One

The purple mist held no terror. Somehow its hue ­seemed less poisonous. It curled and broiled now in tenuous wisps, not like a cauldron, and when Mark held up his hands it parted before his groping fingers like cobwebs. He pulled it apart like a flimsy curtain and was instantly awake.

He was lying on a sofa. Shafts of afternoon light were spilling across his face from the picture windows which occupied half the wall adjacent to him. He could make out the tops of the city skyline just above the lower frame of the windows and struggled up on one elbow to look around. He was in someone’s living room or lounge; decorated barely by a bureau, two upholstered chairs and a coffee table. There was a bland, framed landscape on one of the pale blue walls. A door to the left led into a bathroom. He could see a shower curtain and hear water running. No . . . this wasn’t someone’s lounge. It was a hotel room.

He swung into a sitting position. Someone had taken off his raincoat and jacket. His shirt sleeve had been sponged and it clung wetly to his arm, still bearing the faintly acrid odour of vomit. A single document lay on the coffee table, a soft-­backed folder of some kind: Annual Railway Accident Report – Department of Transport.

And then, with a feeling of grey nausea in the pit of his stomach, Mark remembered the station. He had given in to the Impulse. In desperation, and despite the fear, he had let it take him through the ticket barrier. He had gone insane and had tried to commit suicide. No . . . no . . . that wasn’t right. He had not tried to commit suicide. Something had tried to kill him. He knew it with a conviction and clarity of mind that astonished him. The tumult and confusion which had been tormenting him for so long and the doubts and fears about his sanity all seemed somehow a thing of the past. Something cathartic had happened to him on the platform. Something that he could not explain. He had given in to . . . something . . . it had taken control, and it had tried to kill him. But it had not been his subconscious. He had not finally lapsed into schizophrenia. Something else had been inside his mind, living there ever since the accident. It had tried to kill him but it had failed and, as a result, had somehow been expelled from his mind. As a result of its failure, the canker had fled. The parasite was gone and Mark’s mind felt pure and newborn, strangely cleansed. And . . . something else. There was something else about the clarity with which he could think and see things. Something new and different. . . he could think so much more clearly . . .

A figure emerged from the bathroom, standing framed in the doorway, holding a dark jacket and sponging the lapel with a cloth. Mark instantly recognised the slightly paunchy figure, the greying temples which bordered thick, ruffled hair that looked as if it had not seen a comb for some time; the rumpled tie pulled away from the collar. It was the face that had been watching him in the station, that had unnerved him so much when he made his first attempt to cross through the ticket barrier. It was the face that had loomed above him after he had stepped off the platform. Undoubtedly, the owner of that face had pulled him away from death at the last instant. The face of the watching stranger.

‘You’re awake.’ The stranger spoke matter-­of-­factly, glancing at him only briefly before resuming his work on the crumpled jacket. ‘This place stinks of puke.’

‘Who . . . ?’

‘Now comes the movie cliché: “Who are you? Where am I? What happened? And what am I doing here?” Right? More importantly – is this stain ever going to come off my jacket?’ He moved to the picture windows and opened a vent, hanging his jacket over the back of a chair beside the radiator. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’ll have to be whisky, ’cause that’s all I’ve got. Try to keep it down, will you? I’m paying enough for the room as it is – I don’t want to have to pay for the sofa to be cleaned as well.’

‘Just who the hell are you?’ asked Mark, suddenly angry.

‘Don’t you recognise me?’ The stranger crossed to the small bureau and took out a half-­full bottle of Bell’s which he placed on the coffee table before vanishing into the bathroom.

‘No. Should I?’ But the man’s face was familiar.

‘You’ve got a short memory, Mr Davies. I’m surprised at you. But then again, your memory isn’t one of your strong points, is it?’

The stranger re-­emerged holding a whisky tumbler and the water glass which he had liberated from its holder above the basin. He sat opposite Mark, pouring two large measures and proffering the whisky glass to Mark. Mark drank quickly, feeling the fiery liquid burning in his gut and wondering how in hell the man knew who he was.

‘Why did you try to kill yourself?’ The stranger’s eyes were penetrating and direct as he sipped at his whisky, leaning forward and cradling the glass in both hands. It was a directness which threatened to throw Mark off balance.

‘I asked who you are,’ Mark retaliated.

‘You are Mark Davies. Thirty years old. Married with one daughter. You were thrown from the King’s Cross train by a person or persons unknown on September 25th, last year. You spent eight months in a coma with nearly every bone in your body broken. You made a miraculous recovery but your memory of the incident was wiped clean. No one else on that train saw or heard anything. As a result, the Special Police Team set up to conduct an enquiry chased around in ever decreasing circles before vanishing up their own arses. Why did you try to commit suicide, Mr Davies?’

