Ghost Train

by Stephen Laws

  Too many people on the beach? Oh God, I’m sorry, Grace. If I’d known, I would have rung up the authorities; rung up the hotels and told them to cancel all their bookings.

  He thought that the holiday might have loosened her up a bit, made her relax. He remembered that night in the hotel when he had bought a bottle of expensive plonk from the hotel bar and had tried to talk her into doing it. She had laughed at him and told him just how pathetic she thought he was. What kind of marriage could you have if there wasn’t any sex, anyway? She hadn’t let him touch her since Angelina had been conceived. And, after the birth, it had always been completely out of the question. So, it had been a difficult birth. So what? Thousands of other mothers had difficult births and it didn’t affect their sex lives afterwards, did it? What kind of husband and wife never slept together? They even had separate beds after the birth, for crying out loud! He was a man like any other man – he needed it. But she shrank back from every approach he made. She couldn’t blame him if she found out what he had been doing ever since she had got pregnant and hung that ‘No Entry’ sign around her waist. He was a man. Even though she might think at times he was less than that. If you don’t think I’m a man, then why not give me a chance to prove it, you cow? If he didn’t get it sometimes, he would burst apart. What with the pressure and frustration at work, he was entitled to blow off a little steam. So what if he paid cash for it? He certainly wasn’t going to get it for free – not from Grace.

  They couldn’t even discuss it.

  What she needs is a good fucking. Whether she wants it or not.

  The thought sprang into his mind. It was a natural progression from his own thoughts but it seemed to have sprung independent and ready-­made into his mind.

  A good slapping around is what she deserves for everything she’s put you through. Ungrateful bitch. Doesn’t she know that she owes everything she’s got to you? Yeah . . .

  A young man bumped against Philip, trying to pass him.

  ‘There’s a line here!’ snapped Philip. The young man apologised and stood behind him, and his reaction, the look on his face, made Phil the Tiger feel good. He remembered that day nine years ago when Grace had felt the labour pains. It was nine o’clock in the evening. He was watching Kojak and she was sitting on the sofa reading some women’s magazine. When she first started complaining, he assumed that it was just the usual moans and groans. She had been like that every day since they found out that she was pregnant. But then he had realised that it was the time. He’d packed quickly and got her into the car with a minimum of fuss. Everything had worked out okay. There were no traffic snarl-­ups that she could have blamed on him and they arrived at the hospital without incident. They had taken her straight in and Philip followed. They had put a mask on him and he had gone into the delivery room. He could smell that peculiar antiseptic smell that always made him so afraid of hospitals; and when Grace’s labour started in earnest, he sat by his wife (just as he had promised he would) holding her hand. She began to squeeze it, as if she was hanging on for grim death and, oh God, it was terrible. He wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else so long as it was away from that delivery room. He didn’t want to stay and watch and listen . . .

  It was going to be a difficult birth. There were problems that had not been foreseen and when the nurse said that she thought he had better leave for the time being, Philip felt like getting up and dashing straight out of the room. He had left and he could still hear her cries. They seemed to have set up an echo which reverberated inside his head. He just couldn’t bear to be there any more. He had to get away.

  Fifteen minutes later he was standing in the bar knocking back brandies when Trudi walked in. She didn’t usually tout around pubs; he knew that she was strictly By Appointment Only, so business must have been bad. She made her way to the bar, not seeing him at first, casting a perfunctory glance around for potential customers. Her hair was piled up on her head in a style that had come and gone with the ’60s but which might have come back into fashion, and she was wearing that green mini skirt with the gold chain around the waist that always turned him on so much. She had the biggest pair he could ever remember seeing; all the more pronounced by the overly tight sweater she was wearing. When she saw him it was like greeting an old friend.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks, darling. Not being unfaithful to me, I hope,’ she said.

  Phil immediately began to feel much better. He bought her a brandy and she was nice to him; much nicer than that bitch Grace had ever been.

