by David Haynes
“We are waiting for you, John,” a guttural and base voice growled. “We are waiting for you.”
The End
The Ghost Train
“And am I to believe that in this day and age I cannot buy a ticket at...” Godfrey checked his pocket watch, “eleven o’clock in the evening?”
The attendant smiled back at him. “Oh you can buy a ticket, sir, but there ain’t no trains to use it on.”
The man clearly thought his reply was clever, but Godfrey was in no mood to embark on a battle of wits with a buffoon.
“Pah! I have connections in Parliament, you know! I shall see about this!”
Tapping his cane furiously on the ground, he stormed away from the bemused attendant. The sound echoed through the cavernous roof and rattled amongst the wrought iron ribs of the arches. Godfrey had not been in London for nearly twenty years, and as spectacular as Brunel’s work was, he would rather have been in bed instead of shivering in the cold of Paddington Station.
He could try to flag down a Hansom but his journey through Buckinghamshire would be too costly, besides there was no guarantee he could find one. A gust of wind blasted his face and sent a flurry of snow through the open doors of the station. He peered out into the night and watched as several hunched figures hurried along the street before disappearing into the storm. He shivered and edged back inside. At least the roof afforded some protection from the snow.
What would he do though? He could scarcely spend the evening huddled on one of the benches. He would die from exposure. Oh, why had Hughes insisted on the last glass of port? If he had refused, as he should have, then he would be on the way home to his warm and comfortable bed and not stranded in a draughty train station.
He looked about anxiously. There were four trains simply waiting for passengers to climb aboard and ferry them wherever they wished. He walked alongside the first one and peered down the platform before looking over his shoulder. Heated or not, the empty carriages had to be more comfortable than a hard bench, not to mention much warmer.
He could not see the attendant but his incessant whistling echoed around station like wind through the eaves. Godfrey hurried along, trying each and every carriage door.
“Damn it!” he hissed as he reached the final door on the third train. Why on earth were they all locked? Who on earth would dream of pilfering an entire steam engine?
“Absurd.” He stormed back up the platform.
“That one don’t leave until seven o’clock tomorrow morning, sir.”
Godfrey turned. “What? Whatever are you talking about?”
The attendant smiled and walked toward him. “I said that one...”
Godfrey waved a dismissive hand. “I know what you said but I fail to understand your meaning.”
“You were trying the carriage doors, I’ve watched you but as you see, they’re all locked tight for the night. Might I suggest the hotel, sir?” Godfrey followed the man’s finger which pointed toward the entrance. “I’ve heard it’s very good, although I can’t afford it myself.”
Godfrey considered it for a moment and then thought about his current financial situation. His pension didn’t go very far and his business ventures had been unsuccessful. No, that was wrong, they had been disastrous to the point of being ruinous. A night in a hotel, and clearly an expensive one at that, was not an option.
“I think not. It looks a little... cheap,” he replied.
A train whistle sounded loudly, sparing him from further conversation. He turned and stared at the source. Steam billowed from the final train on the last track.
“And why is that train whistling so loudly?”
“It’s getting ready to leave.”
“Leave?” Godfrey asked incredulously. “Leave for where? You informed me not half an hour ago there were no more trains leaving the station!”
“There ain’t.”
Godfrey was furious. “Now look here you... you... buffoon, I won’t tolerate this behaviour any longer. Where is that train going to?”
“Gerrard’s Cross.” The attendant waved in the direction of the train. The driver was completely hidden beneath a cloud of steam.
“In Buckinghamshire? Why, that is a mere mile away from my house. I can walk the rest of the way!” He started walking toward the train but the attendant caught his arm.
“You can’t. It’s a Parliamentary train and I can’t sell you a ticket.”
“A what?” Godfrey looked down at the man’s grubby hand. “Kindly remove your hand.” He pointed his cane at the train. “I am going to board that train whether you sell me a ticket or not. Parliamentary train indeed! Whoever heard of such nonsense?”
“Surprised you don’t know about them, sir, what with your connections in Parliament and all.” The whistle sounded again. “Some people call them ghost trains, sir, on account of the fact that they don’t exist. Not really.”
“Oh, you really are a tiresome man.” Godfrey wanted to rush to the train but the attendant’s nonsensical ramblings had piqued his interest so he remained where he was.
“Parliament said we had to put trains on so the poorer classes could travel to find work. Cheap fares, mind! We did that and then they didn’t want to come to London no more so the tracks were abandoned. Only the Government said we had to pay a princely sum to close the line.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Them gaffers said it was cheaper to keep one train a day running on the line than close it. So now we run it last thing so it don’t get in the way of the others, then it comes back first thing in the morning. There’s not been a passenger since... well, not as long as I’ve been here and that’s getting on for ten years now.”
