The War in the Dark

by Nick Setchfield

  Winter took a small, thoughtful breath. And then he spoke. ‘You don’t feel anything because you were taught to feel too much, too soon. I think this world is like a live cable to you. It’s coiled there in the corner, sparking. And it scares you. You know exactly what happens when you touch it. So you’ve made damn sure that you never touch it, not really. Not so that it hurts. You talk about being one with your knife but I think you keep everything – everyone – at arm’s length. You’ve numbed yourself.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ The word was glacial.

  ‘It’s true, though, isn’t it? You don’t get close to people. That’s obvious. I don’t think anybody could ever get close to you. Whoever you’re pretending to be at the time, of course.’

  ‘And you get close to people?’ asked Karina. ‘Really?’

  ‘Closer than you.’

  There was a quiver of motion in the air. Winter sensed it against his face, as near as a breath. He turned to see the knife embedded in the seat next to him. It had pierced the soft red fabric, exposing a yellow seam of stuffing.

  ‘Weighted just a little too much to the left,’ observed Karina. ‘I really must bear that in mind.’

  She reached over and plucked the knife from the train’s upholstery. As she leaned across him Winter caught the scent of tamarind on her neck, in her hair.

  ‘The circus clearly missed out on a rare talent,’ he said.

  She gave a compact smile. ‘Just like the psychiatric profession in your case, it seems.’

  Karina returned the block of flint to her bag. And then she carefully wrapped the blade in that day’s newspaper and placed that in the bag as well.

  ‘I don’t need you to make sense of me, Christopher. I know you’re trained to evaluate people in the field. You see them as a collection of moving parts, don’t you? Tics, idiosyncrasies, vulnerabilities: they’re all opportunities. Spot a traitor. Exploit a homosexual. Persuade an idealist to your nation’s cause. So when you say you get close to people… well, that’s all that you really mean, isn’t it? People are easier to take apart the closer you get to them.’

  Winter mulled this.

  ‘I think we’re both screwed,’ he concluded.

  The sunlight had suddenly dulled. Winter glanced out of the window and saw a bruise of clouds above the Alps. Spots of rain had begun to speck the glass. ‘Well, the weather’s certainly changed. I think there’s a storm waiting for us.’

  ‘We’re on the windward side of the mountains,’ said Karina. ‘It’ll blow over the peaks.’

  ‘That’s some wind.’

  ‘A foehn, they call it. A rain-shadow wind. They’re surprisingly warm. So warm that the people of the Alps know them as snow-eaters. They can melt the slopes. Sometimes they can flood entire valleys.’

  Winter regarded the sky as it darkened. The clouds cast charcoal shadows on the summits. ‘It’s come out of nowhere. No wonder these mountains are treacherous.’

  Ten minutes later the train slowed with a stench of brake fluid. It slid into a small Alpine station, all timber and flower baskets and chocolate machines. Winter saw the wind bother the hand-painted signs that hung from the corrugated arches above the platform, jostling their chains. A handful of passengers left the train. A handful stepped aboard. Soon the engine returned to life and the wheels began to grind again, building speed along the track.

  ‘We’re close to Daltzenwalt,’ noted Karina. ‘That last stop was Krugendam.’

  The door to the compartment sliced apart and closed again. A woman had entered, keeping her back to them as she manoeuvred her luggage. Winter watched the newcomer wrestle a leather portmanteau and a silk hatbox onto the silver rack above the seats. He found himself appreciating the elegance of the stranger’s legs, the trim, enticing curve of her skirt. He hadn’t permitted himself to feel arousal for quite some time. It came in a rush now.

  The woman settled into the seat opposite him. She placed herself next to Karina, close to the wide, rain-flecked window. She absently adjusted her blouse, smoothing a fold in the cotton. And then she looked up and smiled at Winter.

  It was Joyce’s smile.

  Winter stared. This was the face of his dead wife. He knew every detail of it. The chocolate dot of a mole beneath the lower lip, the one he had always made a point of kissing. The puckish tilt of the nose. And the eyes. He remembered those eyes looking back at him in bed, those first nights of marriage when they had held each other tightly into sleep to the sound of the BBC Home Service.

