by Icy Sedgwick
He pinched his nostrils, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped into her body.
Fowlis opened his eyes. He stood in a curious-shaped room, like half of an amphitheatre. Rows of stands marched upwards towards the back of the room, to allow crowds of men, most likely surgical students, to gaze down to the table in the middle of the room. The stands were empty, the surgical students long gone. Dust motes danced through the shafts of light falling through the huge skylight overhead. He turned to look at the table. Sarah sat on the edge, swinging her legs.
“This is an odd place for a dream,” he said.
“I always loved going to the Old Operating Theatre when we lived in London. There was something about the herb garret that I loved. I often come back here in my dreams.”
“I once found a lost soul here.” Fowlis pointed to the back row, remembering where the girl sat. “She couldn’t let go, couldn’t move on. Not without someone to show her the way.”
“What happened?”
“She was a female patient here. She died in the ward that would have been beyond that wall.” Fowlis indicated the wall, knowing that no hospital remained on the other side. “Mary, they called her. She spent every day following the guided tour, listening to the talks, never sure what to do with herself.”
“Why did she end up as a haunter?” asked Sarah.
“Some kind of glitch. It happens from time to time. I popped down and introduced her to the Managing Director. Last I heard, she’d become an assistant and was doing very well. She’s a very diligent girl.” Fowlis smiled to think of her.
“Does everyone get to be a ghost when they die?” Sarah hopped off the table and walked across the room. A row of shining surgical instruments hung from a rack, ready for the guides to use in their talks. Fowlis shuddered to think of such rudimentary medicine. Still, not even modern medicine would have saved his life. A bullet to the heart tends to cause all kinds of problems. The memory of the gunshot cracked his mind apart, the phantom thud to the chest pushing him back a step. He steadied himself on the table and glanced up. Sarah still examined the instruments. At least she hadn’t seen—he was spared those endless questions for now.
“That’s the Managing Director’s general idea, yes. Whether they end up as a haunter, an assistant, or some other position is also up to her.” Fowlis forced himself to stand straight. No ancient gunshot wound could interfere now.
The room darkened. Fowlis looked up at the skylight. Thick clouds clustered above them, their oily bellies pregnant with rain. Fowlis frowned. Sudden rainstorms in dreams never bore good omens.
“Can you tell me about Handle?” Sarah turned to face him. She glanced up at the skylight and frowned.
“My assistant was the youngest son of a wealthy squire in Wiltshire. In life, he would have been destined for many things. In death…well, the Managing Director cares little for social standing.”
“Something’s wrong.” Sarah shoved her hands into her pockets but not quickly enough for Fowlis to notice them shaking.
“In what way?”
“The sky. It never rains here. Not in my dream.”
Something about the theatre unsettled Fowlis. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he wasn’t entirely sure that it was a dream—not completely.
“I think this was a bad idea,” said Fowlis.
A tremendous peal of thunder rolled around the sky. The glass rattled in the windowpanes of the skylight. A fork of lightning tore the clouds apart and for a second, Fowlis saw the gaping abyss of eternity beyond them.
“This is no dream, Sarah.”
“What is it then? How else can I be here with you?”
“I do not know, but we are perilously close to a precipice that neither of us should ever wish to cross. Come, we should leave. We shall simply pass the train journey in silence, but thankfully we shall be in one piece.” Fowlis stretched out a hand to Sarah. The Beyond filled him with mortal terror but he couldn’t explain the abject fear that froze his very ectoplasm at the sight of infinity.
Sarah pulled one hand out of her pocket and reached for him. Another peal of thunder crashed above them, scattering dust from the window frames. The door at the far side of the theatre burst open. High above the stands, in the real world it led to the herb garret and the old attics beyond. A gust of wind screamed through the door, tearing around the stands, whipping dust and flakes of paint into dizzying eddies.
“Sarah, we really must be going now.”
“I can’t wake up.” She stared at him. Fear glittered in her wide eyes, the colour draining from her face.
“You must try, it’s—”
“I have been trying. Normally when I come here I just think ‘I’ll wake up now’ and I do. But nothing’s happening.”
Thunder cracked overhead, sounding for all the world like cannon fire. Fowlis winced. A windowpane rattled and the glass burst free. Sarah leaped backwards and threw an arm across her face. Fowlis ducked behind the table and the glass exploded on the floor. Heavy rain poured in the open space, driving needles of freezing water into the operating theatre. Another door burst open, hidden behind a wooden screen. Infinity howled in the space beyond.
“Sarah, this place is collapsing as we stand here.”
“I know! But—you’re going to have to let me fall.”
“What?”
“Just stand behind me and catch me just before I hit the floor.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later!” Sarah screamed at him over the roar outside. Fowlis crunched across the broken glass littering the floor. He stood behind Sarah, far enough back that he could catch her before she hit the floor. He didn’t understand what she was doing but she sounded so sure.
Sarah stood stock still, swaying slightly. Without warning she dropped backwards. Fowlis dived forwards to catch her and grabbed only thin air. He stumbled and pushed himself to his feet. He looked around the theatre. There was no sign of her.
