by Stephen Laws
And Monica was glad that she had come, after all. Now, she was looking forward to going back home to her husband who, if she had timed everything right, would probably be asleep in bed after his all-night driving. She would cook him something really special when she got home.
She found a relatively empty second-class carriage, boarded the train and chose a seat facing away from the engine. She placed the paperback and newspaper neatly in front of her and looked at her watch. She must remember to get a new one. This one was always stopping. Even without the watch, she knew that she had made it with ten minutes to spare.
When the train moved off, Monica read the blurb on the cover of the paperback. She hadn’t had a chance to see what the book was about when she bought it. But she didn’t recognise the title or the cover, so it couldn’t be one she’d read before.
She nearly laughed out loud when she discovered the subject matter. The story was about a young Northern girl who had married a long-distance truck driver who treated her abominably. She had married beneath her, and her swine of a husband took advantage of his nights away from home to indulge in extra-marital activities. In despair, she had found solace in the arms of Dr Solomon Cord, a man who could show her the world . . .
Stifling a giggle, Monica turned to look out of the window. Wait until she showed Jack the paperback! She settled back in her seat, suddenly finding herself remembering a Christmas party they had given five years ago. It had been her idea and they had invited the neighbours round for a few drinks and something to eat. Taking an empty tray into the kitchen, she had caught Jack giving Bertha Hitching a Christmas kiss. Jack’s face had turned crimson and the three of them had stood in a frozen tableau for a long five seconds. Then, together, they had all burst out laughing.
Monica smiled. For a second . . . just a second . . . she had wondered . . . But, no! That was preposterous. The thought of Jack as a Romeo-on-wheels was really hilarious. She pulled herself together, straightened her dress and began to read the newspaper. She could savour the paperback later.
Her mind began to wander from the article she was reading. Her feeling of doubt on that day, five years ago, seemed startlingly vivid. She tried to shake it off and returned to the newspaper.
The King’s Cross train pulled into the station at Edinburgh twenty minutes late. There had been a points failure just outside York. A fierce snow squall had begun in Durham and was still falling heavily when Monica passed through the ticket barrier. A bus was parked at the stop just outside the station and Monica hurried aboard as snow whipped heavily down from the black velvet sky. The snow reminded her of Christmas.
Jack was exhausted when he finally got home. He had made his delivery in good time despite the lousy weather. He had tried to ring Monica at her mother’s house as planned, just to tell her that he was okay and to wish the old lady ‘Happy Eightieth’. But their telephone was out of order. He had reported it and headed for home.
Yawning, he hung his donkey jacket over the banister and tried to ring Barnes again, even though he knew that Monica was already on her way home by now. The telephone was still out of order. Never mind. Pulling off his boots he headed upstairs for bed. Minutes later, as he rolled under the bedcovers, snow was whipping up against the window. He fell into an instant sleep. The sound of movement wakened Jack from his deep slumber.
‘Monica? Is that you?’
If there was a reply, he did not hear it. Snow was still blowing heavily against the window. ‘Put the chip pan on, love. I could eat a scabby horse.’ The statement did not bring the usual howls of laughter from Monica. ‘How’s your Mam, then?’ Still no reply. Jack struggled to wake up fully, finding it extremely difficult. He must be getting old or something.
After a while, the smell of cooking wafted up the stairs and into the bedroom. Jack stretched and gave vent to a long, loud yawn. Good old girl, he thought. She knows how to spoil me. A meal in bed. He remembered the gift-wrapped package in his jacket pocket. A really classy watch which he knew she would like. He had used most of his bonus money to buy it for her. After he’d eaten, he’d pop downstairs and fetch it.
He had unknowingly dozed off again when he heard footsteps on the staircase. The smell of cooking was stronger now and he smiled at the prospect of a meal in bed. The best wife a man ever had. The door was opening as he turned to face it. Through sleep-blurred eyes he saw Monica enter and walk slowly towards him. The smell of cooking made his mouth water as he struggled from sleep. He pulled himself into a sitting position and felt the bed sheets being whipped away from his body.
