by Stephen Laws
‘Coffee. Toast. Can’t take too long. I don’t want to miss my train.’
‘You’re moving forward quickly now, Mark. You’re at the station. You’ve just walked in through the main entrance.’
‘Yes. It’s cold today. Much colder than usual. Must have been the shortest summer we’ve ever had.’
‘Where are you going, Mark?’
‘I’ve got a meeting in Doncaster at 11.30 am. Can’t complain. At least it’s a day out of the office. If the car wasn’t in dock I’d drive down.’
‘What are you doing now?’
‘I’m walking towards the newsagent. I’ll need a newspaper or a magazine for the train. Yes, a newspaper will do, I think. They’ve put the price up again, the sly bastards . . . what time is it? Good, I’ve got half an hour. May as well buy a coffee. No point in standing here freezing.’
‘I want you to tell me everything that happens now, Mark. In as much detail as you remember. And I also want you to remember that, no matter what happens, you will feel no fear. Absolutely no fear.’
‘I’m in the station cafe, drinking coffee and watching people walk by. There’s hardly anybody in here. Just an old woman and a young man. God, this coffee tastes horrible. I should have brought a flask with me . . . I’m getting up now. I’m walking out of the cafe. Hope I’m not too long in Doncaster. I’m walking towards the ticket barrier now. Platform Nine for me, I think . . . Yes, that’s right. The King’s Cross train. Now, where did I put my ticket? . . . There’s a small line up ahead. It’s still early so there’s no problem. I expect the train won’t even be in the station yet. I’m giving my ticket to the inspector . . .’
Mark paused and Aynsley sat forward intently, ready to bring him out of his trance. This was the point beyond which Mark had no memory and Aynsley expected him to react in the same way he had done all those months ago. He remembered how he had been forced physically to subdue Mark as he screamed and lashed at the empty air.
‘He’s punching it and handing it back. I’m passing through . . .’ Mark’s face looked calm and unconcerned as he continued. Aynsley checked the tape again. It was amazing. Mark had made the transition, remembered crossing the ticket barrier and there had been no adverse reaction whatsoever. ‘. . . I’m walking up the ramp. God, it’s freezing cold. I can see my breath. I’m walking over the bridge and can see a train drawing alongside the platform below me. Didn’t hear an announcement but it must be mine. People pushing past me and hurrying down the next ramp. Yes, it’s my train. Plenty of time . . . no hurry. Oh, damn. I’ve left my paper in the cafe . . .’ Mark paused again and Aynsley realised that he had become quite excited as his patient talked. The palms of his hands were sweating. It had been so incredibly easy. Mark had not reacted adversely in any way and Aynsley’s reservations about conducting the session without proper preparation had gone.
‘I’m on the train now,’ Mark continued. ‘A first-class carriage not too far from the cafe car. If I’ve got my checkbook with me I might be able to afford a down payment on a cup of tea and a sandwich. There’s no one else in the carriage with me. I’m on my own. Good, someone’s left a newspaper on the seat . . . We’re moving now . . . we’re on our way . . . and we’re on time, too. I wonder if I’ll have time to pay a visit to that shop in Doncaster. I could buy Joanne another of those vases that she liked so much. I’ll wait and see . . . We’re crossing the river now. I wonder how many times I’ve crossed the Tyne. Must be thousands . . . thousands . . .’
Mark paused again. Aynsley checked the tape. It was still running. A minute passed by and still Mark said nothing. He lay in the same position, breathing deeply. Only now, a look of uneasiness was creeping across his face.
‘Mark?’
‘Yes . . .’ Mark’s voice sounded querulous and uncertain.
‘Tell me more. Where is the train now?’
Mark began to shift uncomfortably. ‘We’ll be in Doncaster soon.’
‘What has happened to you? What have you been doing between Newcastle and Doncaster?’
‘I’ve just been reading my papers for the meeting, that’s all.’ Aynsley could detect a tone of reluctance in Mark’s voice. As if he did not want to answer any more questions.