Another crack of thunder dislodged a window pane. Fowlis ducked behind a cabinet to avoid the spray of glass shards. He wasn’t sure if they’d hurt him—they wouldn’t if he was in the world of the living, but he had no idea if that’s where he was.
An icy hand reached inside him and grasped his gut. He smiled—he’d never been so pleased to feel that sensation in all of his long years as a haunter.
* * *
Fowlis opened his eyes. Sarah sat in the train seat beside him, his anchor clasped in her trembling hand. Colour flushed her cheeks and relief replaced the fear in her eyes.
“That was very quick thinking, Sarah. How did you know to do that?”
“It’s the imbalance in the inner ear. It’s why you sometimes wake up feeling like you were falling. I saw it in a film and figured it was worth a try. I thought you’d come back with me but when you didn’t I just went for your anchor,” she replied.
“Well at least we are both here now. I never thought I’d see the day I’d be pleased to see the British transportation system.” Fowlis chuckled.
“What happened back there?”
“I confess I do not know. I have never encountered anything such as that. I fear it is connected to whatever is happening with the missing haunters. Something dreadful is about to happen unless we can stop it.” Fowlis chewed his bottom lip. Was it possible the council didn’t know how serious the threat was? Missing haunters was one thing, but dream worlds collapsing in on themselves? He wasn’t even sure who would deal with such a problem.
“Are you looking forward to going back?”
“In some ways I am, although I am happiest when in the field, performing my duties. Still, it will be good to see everyone, and to try to restore some form of order. It worries me somewhat that I haven’t spoken with Handle since yesterday evening, although I suppose that between the enquiries of Templeton and the whims of the council, he has enough to contend with.”
“Where do you think the Managing Director is?” asked Sarah.
“I a
m not sure. Perhaps the council do not want to trouble her. Or perhaps she also has duties. She is a busy entity, as I’m sure you can imagine. I have only met her once myself.” Fowlis wished that she was more easily contactable but she only seemed to appear at random. Still, she probably had more than enough of her own problems to deal with.
Sarah fell silent. He couldn’t begin to imagine how she was processing such a turn of events. At least he’d had several centuries to come to terms with everything. He smiled at her.
“Well now, Sarah. I imagine you are excited about a return to London? Living in the wilds of Northumberland may be a romantic notion for your mother and provide the solitude required by your father, though I would venture that it is perhaps a tad quiet or isolated for you?”
“It is pretty lonely up there. I mean, it’s beautiful, and I guess I’m really lucky to have such a nice home, but sometimes all that space and all that quiet gets a bit boring. It doesn’t help that now that I’ve moved, all of my friends seem to have totally forgotten I exist. For people who do everything on social media they’re rubbish at actually being social,” replied Sarah. “I told them I was coming back for a short visit but no one replied, so I guess they’re not bothered about seeing me while I’m around. So no, I don’t think I am excited. Besides, it’ll be weird going home without you.”
“You will cope admirably, I am sure,” replied Fowlis. “Remember that you have only known me for a few days.”
“I know, but you made that place bearable.”
“You won’t be there forever. Why, in September you will be starting college, and your life will be full of new people and new things to learn, and then after that you will probably want to go to university. Enjoy your surroundings while you can,” said Fowlis.
“Do you think Dad’ll be okay? I mean, when he tells the world that ghosts are real?” asked Sarah, eager to switch the conversation away from her loneliness.
“I am sure that your father will be fine, Sarah,” replied Fowlis. “Considering the evidence with which I have provided him, there will be few who can oppose him.”
A man across the aisle shifted in his sleep and Sarah put a finger over her lips.
“Very well. I shall see you when we arrive in London.”
Sarah slipped the pendant back into her pocket, and Fowlis allowed himself to dissolve into sleep.
Chapter 24
Quiet suburbs and sloping green fields gave way to wide tracts of busy urban development. Alexandra Palace rolled into view and cast its benevolent gaze over Wood Green and Muswell Hill. Sarah looked out of the window and watched outer London slide past. Streets of shops and flats stretched away from the railway line, curving into the distance. A gentle weight landed on her shoulder.
“We’re nearly in London,” whispered Fowlis, his voice warm in her ear.
“I must have dozed off again.”
“Though thankfully you did not return to your usual haunt.” A smile coloured his voice when he said the word ‘haunt’ and Sarah groaned. It was the kind of joke her uncle might make.
The driver flicked on the tannoy to announce they were about to reach King’s Cross. A flurry of movement swept the train as passengers shrugged themselves into coats and retrieved bags from the overhead racks. Sarah slid her tablet back into her rucksack and pulled on her coat.
Even on a week-day lunchtime, King’s Cross station hummed with activity. Businesspeople strode to and fro, tapping on smartphone screens or eating sandwiches on the move. Tourists stood in small huddles, surrounded by a protective ring of luggage as they attempted to decide where to go. Sarah darted between them all and made her way to the Underground station. A gaggle of schoolchildren hung around the ticket machines while their harassed teacher tried to purchase thirty day tickets. A scruffy young man with a battered acoustic guitar ran past, followed by two policemen. A young man in a suit pushed past her and she swore at him under her breath. He shoved past a young woman with a pushchair who struggled to get onto the escalator.
