The Man from the Diogenes Club - [Diogenes Club 01]

by By Kim Newman

  “Elvis Presley?”

  Vanessa was keener on Elvis.

  “Miss Vanhomrigh was Swift’s biggest fan, so he invented a name for her. He preferred another woman called Esther, Esther Johnson, whom he called ‘Stella.’ I expect he made up the names so as not to get them mixed up. Stella and Vanessa didn’t like each other.”

  “Did they fight?”

  “In a way. They competed for Swift’s attention.”

  “Did Vanessa win?”

  “Not really, love. Both died before they could settle who got him, and he wasn’t entirely in the business of being got.”

  Best not to mention the author might have married Stella.

  How had they got into this? He hadn’t set out to be a lecturer, but he was recounting things he didn’t think he remembered to this inquisitive, reticent child. Talking to her calmed him.

  “Are we being got?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid we might be.”

  “Please don’t let me be got.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Vanessa smiled up at him. Richard worried he had just given his word in the middle of a great unknown. He might not be in a position to keep his promise.

  But he knew it was important.

  Vanessa must not be got.

  They were by the compartment with the Do Not Disturb sign. He saw a “through to Portnacreirann” notation. The blind wasn’t pulled all the way down, and a spill of light wavered on the compartment floor. In that, Richard saw a pale hand dangling from the lower berth, thin chain fixed to the handle of a briefcase on the floor. It was one of the couriers.

  At least they were safe.

  Vanessa put her eye up to the gap and looked in, for a long while.

  “Come away,” he said. “Let the nice Americans sleep.”

  She turned and looked up at him. “Are you sure they’re nice?”

  “No, but they’re important. And it’s best to leave them alone. There are other people I want to find first.”

  “Your friends? The pretty lady. The scowly man. The blind person.”

  “Danny’s not blind. Well, not now. How did you know he’d been blind?”

  She shrugged.

  “Just sensitive, I suppose,” he prompted. “And, yes, them. I left them in the restaurant but I, ah, seem to have mislaid the carriage. It used to be there”—pointing at the connecting door—”but now it isn’t.”

  “Silly,” she said. “A restaurant can’t get lost.”

  “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “No I haven’t,” she declared, sticking up her freckled nose. “I’ve learned quite enough already.”

  Richard was slightly irked by her tone. He might have said Vanessa’s education could hardly be considered complete since she’d omitted to learn her own full name. But that would be cruel. He understood too well how these situations came about.

  “The supper carriage is through that door,” she said. “I peeked, earlier.”

  She led him by the hand, back towards the connecting door.

  “We should be careful,” he said.

  “Silly silly,” she said. “Come on, Mr. Richard, don’t be scared....”

  When anyone—even a little girl—told him not to be scared, his natural instinct was to wonder what there was not to be scared of, then whether the person giving the advice was as well up on the potential scariness or otherwise of the situation or entity in question as they might be.

  The subdued lamps in the train corridor had dimmed to the point when everything seemed moonlit. The glass in the connecting door was black— he had a nasty thought that the carriages could have shifted about again, and there might be cold night air and a nasty fall to the tracks beyond.

  He let Vanessa’s hand go, and looked—trying to show more confidence than he felt—towards the door. He was over twice the girl’s age, and should take the lead; then again, twice a single figure wasn’t that much. He didn’t really know how old he was, let alone how old he should act.

  He hesitated. She gave him a little push.

  The train noise was louder near the door, the floor shakier.

  Richard told himself he was opening the door. Then he found he actually was.

  Beyond was ...

  * * * *

  VII

  Something had given her an almighty thump. And had got to Danny Myles.

  Annette came to on a table. Forks were driven through her shoulder-straps, pinning her to Formica. She couldn’t sit without ruining her Coco Chanel. Obviously, this was the work of a fiend from Hell. Or a jealous wife.

  The table rattled. Was the Scotch Streak shaking to pieces?

  A length of something spiny, like overboiled stringy asparagus with teeth, stretched across her mouth. She clamped down, tasted bitter sap, and spat it away. It was the long-stemmed rose from the place setting.

  She carefully detached the forks, trying to inflict no more damage to her dress, and sat up. Wet, sticky blood pooled on the tablecloth. Then she noticed a paring knife sticking out of her right thigh. Her stocking was torn. She gripped the handle, surprised not to feel anything but slight stiffness. Upon pulling out the knife, a gush of jagged pain came. She ignored it, and improvised a battlefield dressing—another useful trade learned in the war—with a napkin and cocktail sticks.

  Sliding off the table, she looked up and down the dining carriage.

  Danny Myles was backed into a space between the last booth and the door to the galley, hugging his knees, face hidden. He trembled, but she couldn’t tell if it was with silent sobbing or the movement of the train.

