by Paul Berry
‘Won’t someone steal it?’ I ask.
‘That’s the plan. Then they won’t be able to connect us to Randolph.’
‘Very clever.’
‘I’m glad one of us was awake during Murder She Wrote.’
Snow begins to fall, creating another sodden layer on the pavement like cold gravy. We walk to the station in silence, past shop windows that are already selling Christmas decorations, and I stop and stare through one with an artificial tree wrapped in red and gold tinsel, remembering all the Christmas mornings when it was just me and my dad opening presents.
Strangely, the Christmas after my mother was gone had been one of the happiest for him, as though some burden had disappeared from his life.
On top of the tree is a metal star, a pentagram. In the centre is a glass eye, the iris flecked with green. One of the presents surrounding the base shudders slightly as though something is trying to force its way out.
Rachel steps back and pulls me away. ‘I should call my parents. They might be back from holiday by now.’
‘But you said they’re probably members of the Syncret.’
‘If I tell them the Syncret’s after us, maybe they’ll divert them away if they give half a shit about me. They might also stop my brother returning to Preston and this fucked-up life.’
We find a telephone box, the glass panels bisected with half-moons of frost. The inside is rancid with piss and stale tobacco, the plastic around the dial pitted with cigarette burns. She dials the number.
‘Answer phone,’ she whispers. ‘Hi, Mum, Dad. I’m with Sam. We’re going away for a few days – Brighton. Don’t worry, we’ll be back by the end of the week.’ She slams down the receiver. ‘At least it might stop the Syncret snapping at our heels for a while if they listen to the message first and are dumb enough to believe it.’
‘I shouldn’t have dragged you into this,’ I say.
‘This was all going to happen sooner or later. At least we’re doing something to stop them.’
A car pulls up beside the telephone box.
‘Shit!’ I peer through the frosted glass. The driver’s door clicks open. Rachel slides the gun from her jacket.
An elderly couple get out. The man takes a small carpet bag from the boot and hands it to the woman, kisses her on the cheek, then drives off as she walks down the wide cobbled road leading to the front of the station.
‘She might try and attack us with her handbag.’ Rachel tucks the gun back into her pocket.
‘How do you know how to use a gun? You’re like a lady James Bond.’
‘When I lived in America, my mum used to take me to a firing range to practise. She said that children should be able to protect themselves.’
‘Sounds like she was preparing you for something.’
‘I think in some fucked-up way she knew what was coming.’ Rachel opens the telephone box door and I shiver as the cold rushes in. We walk down the cobbled road and enter the station, joining the ticket queue behind the old woman. As we wait, I nervously look around the station for the police. The woman walks off with her ticket and I step to the counter.
‘Two singles for New Innsmouth.’
The ticket man taps his keyboard and shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t exist. Are you sure you’ve got the right place?’
I’m getting increasingly anxious. ‘Can you check again? It’s definitely real. It’s near Exeter.’
He jabs more buttons on his keyboard, stares at the screen and sighs with exasperation. ‘There’s still no town called …’ I am about to get out the map when he looks oddly at the screen and rubs his eyes. ‘My mistake … there’s a train leaving in fifteen minutes to St Ives that stops in New Innsmouth.’
‘That’s perfect.’
He quickly punches a few more keys and prints out the tickets. ‘Have a good trip.’ He hands them to me with a blank expression, his voice a monotone.
Besides the police arriving, I’m feeling paranoid that anyone could be a member of the Syncret. A woman pushing a pram down the platform looks over at me and I freeze, expecting her to start screaming like a pod person from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. She smiles and embraces the man who has walked past me.
We sit on a wooden bench and I look around the train station, every face a threat. The floor starts spinning as I struggle to catch my breath. When the vampire was inside me, it restrained my anxiety. Now my fears are starting to have free rein again and a panic attack is starting to germinate.
‘Sam, just breathe,’ Rachel says.
‘My pills. They’re in my bedroom,’ I say, convinced for a moment that I’m sitting on the couch in my living room.
‘We’re just gonna have to try and get through this without them.’ She starts counting backwards from ten, telling me to concentrate on every number. The swirling mass of anxiety starts to recede. ‘I thought for a second you were gonna pass out.’
My stomach cramps sharply and I taste bile in the back of my throat. ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I say, getting up and looking towards the toilets opposite the bench.
‘Are you sure you can do this? We could hide out somewhere until you feel better.’
I shake my head. ‘I just need a few minutes and I’ll be fine.’ I walk shakily into the toilets, the ceiling curved like the roof of a cave, and grimace when the bleach fug burns my nostrils.
There is nobody inside, the only sound the subterranean drip from the urinal. I enter an empty cubicle, lock the door and lift up the toilet seat as a wave of nausea brings up a mouthful of bile and tea. I kneel down and spit it into the bowl, relieved to see it disperse in the water without any sign of the black threads. The tiles beneath me are stained yellow, grime caked between the cracks.
Something bulges beneath them and I jerk up in horror.
The dirty tiles undulate, then split apart, sliding over each other like playing cards to create a jagged black hole. I press my back against the cubicle door and stare down into the abyss.
