Mezzanine and Other Curiously Dark Tales

by Watson, Allan

  The train itself had been operating without a blemish on its record for fifteen years previously, so why did it suddenly start killing people seven months ago? The answer had to lie in the time-frame shortly before the first person threw themselves at the mercy of its bone-crushing, steel-rimmed wheels. I logged into the news archives and typed in keywords, which might bring forth an answer to the mystery. There were a few articles about rowdy football supporters being ejected from the train for singing offensive party songs and one concerning an over-passionate middle-aged couple being named and shamed in court for having awkward, cramped sex in the toilet and forgetting to lock the door properly. There were a few mentions of complaints over the train running late due to botched repairs but nothing that really caught the eye. Then I read the last search result and thought I might possibly have a lead.

  One month before the first suicide, a local woman was arrested by the railway police for delaying the departure of the train by jumping down onto the tracks and screaming a vile string of insults at the locomotive according to bystanders. When the woman refused to stop hurling abuse at the driver’s cabin or remove herself from the tracks, she was forcibly removed by the railway police and ended up in court where she was fined five hundred pounds for trespassing on railway property, as well as being found guilty of a breach of the peace and bound over for a year. The woman’s name was Cally Eastfield.

  Further Googling of her name threw up a few web pages dedicated to Wiccan organisations and I discovered she also provided a mail order service for charms and natural healing potions. Miss Eastfield, it appeared, was a white witch. A few more computer searches involving the electoral register gave me her address. Grabbing my coat, I barely took the time to stick the fedora on my head before heading for the car.

  ***

  Half an hour later, I was in Provanmill outside a white-washed terraced house with a neat and tidy front garden. The house faced directly on to Riddrie cemetery on the opposite side of the road, a fact that didn’t make me feel any more comfortable. Who knew what sort of stuff this woman got up to in the dead of night? I rang the doorbell and was surprised when a twinkling-eyed, white-haired pensioner with rosy-apple cheeks opened the door.

  ‘Yes?’ she said in a sweet little-old-lady voice. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to think you can, Miss Eastfield,’ I replied, showing her my Association of British Investigators card. ‘My name is Denny Deuchar and I’m a private investigator.’

  Miss Eastfield pulled a pair of gold framed spectacles from her cardigan pocket and peered closely at the card. ‘That’s a nice card. Did the hat come with it?’

  I took off my fedora and flicked some dust from the brim. ‘Nope. Just like wearing it. Afraid it’s seen better days.’

  This made the old lady smile. ‘Haven’t we all. Now why would a private-eye want to talk to me? Let me think.’ She pretended to concentrate hard and then said, ‘I imagine you’ve done your homework and know all about my unorthodox religious beliefs?’ When I nodded, she looked resigned. ‘In that case I expect my neighbours been complaining about me dancing sky-clad under the full moon in the graveyard across the road? Or have my familiars been fouling the pavements again?’

  It took me a few seconds to realise she was pulling my leg.

  Cally Eastfield burst out laughing. ‘Oh, my! The look on your face, Mr Deuchar. Why don’t you come in and tell me what the problem is? I’m quite sure you’re not a violent criminal, here to beat me senseless and steal my pension book.’

  Unable to think of a reply, I simply followed her through to her front parlour. I was disappointed not to see a pentagram chalked on the floor, a broomstick in the corner and sulphurous fumes leaking from a simmering cauldron. Instead, the room was spotlessly clean with lace antimacassars over the back of the chairs, framed photographs of grandchildren, and smelled of sweet herbs. ‘Cup of tea?’ asked Miss Eastfield when I sat down.

  ‘No, thanks. Maybe best if I get straight to the point.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the old lady now sitting primly across from me with a black cat on her lap, although I hadn’t seen a cat when I entered the room.

  It took me ten minutes to explain all about the suicides while she stroked the purring cat’s head. When I was finished she looked puzzled.

  ‘That’s a very strange tale, Mr Deuchar, but I still don’t see what it has to do with me.’

