by Mark Morris
I mused on this. After some of the hippy chicks I’d seen around town, that didn’t sound like the worst idea.
“Anyway,” he said, “everyone told them they shouldn’t come up here. The Branch Line doesn’t lead anywhere, and it’s haunted. But these hippies, they think they know fucking everything. No one hears anything from them for about two days. And then suddenly, the bird turns up at The Fox and Badger… you know, on Vicarage Lane?”
I nodded, intrigued. I wasn’t sure there’d been any such thing as hippies ten years earlier, but The Fox and Badger was a real pub, and it was accessible from Loomin Lane, a farm track which ran underneath the Branch Line about a mile ahead of us.
“None of the blokes were ever seen again,” Brian added. “But this bird… she was starkers, and her hair had turned snow-white. Her bush too.”
“Get out of it!” I snorted.
“It’s true!”
“Her bush!”
“Everyone’s heard that story. I’m surprised you haven’t.”
“What did she say had happened?”
“She didn’t. She’d gone totally nuts.” Brian was po-faced as he recalled the tragedy. “All they got out of her was this baby babble. She finished up in a loony bin, and no one’s had a sensible word out of her since.”
I decided that this was a pack of lies. I felt certain I’d have heard about it if some hippy chick had turned up naked at a local pub with her hair and pubes bleached white. Even so, it was a disturbing story. Again, I was aware how heavy the summer heat lay on the deep foliage to either side of us. Much of it had now advanced down the embankments, enclosing us even more, creating a green tunnel-like atmosphere.
“I don’t know if I believe that one either, if I’m honest,” Brian said. “Sounds a bit lurid.”
I nodded, unsure what ‘lurid’ meant, though it sounded like the right kind of word.
“There’s another story which comes from a bit further back,” he added. “And this one I actually do believe because my dad told me.”
Must be true, I thought, if it comes from mad Mr. O’Rourke.
“Back in the early Fifties, when trains were still coming along here, he knew this bloke who worked in the old signal box.”
“I didn’t know there was a signal box,” I said.
“It’s not too far ahead of where we are now. Third of a mile, I’d say.”
I squinted forward, that disorienting, straight-as-an-arrow cutting tapering into a distant indistinct haze. Here and there, the rails broke through the vegetation, but you didn’t need that to know you were following a railway line, or what remained of one. In that regard, it didn’t seem too unlikely there’d be an abandoned signal box.
“Anyway,” Brian said, “this bloke worked the night shift. On his own, of course.”
“Bet that was bloody boring,” I said.
“Spooky, more like. Didn’t bother him though… because his wife had recently died, so he was happy to work nights. Until something happened that really put the shits up him.”
He let that hang.
“Go on,” I said. “What was it?”
“He starts hearing someone calling his name. Outside, on the railway. Whenever he looks out, he sees nothing… just darkness. But it keeps happening. Night after night. And it’s like a woman’s voice. First couple of nights, he just assumes it’s some kids messing about.”
“Some kids and a woman?” I said dubiously.
“Well, you know… older kids. Some set of dickheads trespassing on the railway. But he can’t work out how they know his name. The last night, the night before he quits, he hears it again. This time it’s a lot closer, like, whatever it is, it’s right outside. Now, he doesn’t dare look, because suddenly he doesn’t want to see what it is. But the next thing, he hears this clattering on the rungs of the ladder leading up to the signal box door…”
Despite his OTT spooky tone, I found my hair creeping.
“Anyway, he rushes to the door and puts the bolt on – and just in time. Immediately, the door starts rattling, the latch going up and down. He hears this voice again, calling his name. And while it sounds female, it’s horrible as well… it’s like a squawk, like a crow or something.”
He lapsed into silence as we plodded along.
“How did he live to tell the tale?” I eventually asked.
Brian’s expression became serious, almost reverential. “He dropped to his knees and prayed. First to his dead wife… you know, asking for protection. Then to God himself. And this thing… well, it just went away.”
Looking back on it, that was the obvious way a church-going hardman like Mr. O’Rourke would have wrapped up a ghost story. But while I don’t dismiss the possibility of a benign deity, even as a child I knew that if it was that simple there’d be no disasters in the world. That said, it didn’t seem completely implausible that a prayer could turn away evil. After all, that was how most of the Hammer movies were resolved.
“And he never worked there again?” I said.
“Would you have?”
I couldn’t answer that, just glanced behind me. We must have come a mile by now, which meant we weren’t even halfway along the Branch Line, though we were deep into it. I had no idea where, if we were to cut out of it at this point, we would actually go. Even if we were on the Hanbury Hall estate, it was extensive woodland crisscrossed by a maze of footpaths that could have led us anywhere.
“Just out of interest,” he said, “you had your first wank yet?”
If anything could have distracted me from my disquiet, it was a question like that.
I glanced at him, stunned, but Brian was now chirpy and businesslike.
“Don’t be embarrassed if you haven’t. I’ll show you how.”