He pointed at the construction work beyond the train. “Now we’ve even got to build a new track, just to keep this one running. Madness, if you ask me.”
Godfrey frowned. He had never heard of such nonsense in all his life. He pushed past the attendant and marched toward the waiting train. “Well, the ghost train is having a passenger tonight.”
He felt relieved. With any luck he would be back home and tucked up in his warm bed within two hours. He shivered against the wind. He might have to have a stiff nightcap before he retired, though.
Godfrey approached the train, walking past the one and only carriage. He looked up into the cab to signal the driver but it was simply too dark and too high to see inside. The train whistled again and a great screeching sound soon followed on. He hurried back to the carriage and tried the door. He sighed as it squeaked open. He stood on the step and turned to wave triumphantly at the idiot attendant, but he had already departed and was nowhere to be seen.
“Ghost train indeed!” The train shunted into life as he jumped inside and closed the door behind him.
The carriage was unlit, but as they pulled out of the station, the lamps flickered before casting a dim glow along the corridor. It had clearly been a first class carriage in its day, for the wooden panelling bore a crest of some sort with the number one beside it. He tried the first compartment and was relieved to find it open. He stepped inside and was greeted by the comforting smell of pipe smoke. He had smoked a pipe in his younger days and although he had never grown fond of the habit, the smell had always appealed to him. He removed his top hat and placed it carefully on the shelf above his head, then sat down in the seat closest to the window.
The carriage rocked gently as it rattled slowly along the track. The motion was enough to make Godfrey drowsy, but he dare not doze lest he sleep the night through and wake up once again in London. He pressed his face against the cold glass and looked into the darkness. Flakes of snow drifted past the glass and fluttered high into the sky as the engine brushed them aside. It was difficult to estimate how fast they were travelling since beyond the snow he could see nothing at all.
He sank back into the seat and rubbed his eyes. The trip had not been a complete waste of time. Hughes had been as good as his word and pledged to support his new venture. Although, exactly what sort of s
upport he was offering was still up for debate. It had better be money, thought Godfrey. By God, it had better be money.
He felt his mind drifting easily toward sleep when the carriage suddenly and violently lurched. The sudden jolt almost flung him from the seat but he steadied himself with his cane. A terrible screeching sound filled the carriage as the train slowed.
Whatever now? thought Godfrey. He hoped the train wouldn’t stop entirely and delay him even longer from climbing into his bed. He cupped his hands around his face and peered out into the night. There was nothing to see save for the unending blanket of darkness covering the Buckinghamshire countryside.
“Sir? Help me please!”
Godfrey jumped and uttered a grunt in surprise. He hadn’t heard anyone climb into the carriage and thought himself quite alone since embarking in London. It was a boy; a young boy standing before him and he looked extremely agitated. “What?”
“Sir, will you help me? Will you protect me?” The boy hopped from foot to foot and his voice shook.
“Whatever’s the matter, boy? You better step inside.”
The boy looked over his shoulder, down the corridor, and stepped into the compartment. His clothes were dishevelled and his face bore the grime of the workhouse.
“If he finds me he’ll kill me! You’ve got to help me. Please!”
Godfrey stood. The boy was not just anxious, he was scared out of his wits. Tears streaked through the dirt on his face. “I’ll help, of course, but you must calm down and tell me what frightens you so.”
The boy dragged a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and held it up. “He’s after this and if he finds it he’ll slit my throat. You’ve got to help me.”
“What is it?” Godfrey made no attempt to take it from the boy’s grip lest he frighten him further.
“It’s a Will, sir, and it’s got my name on it. I found it in my uncle’s room, see, and I should have the money and house, not him. He’s stolen it from me and now he knows I’ve got it, he’s furious. I ain’t ever seen him so mad!”
Godfrey peered at the Will. “‘Howard Yates shall receive, in full, my entire estate. That being, 5 Henry Crescent and all fixtures and fittings associated with the aforementioned residence. All my wealth shall be kept in trust for him until he reaches the age of eighteen. I appoint my brother Francis Yates as executor.’”
It was signed and dated then finished with the words of legality Godfrey had witnessed hundreds of times before.
He turned his attention back to the boy. “And you are Howard Yates?”
“I am, sir.”
“So what is your problem?”
“My uncle kept everything, all of it, and then he threw me in the orphanage.” He waved the paper in the air. “But now I’ve got this, I’m going to have it back. I need help though. Can you help me?”
Godfrey looked down at the boy. He could not have been more than ten years old.
“I shall try, you have my word. I shall try.”