  As his car pulled up outside Trudi’s flat and he handed her a ten pound note, they had decided in the hospital that it was going to be a breech birth. Minutes later, in Trudi’s flat, Phil was lying on top of her on a rumpled bedstead. Her skirt was pulled roughly up around her waist, the gold chain clink-­clink-­clinking as he entered her. He pulled up her sweater to expose her breasts as she began to push against his hips, driving him inwards and moaning in perfect pretence: ‘Come on, Tiger. Come on . . . show me what you’ve got . . .’

  Grace watched Angelina drawing on the breath-­frosted window, writing her name in big, scrawling letters, and thought: There’s more of your father in you than there is of me. It’s not surprising, after all. You’re his child, not mine.

  Vividly she remembered the pain of bringing Angelina into the world, a pain that Philip had forced her to endure. That day in the delivery room – delivery room . . . delivery . . . as if I was a parcel to be opened, or something – was burnt into her mind. She had been to the expectant mothers’ classes, she knew just what to do and what to expect. The deep breathing and the pushing. But that still had not stopped her feeling as frightened as hell on the day. Nor had they told her what the pain would be like. She remembered clutching at the oxygen mask, screaming and sobbing because the pain was much greater than she had expected. And Philip sitting there, ineffectual as always.

  Why can’t you help me? she had almost howled. It’s all your fault, so why can’t you do something about the pain?

  Then her vision had blurred: the figures were swimming spectrally, looming above her with distorted hands and faces. But Philip was gone; her pathetic excuse for a husband had deserted her after promising that he would stay for the birth. She might have known that his one show of affection, his big decision to see the birth through with her, was nothing but a bloody sham. It was the least he could have done. In her pain, she realised just how much she hated him. And just how much she hated the small creature inside her.

  One of the nurses was saying that there were problems, but that there was nothing to worry about. She would have a lovely, healthy baby very soon.

  ‘Now come on, dear. Deep breaths. That’s it . . .’ And the pain had begun again, pain that she could never have believed possible.

  ‘. . . Come on, Tiger. Come on . . .’ And Philip had let her have it, had really let her have it. He was showing her just what it was all about. And she was saying: ‘Oh yes, yes, I’m sorry . . . I never realised . . .’

  . . . And the pain was so great and it was all his fault and, oh my God, I hate you, Philip, I hate the first time I ever set eyes on you, hate the time I let you touch me . . .

  ‘. . . I’ll show you, Grace. You like it, Grace, don’t you? Don’t you . . . ?’

  . . . And I hate this . . . hate this . . . parasite you’ve put inside me. Damn you, Philip, and damn your child, damn you to hell for what you’ve done to me . . .

  . . . Coming . . . coming . . . coming inside the bitch. That’s it . . . screw the bitch . . . screw . . .

  . . . Damn you to hell . . .

  . . . Dying away now . . . going . . . drifting away . . . drifting . . .

  . . . Damn you, damn you, damn you, damn you, damn you damn you . . .

  ‘Oh, Mrs Gascoyne! You’ve got a lovely baby girl . . .’

  And Something that rode the lines could see that its long wai
ting had been justified. Could see how good it was . . . a perfect union, built on hate . . . so rare to find . . . how nice was the Tasting . . . and how easily could such empty vessels be filled. The Time was almost upon them . . . almost . . .

  Angelina was listening to the sound that the train was making on the railway lines when her Daddy came back with the lemonade. She had been listening for ages, it seemed; listening to its lilting rhythm.

  Kuh-­huh kuh-­huh duh-­diddle duh-­huh.

  Kuh-­huh kuh-­huh duh-­diddle duh-­huh.

  It was like a nursery rhyme in a foreign language, thought Angelina. There were words in there, she was sure, and if she listened for long enough, perhaps they would become clearer. Perhaps she could hear what they were trying to say.

  Daddy had placed the lemonade can on the table in front of her but he had forgotten to bring Mummy’s coffee and she was mad. Angelina was too busy listening to the nice train noise to notice the funny look in Daddy’s eyes. He was telling Mummy to follow him forward to the next carriage. He had something very important to show her and Mummy was telling him not to be so stupid and to sit down. But Daddy was insisting that she go, and everyone was looking at her now and she was really getting angry because she didn’t want to be disturbed. The two girls sitting across the way were smiling and shaking their heads and she could tell that Mummy didn’t like that very much, either.