‘Mark, I want you to tell me everything that happens from now on. The train is nearly in Doncaster and you’ve been sitting reading. Okay, now. Is there anyone in the carriage with you?’
‘No . . . there’s no one in the carriage with me. I’m on my own.’
‘Tell me what happens now, Mark.’
‘I don’t want to remember. I’m afraid.’
‘Listen to me. Remember what I said. You will take the role of an outside observer. You are watching yourself on a television set inside your mind. Whatever happens, it can’t hurt you now. It will not harm you and you will not be afraid. I want you to tell me that you will not be afraid, Mark.’
‘I . . . will not . . . be afraid.’
‘Now tell me what happened.’
Mark opened his mind to Aynsley.
Mark was suddenly awake. One moment he had been in a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep. Now he was awake and alert, as if someone had pressed a switch to wake him up. For a second, he had no idea where he was. He was not at home in bed. He knew that. And he was cold, too. Then he remembered: he was in Dr Aynsley’s clinic. He had telephoned him early this morning and insisted that he meet him here to carry out the hypnosis session immediately. Something had happened at home which Mark refused to acknowledge and, in desperation, he had hoped that the hypnosis would solve everything and resolve all his worst fears.
Mark sat up stiffly on the couch and looked around. Aynsley was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone?
And then Mark saw the tape recorder. It had been knocked from the small table and lay shattered on the floor, its innards littering the carpet. There were no spools of tape to be seen. Mark swung his feet over the edge of the couch.
‘Dr Aynsley?’
He reached out for his walking stick and rose unsteadily to his feet, realising that he must have been lying like this for some considerable time. His body always stiffened up when he lay somewhere for more than a couple of hours. He crossed to the surgery door, opened it and looked out. It was morning, and a cold, bloodless grey suffused the empty corridors.
‘Dr Aynsley?’ Mark’s voice echoed into nothing. He turned back into the surgery. His hand closed round the door handle as he re-entered and he felt something sticky on his fingers. He looked at his hand. There was blood on it. And when he looked back to the tape recorder, he could see that there was blood on that, too.
He hurried from the surgery, not knowing what had happened. Aynsley was gone and there was blood on the door and on the tape recorder. The last thing he remembered was lying on the couch listening to Aynsley’s voice as the hypnosis had begun. Mark felt cold inside as he hurried down the corridor, sensing that the nightmares were closing in on him. Soon, he told himself, I’ll be a gibbering wreck. Something on the clinically white corridor wall drew his attention. It was a smudge; a smeared hand mark. He moved closer to it, dreading what his mind told him. It was blood.
He ran the remaining few yards to the glass doors which fronted the clinic and which Aynsley had unlocked earlier that morning. They were still open. He blundered through them and out onto the rain-washed pavement.
Fourteen
Joanne was sitting in the living room when she heard Mark coming through the front door. She had woken at four-thirty, aware that her husband was no longer lying beside her; eventually realising that he was not in the bathroom either. Sleep was no longer possible. She had searched the house, finding the note on her bedside table when she finally returned to the bedroom. She looked at her watch as she rose and moved into the hallway. It was six-thirty and still dark outside. Mark was closing the door quietly behind him. It had begun to rain again a
nd his raincoat was streaked and dripping wet.
‘Mark? Where have you been? What’s wrong?’
Mark started at the sound of her voice and turned to look at her as she moved quickly to him. His face looked ashen, strands of hair lay plastered across his forehead and to Joanne it seemed as if he was unsteady on his feet. Had he been drinking? No . . . there was no tell-tale smell on his breath.
‘Walking . . . just walking . . .’ His words sounded vacant, far away. She guided him into the living room, wondering whether she should get help. Struggling out of his raincoat, Mark sat heavily in the armchair beside the gas fire as Joanne placed a hand on his forehead.
‘You’re freezing cold, darling.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry if I worried you, Jo. Didn’t you find my note . . . ?’
‘I found it. What’s wrong, Mark? You look awful. You know you’re not up to wandering around the streets at this time of the morning.’