‘Who the hell are you and why have you been watching me?’ Mark drained his whisky fiercely, banging down the glass on the coffee table. He fought the urge to get up and leave. For the first time since the accident, it looked as if he might be able to pull together the loose strands of his life . . . of his mind . . .

Something new in my mind . . . so clear . . . I can think so clearly.

‘My name’s Chadderton, Mr Davies. I’ve been hanging around in that station for the past six weeks, watching you.’

Chadderton. The newspaper article in Mark’s pocket. Detective Inspector Chadderton . . . ‘Officer in charge of the investigations’. And then Mark remembered where he had seen him before: in the early days when he was recovering from his coma and life seemed to be a drifting, disconnected limbo between waking and sleeping. Chadderton had spoken to him then; had visited him at the hospital. But he had looked much younger then, more in control . . . my mind . . . so clear . . . something has happened to him since then . . . He had never seen Chadderton again after those early days (or months). Only a continuous stream of unfamiliar official faces, some of them uniformed . . . but never Chadderton.

Chadderton had crossed to his jacket and taken out a small black leather wallet. He made to throw it at Mark.

‘There’s no need. I remember who you are.’

Chadderton returned to his seat, refilling their glasses and handing the tumbler back to Mark.

‘Why have you been watching me?’

‘You’re a fascinating man. I originally came up here to interview you. But I didn’t have to seek you out. When I arrived at the Central Station, you were already there. Pacing about like a demented lion in its cage. What is it about the station, Mr Davies? Why do you spend so much time there?’

‘How long have you been watching me?’ Mark asked again.

‘Six weeks.’

‘You mean you’ve had a team of people watching me?’

‘No, just me.’

‘Wait a minute. You’ve just been hanging around for six weeks. A detective inspector . . . in a rented hotel room . . . watching me for six weeks. That doesn’t hold water.’

‘Why did you try to kill yourself?’

‘I didn’t try to kill myself. I . . . fell.’

‘Oh, yeah. Great. You just walked straight up to that platform and stepped off. If I hadn’t been watching you, been right behind you and hauled you back, you would be a stain on the tracks by now.’

‘You’re not in the force any more,’ said Mark, instinctively knowing that he was right. How did I know that? How in God’s name did I know that?

Chadderton sat back in his chair, a wry smile spreading across his face. ‘Very perceptive. And you’re absolutely right – ­I’m not a policeman any more. I’ve been relieved of duty, as they say. I am no longer “officially part of the investigation”.’ Mark could hear the quotation marks around Chadderton’s words. ‘But it prob­ably won’t surprise you to know that, although the file on Mark Davies is still open, there’s bugger all in the way of active investigation going on, seeing as how we’ve . . . they’ve . . . been able to come up with less than sweet Fanny Adams since Mr Memory was picked up from the embankment.’

‘Hold on! Hold on!’ Mark held up his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘Let’s get this right. You were in charge of my case. Now you’re not. In fact, you’re not even a policeman any more. And to all intents and purposes you say the police have given up; have unofficially closed the book on me. Yet you travelled up here from London to interview me anyway. You saw me in the station and decided just to hang around and watch me rather than try to talk to me. Why the hell were you watching me? All right, my behaviour’s been bloody erratic – I admit it – but do you mean to say that it was fascinating enough for you to stand watching me for six weeks?’

‘Just as well I did keep an eye on you, isn’t it? Bearing in mind what happened . . .’

‘Look! I owe you! You saved my life, but I think you should do a little more explaining.’

‘Did you try to kill yourself? Is that what you’ve been hanging around the station for? Is that what you’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to do?’

‘No, I didn’t! And no, it’s bloody not! Don’t talk in circles with me. Either answer my questions or I’m walking out.’ Mark gulped at his whisky again, the warmth in his stomach spreading to the rest of his body. He was beginning to feel very tired and his leg was starting to ache badly.

‘I’ll explain everything to you. Everything. But first, you’ve got to be totally honest with me, and tell me – did you try to kill yourself and is that why you’ve been going back to the station day after day?’

Mark felt at an impasse. Chadderton’s attitude was offensive and aggressive, but it was intriguing. He had been angrily blunt and direct with him; he had given Chadderton an ultimatum, but he had sidestepped it and Mark felt that Chadderton was used to being obeyed. But he had to find out what was going on – no matter what.

‘The honest answer is this: since the accident, I’ve been recovering not only physically, but mentally. I can’t remember what happened to me on that train. But ever since I got out of hospital I’ve had this compulsion . . . this Impulse . . . to go back to the station, buy a ticket and cross through the ticket barrier again.’ The Impulse has gone. It’s been cast out. But it’s not dead. It’s still alive . . . somewhere . . .■not far away . . . but still alive . . . and prowling. ‘At the same time, I’ve been terrified to cross through. Terrified at what might happen if I do. That’s what I’ve been doing in the station. I’ve been torn between two impulses. That’s why I’ve been seeing Dr Aynsley – my psychiatrist. ’ Aynsley was my psychiatrist . . . no . . . no . . . he IS my psychiatrist. He’s not dead.