Even anticipating the dozens of naked women I was about to feast my eyes upon, this gave me pause for thought. Yes, I was eager. But it had never occurred to me that I was going to be expected to play with myself. Certainly not with Brian O’Rourke offering instructions.
“Anyway, we’re here,” he said, stopping abruptly.
I glanced around, puzzled. Lush heavy leaf hung to left and right, the cutting still tapering away in front and behind. Nothing looked any different from the last God-knew-how-many-thousands of yards we’d traversed. “You sure?”
“That big stone marks the spot.” He pointed down at a heavy piece of squared-off masonry half buried just to the left of the track. “Okay, right…” For some reason now, his posture was stiffer, and he wore a slight frown.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He hunkered down and pushed open a dense mass of knotweed, reaching through it and pulling out a raggedy bin-liner that was bulging at its seams. Immediately, I saw splashes of colour through the rents in it and for half a second went a little dizzy. Clearly, there weren’t just magazines in there, there were lots of magazines, and yet all the way here I’d half assumed he’d been conning me, that I’d been lured to the Branch Line mainly to be Brian’s new friend. This was a very agreeable surprise.
And yet his body language was strange. He stood rigid, clinging to the bag with both hands. Suddenly, his eyes were roving everywhere; he would not look me in the face.
“Thing is,” he said, “you’ve got to be grown up about this.”
“Yeah, sure.” I wasn’t really listening; I just wanted to get to the girls.
“No, Ricky… we’re not kids anymore.” His tone intensified, but he still wouldn’t look at me. “This is adult material, and we have to behave like adults when we use it.”
“Okay…”
“I’m serious. If I’m going to let you look at this stuff, I have to know I can trust you.”
“Brian, what the hell are you talking about?”
Now he did look at me, his expression grave. “This is our secret, Ricky. As far
as I’m concerned, it’ll only ever be our secret. No one else will know about it.”
“Just open the fucking bag!”
He gazed at me hard, as if unnerved by my impatience. Finally he flung his arms apart and the bin-liner fell to the ground. It was so tattered that it burst open and maybe thirty magazines spilled out.
I dropped to my haunches, grinning like a chimp.
But it didn’t take long for my enthusiasm to flag. I might have been young and immature where sexual matters were concerned, but I was old enough to know that the sight of naked male buttocks did nothing for me, much less the sight of naked male appendages, either flaccid or otherwise (and given that this merchandise clearly was imported, the vast majority were otherwise).
“These… these are poofter mags,” I said, glancing up.
He watched me nervously.
“Where are the ones with the birds in?” I demanded.
“You sure that’s what you want, Ricky?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I was frustrated and bewildered, but I still tried to laugh as I got back to my feet. “You saying you brought me all the way out here to look at some dicks and balls? What’s wrong with you…?”
And then it dawned on me.
My mouth sagged open, my eyes widened in shock.
He came forward urgently, grabbing me by the wrist. “Look, Ricky… you of all people. You must understa…”
“Me of all people? What the fuck, Brian!” I yanked my arm free.
“It’s not so bad,” he said. “It’s really not.”
A whole rush of understanding came over me.
About why he’d not told the others. About why he’d never dared hide this find anywhere near his own home. A copy of Penthouse falling out of the cupboard might have merited a thick ear, but this…?
“You’re a queer,” I stated flatly. “A fucking bender.”
“No, I’m not!” he insisted, his cheeks blazing. “Don’t say that, Ricky.”
“Or what… you going to hit me with your pink furry slippers?”
“Look…” He scuttled back and forth like a deranged crab, before swooping on the heap of glossy mags and grabbing two, hanging them open as he offered them to me.
“Just try it, yeah? Just give it a go.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I backed away along the cutting.
“Ricky, wait!” he pleaded, almost tearful. “Look… it’s just sex. It’ll turn you on. Look… I just thought we could have a bit of fun together. To see what it’s like.”
“And you’re seriously telling me you’re not queer?”
“Where are you going?” He was actually crying now.
“Where do you think?”
“It’s not that way.”
“The bridge over Loomin Lane is this way. I can still get home.”
“Look… just hang on.”
I couldn’t take any more. The shock revelation, the predatory nature of his bringing me here, how dense I was to have perceived all these warning signs and not read them, and now tears – genuine, honest-to-goodness tears – streaming down his pathetic face.
I turned and walked forcefully away, determined to put distance between us.
“Ricky, wait!”
I glanced back and saw him crouched down, frantically trying to shove magazines back into what remained of the bin-liner. Hurriedly he straightened up and slung the sack one-handed into the undergrowth, before running after me.
“Look, I’m not queer!” he insisted.
“Save it for your mum and dad. Maybe they’ll believe you… after your dad’s knocked your fucking brains out on the shelf over the fireplace.”
“You’re not going to tell anyone!” He was coming up behind me fast, but there was a plea in his voice rather than a threat.
“Am I not?” I said over my shoulder.
“You came up here too.”