‘Come on, Monica! It’s cold, you know.’
Jack looked up at her, his vision finally coming into focus.
‘What the bloody . . . ?’
Monica was holding the chip pan in both hands, glaring down at Jack as if she had suddenly gone insane. He could see that she was trembling with rage. The boiling fat in the pan sizzled and spluttered, the pungent smell now thick and cloying in the confines of the small bedroom.
‘What’s the matter, love?’
Monica replied in a deep, sulky voice as if her rage would choke her at any moment. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to while I was away!’ And then she upturned the contents of the pan onto Jack’s naked body.
Nine
The real nightmare had happened one morning in October nearly twenty years ago. Mark was eleven. He was on his way to school, trying to invent a plausible excuse for not finishing his mathematics homework, when Robbie finally caught up with him. Mark heard the running feet behind him, recognised them and instinctively ducked in time to miss the swinging haversack aimed at his head – Robbie’s usual form of greeting. The boy’s momentum carried him well past Mark, and he spun around to face him, laughing wildly. Even though he was much shorter than Mark, he looked older and could bluff his way into cinemas to see ‘X’ certificate films with no bother at all.
‘Have you done it, then?’ asked Robbie, swinging the haversack back onto his shoulder and getting into step beside Mark.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’ve done it. You’re scared shitless of Hopkinson.’
‘Course I haven’t done it. He doesn’t frighten me.’
It was drizzling and the sky overhead was a dull grey dome as the two boys made their way down the disused tram track which bordered the school playing fields. Robbie flashed a knowing smile at Mark and, not for the first time, the latter felt that he could see right through him. He could see that Mark was scared shitless of the towering, fiery-tempered maths teacher, despite the show of careless bravado. Mark envied him more than any of his other friends. Robbie had been strapped twice by Hopkinson for talking in class; but he hadn’t flinched on either occasion. And he had earned the class’s admiration by proffering his hand contemptuously for an unnecessary third blow of the leather: a gesture of contempt which Hopkinson was quick to reward. Mark could never have done that. He’d only been strapped once in his entire school career and then he had been forced to fight back the tears. Robbie had been belted more times than anyone else in the class and his silent pride was respected and unchallenged by all.
‘What are you going to say when he asks for it?’ asked Robbie.
‘I don’t know. What are you going to say?’
‘I’m going to tell him he’s a wanker and he can stuff his maths homework.’ Robbie burst out laughing and jumped over the pool of muddy water in front of him. ‘And then I’ll kick him in the balls, wrap that belt around his neck and chuck him out of the window.’
Robbie’s wild mood of unconcern was infectious.
‘I’d like to see that,’ laughed Mark as he jumped across the pool to Robbie and they both continued walking.
‘Got your gym kit in, then?’ asked Robbie suddenly, and then, without waiting for an answer: ‘I haven’t. Don’t fancy cross-country running in
this weather. What about you? We could hop on a train to the coast if you like. I’ve got some money . . .’
The idea was instantly appealing to Mark. They could take a day off sick, forge a note and get out of having to hand in their homework. Mark could finish it off tonight when he got home – it didn’t matter what Robbie said – and hand it in tomorrow. The grey, drizzling morning had taken on a new aspect as they turned and headed in the opposite direction.
The funfair was deserted. As they passed through the decorative iron gates Mark recognised the theme from ‘Carousel’ blaring from the speakers on the dodgem stand. He had never liked that music – it was too spooky. The canvas tents housing fruit and gaming machines dripped and flapped emptily. Cheap, garish debris from the previous night still fluttered on the grass which was steadily disintegrating into a quagmire in the continual, drizzling rain. To Mark, it seemed that everyone in the world had suddenly stopped what they were doing, had walked away and vanished. Just like the ‘end-of-the-world’ film he had seen last week, with its vast, bleak shots of empty streets and cities. Deserted roundabouts stood silently in the rain; rank after rank of gaming machines brooded under their canvas covers.