  I took a copy of a newspaper report from my jacket and handed it over to her. The cat immediately stopped purring, sensing possible trouble. Miss Eastfield peered at the article and paled a little. ‘Oh, my. You mean that’s the same train?’

  ‘The very one. Now, I’m not accusing you of anything, but maybe you have a better idea than me how you getting arrested for shouting abuse at the train connects with seven people throwing themselves under its wheels.’

  Cally Eastfield composed herself before finally saying, ‘Well, in all honesty I wasn’t hurling abuse at the train. I’m afraid I was cursing it.’

  ‘You put a curse on a train?’

  My voice must have sounded threatening because the black cat raised its head and hissed at me. Miss Eastfield merely smiled and soothed the cat by stroking its ears.

  ‘I’m a white witch, Mr Deuchar. I’m not normally given to casting such a serious hex on animate, or in this case, inanimate objects. What happened was, I was supposed to be visiting my sister who lives in Birmingham and thought it might save me a bit of trouble if I booked my train tickets over the internet. I must have clicked on the wrong date and only noticed my silly error when about to board the train. I went at once to the guard on the platform and explained what had happened, expecting him to be understanding and tell me not to worry about it. However, he got all officious and told me I’d have to purchase a new ticket. I got so angry at his snooty jobs-worth attitude that I dumped my suitcase, jumped down onto the tracks and laid a curse on his stupid train.’

  ‘Didn’t the guard try to stop you?’

  Miss Eastfield looked a bit sheepish. ‘Oh, no. I’m afraid I’d already slapped him with a temporary binding charm to keep him immobilised for a few minutes. I really didn’t intend for the curse to be so serious. I merely wanted the train to suffer a run of mild bad luck. Harmless stuff, like their coffee machine to break down or the air conditioning to get stuck on freezing cold. Obviously, I was angrier than I thought. It sounds like I weakened the train’s astral integrity to the point that something foul has slipped inside and is calling to those poor damaged people, drawing them to it in order to end their lives.’

  ‘When you say, something foul…’

  ‘I mean a demon, Mr Deuchar. The train is possessed and will continue sacrificing victims to its dark master unless something gets done about it.’

  I was now wishing I’d accepted the cup of tea. A demonic train? It sounded ridiculous, but there were already seven dead bodies accounted for and I remembered the sense of wrongness I’d felt when gazing down at the locomotive from the train-spotter’s clubhouse. I took a deep breath and kept my voice calm in case I upset the cat again. ‘So would you be willing to remove the curse?’

  Cally Eastfield looked at me sadly. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t? You mean you don’t know how to remove the curse?’

  ‘No, I mean I just can’t. I’ve been bound over for a year by the magistrate for breach of peace. If I go yelling words of power at the train a second time they might stick me in prison, or an old folk’s home. If anyone is going to exorcise this demon I think it’ll have to be you, Mr Deuchar.’

  ‘Me!’ I exclaimed, causing the cat to hiss and arch its back. ‘What do I know about this stuff? Do you think I’m some sort of wizard?’

  Miss Eastfield’s twinkling eyes now had a wicked gleam to them. ‘Well, you do have the hat. Now, listen to me very carefully…’

  ***

  Later that evening I called Ian Shand and explained what I’d learned and what I was planning to do. The whole thing sound
ed crazy but I felt as though I had no choice. I expected Shand to laugh at me but all he said was, ‘Excellent work, Mr Deuchar. Anything we can do to help, you only have to ask.’

  ‘Then maybe you can tell how I’m going to get down on that track without being noticed by the guard or the railway police.’

  Shand sucked his teeth before saying, ‘You leave that part to us. I’ve an idea how we can run interference for you. Let’s meet on Platform Three no later than seven fifty tomorrow morning. Agreed?’

  I reluctantly told him I would be there and went back to studying the instructions Miss Eastfield had given me for casting out demons.

  ***

  Next morning, I brazenly walked past the gate staff onto Platform Three, doing my best to mingle with the rest of the commuters trailing trolley-cases behind them like family pets being taken for a morning walk. I spotted Shand waiting for me halfway along the platform dressed in his usual anorak and woolly hat. He took my arm and guided me behind a nearby pillar.