‘I’m sorry, Jo. Really. I didn’t want to disturb you, that’s all. I had . . . another dream. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I thought a walk might do me good.’
‘And you come back looking like death warmed up. Mark . . . you haven’t been back to the station, have you?’
Mark placed an ice-cold hand on Joanne’s arm. His eyes seemed glazed. ‘No. I haven’t been there. Really.’
‘I’m going to make some coffee before you freeze to death.’ Joanne moved away, leaving Mark staring at the glowing orange grid of the gas fire. Rain whispered at the window.
What if I’ve killed him and don’t realise it? What if he put me into a trance and asked me questions about that day that my subconscious couldn’t cope with? What if I put my hands around his neck and squeezed until he was dead? Or beat him to death and dragged him away? Hid his body somewhere, walked back into the surgery like a zombie, lay down and woke up again? That would explain the broken tape recorder. And the blood.
Mark ran his hands through his hair and then over his face. The skin felt like frozen parchment, as if he were touching someone else’s face. A corpse’s face, perhaps. His fingers were trembling badly.
What the hell am I thinking about? I couldn’t kill anyone. I’m not physically capable of killing anyone. If someone punched me, their fist would go straight through this patchwork body of mine. Then what in hell happened to Aynsley? Where did he go to? Oh God, what am I going to do?
Joanne returned from the kitchen. He was still sitting in the same position, staring at the hissing gas fire as if it possessed the answer to some mysterious question. He looked so cold . . . and bloodless.
‘Drink this.’ Joanne handed him a cup. Absently, Mark took it from her and she watched his knuckles whiten as he gripped it with unnecessary force.
‘Thanks, Jo. You’ll be bushed by the time you get to work.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve no classes today, anyway. Mark, you’ve got to promise me that if you wake up again like that, you’ll wake me up, too. You can’t just go walking the streets again.’
‘I promise.’ Mark lifted the cup to his mouth and Joanne could see for the first time how badly his hands were trembling.
It was in the stones. It walked darkly amidst the stones. It scented me and came for me.
‘Was it the same kind of dream again?’
‘Yes . . . yes . . . the same. In vivid Technicolor and Cinemascope. Not to mention the full audience participation.’
He’s so sad, Daddy. He’s been dead so long and he’s so lonely.
Mark suddenly sat up straight, almost spilling his coffee. ‘Where’s Helen? Is she okay?’
‘Of course she’s okay. She’s asleep upstairs. For God’s sake, don’t scare me like that.’
Mark sat back heavily in his chair, sighing deeply. His hair was dishevelled, he was unshaven, and he looked as if he had just come back from a walk in Hell. For a long time he sat without speaking and, as Joanne sat sipping at her coffee, unable to find anything to say to break the silence, she wondered how long this could go on. How long would she be able to bear the pain of watching him slowly crumble into . . . into what? She froze her thoughts like mental dry ice on dangerous flames. Mark was her husband. She loved him. And he was going though a traumatic recovery period, the horrors of which she could only guess at. By rights, he should be dead. Oh, my God, she thought, what are we going to do? And her thought seemed to hang in the air like an unspoken but tangible miasma.
When Mark spoke, his voice seemed clearer, less slurred and with a determination that startled her. It was as if he had heard her thoughts.
‘I know what I’ve got to do.’
Fifteen
The fear had returned. The cage was open and it snarled at Mark as he stood in the Central Station facing the platform barrier. And the fear’s opponent – the insidious, all but irresistible Impulse – tugged at Mark and tried to drag him towards the gate. It was always there. In his brain, arguing and pulling, raging and tugging. Aynsley was gone and he didn’t know what had happened. The broken tape recorder. The blood. Helen’s dream. Oh God, what have I done? Why can’t I remember anything? Mark’s fantasy and reality seemed to have merged. Had he really heard his daughter say those things? Perhaps that conversation had been part of his dream. Perhaps it was part of the horror which had stalked him in those stark, silent stones.