Robbie headed straight for a tent, fumbling in his pocket for loose change. Mark followed close behind. As Robbie entered the tent, Mark’s attention was drawn to one of the sideshows bordering the small lot on which the fairground stood. See the Tarantula Man! shrieked the placard above the weather-stained hoarding. A ghoulish monstrosity, fangs dripping with crudely painted gore, leered over a helpless and screaming woman. See the Two Headed Pig! The Deadly Embrace of the Four Armed Woman! Mark took two steps towards the garish sideshow in queasy curiosity before stopping and turning back to Robbie. The shabbiness of the hoardings, the outrageous, sick ghastliness of the painted freaks, made him feel a little uneasy. It was like the time Albert Florio had pinned a live rat to the schoolyard and started to cut it open with his penknife, pulling at the entrails and holding them up for closer examination by the circle of small, white faces. Faces that peered forward for a closer look, retreated in disgust . . . and then hesitantly looked back again. In his mind’s eye, Mark could imagine Florio lurking in the shadowy recesses of that sideshow, unveiling the horrors depicted on the placard with a kind of insane glee and relish.
It occurred to him that if there was a Hell, its streets would be bordered by sideshows just like that one. And its citizens would be forced to watch and participate for all eternity.
Robbie had tired of his fruit machine: ‘It’s a swiz, that machine. I’ve put three bob in there and haven’t won once.’ There was no one to reprimand him, so he aimed a kick at the machine and moved away sulkily with his hands thrust deeply into his pockets, kicking at a paper bag which fluttered on the ground. Mark ran to catch him up and together they began to trudge through the mud past the various tents, billboards and sideshows.
‘Let’s go in here,’ Robbie said suddenly.
Mark looked up at the ghoulish billboards which had been nailed together to form the rough approximation of a station platform. Painted across the backdrop, a green steam train was roaring past in a billowing cloud of smoke. The train itself appeared to be a hybrid monstrosity: the engine at the front looked mechanical but seemed to be in the process of mutating into a hideous, leering demon with pointed fangs. A skeletal driver leaned from the cab, one ragged arm on the train whistle. The passengers of each coach were devils, imps, ghouls and vampires.
‘How much is it?’ Mark asked Robbie, swinging up onto a balustrade which fronted the station platform.
‘Sixpence each,’ came a thick voice from the booth set back on the platform. Startled, Mark jumped down as Robbie moved to the booth, a hardboard approximation of a ticket office, with a small grille window and cobwebbed rubber spiders dangling from it. As Robbie fished a handful of change from his pocket and began to push it under the grille, Mark could just make out the man in the booth. He was in his mid-twenties perhaps, with Brylcreem-smothered hair glinting like jet under the harsh light of a single electric light bulb. He had been reading a copy of Playboy magazine and he made no attempt to put it to one side as the boys approached. It occupied half of the small counter and was open at the centrefold. Mark moved to Robbie’s shoulder and peered over, trying to get a better look at the magazine as the Ghost Train Man handed over two tickets. For the first time, Mark became aware of the peculiar odour. A kind of . . . machine smell that seemed to emanate from the booth; a strong, cloying scent that he had smelt before but could not remember where. When he looked up into the man’s face, he could see that he was grinning at him. A strangely unsettling, fixed smile which made Mark turn away. A smile with not the merest hint of good humour in it. He had never seen so many teeth before; row upon row of perfectly even, white teeth. But it was the man’s eyes that disturbed him more than anything else. They reminded him of the eyes of his younger sister’s doll: unmoving, black glass beads that shone like the lustre of his slicked hair. Mark did not like that smile. It was too much like the smile of Albert Florio in the freak sideshow.