  She saw no one else, which didn’t mean no one else was there.

  Someone had forked and knifed her. The skewering had been too deliberate, too mocking, to be the result of a directionless phenomenon like the common or garden poltergeist. Something with a personality had attacked her. Something that thought itself a comedian. The worst kind of spook, in her opinion. Or maybe she’d been pinned by a mean person who wasn’t here anymore. Never neglect human agency. People could be wretched enough on their own, without calling in ghosts.

  There were ghosts here, though.

  “Danny,” she said.

  He didn’t hear her. That tinkled a warning—Danny heard everything, even when you didn’t want him to. He could probably smell or taste what was whispered in the next building in a room with taps running.

  “Danny,” she said, louder.

  She went to him, feeling stabbed again with every step.

  He wasn’t dead, she saw, but in shock, crawled back into his shell. He looked up and around, seeing nothing.

  Danny “Magic Fingers” Myles held up useless hands.

  “Busted,” he said. “Gone.”

  She knelt by him and examined his hands. No bones were broken. She found no wound of any kind. But they were dead, like sand-filled gloves.

  “Salauds boches,” she swore. Nazi bastards!

  She knew what the Worst Thing was for Danny Myles.

  His head jerked and he flinched, as if he were being flapped at by a cloud of bats. He knew someone was near, but not that it was her. All his senses were gone. He was locked in his skull.

  She took his arms and stood him up. He didn’t fight her. She tried to reach him—not by talking or even touching, but with her inside self. She projected past the bony shields around his mind, to reassure, to promise help ...

  She didn’t know if the damage was permanent—but she quashed the thought, screwing it into a tiny speck. He mustn’t get that, mustn’t catch despair from her, to compound his own.

  It’s Annie....

  Because it was her way, she tried kissing him, but just smeared her lipstick. She held him tight, her forehead against his.

  He wriggled, escaping from her. The napkin bandage came loose, and her leg gave out. For support, she grabbed a tall trolley with shelves of dessert. It rolled down the aisle, dragging her.
She bumped her head against the silvered frame. Cream and jam smeared the side of her face, matting in her hair. The trolley got away, and she was left, tottering, reaching out for something fixed ...

  Danny walked like a puppet, jerked past the galley, pulled towards the end of the carriage. Annette had seen people like that before, in shock or under the influence.

  “Danny!” she called out, frustrated. Nothing reached him.

  She repaired her bandage. How much blood had she lost? Her foot was a mass of needles and pins. She wasn’t sure her knee was working properly. Her fingers weren’t managing too well knotting the napkin.

  Danny was at the end of the carriage. The door slid open, not through his agency—the train had tilted to slam it aside. He vanished into shadow beyond, and fell down. She saw his trouser cuffs and shoes slither into darkness as he pulled himself—or was pulled—out of the dining car.

  This had gone far enough.

  She reached out, slipped her hand into the alcove, and took a firm hold on the communication cord.

  She had felt this coming. Now, here it was.

  ‘“Penalty for improper use—five pounds,’“ she read aloud. “Cheap at half the price.”

  She pulled, with her whole body. There was no resistance. She sprawled on the carpet. The red-painted metal chain was loose. Lengths rattled out of the alcove, yards falling in coils around her.

  No whistle, no grinding of breaks, no sudden halt.

  Nothing. The cord hadn’t been fixed to anything. It was a con, like pictures of lifebelts painted on the side of a ship.

  The Scotch Streak streaked on.

  If anything, the din was more terrific. Cold wind blew, riffling Annette’s sticky hair.

  Between the carriages, one of the exterior doors was open.

  Another earlier flash-forward came back to her. An open door. Someone falling. Breaking.

  “Danny,” she yelled.

  She scrabbled, tripping over the bloody useless chain, got to her feet, one heel snapped. That had been in her Worst Thing vision. Slipping free of her pumps, she ran towards the end of the carriage, as light flared in the passage beyond. She saw the open door, had an impression of hedgerows flashing by, greenery turned grey in the scatter of light from the train. Danny Myles hung in the doorway, wrists against the frame, body flapping like a flag.

  She grabbed for him. Her fingers brushed his jersey.

  Then he was gone. She leaned out of the train, wind hammering her eyes, and saw him collide with a gravel incline. He bounced several times, then tangled with a fencepost, wrapping around it like a discarded scarecrow.

  The train curved the wrong way, and she couldn’t see him. Magic Fingers was left behind.

  Tears forced from her, she wrenched herself back into the train, pulling closed the door. It was as if she had taken several sudden punches in the gut, the prelude to questioning, to loosen up the prisoner.

  She found herself sitting down, crying her heart out. For a long time.

  “Why is your friend bawling?” asked a small voice.