  Kuh-­huh kuh-­huh duh-­diddle duh-­huh

  Duh-­diddle duh-­huh hey diddle diddle

  the cat and the fiddle . . .

  Mummy was getting up now and telling Daddy that this had better be really important or he was going to be for it. Daddy was telling her that they’d be back in a minute, telling Angelina to drink her pop like a good little girl, but she hadn’t really wanted it. She’d just wanted to get him into trouble for being so spiteful. And perhaps she should have been curious about what it was that Daddy thought was so important, but Angelina didn’t care. She just wanted to sit and listen to the sound. Because she was sure that there were words in there somewhere; that the train was speaking to her in some strange way, using words that she couldn’t understand at the moment, but that she would make out if she listened for long enough. It was trying to tell her something . . . something . . . and it was going to be nice, she knew.

  Kuk-­kuh kuh-­huh duh-­diddle duh-­huh . . .

  Grace followed reluctantly behind Philip as he bustled ahead of her, aware of the faces on her back, sensing the sniggers and the snide comments. What on earth was the matter with him? They reached the furthest end of the carriage and Philip was pulling open the door, looking at her and beckoning with an idiot grin on his face. Something was wrong with that grin. She couldn’t quite understand why it made her feel uneasy. It was . . . well, glacial.

  She stormed past him into the enclosed connecting section of the train which separated the two carriages, hearing the door slide shut behind them. Turning furiously with hands on hips, she saw that he was just standing, still smiling that idiot’s smile at her.

  ‘All right, Philip. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

  Philip smiled that crooked smile again and held a finger up to his lips indicating that he wanted her to be quiet. He looked at the toilet door. It was engaged. Grace could feel anger bubbling up and over.

  ‘Take that stupid smile off your face and tell me what’s going on . . .’

  The toilet door opened and an elderly man bundled out, looking slightly embarrassed to see them standing there. Grace bit down on the string of abuse she was about to hurl at Philip until the old man passed out of sight into the next carriage. The slight wait served to cool the worst excess of her temper.

  ‘Now what . . . ?’

  Philip was still smiling as he seized her roughly by the arm and shoved her into the toilet. The unexpected force took her completely by surprise as she clattered into the small cubicle, hearing him follow behind her, slamming the door and locking it. The noise of the train seemed somehow more accentuated within the close confines of the cubicle. Grace turned furiously, ready to aim a blow at the stupid grin on Philip’s face. But he had taken her arms and thrust her backwards against the wall, banging her leg on the toilet seat.

  ‘Philip . . .’ she cried out in rage and pain, but his hand was over her mouth and he had pinned her to the wall. She had never realised how strong he was. She could not move and she was very, very frightened as Philip’s face pressed closely to hers and she could see his fixed, glittering eyes. My God, she thought, he’s gone mad. He’s insane! And now he was pulling at the buttons on her skirt. Her arm flapped out uselessly, trying to stop him, but he slammed her back again, pulling the skirt down, letting it drop around her knees. He began to claw at her slip.

  Oh my God, she thought. He’s going to rape me. My own husband’s going to rape me!

  Philip was grunting like an animal as he fumbled with his own clothing, and all Grace could see were those staring, glacial eyes as he thrust roughly at her. The pain of the forced entry made her gag against Philip’s sweating palm. She tried to bite him, but now he was finally inside, ramming her hard against the toilet wall.

  And, as he entered, that which was in him entered also. It was no longer rape. Grace’s hands moved up around Philip’s neck, braced on his shoulders, and Philip took his hand away from her mouth, because it was all right now. Yes, it was all right. It was a frenzied, torrid coupling, unlike anything they had ever experienced before. It was ten years of pleasure denied. They submitted to it, revelled in it, savoured it greedily. It was a hard, unrefined pleasure, mutually selfish and savage. When they came, they came together like the magazine stories that Grace read so much. And the coming was like the flowering of a dark, violet flower; blossoming and spreading like black fire in their veins and merging their two selves into one flesh. It was a dark tasting of forbidden fruit. A taste of gratification, dark fulfilment and orgiastic pleasure. But it had nothing to do with love.