“I’ve only been gone for less than a fortnight, but already I’d forgotten how rude the people are in this place,” she muttered.
Fowlis snorted in her ear. “Do you understand this tangle of lines?”
Sarah smiled. She could only imagine what the Underground, with its jumble of coloured lines and maze of corridors, looked like to a cavalier.
“We need the Piccadilly line to Earl’s Court.” Sarah tapped through the screens on the ticket machine to update her travel card. She fed her last ten-pound note into the machine, which snatched it from her hand. The machine beeped twice before she held her card against the sensor.
“There, all done.”
“Infernal machines. Well, I shall merely follow you, my dear.”
Sarah passed through the barriers and rode the escalator down into the bowels of the station. To avoid the jostling crowds, she walked briskly with the air of one who knew what she was doing. It was a trick she’d learned from her mother and it worked as well as she’d hoped. A small throng of tourists carrying backpacks dodged out of her way, though the businesspeople with briefcases still barged into her.
“They’re rather rude, Sarah,” whispered Fowlis.
“Welcome to London.”
The train was surprisingly empty as it drew up to the platform. Sarah found a seat midway along the carriage. She busied herself with reading the advertisements overhead as the train rattled through the darkness. A young woman in a clear plastic mackintosh stared at her brazenly, but Sarah tried to ignore it. The young woman must be from out of London, and unaware of the unspoken rule not to make eye contact on public transport.
The train pulled into Holborn. “There used to be another line going from Holborn, as well as this one and the Central line,” said Fowlis.
Sarah raised her eyebrows, as if to say, “Really?” She didn’t want to speak aloud on the tube. She’d been in carriages with odd people that talked to themselves, and she didn’t want to become one of them. Unless…had they been talking to ghosts too?
“Yes. It simply went from here to Aldwych. But it didn’t make enough money so they closed it in the 1990s,” replied Fowlis, cutting through her thoughts. “From what I gather, they use it for filming purposes these days. I remember Guy Fawkes trying to scare the crew while they filmed something there. He found it rather amusing since the film involved a man in a Guy Fawkes mask.”
Sarah sniggered at the mental image. She took advantage of the noise between stations to ask her question. “Are there lots of stations like that?”
“There are certainly quite a few. There’s another famous one on this line, Down Street, but trains don’t stop there any more,” replied Fowlis.
“Can you see anything from the track?”
“I don’t think so. You can if the train goes through the old British Museum station on the Central line though. There’s a rather delightful Egyptian Princess at the actual museum who used to pop down to the station for amusement. She’s on a permanent assignment there and I daresay she’s still in the area, if you get the chance to visit.”
The train pulled off into the darkness again. Sarah gripped the hard plastic armrests on either side of her seat. She hated the way the trains rattled and shook beneath her.
“It is said that the Piccadilly line bends quite dramatically for no geological reason, taking quite a detour on its route, because it skirts a plague pit,” yelled Fowlis over the noise of the train.
“Do you believe that?”
“Not really. Pits have been excavated and even built on before, so I don’t see why the engineers planning the route would take the trouble to go around it.”
Sarah fell silent and brooded on the possibility of hidden worlds existing within or alongside her own. How many people pounded the pavements of London without realising what lay beneath their feet? She saw the world around her through completely naked eyes these days. Forgotten tube stations, entire pits of plague victims, Egyptian ghosts—what else wou
ld she discover?
The train drew into Earl’s Court. Only a handful of people remained in their carriage, and Sarah made her way onto the platform. The stairs took her up into the station and she emerged blinking in the sunlight on Earl’s Court Road. The traffic fumes made her head swim. For a moment, she missed the clean air of Northumberland.
“Which way is it from here?” she asked.
“It’s over this way.” Fowlis nudged her north up the main road, past a seemingly endless parade of lookalike charity shops, coffee shops and fast-food restaurants.
They crossed over a wide road carrying speeding cars west into Hammersmith. Once on the other side, he led her into a maze of quiet streets and neat squares.
“Here we are. Dalrymple Street.” Fowlis’s hand materialised for a moment and pointed at a faded street sign screwed to the wall above them. Relief that they’d made it conflicted with her sadness that she would soon have to say goodbye to him. Her stomach growled and she realised she’d skipped both breakfast and lunch.
Fowlis stopped her outside number 73, which stretched up for four storeys above street level and scooped a lower floor out beneath it. Flower boxes ran along the iron railings along the side of the staircase that led down to the basement level. A brass knocker in the shape of a lion hung from the red front door. Mock Greek columns held up a porch that looked as though it might droop in hot weather. A shiny brass plaque screwed to the wall beside the door proclaimed the building to be home to the Mainwaring Women’s Literary Society.
Sarah took the pendant out of her pocket. Fowlis appeared beside her, barely visible in the strong daylight. He looked up at the building and smiled.
“Thank you, Sarah.” Fowlis doffed his hat.
