The Immolation of Eve

by Helen Fields

  THE IMMOLATION OF EVE

  Helen Fields

  Copyright © 2011 by Helen Fields

  First published by Wailing Banshee Ltd in Great Britain in 2011

  18 High Street, Overton, Hampshire, RG25 3HA

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  ISBN 978-0-9571246-0-8

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Whilst many of the places and organisations in the book are real, they are used to ground the story in the known world. The places and people Eve visits within this book are all extraordinary and wonderful but the things that happen to her there are entirely fictional and in no way based on real events.

  With love to David, for always believing in me.

  And thanks to Andrea, Emma and Allison for reading

  when they had a thousand other things to do.

  One

  Gnarled fingers of lightning jabbed the sky, illuminating the trees that lined the train-track. When I left Krakow earlier, the sky was clear but on crossing the Slovakian border the air had become dense with electricity. Thunder rumbled softly in the distance then rolled in, echoing through the valleys and cracking like a giant whip. Eventually every passenger in the sleeper compartment stopped what they were doing to watch the light show.

  There was a long silence, as if the storm had burned itself out, when a stray bolt of lightning hit our carriage with a deafening bang. The train remained steadily in motion but the overhead lights flickered out, leaving the carriage black. I remained motionless in my bunk, still excited from the storm and thrilled by the unexpected dark. There was the slightest movement of air above me then insistent lips bore down on my mouth before I could stop them. Not that I wanted to. A taut body lowered itself onto mine and an indecent warmth spread through my body. I wish I could pretend there was some force used but the truth is I didn’t want it to stop. The stranger pulled away and moved his mouth to my ear, muttering a single word in a language I didn’t understand. In the next heartbeat I was flung violently out of my bunk, landing in a crumpled heap against a luggage rack.

  I could hear myself screaming but couldn’t stop. Sparks flashing outside the window created a sickening slow-motion effect. The teenage girl in the bunk next to mine jolted through the air in front of me and I heard bones snap as she landed. Metal and glass were ripping and smashing, debris bombarding me from all sides. The train began to tip and I grabbed furiously for anything to hold. There was a moment of darkness then in the light I saw a human leg, boot still on, flying towards my face and blood was dripping into my eyes. There was only white noise and a feeling of being dragged, pushed and shaken. Something flashed past, travelling in the opposite direction and I realised the engine had jack-knifed like the head of a snake turning on its tail. There were ricochets as each carriage crashed into the one in front and then followed the engine’s lead. Another tilt had me rolling across the floor towards the window when a tree smashed through the glass showering shards everywhere. The heavy case that had landed on me saved me from the worst of the shrapnel but crushed my arm as it came. We were sent back and forth, the screams of metal and man indistinguishable. Then, as suddenly as it started, everything was still. The sounds of wailing and moaning got louder as I opened my eyes. The train had been ripped open – I was laying half inside and half out. A cloud of dust enveloped my carriage, choking me. I wondered why I could see again then realised that patches of fire were lighting up the night. Fear of burning spurred me into action. I ignored the pain in my arm and head, pushed off the debris covering me and staggered away. The flames were going to surround me if I didn’t get well clear.

  I climbed over a wall of twisted steel using the mound of rubble at its base to get a step up. I heard groaning beneath my foot and saw that I was treading on a man’s torso. He twitched one hand as if asking me to pull him up. As I reached for him I saw that his head was cracked open, blood and matter oozing out. My stomach cramped, forcing its contents into my throat. I managed not to vomit but it was enough to quell any thoughts of heroism. I wanted to survive, to get out of there as fast as possible and that’s exactly what I did. The fire was running out of control now and I could hear the cries of people trapped, knowing what was coming and helpless to fight it. Terror overwhelmed me. What was left of my carriage collapsed in on itself, hundreds of tonnes covering the place where my bunk had been. Oily smoke filled the air. Those people I’d deserted in my compartment weren’t screaming or crying; they were already lost. I kept moving, stepping over bodies without checking if they were dead or alive, until I was sure I was out of reach of the flames. When I turned to see the wreckage from a distance, there were at least ten carriages broken into pieces and scattered across the valley floor like the junk yard from hell. Human remains in burning piles filled the air with the stench of burning meat. A buzzing grew loud in my ears and my vision dimmed. I fell to my knees. I knew I was losing consciousness and I welcomed it.

  When I came to I was on a stretcher, being loaded into a helicopter. In the noise and chaos no-one tried to speak to me. I opened my eyes after we’d taken off to see monitors and drips attached to me and a well-oiled machine took over – medics communicating with each other, the pilot and the hospital. They were much more concerned for another passenger than me and with good reason – my companion didn’t make it as far as the hospital. When I tried to speak I was rasping and incoherent. Torches were shone in my eyes and notes made although I couldn’t understand anything they were saying. Finally we landed.

  Hours later I was alone in a hospital bed, unable to sleep, the sedative no match for the recurring nightmare of my last few hours. A young doctor walked in and muttered a question at me. I looked blank and said simply ‘English’. He nodded, left and was replaced almost immediately by an older man who shut the door quietly and sat at my bedside.