‘You’ll go blind,’ said Robbie to the man, pointing offhandedly to the magazine and grabbing his tickets from the counter. Mark found himself being bustled into the first carriage of the Ghost Train which stood at the platform. Robbie jumped in beside him and flung both haversacks into the back seat. Ahead was the tunnel entrance which led into the land of horrors. It took the form of an ogre’s mouth, a gaping maw that yawned wide to receive them. Two metal doors had been painted to look like teeth. To Mark, they seemed curiously like the teeth of the man in the booth. The likeness was too unsettling to allow him to turn round as he heard the man emerge from the booth and come up behind them. He was pushing at the carriage, moving it into position for its journey.
There was a pause. Robbie was watching the man attentively and, when he caught Mark’s eyes, winked and made a jerking motion with his hand. A whine of machinery. And then with a bone-shaking judder the train was on its way, Mark and Robbie the sole passengers on the ‘Ghoul’s Express’. As the carriage crashed through the double doors, the Ghost Train was swallowed by darkness. An echoing shriek thrilled sharply in their ears. The doors banged close behind them and a luminous skeleton loomed suddenly out of the murk ahead. The banshee’s shriek reverberated again and Robbie struck out laughingly at the sensation of cobwebs on his face, at the same time digging Mark in the ribs. Frankenstein’s monster had appeared from an alcove on their right, arms raised and grasping. But it didn’t bother Robbie. He had its number. It was a wanker.
And, as the train crashed on its way, Mark could smell the same overpowering odour that he had noticed in the ticket booth. It was much more concentrated in here, acrid and sickly. Now he knew what it was. Ozone.
‘Look at him!’ yelled Robbie over the booming noise as a waxen figure in black cape and widow’s peak began to sit up in its coffin. ‘It’s Hopkinson . . .’
Mark laughed loudly as a deep groan issued from the vampire and the Ghost Train rattled around a bend on the next stretch of its journey.
‘And he knows he’s not getting his stinking homework!’
Luminous bats dangled from the ceiling overhead; they hurtled down a catacombed corridor, each recess revealing a new waxen horror. As they passed, a mummified arm reached out over the carriage. Quickly, Mark stretched up and grasped it in a dignified handshake. This was too much for Robbie who doubled up in his seat with laughter, clutching at his stomach.
And then, with a sudden lurch, the Ghost Train stopped.
Mark found himself suddenly in complete darkness, the abrupt halt hurling him forwards so that he was forced to grab at the rail to prevent himself being flung over the rim. Even above the squealing of the metal wheels on the track, Mark heard the muffled thud of Robbie falling from his seat onto the floor of the carriage. The banshee’s shriek was fading away from a high pitched falsett
o to a low and droning bass as the tape slowly ran down. Groping in the utter darkness like a blind man, Mark found Robbie and helped him back into his seat.
‘What’s happened?’ Robbie mumbled in the darkness. He groaned. ‘I think I’ve cut my head . . .’
For a brief, unreasoning instant, Mark thought that his interference with the ghoul’s arm might somehow have resulted in the breakdown. But logic quickly returned: ‘I think there’s been a power cut or something . . .’ He could feel that Robbie’s forehead was warm and wet.
‘What are we going to do?’ Robbie’s voice sounded lost and miserable in the dark. Mark had never heard him like that before. He always so self-assured and in command that it made Mark begin to feel very much more afraid.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said with as much conviction as he could muster, ‘someone will come in a minute.’
‘My head hurts, Mark. I think I’ve split it on the rail.’
‘You’re okay. It’s nothing. The lights will come on any second.’
But the lights did not come on and the silence lay heavily upon the Ghost Train stranded in the middle of its papier-mâché nightmare. The smell of ozone seemed somehow more pronounced. Mark’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. He could dimly see, at the side of the track up ahead, the rock outcropping which was supposed to be a cave entrance. With the lights on, the tatty moth-eaten gorilla within would have been laughable. But here in the dark, Mark could find nothing to laugh at. Dark, silent figures seemed to cluster and loom all around them. The silence was smothering and oppressive. Not even the distant sounds and music of the fairground were able to seep through from outside and Mark suddenly had a terrifying premonition that someone would lock the doors and leave them there forever.