by Michael Bray
“Just remember it’s not real. Can you do that son?”
Alfie nodded, but Dean could see well enough that it was just a token gesture. His eyes were focused on the alleyway behind his father. He wanted to see, he wanted to know what was going to happen. Knowing that he couldn’t stop it, Dean turned back and watched.
His younger self staggered down the alley, his white shirt open to the chest. He was soaked to the bone, but seemed not to have noticed, as he was singing loudly to himself.
There was an old hobo sitting in a doorway, trying to protect himself from the downpour. He didn’t look up at the younger, drunk Dean. Instead he pushed himself further into the dark recess. Dean passed him, flashed him a glance and then stopped, turning towards the cowering hobo.
“What’s your name old man?” He slurred.
The hobo didn’t respond. He simply lowered his gaze and pulled his filthy blanket further up his body.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.”
Still, he didn’t speak. Dean took a last drink from the can, and tossed it aside.
“You think you are too good to talk to me, eh old man?”
The hobo shook his head, still refusing to make eye contact. Dean laughed, then took a two-step run up, and kicked the old man in the face. The sound was sickening and crisp, and Alfie let out a sharp gasp as his younger father fell on the defenseless old man and began to punch and kick him, laughing all the while.
“Dad, stop it.” Alfie screamed. But Dean couldn’t answer; he was watching himself beat a defenseless old man for no sane reason. The scene faded, and again they were sitting in darkness.
Mr Ghoul's voice was now chastising, and Dean could imagine the sneer on his face.
“The poor old homeless man didn’t do anything, and yet, you Dean, took it upon yourself to beat him… to death.”
“That’s wrong, he didn’t die, besides, I didn’t mean it!” Dean was sobbing, and could feel the burning eyes of his son on him in the darkness.
“Oh, no, he didn’t die right away. He suffered. He cowered there, broken, bleeding and afraid, left in the cold and rain. He lasted a few hours, and then the bleeding on his brain killed him.”
“No, it’s a lie...”
The man appeared in front of the ghost train, illuminated by a single spotlight. His face was bleeding and misshaped, and his eyes were shadowy opaque pools. He grinned, showing his broken teeth.
“Why did you kill me?” He whispered.
“I didn’t mean to, it was an accident, please, you have to believe me.”
“Murderer.” The old man spat, and then the light faded away, leaving Dean and Alfie in the dark. Dean was breathing in shallow gasps, his eyes darting as he looked into the darkness for whatever came next.
The train clicked to life, and they moved forwards, pushing through another set of double doors and into a long, thin room. People lined both sides, all of them standing in silence and staring at the ghost train as it moved forwards. Dean stared at them, shaking his head as the train moved on.
“Who are they?” Alfie asked, staring at his fathers' haunted face in profile. Dean stammered, but before he could find a response, Mr Ghoul answered on his behalf.
“These, young Alfie, are the people that your father has wronged in his life. People who he stepped on or kicked aside to give you and your mother the perfect little bubble that you live in. Women he had affairs with whilst your mother was pregnant with you. Former friends, who he scammed, cheated and manipulated for his own personal gain.”
Dean looked at them, and they looked back, the silence in the corridor broken by the steady clack clack of the train car as it rolled forwards.
The car came to a halt at another set of double doors.
“Time to get off the train now.” Mr Ghoul’s voice echoed through the room.
Dean grabbed at the restraining bar, as Mr Ghoul’s laughter echoed through the room.
“Not so fast. Not yet. Just the boy for now.”
Alfie’s restraining bar lifted. He looked at his father, then hopped out of the train, standing on the platform with the people from his father’s past.
“Let me out, you hear me let me out.” Dean yelled, shaking at the bar and trying to squirm his way free. “Alfie, go get help, tell your mother to call the police...”
He stopped speaking, watching as Mr Ghoul pushed his way through the crowd. He stood beside Alfie and folded his arms as he shook his head.
“And so ends our ride.” He said, smiling at Dean.
“What happens now?” Dean asked, his voice trembling.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
Mr Ghoul smiled and turned to Alfie.
“You have seen, and you understand. Now, you must choose.”
“Choose what?” Alfie said, taking a cautious step away from Mr Ghoul.
“His fate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Either he goes free, or he is punished for his deeds.”
“Punished how?”
Mr Ghoul nodded towards the large black double doors.
“You understand this isn’t just a ghost train, don’t you Alfie?” Mr Ghoul said.
“Son, don’t listen to him, make him set me free please...”
Ghoul snapped his head towards Dean and pointed at him, the veins bulging out of his neck as he screamed. “You keep your damn mouth shut until I tell you to talk.”
Dean recoiled, and tried to push himself back into the seat, as Ghoul turned back towards Alfie, and smiled, his voice now back to its normal register.
“As I was saying, this isn’t an ordinary ghost train. We were waiting for your father to come, because he needs to be punished.”
“Waiting for him?”
“Oh yes. We have waited for a very, very long time.”
“What will happen to him?”
“Only what he deserves.”
“Will you kill him?”
Ghoul grinned and shook his head. “No. Death is too good for some people. We will teach him to live the right way.”