  It was the woman he had killed. It was Joyce. She was alive and sitting just across from him. He knew it was a lie. And she had been a lie too, of course, whoever he had been married to all those years. But just for a second his heart surged.

  The woman with Joyce’s face turned to the window, observing the sky with oddly empty eyes. The rain was gathering on the glass now, the beads hitting one another and splitting into streams. The downpour shimmered on the woman’s face, imprinted by the light from outside. As Winter watched her features seemed to run with the rain. In moments another face was there.

  The woman met his gaze again. This time she had the smile of a stranger. A woman who was almost Joyce. Almost.

  Winter felt his body go cold. He remembered Hatherly’s double, standing wordlessly beneath the streetlight in Notting Hill. And that man with Faulkner’s face they had fought in Berlin. What in God’s name were these creatures? Why were they hunting him?

  He glanced at Karina, trying to signal his unease. She shot back a puzzled look. Clearly she had seen nothing.

  There was a judder of light above the Alps, a flash so bright that it lit the window with a blue electric glow. The glass flared like an X-ray. Lightning cracked the sky above the peaks, illuminating the dark brawl of cloud, the forks fine and spidery. Seconds later there was a rolling groan of thunder. They were nearing the heart of the storm, at speed.

  Winter heard another noise then, only just discernible as the thunder faded. A scraping sound, the sound of nails, sharp enough to make glass squeal. He turned to the door of the compartment and glimpsed a bone-pale hand, slipping from view. It had scratched a long, ragged trail into the transparent surface. There was something feral about the marking, more animal than human.

  Winter got to his feet, buttoning his jacket to hide his holster. The woman watched him stand. Her eyes were filmy, gauze-like.

  He spoke to Karina. ‘I just need to stretch my legs, darling. Touch of cramp.’

  His eyes flicked to the woman. Then he looked at Karina again. ‘Keep your cutlery handy. You never know, you might need it.’

  Karina nodded her understanding. Winter reached for the door handle and slid it back. He stepped out of the compartment, shot Karina a final look and closed the door behind him. He traced a finger along the gouge in the glass. It had been etched unnervingly deep.

  The corridor was gloomy despite the wealth of reflective surfaces that made the Trans Europ Express feel so modern in sunlight. Winter walked along its dim, narrow length, feeling the train tilt and shift beneath his feet, the throb of the engine vibrating through the spine of the locomotive. The wind had begun to hit the windows, agitating the metal frames. The body of the train rattled and creaked around him.

  There was a pneumatic hiss from just ahead. Someone had activated the automatic door.

  Winter kept walking, passing the boxy chain of compartments that held the other passengers. Their occupants were in shadow, their faces turned away from him, everyone lost to the spectacle of the storm above the mountains.

  One man turned as Winter strode by. His face was blank, as featureless as stone.

  Winter kept his pace brisk as he moved down the corridor. The dining carriage was just ahead of him. He stepped through a succession of automated doors. They slid and hissed in sequence, leading him on, closing behind him.

  Winter entered the dining area. A rich mix of soup, meat and coffee instantly hit his nostrils. The gleaming carriage was full of people but there was no
noise, no hubbub, just a heavy, unnatural hush. Meals were untouched, drinks still high in their glasses. As one the figures at the tables turned their heads to regard him. None of them had eyes. He saw smooth, blind shells of flesh where faces should have been.

  The Widow of Kursk sat among them, all in black, as ever. She smiled her kitten smile beneath her veil.

  ‘Tobias! Such a pleasure. Do join us. It’s time you were told the truth about yourself.’

  28

  Winter’s first impulse was to reach for his gun. It felt futile even as his fingers found the handle of the weapon. Bullets against demons. A stolen Russian service pistol against things that were beyond human. Hopeless. Useless.

  His hand fell to his side, empty. He stood there as the train swayed, staring at the sightless throng of figures. There was something predatory about them, for all their silence and blankness. He felt the presence of something primal. Something that sensed his life and desired it.