The boy yelped as if prodded by a stick and whispered, “He’s coming.”
“Your uncle?”
The boy nodded. “Help me?”
“Of course, Howard. Stay here and...”
Without further comment, Howard ran from the compartment and disappeared into the corridor. Godfrey remained exactly where he was. He was in shock. Where on earth had the boy come from? He must have been hiding somewhere in the carriage before it left Paddington. Who could blame him? The night was cold and if...
“Where is he?” A guttural voice boomed down the corridor. “Where is the boy?”
Godfrey instinctively took a step away from the door, until the cold glass of the window pressed through his woollen coat and sent a shiver down his spine. The lights flickered twice before going out completely.
There was no moon, for it too was shrouded in the dark clouds of a winter’s night, but the looming shadow which appeared in the doorway was clear enough.
“Where is the boy?” the figure snarled.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you...”
The figure stepped closer and Godfrey could see the savage look of intent on the man’s face. “I said, where is the boy?” His voice boomed in the compartment.
Godfrey felt his heartbeat quicken. This man was a brute, a well-dressed but vicious-looking man, and Godfrey knew he would not last long in a fight.
“I have seen no boy, sir, and I suggest you move along or I shall call for the guard.”
The brute pulled his upper lip away from his teeth and hissed. His eyes widened and in them Godfrey saw only hate, pure uncomplicated loathing. “We shall meet again,” he sneered.
The brute turned and stepped out of the compartment before lumbering down the corridor with heavy and foreboding footsteps. The entire carriage seemed to tremble and rock with each of his footfalls.
Godfrey breathed a sigh of relief. The encounter had been brief but intense and he needed a stiff drink to calm his tattered nerves. He fell back into the seat and shook his head. He hoped whatever hiding place the boy had found was a good one. He wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of a man like that.
The boy had presented a sad figure; a frightened and pathetic individual who had pleaded with him for help. He had asked Godfrey to help him get what was rightfully his.
Godfrey jumped back to his feet. He had dealt with bullies such as that before and had never backed down. His progressing years did not mean he had to turn away from such encounters and by God he would not. He had given his word to help poor Howard and that is exactly what he would do.
“I say! Stop there!” he called out but the corridor was empty.
He walked quickly toward the rear of the carriage, peering into each compartment as he passed. All were in darkness just like the one he had just left.
“Howard?” he called out.
As he approached the final compartment, the lights flickered on again, casting light on the gruesome act being played out.
Poor Howard lay sprawled across the seats while the savage brute held him down. Godfrey could see the man forcing something down into the boy’s throat. It was undoubtedly the Will. He tried the door but it was locked. He threw himself at it but it would not move an inch.
“Stop!” he called but his voice could not compete against the shrillness of the whistling train.
Howard’s legs thrashed and he uttered a feeble groan as his father’s Last Will and Testament choked the life from him.
Godfrey raised his cane and thrust it as hard as he could against the glass, but it bounced back as if it had been the action of a child.
“In God’s name, stop!” he called again, but he knew it was too late.
The animal turned to Godfrey and threw back his head with a vile bout of laughter.
“It’s all mine now.” His voice was nothing more than an exhalation of festering air.
Godfrey stepped back and cried out “I shall see you hang for this!”
The lights flickered, throwing the carriage into darkness. Godfrey raised his cane in case the man came for him next, but as he did so the train screeched then lurched powerfully, sending him hurtling toward the floor. His head cracked against the elegant wooden panelling as he fell and all was truly thrown into darkness.
*
Godfrey sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes. The pain in his head was accompanied by a throbbing ache all down one side of his body. Lying on the cold floor of a train carriage for several hours was not something he would choose to do again.
Weak light from the grey dawn fell through the windows and painted the carriage with a sombre melancholy. He rose unsteadily and gazed out of the window. He was no longer travelling toward Gerrard’s Cross but away from it and back to London. It seemed impossible but he had been unconscious for the whole night. The question was, why did the brute not kill him while he lay senseless and vulnerable?
He walked toward the final compartment where he was sure poor Howard’s lifeless body would be and s
tared through the glass. The room was empty. It was entirely devoid of life or death. Perhaps the murderer had climbed out of the train and thrown the boy in the undergrowth? Perhaps it had never happened at all? Yet it was so vivid; so utterly real.
He walked back along the carriage, looking in each compartment as he passed, and each was the same lifeless box as the next. He reached the final one and collapsed in his seat.
“Have I lost my mind as well as my wealth?” he asked himself. The train whistled loudly in agreement and began to slow. Without a body or a murderer who would believe him?
Godfrey looked out of the window and watched the smoking stacks of London’s industrial visage loom into view. He would say nothing about it, for how could he?