“But I won’t see him again, will I?” Alfie said, a single tear tumbling down his cheek and rolling off his chin.
“Don’t waste those.” Mr Ghoul said as he handed Alfie a tissue. “Save them for somebody who is worth crying for.”
Alfie took the tissue and wiped his eyes. He looked at his father, then back to Mr Ghoul.
“You said I had to choose.”
“Yes. You see, we can’t just take him. It’s in the disclaimer.” Ghoul patted his jacket pocket. “If you choose to forgive him, then the two of you will walk out of here right now and that will be the end of it.”
“Okay.”
“But, be sure that you genuinely do forgive him, because if you don’t, one day, it will be your turn to ride the ghost train.”
“And what was the other choice?”
“You walk out of here, alone right now and leave him here. Let us do our job. And we will see that he is punished, and better still, can’t hurt anyone ever again.”
“But he’s my dad; he’s not a bad man.”
Ghoul nodded, then leaned close and whispered in Alfie’s ear.
“Tell that to the homeless guy.”
Alfie swallowed, and then looked at the double doors.
“What’s through there?”
“Nothing for young eyes like yours, Alfie.”
Alfie nodded, and then looked at his father.
“I’m sorry dad, but you need to pay for what you did. You always told me that people need to be responsible. And I think you need to do the same.”
“Alfie please help me I...”
Dean’s protests were silenced by a glare from Mr Ghoul, who then turned towards Alfie.
“You are a good boy, Alfie, and you did the right thing. Now go home, and live a good life. Don’t make me have to come and see you in the future. Okay?”
Alfie nodded furiously, as his father started to pull at the re
straining bar.
“Good. Now go, back to your mother. Live well, and know that you did the right thing.”
“I want to see, I need to see what’s behind the door first.” Alfie said, forcing himself to look Ghoul in the eye.
Ghoul sighed and shook his head.
“No, you don’t. What lies behind there isn’t for the eyes of the innocent. Go now, and let us do what needs to be done.”
Alfie looked at his father, their eyes locking.
“Bye, dad.” Alfie said, and then turned towards the exit door, which was behind Mr Ghoul. He heard the click clack of the train as it started to move, and as the doors opened, and despite the warnings, he couldn’t help but turn around and take a look.”
Sally and Tommy were waiting outside the ghost train, watching a colourful clown craft balloon dogs for a group of toddlers when they heard the scream. Sally knew straight away that it was her son, and turned towards the sound, dropping her ice cream at the sight of him as he pushed his way out of the ghost train’s exit.
He charged towards her, eyes wide and frightened, skin ashen. She saw that he had wet himself, the front of his jeans now a growing shade of darker blue. He had gone onto the ghost train a young, brown haired boy, and come off a shambling, white haired, shrieking thing. He slammed into her, clutching her so hard that she could barely breathe. She lowered him to the floor and tried to silence his pained screams.
“I saw.” He said between ragged gasps of breath. “He said not to, but I saw…”
“Where's your father Alfie? Where is he?” Sally screamed, grabbing him by the arms.
“Oh he’s gone. Gone and won’t be coming back.” He whispered, then began to cackle and whoop and twitch as Sally in turn began to scream for help.
The funfair disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. The following morning, all that remained was an open field littered with rubbish.
Alfie spent the next three months in hospital, and now sat in his bed, drooling onto his pajamas and staring at the wall. He hadn’t spoken since that day at the fairground, and the doctors said there was a good chance he would never speak again.
Although he couldn’t tell them, he was just waiting. Waiting for his turn. Because he had seen what was behind the doors, and they had seen him. He drew breath, and turned towards the door to his hospital room to the sound that was drawing closer, his heart increasing in tempo, but it was just a nurse pushing a trolley full of medicine. She walked past the door without even looking in. He watched the door for a few seconds, and then turned his attention back to the wall, where he continued to wait for that tell-tale clack clack sound of Mr Ghoul’s ghost train to come and get him and take him to his father.
99.9 AM
The day Doyle first tuned in to the pirate radio station was a Tuesday. He was working at fixing up an old hi-fi system with a twin tape deck and old school turntable with the intention of selling it on to a vintage collector.
Now that it had received some much needed TLC, the unit seemed to be in pretty good shape. He plugged it in and powered it up, smiling as the red and green graphic equaliser flashed up to advise him that he had selected the tape deck. He pushed the button to cycle through and watched as the display responded to his commands. Tape. Aux. Tuner.
He cycled through again, and came to rest on the tuner. Today’s radios came with a seek function, but this unit had a dial that you had to turn, to physically tune in the station that you wanted to listen to. He wished technology hadn’t taken such a strong grip on the world, and turned the dial to find one of the local stations, so that when he took the unit to the shop to sell, he would be able to show that it worked.
He tuned in, 78.5FM, the local pop music station. Some god awful rapper was mumbling over a horrible, monotonous beat. It may have been what passed for good music, but it wasn’t something he wanted to listen to, so he moved on. Next up was a religious broadcast, with a doom and gloom preacher begging for donations to keep their church alive. He quickly skimmed along, right to the end of the FM band.