  ‘Quickly,’ he said, handing me a folded yellow high-visibility vest. ‘Put this on. No-one ever notices anyone messing around when you wear one of these.’

  I took the vest with a disbelieving look on my face. ‘That’s it?’ I asked. ‘This is your idea of running interference?’

  Shand smiled slyly, the tip of his nose bright red again which I took to mean he was pleased with himself. ‘Not exactly. It’s just a secondary precaution.’ He glanced over my shoulder. ‘Ah, here come the troops.’

  I turned and saw thirty men wearing anoraks and woolly hats marching up the platform towards us. The sight of so many train-spotters gathered en masse was causing commuters to stop in their tracks and gawp. One of Shand’s men came over to where we were standing and pulled a laptop from his back-pack. ‘Operation Glenn Miller ready to commence.’

  ‘Operation Glenn Miller?’ I spluttered.

  Shand said, ‘All in good time, Mr Deuchar. Gilbert is our resident computer expert. When you’re ready to tackle the demon, he’s going to hack into the station Tannoy system and then you’ll see something extraordinary. We didn’t have too much preparation time but I’m confident it will suffice to draw any unwanted attention away from your endeavours.’

  Beside us the diesel multiple-units of the Virgin Voyager kicked in and gave a throaty roar. Shand looked at his watch. ‘I think now might be as good a time as any, Mr Deuchar. Good luck.’

  I turned on my heel and marched towards the front of the train armed with nothing more than a high-visibility vest, a small bag Miss Eastfield had given me, and my trusty fedora. I was maybe a dozen steps from the drivers cab when suddenly the Tannoy speakers crackled into life. The tune was instantly recognisable: ‘Chattanooga Choo- Choo’ by the Glenn Miller Orchestra. Turning back, I saw a bizarre spectacle that would stay with me for the rest of my life. Thirty men attired in anoraks and woolly hats performing a flash mob dance on platform three of Glasgow Central station. The only way I can to describe it is if you could possibly imagine thirty badly-dressed men with motor neuron disease being zapped with cattle prods. It was a hideous spectacle but it instantly captivated everyone else on the platform including the railway employees.

  I took advantage of the diversion by hurrying to the head of the train and jumping down onto the tracks directly in front of it. From this perspective the distinctive bullet-nose of the train now resembled the blunt snout of a killer shark. I hoped the demon infesting the Virgin Voyager was too distracted by the cruel parody of synchronised dancing taking place on the platform to have noticed me sneaking under its guard. From the bag Cally Eastfield had given me, I first took out a packet of salt and laid a thick line across the rails and sleepers about five feet away from the driver’s cab. The old witch had been very forceful about doing this before anything else as it would (in theory) prevent the demon from simply rolling forward and squashing me like a bug before I got the chance to chant the exorcising incantation. The second instruction (very important) was to remember to stand behind the protective salt-line and not in front.

  Next I had to set a handful of specially-made joss sticks smouldering. I had no idea what was in them, but from the foul stench they gave off as I waved them about over my head, I guessed the secret ingredients included dog-shit and gangrene. Then came the hard part; the incantation itself. Cally Eastfield had helpfully written it all down phonetically to ensure I got the wording exactly right. She claimed it was written in the language of the demonic parliament itself, which made it extra powerful. I had already rehearsed the odd-sounding words in my office that morning and if nothing else, I could be reasonably sure my coffee maker and desktop computer were now demon-free.

  Holding up the piece of paper I shouted in a loud voice, ‘Arfak Metruew Zangk Snerink Gah.’

  This immediately got the locomotive’s attention. The sound of its engines swelled to an angry roar and the air became thick with heavy diesel fumes spat from numerous exhaust manifolds. The train’s driver suddenly appeared in the window high above me and he looked surprised to find someone standing on the tracks waving incense sticks while shouting apparent gibberish in a foreign tongue.

  I quickly rushed through the second line. ‘Kablash Necrul Hecyto Ruargh.’