My dad’s face suddenly appears in the darkness and reaches out his arm, his fingertips blindly scraping the edge of the hole.
‘Sam … help me!’
I bend down and grab his hand, determined not to let go again. ‘Hold on!’
As I pull, something yanks him back down and his hand slips through my fingers.
‘No!’ I shout.
Tentacles slither across his face and into his screaming mouth. The hole collapses shut, the tiles sliding back over each other. I bang my fists against the floor.
‘Bring him back!’ There is a sharp knock on the cubicle door.
‘Are you ok?’ I slide back the lock and open it. One of the station guards is standing behind it, awkwardly adjusting his cap. ‘I heard a scream.’
‘I’m fine.’ I rub my eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. ‘Trains … they make me nervous.’
He gives me a consoling smile. ‘Have a safe journey travelling beyond the spheres.’ I stare at him and he looks at me blankly like the man at the ticket desk. Before he can reply, I push past him back to the platform.
‘I saw my dad.’
Rachel stands up from the bench. ‘What?’
‘In the Datum, with him – with Hastur. I tried to pull him out, but I lost my grip.’
‘Are you sure what you saw was real?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. I can still feel his hand in mine.’ I rub my eyes and forehead. ‘I don’t know. It felt real.’ Anxiety beats a tattoo in my chest. Was I just hallucinating or did I really see my dad?
The train pulls up to the platform. Several of its doors open with metallic creaks as crumpled passengers get off. Rachel is staring down at the platform.
‘Oh fuck.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Get on the train.’
Walking towards us is my mother.
She is holding an elegant yellow umbrella, shielding her face from the shafts of dawn light filtering through the grubby skylights of the station roof. The people walking past her don’t acknowledge her presence, as though she is invisible to them. The low-hanging lamps in the station begin to flicker. She stops, reaches inside her suit jacket, pulls out a square of paper, unfolds it and waves it coquettishly like a fan.
It’s the picture I drew of New Innsmouth.
She smiles and knowingly nods her head. She comes closer, fixing me with eyes that burn sodium yellow, pulling me into them. I think about reaching into the backpack and handing her the crystal. It could all end here and I’d finally be able to stop running.
‘Sam, get on the fucking train!’ Rachel shouts. The trance is broken and I step inside. The guard slams the door and the train’s engine chugs into life. I look through the door window. My mother is standing behind the guard, her hand caressing his shoulder. He is completely unaware of her presence as the train crawls painfully slowly down the tracks. She raises her palm to her mouth and blows me an exaggerated kiss.
Not a goodbye kiss, but one that implies she will see me soon.
3
NEW
INNSMOUTH
Chapter 31
We sit in an empty carriage and watch the town blur past, eventually turning into fields intersected by meandering stone walls.
‘I’ve been such a shit friend,’ Rachel says suddenly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘With Terry and the rest of those skidmarks. I should have stuck up for you more.’
‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’
‘But it does. What happened at the disco was my fault. And then you wouldn’t have ended up going to the park.’
‘Eventually I was going to come apart. If it wasn’t the disco it would’ve been something else.’
‘I promise my next boyfriend won’t be a complete dick.’
‘Let’s not be too optimistic.’
‘Speaking of boyfriends, you should get in touch with Bruce when this is all over. He was the one who went looking for you first. He’s definitely fallen for your ample charms.’ My face cracks into a grin. ‘Ha haa! You have the hots for him!’
‘Well, it’s never going to happen. It’s not like we can just stroll back into Preston and pretend everything’s normal again. We’re already at the top of the Syncret’s kill list.’
Rachel’s face turns pale. ‘I forgot for a moment we’re running for our lives.’
‘Do you wish you’d just stayed at home?’
‘Absolutely not. I’ve been aching for an adventure like this my whole life.’
‘We might die.’
‘It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door.’
‘Are you quoting Tolkien?’
‘If a couple of short men with hairy feet can defeat the ultimate evil, then there’s hope for us.’
The sky darkens with storm clouds and hail rattles like dried peas against the window. The rocking of the carriage lulls us into a relaxed trance and Rachel soon falls asleep, her head propped on my shoulder.
The train ploughs into a tunnel, the pressure change making my ears pop, and I clamp my hands to my ears to block out the rise and fall of its blasting horn. The lights in the carriage dim to infernal red as though the train is travelling to the centre of the earth, traversing through its outer layers to the fiery mantle beneath. After about a minute it bursts out of the tunnel. Behind the window it is twilight, patchwork fields rolling into the distance. I nudge Rachel awake and point outside.
She yawns and looks out. ‘Is it evening already? I must have dozed into a coma.’
‘We can’t have been on the train for more than an hour.’
She rubs her eyes. ‘That’s impossible. It was early morning when we left.’
‘What time does it say on your watch?’
She turns her wrist and looks at it. ‘Eight p.m. You probably fell asleep too and didn’t realise.’
I wriggle anxiously in my seat.
‘I’m sure we’re just stressed out and our brains are on the fritz.’ Rachel has slipped into her American accent. I sigh and reach up, pulling down the plastic window shutter, the night-time view feeling oppressive.