Shaking his head, he flicked the switch from FM to AM, and began to work his way back down. There was a news show that sounded as if it were being broadcast from the deepest, darkest hole they could find, and he quickly moved on.
The station at 99.9 AM he didn’t recognise. The signal was good though, crisp and loud, and the DJ had a nice, smooth tone to his voice. He sounded familiar somehow, but Doyle wasn’t sure why. Maybe he had once been a DJ on national radio, and had now ended up on an AM station that probably had a listenership in the low hundreds, if that. Doyle paused, listening to the DJ and trying to place his voice.
This is DJ D on 99.9AM, the underground voice of Oakwell. The time is a little after nine o clock, and now, as promised, here is the brand new track from Kurt Cobain, called, I’m Sorry I Missed the End. Check it out, people.
Doyle listened to the acoustic tones of the guitar and the unmistakable, scratching vocals of the former Nirvana frontman as he sung inventive lyrics about the anarchy of the 2001 World Trade Centre attacks in New York.
Even as he listened, he knew it was impossible, because Cobain had committed suicide in 1994. Doyle felt a rush of fear and adrenaline race through him, and he turned up the volume. The more he listened, the more convinced he was that this was the real Cobain, which in turn made him see how impossible it was. And yet, the lyrics referenced events that took place seven years after his death. For two hours he sat perched at his workbench, listening to music from dead artists, past, present and future that had never been recorded. The show went off air at two a.m., and Doyle sat there, staring at the hi-fi system like it were an object from the future rather than a relic from the past. He thought Terry might know more about it, and although he wanted to, it was too late to call him. Instead he showered, and lay down, and despite the questions racing around his head, was soon asleep.
Terry Simms was a genius. Not in the literal sense, but there was a brilliance about him with regards to all things electronic. He had known Doyle for twelve years, and although on paper they were an unlikely pairing, they were great friends. Doyle stood and chewed his nails as Terry inspected the innards of the hi-fi, its wires and circuit boards snaking out onto the desk.
He had been reluctant to let Terry open it at all, and it was only because of his supreme knowledge and skill that he allowed him to poke around inside the unit. Doyle stood in silence and watched as his friend systematically put the hi-fi’s guts back inside the casing and screwed it closed. Terry lifted his magnifying lens and perched it onto his sandy mop of hair, then turned to his friend.
“It’s fine. Actually, it’s in good order. There was a little dust on a few of the resistors, but I cleaned that away for you.”
“So nothing in there that’s out of place?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, custom parts or something?”
Terry shook his head. “Oh no. This is all original. Late 80's, early 90's at best. It’s a nice unit. Why? What’s wrong? You having issues with it?”
“Not really! Well actually yeah I am.”
Terry grinned and sipped his coffee. “Well? Which is it? You either are or you aren’t.”
Doyle hesitated. He trusted Terry, but didn’t think that just telling him would be enough. He wanted to show him, and more importantly, have someone else there with him to verify his own sanity.
“Look, there is something, but I think I ought to show you. Can you come back over later?”
“Why can’t you show me now?”
“I can’t, it has to be later.”
He knew it sounded odd, but he also knew the pirate radio station aired between ten pm and two am, the DJ had said as much, several times during his broadcast.
“Okay, I suppose I can come by later. What time?”
“Say, nine thirty?”
“Yeah, okay, no problem. I’ll be here.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
Terry left, and Doyle s
pent the rest of the day trying to keep busy, when in reality, he had nothing to do but wait until Terry came back. He cooked but couldn’t eat, lay down on the sofa but couldn’t sleep, and tried to read but couldn’t focus on the words. In the end, he switched on the TV and watched it without really seeing, watching the time tick ever slowly towards the evening. Terry arrived a little after nine fifteen, and Doyle had to force himself not to race for the door and pull it open. He invited his friend into the house, and the two sat and made small talk in the sitting room. Now that he was there, Doyle was reluctant to tell Terry about the bizarre radio station and its content, but time had seemingly tired of dragging on, and was now racing towards ten pm and the start of the show.
“Okay.” Doyle said, perching on the edge of his seat and wringing his hands. “The reason I asked you to come is because I wanted to get your opinion on something that’s pretty crazy.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“That hi-fi I had you look at for me, I was testing it out and found something.”
“Okay!” Terry said, flashing an amused smile. Doyle knew that his friend wasn’t taking him seriously, and instead of explaining further, he stood.
“It’s easier to show you. Come on through to the workshop.”
Doyle led the way into the workshop, which was in reality the spare bedroom that was now so full of electronic gizmos in various states of repair, that it resembled a workshop. Doyle sat at the bench in front of the hi-fi, as Terry perched on the edge of the bed. Doyle checked his watch, and was filled with a giddy excitement. It was two minutes to ten.
He switched on the hi fi, and watched the display illuminate, then he selected the radio, the room filling with a static hiss.
“So?” Terry asked. “What’s happening?”
“Just wait. Okay?”
They waited. Time had now reverted to its slow crawl as the seconds went by. Doyle waited, and on some level was sure that he had imagined it all, and the station would not come on air. He ignored the amused stare of his friend, and instead concentrated all of his efforts on the stereo.