  ‘I’m Doctor Radowic. You are in the Hospital Roosevelta in the town of Banska Bystrica. How are you feeling, Miss?’

  ‘MacKenzie. Eve MacKenzie... I’m okay, I think.’

  The doctor smiled slightly and glanced at my left arm. ‘You have a fracture half way between your wrist and elbow. You will need to be in the cast for six weeks. Other than that Miss MacKenzie you have had a very lucky escape. A small wound to your head that required stitches, a badly sprained ankle and bruising but no internal injuries. The marks on your feet, I take it they are old scars?’

  ‘I was born with them. My parents said it was a birth defect.’

  ‘Really? It appeared to me to be scarring. Do they give you pain?’

  ‘Only after exercise or a day on the beach. It’s nothing, doctor. Can you tell me anything about what happened to the train?” He paused, obviously contemplating what to say.

  ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘Fragments. It started with the storm. It knocked the train off the tracks but we just kept on moving. Eventually the carriages broke apart and, well, that was it. I couldn’t help anyone else, I was too scared. I’m so sorry.’ I was desperate to unload the guilt of my inaction but nothing I said could do justice to the awful weight I was carrying.

  ‘What is it you think you could possibly have done?’ he patted my arm. ‘You need to get some rest.’ I struggled to regain my composure and some manners as he walked to the door.

  ‘Thank you for coming to speak to me, doctor. You must be at breaking point with so many people on the train.’

  He turned back towards me, paused a m
oment. ‘Were you travelling with friends or family Miss MacKenzie?’

  ‘No, alone. I was in Krakow on business and decided to take a couple of day’s holiday and see Budapest. Why?’

  ‘Because as far as we know, you are the only survivor.’ It took a while for that to sink in. I could see the doctor watching for a response.

  ‘How many people died?’ I asked and he shrugged awkwardly.

  ‘One hundred and eighty, maybe more. You shouldn’t be thinking about that now. Is there anyone we can contact for you? Parents or a partner?’ I shook my head. He could see the tears welling in my eyes and was kind enough to look away. ‘Call if you need anything at all.’ He left and I was glad of the solitude. I cried until I fell asleep.

  The next day bureaucracy took over. In the morning a police investigator took a statement from me whilst medical staff bustled in and out of my room. Apparently, I’d become something of a spectacle. As my injuries were minor I was to be transferred that evening to Bratislava and flown home the next day. The hospital had identified me from a business card in my jacket pocket and phoned my chambers’ clerk, Tom, to arrange my return home. I suspected Tom would be more concerned about who would cover my court cases for the next couple of weeks than my travel plans.

  I studied the view out of my window. From here the town of Banska Bystrica comprised only church spires and industrial rooftops, multi-storey housing with washing hanging from balconies and the haze of distant hilltops. I tried to close my eyes but every time I did my head was flooded with images and sounds from the train wreck. Rest was the one thing that wasn’t going to help – I had to get back to England, and to work, as quickly as possible.

  I spent that night in the Slovakian capital Bratislava. The journey there by ambulance was long but at least it left me tired enough to finally sleep. When I did, I dreamed that I was in my hospital bed but on board the train. The wheels of the bed caused it to roll around the carriage until I got my bearings enough to jump out. I left my compartment and walked slowly down the passageway, the train exactly as it had been, full of people trying to sleep their way through the long journey. Ahead of me was a man, always half in shadow, never turning round. I walked faster and faster trying to catch up, not really understanding the compulsion I felt to see his face. As I passed between carriages I walked through a doorway into complete darkness and felt strong arms slide around my waist. I knew he would kiss me again just as I knew that when he did the storm would sweep the train off its tracks once more. I thought of all the faces I’d seen as I walked through the train but still I didn’t stop him. I wanted to feel his mouth on mine again so desperately that my desire left me powerless. I could feel the heat of his body pressed against me and my own rising excitement and I just let it happen. I let him kiss me. I let the train crash all over again. Even as I screamed and awoke I felt a lust I’d never experienced before. It was only then that I recalled the sound of the word the man had whispered to me – forgotten in the trauma of everything I’d seen: Cakooshkar.

  Later that morning I opened my eyes to find a very real man at my bedside reading a newspaper. I took one look at his suit and knew he was English. I checked that I was decently covered and hadn’t been dribbling in my sleep, then coughed quietly. He jumped.

  ‘Miss MacKenzie, forgive me, I was trying not to disturb you. My name is Patrick St. John, from the British Embassy here in Bratislava. We were contacted by the hospital to oversee your safe return home.’ He must have been in his in his mid-thirties, well-spoken with an air of charm that was bred rather than learned. He was good looking in the floppy haired, public school boy way. Under any other circumstances I would probably have been tempted to flirt.

  ‘Thank you, Mr St. John. I appreciate your help. I’m afraid I lost everything in the crash. I have no ID at all – I’m not quite sure what I need to do.’