She leans into the aisle. ‘Was the train this dirty before we left?’ I grab the top of the seat in front of me and stand up, looking around. There is a layer of dust coating all the seats, the fake leather now cracked and ancient. The windows are covered with soot and grime, the air mildew-stale.
The tannoy crackles into life. ‘New Innsmouth.’ The train slows, then jolts to a stop, acrid diesel fumes filling the carriage, and the engine dies to a low rumble.
‘I guess we should get off,’ I say. The lights flicker and for a moment I think we’ll be plunged into darkness. We walk towards the doors. One of the seat trays has a styrofoam cup full of black liquid, patches of bluish mould trembling on its surface. The door creaks open by itself on rusty hinges and Rachel gets off first, offering her hand as I step down to the platform, lashing rain turning her hair into wet ringlets. The lights inside the carriage go out and the door slams shut behind us.
The engine growls into life as we run under the eaves. The outside of the train is flaking blue paint, encrusted with dirt and graffiti. As it rushes past, I glimpse a crudely spray-painted message.
Welcome Home S and R
‘Did you see that?’
She nods. ‘S and R. Sam and Rachel. It’s just a coincidence.’ She doesn’t believe it either. We watch the train disappear down the track, lightning tearing across the sky and briefly illuminating the rear windows. I see the vague outlines of figures behind the glass merge into one giant shadow.
Part of the track below the platform is missing, rusted away, weeds and detritus choking the sleepers. It would have been impossible for the train to travel on them without derailing and crashing into the embankment. I look at Rachel and her eyes are glazed with dread.
‘Should we go inside the station?’ she asks. ‘What happens in horror films when they do that?’
‘There’s usually a monster waiting for them.’
She delves in the backpack and takes out the gun, sliding it into her jacket pocket. ‘Then we’ll be prepared, as those scout boys say.’
The station is a small wooden room with a fluorescent tube blinking on the ceiling. The ticket office window is crudely boarded up, and rows of seats in the waiting area are coated with dust like the train. Some of them have been ripped from their frames and flung into a pile in the corner.
‘I guess it’s not a popular tourist destination,’ I say. ‘Except with vandals.’
There’s a crack of thunder and Rachel cries out. ‘Storms make me skittish.’
I point through the doors outside, where a black cab is waiting, water sloshing around its tyres.
‘It could be another trap,’ Rachel says nervously.
‘We’ll drown in the rain if we try to walk.’
We leave the station, flinching as the rain hits us, and I tap on the driver’s window. It rolls down and he looks at us suspiciously.
‘Can you take us to a hotel?’ I ask.
‘The Dorchester usually has rooms,’ he says. I look at Rachel in hesitation. ‘Make your mind up. I’m not waiting here all night.’ Rachel puts her hand inside her gun pocket as we climb in.
We seem to be driving next to a promenade and I smell sea brine. I take a deep breath and have a vivid memory of being at the beach with my dad, laughing as the sandcastle we built too close to the sea crumbles under a wave. Under a striped parasol is my mother, wearing large round sunglasses and a hat, her lips pursed in irritation.
I stare out of the window. In between the clouds that scurry across the moonlit sky, I can see stars peeping out. I find Orion and count. There are four stars,
one extra that I have never seen before. I blink and try to count them again, but the constellation disappears behind a bank of cloud. I remember the red star that was shining above Adam’s house and turn to tell Rachel, but she is nodding off against the window.
I lay my head against the seat and wonder if my dad can see a sky where he is. He works as an electronic engineer for a company whose name I can never remember (I told him it sounded like a disease, which made him laugh cola from his nose). I once decided to feign interest in his job and asked him exactly what he did, and he told me it was designing new microchips which one day would make phones small enough to hold in the palm of your hand. The one I saw on Tomorrow’s World looked like a plastic brick with buttons, the suited businessman using it looking self-conscious as he talked with it in the street.
‘But the electronic stuff will never get small enough to fit inside,’ I said.
‘Every year things get smaller, lighter, cheaper.’
‘We should just put chips in our brain, make calls that way.’
He gently tapped my head. ‘Excellent idea. Then I could wake you up in the morning by pressing a button.’
His hobby is astronomy. A few years ago, in 1986, he bought me a pair of binoculars so that we could watch Halley’s Comet. He set up two deck chairs in the middle of the garden.
‘It’s a bit late to go sunbathing,’ I said.
‘I thought we could catch some moonlight. You aren’t pale enough.’
After staring at the cloudy night sky for two hours and only glimpsing the occasional bat or aeroplane I groaned in boredom.
‘Can’t we just watch for it again when it returns?’
My dad laughed. ‘You want to wait another seventy-five years? By then my eyesight won’t be good enough for me to aim properly into the toilet.’ I laughed, but then felt sad.
‘I suppose I can look for a bit longer.’
‘That comet has been travelling through our solar system for millions of years but always returns to us like an eternal friend. It’ll keep coming back even after we’re both gone.’ He started talking about the universe, and I complained that if he wanted me to stay awake to watch the comet he should pick a more interesting subject.