  When the straight-­backed woman and her loopy husband came back to their seats, the two girls sitting opposite looked up from their Mah Jong game expecting an entertaining family squabble. But when they saw that great big vapid grin on both their faces, it looked like everything was okay, after all. They’d had their ‘grown-­up’ talk out of earshot of the kid and everything was just fine. They were holding hands when they sat down together opposite the kid, which was pretty twee for such a sour-­faced middle-­aged couple. They were looking at each other now as if they were sharing some great big Secret that no one else in the world could know. Big deal.

  Philip and Grace were looking at Angelina expectantly as she sat staring out of the window. She was humming in an abstract kind of way. It was a humming that somehow seemed to match the clattering of the rails as the train hurtled on towards Newcastle. It might have seemed to an outside observer that two over-­protective parents were waiting with indulgent anticipation while their daughter tried to solve some simple problem of mental arithmetic.

  Angelina was smiling now. The mistiness of her expression was clearing and she was sitting forward, still humming. Except that now she knew the melody. Now, she could understand the words. She reached her hands across the table towards her parents and they leaned forward too, each clasping one small white hand. All three of them clasping hands, huddled forward and looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Oh and smiling, always smiling. A smile of wolf and wolverines.

  Angelina was the fruit of their loins, after all.

  Now, they were all one flesh.

  Four

  Aynsley hid in the darkest recess of a dilapidated and abandoned railway carriage which, many years before, had been shunted onto a rusted stretch of line overgrown with weeds and dandelions. The carriage nestled there amid a haphazard jigsaw of railway sidings and tracks in the goods yard. Far away, the distant rumblings in the rails indicated that life continued. But in the isolated yard, there
was no movement. No indication of life.

  He crouched in a corner amongst the accumulated filth of years, his tailored Savile Row suit torn, one sleeve flapping uselessly. There were ragged marks on his upper cheeks and temples where he had gouged his hands across his face. Blood and rust were caked in his hair. He was sitting in a pool of diesel oil and he could feel its slimy wetness on his thighs. But he knew he could not move . . . dare not move . . . until the Voice in his head told him what to do. And so he had remained for the last fifteen hours, after his headlong and terrified flight had brought him gasping to the goods yard. He had been trying to escape. But he knew now that he could never escape and that he had to do what the Voice said. It was in his head and it had guided him to the goods yard, because this was part of its domain.

  He was curled up tightly like a foetus in the corner, knowing that he must remain as still as he could, because that was what he had been told to do. He remembered one day when he was a little boy at school and the class had been particularly noisy. The form teacher had told everyone to be quiet for five minutes just to see how quiet they could be. So they had sat without speaking, listening to the silence. But Aynsley had been better than that today, much better than that. A mouse had scampered across his leg, not knowing that he was there and alive. Now wasn’t that ever so quiet? He hoped that the Voice would be pleased by that.

  Slats of murky light had been shining through the deteriorating panelling of the carriage walls and he had watched as the angle of the beams had slowly shifted. He had watched them creep across the littered floor towards him as the sun rose and moved across the sky. The sun was setting now, he realised, and the light was only three feet from his head. The Voice had told him to hide in the darkness, not to be seen in the light, and not to move. But Aynsley knew that if he stayed there much longer without moving, the nearest thin splinter of light would find him in his hiding place and he would be forced to move. He would be forced to seek out another dark corner. But that would mean disobeying one of the Voice’s direct orders and the prospect of the advancing finger of light made him quiver in dreadful apprehension. Sweat crept down his face and across his nose in rivulets. He would have to move. And when the Voice came back, it would know that he had disobeyed. He was moaning now, darting nervous glances around the carriage, looking for some solution to his problem. And suddenly, he had it.