  ‘What are these creatures?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, don’t be afraid of them,’ said the Widow. Her voice was poisonously smooth. ‘They’re part of the great order of things. Isn’t that how your kind refer to it?’ She gave another bloodless smile. ‘Yes. The great order of things. Words you use because you’re terrified your tiny world is really a mess of pain and chaos and unjustness. Quite a comfort to you in times of need, I imagine. And that’s every moment of your lives, really, isn’t it? Such sweet, breakable things you are.’

  The carriage rocked, buffeted by the force of the storm. As the train shook, the wall-lights flickered and dimmed. It was then that Winter saw the bodies of the waiters, discarded in the corners of the carriage. A pair of corpses, their heads reduced to stumps of flesh. Blood and cranial matter stained the walls behind them.

  He fought back his revulsion. ‘These things have followed me since London. I want to know what they are.’

  The Widow’s eyes glittered behind their lace shroud, black and deep. Winter sensed she was savouring this moment of revelation.

  ‘Very well. They have no true name, of course – I’m not even sure they have language, let alone thoughts – but over the centuries they have come to be called the Almost. I think it suits them, don’t you?’

  Winter grimaced as he heard the name. ‘The Almost? Almost what?’

  ‘Oh, just the Almost. You’ve seen the faces they steal. They’re almost the people you know, aren’t they? It’s how they get close to you. Once they have your scent.’

  Winter could feel the eyeless things regarding him. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Why, you, of course. Isn’t that obvious, Tobias?’

  He kept his words measured. ‘I’ve told you. My name is Christopher Winter. Now tell me why they’re here.’

  The sky splintered. The lightning was close. So close Winter could almost taste the voltage through the windows. He saw the Widow’s lace lit by blue light. For a moment the veil became transparent. The face beneath it was as old as the world.

  ‘There are borders,’ the Widow began. ‘Edges. Limits. Partitions. Life and death. The great and ancient opposition. It keeps things neat, don’t you think?’

  Winter felt an unease building inside him. It was bone-deep. He looked up at the skylight and saw the clouds spark and glimmer, riddled with electricity. ‘Keep talking.’

  The Widow continued. ‘There are those who defy the natural order of things. Souls who fall through the cracks between life and death. Alive, when they should be dead. They are judged to be aberrations. Irregularities. Nature hates mistakes.’

  ‘And the Almost? Why are they here?’

  ‘They cleanse the world,’ declared the Widow. ‘They hunt the mistakes. And they fix them. Gatekeepers, if you wish. They stand between the dead and the living. And they keep the great division pure.’

  She relished her words now. ‘I’m told you see them in your final moments, just at the point of your crossing. They wear the faces of the people you know. Friends. Loved ones. Your family. It’s a lie, of course. But I’m sure it helps.’

  Winter’s mouth was dry. ‘What do they want with me?’

  The carriage juddered. A couple of brandy glasses tumbled from a table and smashed. The wind struck with even more force than before. Now it had the strength to tilt the bulk of the train itself.

  The Widow set her mouth in mock sympathy. ‘Oh, Tobias. I thought you might have understood by now.’

  There was a taste of bile in Winter’s throat. He sensed his heartbeat quicken. ‘Tell me.’

  The Widow let the tip of her tongue play against her jagged teeth. She was definitely enjoying this.

  ‘Well, I imagine you’re meant to be dead, aren’t you?’

  The voice in his skull whispered again, closer than ever before. We are the Half-Claimed Man. He kept focus, forced himself to ignore it.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. How can I be dead?’

  ‘I assume the question is more… how can you be alive?’

  Winter felt a sudden shudder of rage. He wanted to rip his gun from its holster, take aim at this creature, at all these filthy, unholy creatures. Make them go away forever, out of his world.

  ‘I’m not dead!’ he shouted, defiantly.

  The Widow was clearly amused by his anger. ‘Well, Colonel Malykh certainly believes you’re alive. I doubt he would have sent me to kill you otherwise. And yes, you breathe. You bleed. You do seem to be alive, Tobias. But the Almost are never wrong. You’ve cheated them, haven’t you?’

  Winter fought to make sense of the demon’s words. ‘You’re telling me I should have died on duty?’ he scoffed. ‘I’ve missed a bullet somewhere down the line? Is that what you mean? I’ve cheated death?’

