘We... we cannot say,’ the chef de train said, wiping his lip as he spoke. It was the closest I had ever seen one of the Orient Express staff to panic.

  ‘We were close to Milan when we started to go down,’ Ash said. ‘At this speed, we will be there soon.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to matter,’ the chef de train replied. ‘The train will not stop. We speed through stations without slowing. It is a miracle that we have not crashed so far.’

  ‘When you say ‘sealed’,’ I asked, ‘what do you mean?’

  The chef de train wiped his lip again, and looked at us thoughtfully. ‘You know, don’t you? You know what is going on here?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Neville said, truthfully. ‘But we probably have a better idea than anyone else here.’

  The chef de train nodded. ‘I will show you,’ he said.

  The train raced through Milan without a pause as the Frenchman led us towards the fourgon. The passengers gasped in fear as the buildings passed in a blur.

  ‘Captain Laycock,’ Milos whispered as we walked. ‘Have you a pistol?’

  The airman nodded, and patted his flying jacket.

  ‘Good,’ Milos said. ‘It may be needed.’

  Ash frowned, but to his credit simply nodded. He could see that questions would have to wait until later.

  ‘Here,’ the chef de train said, indicating the corridor ahead. A nervous-looking conductor stood at the end of the passage, and as his superior indicated to him he stepped aside to reveal the door to the fourgon. Or, at least, what had previously been the door.

  ‘Good God,’ Ash muttered under his breath.

  The iron and steel of the Orient Express had been twisted, transformed into... something else. The passage was blocked by a dark brown rubbery material. I approached, and laid a hand on it. The stuff was disturbingly warm to the touch, and pulsed horribly underneath my fingertips, so that I quickly withdrew my hand.

  ‘What is it?’ Ash asked, his face twisted in distaste as he, too, touched the material.

  ‘Makryat,’ Milos said.

  Neville nodded. ‘He’s used that damn statue to turn the train into... into...’

  I thought of the sickly green light I had seen through the wind
ow of the Valkyrie. ‘Into a living creature,’ I said.

  Neville raised his hand, and hammered it hard onto the substance. It bounced off, and where he had hit it a clear viscous fluid seeped from the doorway.

  ‘What is this “Makryat”?’ the chef de train said. ‘What is this talk of a living thing?’

  Neville ignored him. ‘I’ll wager the bounder’s in there, somewhere,’ he said, rapping his fist on the twisted mockery of flesh ahead of him. ‘Do you think we could cut through?’ he asked, turning to Milos.

  ‘Was there a man on this train?’ I asked the chef de train. ‘A Turkish man, young, with a dark moustache and--’

  ‘He wouldn’t look like that,’ Grace interrupted. ‘He can look like anyone, now, remember?’

  The Frenchman was shaking his head, more out of confusion than in answer to my question.

  ‘He’s in there,’ Neville said, tapping the flesh wall again.

  ‘In there, out here, it doesn’t matter,’ said Grace. ‘How can we find him when we don’t know what he looks like?’

  ‘What--’ the chef de train began, then his eyes widened in alarm. ‘Non, Monsieur!’ he cried. I realised that Ash had pulled the pistol from his flight jacket and was pointing it at the flesh wall.

  ‘Non!’ the chef de train cried again, as Ash discharged two rounds into the rubbery mass. As he did so, a low rumbling roar came from somewhere ahead of us, and the whole train began to buck like a wild stallion. Ash and Neville fell to their knees whilst the rest of us steadied ourselves against the wall of the corridor. Screams of fright echoed from the carriages behind us.

  After a moment, the roar stopped and the train settled. Two lines of blood trickled from the wall where Ash had shot it.

  ‘Monsieur,’ the chef de train said, crossly, ‘Did you not think we had tried something like that? It does not like to be injured, Monsieur.’

  Ash clenched his jaw, and replaced his pistol into his pocket. Milos rubbed his balaclava thoughtfully as he gazed at the barrier.

  ‘Well,’ said the chef de train, his previous optimism at our arrival rapidly fading. ‘Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I think it’s time for a drink.’

  * * * * *

  We stood in the salon car, whilst the chef de train asked the waiter to supply us with anything we might require – in my case, a double brandy – and tried to decide what to do. It was an impossible situation. Makryat could be disguised as anyone – including the chef de train. No one could be trusted. I was even somewhat suspicious of Ash, as he hadn’t been part of our original group. It did seem rather convoluted for Makryat to take the appearance of a pilot on the off-chance we would hire him, but the villain had shown a predilection for the Byzantine in his plotting, so I thought it wise to keep a close eye on him, just in case.

  Our discussion was muted, and rather unproductive. As we talked, we entered the Simplon tunnel at frightening speed. On our eastbound journey, the tunnel through the Alps had taken over an hour. This time around, less than fifteen minutes had elapsed before we emerged into Switzerland like a cork from a popgun. We watched the landscape race past us through the window.

  ‘Well, I suppose it is good for us, too,’ Grace said, eventually.

  ‘Unless he means to crash it,’ Neville said, darkly. ‘He might have some means of surviving.’

  ‘The train must have some protection as well, or we would have crashed already,’ Milos suggested.

  ‘Do you think he wants us here?’ I asked. ‘It seems so peculiar, the Junkers crashing here, of all places.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Neville gazing out into the darkness as the landscape rattled past. ‘He left us for dead. What use would we be to him now?’

  ‘Why here, then?’ I insisted. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence! Someone wanted us on this train, surely? It can’t just have been chance.’

  I heard the door to the salon car open and close behind me. Grace and Neville looked up, and I watched the colour drain from their faces.