“Yeah, because you lied to me. And I’ve got a shedload of witnesses. All the lads heard you say these were proper girlie mags.”
“I thought we could at least be mates!”
Sensing that he was right behind me, I spun to face him. He stopped short, only to stand there sniffling, wiping at his tear-begrimed cheeks.
“Look, I’ve always liked you, Ricky. You’re the only lad who’s not given me a shit time while I’ve been at school.”
“Brian… treating you like a human being was not inviting you to have sex with me.”
“It’s not about the sex. Look… that was nothing. It was just supposed to be an ice-breaker.”
“An ice-breaker?” I shook my head, before turning and walking again.
“We can still be mates.” He hurried to keep up. “I mean close mates. Proper mates.”
“Once and for all, Brian, I’m not what you’re looking for.”
“But I’ve no one else to talk to about it.”
I glanced back one final time, feeling there was no option but to tell him to piss off, that I’d had enough of his weird, over-the-top shite – only to stop in my tracks.
Brian’s look of torture briefly faded. And then he realised I was staring past him.
“Someone’s here,” I said.
He turned fast. Presumably, like me, his first fear was that, whoever it was, they might have been close enough to overhear us.
Half a second later that seemed like a minor concern.
A figure was approaching along the cutting. Initially it was too far away for me to observe any detail, but all the time I’d been here I’d been glancing over my shoulder, trying to suppress an odd feeling that someone might be following us. And each time there’d been no one there. Until now.
“Who is it?” I said, shielding my eyes against the sun.
Brian didn’t reply. Although the figure was still a couple of hundred yards away, there seemed to be something not quite right about it.
I presumed it was a woman, because it was wearing a long dress or gown. But although it moved slowly and awkwardly, it appeared to be advancing at pace. In what seemed the blink of an eye it almost halved the distance between us, and now we could see the figure in much more detail: how the dress hung to the floor in ragged folds; how, even from this range, the limbs and body inside it looked emaciated; how a veil hung over the face. And how, like the dress, that veil was an ugly green-grey colour, even though once it had clearly been white.
Slowly we began retreating.
When the figure waved a gloved hand, I half-relaxed, thinking it was Phelpsy or Doogie, playing some stupid game. Except that neither Phelpsy nor Doogie knew we were up here. Nobody did.
Then it called to us.
The voice was gruff, coarse, and the sound it made was more a squawk than a word.
We ran.
Literally turned and went pell-mell along the abandoned railway line. There was no shouting or gasping; we were dumbstruck but suffused with energy. We must have run a hundred metres in record time; Brian, who was no athlete, staying neck-and-neck with me. And yet we barely knew where we were headed for. The bridge over Loomin Lane was somewhere ahead, but I didn’t know how far. I glanced back once, an inner voice telling me there’d be no one there, that it had all been a mistake, a misunderstanding.
But that inner voice was wrong.
Not only was the figure still present, it was closer than before despite our headlong charge, maybe less than a hundred yards behind us. And still it wasn’t running; it hobbled and stumbled, and yet was visibly gaining on us. Only now did words burst from my throbbing, phlegm-filled chest.
“Run… bloody run!”
We did, and it called to us again. That same raucous, crow-like voice now so close that I could hear what it was saying.
“Brian.”
“Jesus!” I shouted. “It wants you.”
Brian wa
sn’t listening. He kept abreast with me but was evidently in trouble, froth seeping from his tight-clamped mouth, eyes bugging from a face turned lobster-red.
“Brian!” it cried again.
“This way!” Brian shrieked, veering sharply to the right, tripping as he tried to cross the rails, stumbling forward clumsily, just about keeping his feet.
On that side, half hidden amid towering foliage, stood a drab, decayed cabin perched atop the rusted frame of an understructure, its windows covered with plywood hoardings. It was the old signal box, the relic of the ladder still affixed to its right-hand side. At the top I saw a catwalk and an entry door hanging open on rank darkness.
“In there?” I shouted, dismayed.
“It’s the only way,” he panted. “We can lock the door.”
I followed him. It seemed like a lunatic plan, boxing ourselves in, but by now the thing was perhaps only thirty yards behind us.
Brian climbed the ladder first, blundering his way up in useless, knock-kneed fashion, constantly losing his footing. I hung below him, screaming and swearing. Any second I expected my legs or feet to be snatched from beneath me.
But the next thing, we were on the catwalk together. It creaked and tilted down as if about to break loose. Frantic, we barged through the door into the musty interior.
It was dim in there, the only light spearing down through an open skylight in the roof. Brian banged the door closed behind us, swore when he saw there was only one bolt remaining, near the top, and swore again when he found it thick and immobile with rust. I assisted, and together we managed to grind it into place. After that, we backed off, unsure what would happen next, hoping that this would be the end of it.
For several seconds there was no sound. Finally we glanced around. It was hot and stuffy in there, and completely bare, an empty box except for some broken planks and a few piles of leaves. There was certainly nothing we could use as a weapon, though perhaps a weapon wouldn’t be needed.