  ‘Not quite. You’ve died already. And yet you’re alive. You’re a contradiction, Tobias. They don’t allow contradictions. Too impure.’

  Winter’s blood was frost now. He could feel the cold in his veins, in his arteries, running the length of his nerves.

  ‘So why haven’t they taken me already, then? They’ve had plenty of opportunity.’

  ‘You must have seen through them. They’re unstable, these creatures. As fragile as rain. They need you to believe in the face they’ve stolen. Yes, you think you recognise them at first, but they need to convince you. Truly convince you. Without that they are nothing. They’ll simply walk away.’

  ‘They’ve only just come for me.’

  ‘They’ve hunted you for years. Walked this world in search of you. The longer you defy death the greater their determination to claim you. They must have picked up your scent of late. I wonder why? Perhaps the fact you’re finally engaging with the true nature of reality…’

  Winter glanced at the blank horde in the carriage. They sat stiffly in their seats, their heads motionless, fixed upon him. He thought of the lethal stillness of a cobra, primed to strike.

  ‘Well, they’re not pretending to be anyone now, are they? What’s the matter with the bastards? Given up?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said the Widow, with another pale slit of a smile. ‘I imagine they’re simply waiting for me to kill you.’

  ‘And just how do you intend to do that?’

  ‘With flair, of course.’

  The chant of the wheels had changed. They sounded lighter on the tracks now. Winter felt a subtle shift in reverberation through the plates of the carriage floor.

  He looked out of the window, past the fat spots of rain on the glass. The express was approaching a vast, curving bridge, built upon a viaduct that spanned a deep river valley. Alpine cliffs rose against this edifice of steel and wood, their rocky escarpments towering above the green spears of firs in the forest below. The pillars that supported the bridge were sunk deep into the gorge, claiming the land. A body of grey water churned beneath them, lapping at the concrete struts, whisked by the storm.

  The train was gathering speed, preparing to pound across the bridge, outrace the wind and the lightning. It blasted its air horn.

 
Winter remembered the last time he had encountered the Widow. He recalled the watchtower lights shattering, the furious gale that had swept the Hungarian puszta.

  ‘This storm is your work, isn’t it?’

  The Widow gave a mock bow beneath her veil. ‘I’ll take no true satisfaction in killing you, Tobias. Usually death is a pleasure for me. I feast on grief. I find it succulent. Sweet mourning. I imagine your death will be a dry, bitter thing, for who will mourn you?’

  She gave a smile that tore into her cheeks like fish hooks. ‘I have never met a soul more alone in this world. You have no one, my darling.’

  Winter didn’t blink. ‘I don’t want your sympathy,’ he told her.

  ‘And yet,’ she said, as if catching a scent, ‘perhaps there is someone in this world who will mourn you. She’s close by, isn’t she? It won’t quite be grief, I’m afraid, but a sadness, just the same. It will add a little flavour to your passing, at least. A piquancy. Better than nothing.’

  The Widow’s smile contracted. ‘I wonder who will mourn her, Tobias?’

  Winter lunged at the demon. He went for her throat, his fingers closing around the bone-white flesh. And then he tore his hands away. She had burned him. It had been like grasping raw ice.

  Startled, he staggered back, stumbling into a table, scattering glasses. His vision failed him. All he could see was a thick red smear, obscuring everything.

  The Widow came back into focus through the crimson haze. ‘Why, Tobias,’ she cooed, her manner almost motherly, ‘I do believe you’re crying.’

  Winter reached for his eyes. His face was wet and there was a scent of copper in his nostrils. He dabbed at his cheeks. When he looked at his hands they were bright with blood. He was weeping blood.

  It was like holy stigmata.

  ‘My name,’ he roared, his larynx cracking, ‘is Christopher Winter!’

  His voice filled the carriage, louder than he had ever heard it. He stood there, shaking, another gush of blood streaming from his eyes. He blinked it away, ignoring the sting. As his vision cleared he saw that the Widow had flinched, edging back into her chair. For a moment she seemed to have almost been afraid of him.