Mark sighed and sat back, waiting for Chadderton to fulfil his part of the bargain.

‘And when you crossed through the ticket barrier, what happened then?’

‘Come on. You said you would explain . . .’

‘Listen to me, Davies! This is important. It’s very important that you tell me just exactly what happened to you when you walked down onto the platform. I’ll tell you absolutely everything that there is to tell, if you’ll just say what happened.’

I can tell him. I know I can tell him. He’s right, it is important . . .

Angrily, Mark explained, baring his soul to a complete stranger for no other reason than that an inner conviction told him it was right to do so: ‘I gave in to the Impulse today. I followed through with it. And when I went through the barrier, it was as if something. . . took possession of my body. I wasn’t in control any more. Something else was wearing my skin. I walked down to the platform as the train came in’ – the pounding in the lines . . . the Ghost Train . . . no, I can’t tell him that or he really will think I’m crazy – ‘I just didn’t have control over my body. Something was talking to me in my head . . . except talking isn’t the right word . . . and it told me to throw myself under the train. I know it sounds as if I’ve gone totally loonytunes. For a long time I thought I was a schizo myself. But now I know that it wasn’t true. I didn’t try to kill myself. Something wanted me dead.’

Mark’s words had flowed straight from him in a pure emotive surge. He felt breathless, a little drained, and as if he had just prostrated himself across a chopping block. Now he feared that Chadderton would throw him out, having finally received confirmation that he was a raving lunatic.

Chadderton had sat impassively through it all after his initial outburst; the same penetrating thrust in his eyes while Mark spoke. As Mark finished, there was a pause that seemed to hang timelessly in infinity while he waited for Chadderton’s reaction; waited for the axe of sanity and reason to fall. All right, you maniac. Get out before you spew your guts all over me again!

Chadderton sat back in his chair and turned his eyes up to the ceiling, exhaling air. He looked limp, and when he turned to Mark again, he smiled in a hopelessly careworn sort of way.

‘Drink?’

‘No . . . no . . . thanks. I’ve had enough to knock me out, already.’

‘Okay.’ Chadderton nodded, groaned and rubbed his face roughly with one calloused hand, as if he had just woken up. He leaned forward and poured another drink, Mark still waiting apprehensively for his response. He drank deeply, stood up slowly and moved across to the picture windows looking out across the city.

‘Nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live here. Do you know how many commuters use the King’s Cross train between London and Newcastle in a year? Or between London and Edinburgh? No? Neither do I. Must be hundreds of thousands . . .’ Chadderton’s voice faded as he scanned the city skyline.

The afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen and Mark could feel a rising irritation at the deliberately oblique way in which the man seemed to approach everything.

‘The team that was investigating your high-­diving performance,’ began Chadderton again, ‘wasn’t specifically set up for that purpose, Mr Davies. In fact, it had been in existence for just over five years before you hit the embankment and the headlines. You aren’t so special, I’m afraid – you’re a statistic. You could have been special because you’re alive. But your memory’s gone, so you’re no good to us at all.’

‘For God’s sake, will you just tell me straight!’

Chadderton harrumphed, a laugh with no trace of humor. He moved back across the room and sat down again. For the first time, Mark realised that he had a two days’ growth of beard.

‘Five years ago, my team was established to examine a number of unexplained deaths . . . murders . . . all related in some way to the King’s Cross train. All absolutely motiveless, all involving ordinary people using the train who boarded at one end, disembarked at the other and committed some terrible atrocity . . . or committed suicide. Some of these incidents we were able to link immediately to the fact that the person or persons involved had recently travelled on the King’s Cross train. But as our inquiries led us further afield, we began to look into other incidents which had remained either unexplained or unresolved; cases which had already been dealt with.

‘We found that, in a considerable number of instances, people involved in some pretty bizarre incidents had travelled on the King’s Cross train within a 24-­hour period. In fact, there have been one hundred and fifty identified incidents since the team was set up. And that doesn’t take account of the deaths we haven’t identified yet. In every single case, they’ve been ordinary people leading ordinary lives who have suddenly gone out of their minds after riding on that line. For no logical reason at all. One of our boys made the connection with the train journeys by mere coincidence. When we examined it more closely we couldn’t believe what we’d stumbled onto.