  ‘Very little, actually, we’ve had the necessary security checks carried out already. Luckily, as a barrister, information about you is easily accessible. If you wouldn’t mind just confirming a few details for me, if you feel up to it, that is?’

  I poured a glass of water and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, suddenly feeling horribly self-conscious. I smoothed down my hair and pinched some colour into my cheeks as he took papers from a briefcase.

  ‘You live in Bratislava?’

  ‘I’ve been posted here for nearly a year; I have a bit of an advantage as I speak passable Slovakian. My mother is Czech. It’s an extraordinary country, living half in the past and half in the future. Have you been here before?’

  ‘No, I’d literally only just crossed the border from Poland when…’

  ‘Goodness, I’m sorry, there’s me trying to avoid the subject and putting my foot straight in it.’

  ‘Please don’t worry. It’s not a subject I’m going to be able to avoid thinking however hard I try.’

  ‘They will fade, you know, the memories. It’s no consolation now but give yourself plenty of time. Everyone thinks that life with the British Diplomatic Service is all cocktail parties and luxury yachts. Mostly it’s helping out in the most dreadful situations when people are at their lowest. I am constantly surprised by how resilient human beings are.’

  I smiled then had to look away before the tears started again; kindness when I’m fragile always makes me cry. He took the hint, changing the subject seamlessly.

  ‘So, just a few bits to go through. Forgive the formalities. Your full name is Eve MacKenzie, date of birth twenty-first of March nineteen eighty-three, living in Kingston, London?’ I nodded and he carried on. ‘We have a copy of your last passport photo here. It sounds ridiculous but I need you to confirm that this is you? We’re issuing an emergency temporary passport and this is standard procedure.’ I looked at the copy of the photo he was holding. Taken just six months ago when I’d renewed my documents, it looked like a picture of a stranger. The green eyes were the same; the red hair, my trade mark, shorter and tidier than today. It has always meant trouble, my hair, a deep cherry red that looks almost metallic in bright light. Usually people concluded it was dyed. In childhood it marked me out as facetious, as a teenager a rebel, and as an adult it makes men believe me wanton and women see me as a threat.

  ‘It’s me.’ I replied.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ He looked at the picture again for a long moment and then handed me my papers. ‘You’re unmarried and you only hold a British passport, yes?’

  ‘Yes, to both,’ he was scribbling on a form and signing multiple copies. I took the opportunity to ask a question of my own.

  ‘I was told there were no other survivors. It doesn’t seem right, how one person can walk away when so many others...’ I couldn’t finish. Patrick reached out and took my hand so gently I thought he was scared I might bite.

  ‘I know it doesn’t make any sense but these things are never explainable. The storm that caused the crash was off the charts and hadn’t been anticipated by the met office. You’ll never know why you instead of all those others. Don’t punish yourself for being alive. Fate must have a plan.’

  ‘I don’t believe in fate, Mr St. John. The only controlling influences in my life are chaos and my clerks.’

  He withdrew his hand and replaced it with a bundle of papers to get me through immigration. He stared at me without speaking for several moments and then remembered himself just as I was wondering if I should break the silence.

  ‘I’ve ordered a car to take you to the airport at midday. You don’t need to worry about anything,’ he smiled warmly. ‘It’s a shame you’re here under these circumstances. It would have been a pleasure to have shown you around the city. I don’t suppose you’ll want to come back after all you’ve been through.’

  ‘I never say never Mr St John and it would’ve been lovely to have seen Bratislava with you.’

  He picked up his brief case and took my right hand in his.

  ‘Well, goodbye then. Safe onward journey. If you need anything I’ve left my card
inside your passport.’ I showered carefully to keep the plaster cast dry then dressed in some clothes provided by the hospital. The ones I'd been wearing on the train were too badly damaged, not that I could bear the thought of putting them on again, anyway. Before long, the car arrived to take me to the airport.

  Two

  When the plane touched down in London I realised I had no idea who was meeting me. I had no luggage, of course, everything had been lost in the accident. Even so, it felt wonderful having my feet back on home soil and even better when I saw my flatmate, Naomi, peering at me through the crowds in the arrivals area. I ignored my throbbing ankle and broke into a run, throwing my good arm around my friend’s neck.

  ‘Oh Eve, thank God you’re alright. I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Just take me home, that’s all I want and a proper cup of tea, obviously. Okay?’

  ‘The car’s right outside the terminal. Come on, lean on me.’

  At home, Naomi had brought me a drink before I’d even sat down. She fussed around until I told her a dozen times I was fine and then left me to my own devices a while. It felt strange in my room. I’d only been away a few days and yet the world had tilted on its axis. As I sank into a burning hot bath, my cure for almost everything, I thought of Krakow.

  I’d been visiting a crime scene where the soldier I was defending, Albert Cornish, was charged with raping a female colleague. They’d spent the evening out drinking before their return to England.

  My musings were broken by the smell of roasting chicken and I knew that Naomi had done what she always did in a crisis: she had cooked. I dragged myself out of the bath, put on my oldest jeans and sweatshirt, then went to eat. Naomi was already piling food onto plates.