  Smearing tears out of her eyes with her wrist, Annette looked up.

  Richard was back—from the wrong direction, she realised—with Vanessa. The little girl held out a handkerchief with an embroidered “V.” Annette took it, wiped her eyes, and found she needed to blow her nose. Vanessa didn’t mind.

  “Danny’s gone,” she told Richard. “It got him.”

  She looked up at her colleague, the boy Edwin Winthrop had confidence in, the youth she’d entertained fantasies about. Recruited at an early age, educated and trained and brought up to become a Most Valued Member. Richard Jeperson was supposed to take care of things like this. Harry Cutley led this group, but insiders tipped Richard as the man to take over, to defy the worst the dark had to offer.

  She saw Richard had no idea what to do next. She saw only a black barrier in the future. And she swooned.

  * * * *

  ACT THREE: INVERDEITH

  I

  He had nothing.

  Annette was out cold. Harry was missing in action. Danny was finished. He was no use to them; they were no help to him.

  Richard was at the sharp end, with no more to give.

  Vanessa tugged his sleeve, insistent. She needed him, needed comfort, needed saving.

  Nearby, in one of these shifting carriages, the nato couriers slept. And others—Arnold the Conductor, the scary vicar, Mrs. Sweet, that cockney medium, more passengers, the driver and fireman sealed off from the rest of the train in the cabin of the locomotive. Even if they didn’t know it, they all counted on him. With the Go-Codes up for grabs, the whole world was on the table and the big dice rattled for the last throw.

  The Diogenes Club expected him to do his duty.

  He had the girl fetch chilled water in a jug from the galley, and sprinkled it on Annette’s brow. The woman murmured, but stayed under. He looked at Vanessa, who shrugged and made a pouring motion. Richard resisted the notion—it seemed disrespectful to treat a grownup lady like a comedy sidekick. Vanessa urged him, smiling as any child would at the idea of an adult getting a slosh in the face. With some delicacy, Richard tipped the jug, dripping fat bullets of water onto Annette’s forehead. Her eyes fluttered and he tipped further. Ice cubes bounced. Annette sat up, drenched and sputtering.

  “Welcome back.”

  She looked at him as if she were about to faint again, but didn’t. He shook her shoulders, to keep her attention.

  “Yes, I understand,” she said. “Now don’t overdo it. And get me a napkin.”

  Like the perfect waiter—and wherewas Arnold?—he had one to hand. She dabbed her face dry and ran fingers through her short hair. She’d like to spend fifteen minutes on her makeup, but was willing to sacrifice for the Cause.

  “You’re lovely as you are,” he said.

  She shrugged it off, secretly pleased. She let him help her to her feet and slid into one of the booths. Vanessa monkeyed up and sat opposite. The child began to play, tracing scratch-lines on the tablecloth with a long-tined fork.

  “I tried the communication cord,” she said. “No joy.”

  He got up, found the loose loop of cord, examined it, sought out the next alcove, pulled experimentally. No effect whatsoever.

  “Told you so,” she said.

  “Independent confirmation. Harry Cutley would approve. It counts as a finding if we fill in the forms properly.”

  Richard sat next to the little girl and looked at Annette, reaching out to catch a drip she had missed.

  “Harry’s gone?” she asked.

  Richard thought about it. He calmed, reaching into his centre, and tried to feel out, along the length of the train.

  “Not like Danny’s gone,” he concluded. “Harry’s on board.”

  “What’s he doing when he goes quiet like that?” Vanessa asked, interested. “Saying his prayers?”

  “Being sensitive,” said Annette.

  “Is that like being polite, minding his Ps and Qs?”

  Richard broke off and paid attention to the people immediately around him.

  “Something missing,” he said. “Something’s been taken.”

  “Time, for a start,” said Annette. “How long have we been aboard?”

  Richard reached for his watch pocket, then remembered he’d retired the timepiece. There was a clock above the connecting door. The one in the ballroom carriage seemed to keep the right time when all others failed. The face of this clock was black—not painted over, but opaque glass. It still ticked.

  “I won’t carry a watch,” said Annette, “but I’ve an excellent sense of time. And I’ve lost it. How long was I unconscious?”

  “Ages,” said Vanessa. “We thought you’d died.”

  “A few seconds,” said Richard.

  “See,” said Annette. “No sense of time at all.”

  Richard looked at the nearest window. It was black glass, like the clock—a mirror in which he looked shockingly worn-out. Even
when the overhead lights flickered, which they did more and more, he couldn’t see out. He didn’t know if they were rushing through England, Scotland or some other dark country. He felt the rattle-rhythm of the train—that, he knew, came from rolling over slight joins between lengths of rail, every ten or twenty feet. The Scotch Streak was still on tracks.