‘The whole pattern is insane – there’s no logic to any of it. In ’71 a middle-­aged businessman clinches a big business deal in Northallerton. He gets on a train to King’s Cross, gets off, goes home, shotguns his wife and kids, then sits calmly down on a kitchen seat and methodically gouges out his eyes with an apple corer. Two kids on a camping holiday in ’65 wave their folks goodbye at the station. We found the girl dead in Doncaster. She’d been force-­fed with a bottle of paraquat. The boy slit his throat in London. We found him lying in rubbish bins just off Piccadilly Circus. Forensic proved that he’d killed the girl. We’ve identified one hundred and fifty cases . . . and we haven’t even begun to delve into the whole thing fully yet. I had someone do a perfunctory exercise on incidents prior to 1960 – there’s God knows how many similar incidents stretching way way back to 1852. Eighteen-­bloody-­fifty-­two!’

1852 . . . 1852 . . . The date seemed to register in Mark’s mind. A memory from school, perhaps? No, it was somehow more significant than that . . .

‘Needless to say, the whole damned thing is the country’s best kept secret. It’s too bloody disturbing, too insane, for the Government to let it be made public. The most incredible thing about it is that the Ministry of Defence just don’t want to know.’

‘And me? What about me?’

‘We believed that you were possibly thrown from the train by someone who was . . .’

‘Infected?’ said Mark, and wondered how the word had sprung so readily to his lips.

‘Infected . . . yes, that’s an interesting word for it. Something happens to certain people on board that train, on that particular stretch of line. And in five years, we’ve come up with nothing.’

‘What about other railway lines in other parts of the country?’

‘It’s only the King’s Cross line. The major line of the entire railway system.’

‘What about people who’ve been . . . involved, in some way? What’s happened to those people who’ve survived?’

‘It varies. Some of them have become irrevocably insane. Others recover, but just don’t remember anything. You’re a case in point. We keep a watching brief on as many as we can, bearing in mind our limited manpower. We’re working under cover, Davies, because the top brass think that if it gets out, it will be worse than a loss of confidence in the police force – it might mean a panic.’ Chadderton sipped at his whisky and looked as if he had finished talking.

‘What do you think it is?’ asked Mark quietly.

Chadderton shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We’ve been through every possible permutation: mass hysteria; insanity induced by some electro-­magnetic, atmospheric, or chemical imbalance. Some kind of unknown disease that infects brain cells, is undetectable by conventional scientific means and has a brief but virulent effect on certain selected individuals. But in the end, we just don’t know. All we know for certain is that a person boards a train at any given point on the line – it doesn’t seem to matter where – and gets off at his destination, by which time he’s dangerously psychopathic.’ Chadderton drank again. His capacity for whisky seemed enormous.

‘What about biological warfare? Aren’t there some forms of nerve gas that induce psychotic behaviour?’

‘Yes, there are. But don’t think we haven’t considered that one, either. I know what you’re thinking – what if there’s a canister of the stuff gone astray, or been stolen? What if it’s lying under a track somewhere with a slow puncture? Or some guy’s riding the train, giving everybody a squirt? The point is – this has been going on for some time. It’s been going on for over one hundred and thirty years. One hundred and thirty years. And they just didn’t have nerve gas in 1852.’

‘What if there is some kind of communicable mental disease? Has any research been done on that?’

‘Continually. But there’s still no evidence. That’s why it was so important that I find out whether you wanted to kill yourself on that station platform. Perhaps you weren’t thrown from that train. Perhaps you were a victim yourself.’

‘Yes . . . a natural disease that perhaps hasn’t been identified.’

‘What you’ve told me today could have an important bearing. Tell me again. You said the . . . Impulse, was it? . . . yeah, the Impulse sort of took you over and you couldn’t help yourself. You felt compelled to kill yourself.’

‘That’s right. It was as if something had been . . . trying to get into my mind all along . . . and today, I let it in. And when it was in, it just took control.’

‘If it is a disease, it’s got a peculiar pathology. And for such an apparently virulent disease, it seems to confine itself to passengers on one particular stretch of line. If it’s communicable, why hasn’t it spread to the rest of the country? Why haven’t we had a spate of nationwide mass murder? I’ve got to be honest with you, Davies. I don’t know whether you’re a nutter or not. I don’t know whether what you’ve described to me are the symptoms of some killer disease or whether you’ve just had some kind of breakdown. Perhaps you’ve been suffering from the disease all along, contaminated by whoever threw you from that train, perhaps not. But I want you to come back with me to London and submit to examinations by experts. They should never have cancelled their watch on you. But they might find something now.’

‘You haven’t explained why you’re not in the force, why you’re no longer in charge of this special team.’

A dark cloud appeared to have spread across Chadderton’s face. For an instant, he seemed to be reliving some terrible event from his past. ‘I was relieved of duty because of something that happened to my wife while I was wrapped up investigating your case . . .’