He turned and headed for sanctuary again. His brain was too confused. There was too much going on inside his head. His bones ached badly, his leg felt stiff and pained him as he walked. He cursed his ailing mind and body as he entered the cafe, persistent images of dream and reality whirling in his mind like frightened, buffeting birds. He found his usual place and sat down heavily, steam from his coffee cup drifting up into his face. He clasped his hands over his eyes, wanting to burrow up and into his skull, squeezing his brain like a grey sponge, letting the bad thoughts and the tormenting Impulse and fear spurt out over his fingers. He wanted to wring his mind dry until there was nothing left but a comforting, blank emptiness.
He pulled his hands down into his lap, held them there, interlocking and gripping his fingers while a spasm of frustrated rage coursed through him. He squeezed his hands together, strangling the torment; strangling, squeezing . . . and the rictus of confusion was suddenly gone. He was not mad. He was not insane. He was not schizophrenic. Two things he could not explain had tilted the balance in his mind. They had happened. They were not dreams. But I won’t think about them now. I won’t try to analyse them. Because if I do that, the confusion begins again.
Mark began to breathe deeply, sucking in lungfuls of the smoky air. A calmness had descended on him. But he knew that the grey, empty plain he had formed in his mind was only a temporary backdrop. That the Impulse to get up and go would return at any instant. And then, inevitably, the fear would follow . . .
He was right. How could it have been otherwise? The Impulse was returning again. It was in him now, talking to him; telling him that it was easy. All he had to do was finish his coffee (there was no hurry), get up and walk out of the cafe. Walk towards the ticket barrier. You’ve already got a ticket, haven’t you? Of course you have. You always buy one, whenever you come here, because I tell you to. And it doesn’t matter which destination. Just give it to the inspector and he’ll clip it, give it back to you. Pass through . . .
No . . . no . . . you must not.
Why?
You must not.
Pass through.
You dare not pass through.
Mark stood up abruptly, spilt coffee splashing over the table in a steaming brown pool. The cup rattled from the table and shattered on the floor. Mark was dimly aware of a voice berating him as he left the cafe.
‘. . . can’t go breaking cups like that. Bloody lunatic. Coming in here every other day and making a damned nuisance of yourself . . .’
And in the back of Mark’s mind, it reminde
d him of the Ghost Train Man: Can’t go smashing my place up like that. You’ve got to be made to pay.
Mark had made up his mind. And he had never known fear so terrible. But he forced himself forward, one leg after the other; the click-click-click of his walking stick beating time like a metronome. The fear knew what was in Mark’s heart. It knew his intention and thrashed like a frenzied animal, snapping shreds from the fabric of his soul. It knew that he was giving full rein to the Impulse. He was going to let it take control.
I’ve got to do it. I’ve got to go through with it. I’m going insane. I’m going insane and the only way I can save myself is to pass through that fucking ticket barrier.
No. Don’t pass through.
I must.
Yes. Pass through and save yourself.
No, no, no, no, no, no . . .
The barrier loomed ahead of Mark like the portal to Hell. The official stood in his small cubicle looking at him as he approached. He was smiling and holding out his hand for Mark’s ticket. There was something about that smile. Something that seemed to say: Roll on up. You can do it, boy. Come on. Let’s have your ticket for the sixpenny ride.
Mark turned his head away mechanically, like an automaton, as he proffered his ticket. He did not want to see the man’s face again in case it changed into something else. Something that was the last thing in the world he wanted to see. Oh God, I’m going to be sick. Hold it. Hold it in. Now, move. Let it take control. Give in to it.
The inspector handed Mark his ticket and he took it with nerveless fingers. Was that really his hand? Was he really, even now, walking on through the ticket barrier and up the ramp? People were pushing past him as he moved. He was doing it again. Something had taken command of his body, just like in his dreams, and he was walking up the ramp. He was a passenger in his own body. He was walking over the bridge that spanned the King’s Cross line now, looking down to the criss-cross rails. The fear was frozen inside him in suspended animation; a knot of curled fear in a glass cage. The Impulse had won. He had let it win. And it was telling him how good everything was going to be now that he had finally seen sense.