  ‘Perhaps,’ a familiar voice spoke behind me, ‘I can explain. Would you care to follow me?’

  I turned. There, standing in the doorway, a smile playing across his lips, was our old friend, Professor Alphonse Moretti.

  * * * * *

  He had not changed a bit; in fact, he was in considerably better shape than when we had seen him last. His tweed jacket and his hair were both unsinged. His mouth was twisted in a playful smile, and his eyes twinkled with some indefinable joy.

  ‘It is very good,’ he said, his Italian accent thick, just as I remembered it, ‘to see you again.’

  ‘Alphonse!’ I cried, taking a step towards him, but Neville held his arm out to stop me in my tracks.

  ‘You died,’ he said, voice heavy with suspicion.

  ‘I was dead,’ agreed Alphonse. ‘I am better now.’ His playful smile grew wider. ‘I can understand your suspicions. Our mutual friend is more powerful than you know.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ Milos said, also suspicious. Alphonse turned to him.

  ‘Milos! My good friend, I am so glad you received my message. I must say, you have done an excellent job of looking after them in my absence.’

  ‘As I will continue to do,’ Milos said, holding Grace at his side.

  ‘Mutual friend?’ Ash said. ‘Who is this? What is going on?’

  ‘The duke, you mean, don’t you, Professor?’ I said to Alphonse. He nodded, curtly.

  ‘I fear we misjudged him in Lausanne. But there is little time to explain! Please, follow me.’

  He turned, and walked back to the door of the carriage.

  ‘He was dead. This is wrong,’ Neville muttered.

  ‘Dead?’ Ash said, thoroughly confused. ‘Duke?’

  Alphonse opened the door and stepped through to the next car.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘We don’t seem to have a lot of choice, do we?’ I hurried after the diminishing form of our once-deceased friend.

  ‘When do we ever?’ Neville said, sourly, but he followed nevertheless.

  I rushed to stand beside my old friend. The strangeness of the situation could not suppress the joy I felt to see him again, alive and well.

  ‘What happened to you, Alphonse?’ I asked as we walked.

  ‘Many things,’ he replied. ‘I have realised what a narrow perspective I had – we all had. Things look very different when you are standing in a different place.’

  He stopped for a moment, and looked at me, taking my hand in his. ‘I am the same man you knew, Mrs Sunderland. I can assure you of that.’

  I felt my cheeks rush with blood as he looked into my eyes, and he squeezed my hand gently before he let it go and continued down the train.

  ‘The duke, you see, has certain... control over reality. To a limited degree.’

  ‘Limited,’ I murmured in awe, gazing at the untouched tweed jacket.

  ‘He thinks that the Simulacrum is helping, at the moment. That and... other things. It gives him the power to intrude on reality. The power to make great changes.’

  ‘Great changes?’ I asked, as we approached the door to the next car. ‘Changes like what?’

  ‘Like this,’ Alphonse said, as he opened the door. I looked through.

  On the other side of the door, rattling along the track with the rest of the train, was a huge, impossible cathedral.

  * * * * *

  ‘Good God,’ Neville said, gazing up at the high ceiling as we stepped across into the car. That’s exactly what it was – a car, just like the salon car, and the restaurant car, except that this was a cathedral car. It was as if the Wagons-Lits Company had created a carriage in the style of an enormous Gothic castle. It was roughly the shape of the other carriages, although it was far wider and taller than anything the locomotive could have hoped to pull in any sane world. The stained-glass windows were set in ancient stone, which supported the ornate, vaulted ceiling. The room smelled of burning incense, and above the clatter
of the wheels we could hear the faint tolling of a church bell.

  In the centre of the chamber, a long wooden table stood laden with food and drink. A familiar figure was sitting at the end of the table, and he stood as we entered, beaming at us.

  ‘Welcome, again, my friends!’ the duke said. ‘It is so good to see you again in happier circumstances.’

  ‘Hmph,’ Neville said, as we walked towards the table. Ash was gazing about the cathedral car in stupefaction. Alphonse walked up to the duke, picking a grape from the table as he passed and munching upon it.

  ‘Please,’ the duke said. ‘Sit! Eat!’

  Alphonse took a seat to the right of him as we approached.

  ‘Where did all this come from?’ Grace asked.

  The duke smiled, sipping a goblet of red wine. ‘A little magic of the mind, is all, my dear. It is amazing what you can do with mental discipline. I have tricks up my sleeve that our treacherous friend Mehmet cannot imagine. As your professor here can testify to.’

  He tipped his glass to Alphonse, who nodded as he gnawed on a chicken leg. ‘Please, make yourselves comfortable!’

  None of us moved. ‘We are not hungry,’ Milos said, quietly.

  ‘It hardly seems appropriate to be feasting, duke,’ I said.

  A small frown appeared on the duke’s face. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘In this place, my place, I am a prince, not a duke. The Jigsaw Prince, my subjects call me. But no matter.’ He shrugged, and the food vanished, leaving only the goblets, and the pitchers of wine. ‘You are right, time is short.’

  I wondered about the subjects that he spoke of, but Neville broke my chain of thought.

  ‘Mehmet is why we are here, Duke.’ I could almost feel Neville’s satisfaction in the word as the frown reappeared on the duke’s forehead. ‘Perhaps we should discuss him.’

  The duke stared at Neville for a moment. ‘Quite so,’ he said, simply. He stood. As he did so, he seemed to flicker for a moment. I blinked, and wondered if the lights had changed. Alphonse coughed loudly, as the duke looked out of the window.