  Once more the engines rose in volume and the entire train surged forward a few inches making me flinch back, but it was the driver who worried me more. Something was happening to his face. It looked like it was melting, reshaping itself like candle wax. His cheekbones bulged outwards like wet balloons and two tusks tore through the moving flesh as his mouth elongated and filled with sharp fangs. His eyes, which had been closed in agony during this transformation, now snapped open, glowing balefully like burning-hot coals. The driver’s nose now resembled a wide-flared porcine snout and coarse hair sprouted to cover most of the face. The flesh it didn’t conceal was a flaky reddish-black colour like something left too long on the barbecue grill.

  The demon shrieked at me in fury from the cab, the sound similar to a normal train horn but much louder and with an after-echo that sounded like it came from somewhere cavernous and subterranean. The sheer volume of noise shattered the safety glass of the windscreen which rained down upon the tracks like glittering rain. Once more the train gave a lurching jolt and moved forward another inch or two.

  Terrified I was destined to become the eighth victim of the Virgin Voyager, I waved the incense sticks above my head and stumbled through the third line of the incantation. ‘Maah Vascule Pretori Xanah.’

  The demon above me began tearing apart the driver’s cab, smashing the control panel and wrenching off anything detachable and hurling them through the gap where the glass had been. A chunk of smoking plastic struck my high-visibility vest but didn’t do any damage. A cast-iron lever, which would have split my head in two if the demon’s aim were a little better, thankfully whizzed over my glass-speckled fedora to clatter harmlessly on the tracks behind me.

  Further back along the platform, ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ had been replaced by ‘Pennsylvania 6-5000’ and I dimly wondered if Shand and his train-spotting flash mob dancers were still managing to mesmerise the public and rail employees from noticing the carnage taking place up front. It would be a cruel irony if the railway police succeeded where the demon had so far failed in stopping the banishment. I risked a quick glance around the front of the train and was enraged to see Shand and his group had stopped dancing and were gathered excitedly around another, older train berthed at platform four, chattering excitedly while scribbling furiously into their notebooks. It seemed I was on my own now.

  I had one more line to deliver and all would be done. But before I could even get the first word out, I caught sight of something moving beneath the train. At first my eyes couldn’t quite decide what they were seeing. It was like a crowd of people had been torn apart in a blender and then sewn back together in a random order of limbs, ripped flesh and glistening purple internal organs. The whole amorphous mass made a soft slithering sound as
it crept from beneath the engine carriage and crawled, flowed, scuttled, and oozed towards me. The demon in the driver’s cab grinned ferociously as it set its suicidal sacrifices upon me. The obscene entanglement of dead people reached the salt-line and stopped dead, but I got such a fright I took a step back, tripped over a wooden sleeper and landed heavily on my backside.

  The force of the impact made me lose my grip on the piece of paper with the incantation written upon on it. I could only watch helplessly as it fluttered slowly back and forward across the salt-line, catching updrafts of hot diesel fumes to remain airborne. I snatched at it with my hand, but it evaded me and slipped once more back across the boundary where dead fingers, sliced open to reveal the tendons inside, caught it neatly and stuffed it into the open mouth of one of its seven heads. The jaw snapped closed and chewed savagely. The paper, along with the last line of the incantation, was gone. Worse was to follow. In my desperation to grab the bit of paper, my foot had slipped on the oily wooden sleeper and scuffed a gap in the safety barrier of the salt-line. Above me I saw the demon’s face stretch horribly in a sneer of triumph.

  I was done for…

  Or so I thought. From the side of the platform came a most glorious sound. It was a woman singing a wordless cascade of beautiful, heart-breaking musical intonations. The singing soared in the cathedral-like high spaces of the station, resonating off the glass and steel structures. The dead mass of flesh in front of me quivered and pulsed in slow agony and then collapsed into an inert stew of stilled meat. I twisted my head to see where the singing was coming from and saw Cally Eastfield wearing a dazzling white robe standing on the platform, her bare arms moving slowly and sinuously through the diesel-impregnated air as she shaped the sound emanating from her mouth into a complex sonic mosaic of wonder and white magic.