Two

Chadderton bustled ahead down the train corridor with Father Daniels behind and Mark bringing up the rear. The passengers had reacted in stunned silence when they had tumbled aboard, and Chadderton had decided to move on down the train as quickly as possible in search of their compartment. Mark heard a middle-­aged man say: ‘Some stupid idiot slammed the door shut and the train began to move before that young man’s fiancée could get on. It’s absolutely disgraceful!’

‘Chadderton!’ hissed Mark as they continued on their way. ‘Where do you think they’ve gone?’

‘They’re bound to be on the train,’ he replied without turning. They arrived at their first-­class compartment. Chadderton slid the door wide and pushed Father Daniels inside. Mark slipped in stiffly, his leg aching again. Then Chadderton followed, slamming the door shut and staying close to the windows to watch for signs of anyone approaching down the corridor.

‘They tried to kill me,’ said Father Daniels incredulously. ‘Did you see? That man tried to stab me.’ The priest was staring at the palm of his left hand. Mark saw that it was bleeding badly. Blood glistened darkly on his cassock. Mark moved forward, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. Father Daniels sat quietly, looking at his hand in disbelief as Mark wound the cloth tightly around the wound.

‘How bad is it?’ asked Chadderton, his concentration still fixed on the train corridor.

‘It’s not good. I don’t think it’s an artery. But it’s still not good.’

‘Why did they do this?’ asked the priest.

‘They’re possessed, Father. By Azimuth.’

The train was sliding past Platform Nine when Mark suddenly felt something happening in his mind. Waves of vertigo began to spill over him. He sat back heavily in his seat, gulping in air. For a second, he thought that he might pass out. He fought back, willing himself to remain conscious. Chadderton had seen him and came over to him quickly.

‘What’s wrong? You getting one of those feelings?’

‘No . . .’ said Mark weakly, ‘this is something else.’

‘Put your head between your knees,’ Chadderton urged him and began to force him down.

‘No . . . no,’ replied Mark, waving him off. ‘I’ll be all right.’

Chadderton could see that he had gone chalk white. There were beads of perspiration on his brow. The scar on his hairline showed livid again in exactly the same way it had done that night back in the house. He was trembling.

‘Oh, God . . .’ he began to mumble into his clenched fist. ‘Oh, dear, dear God.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Chadderton snapped. ‘Come on, Davies! What’s wrong?’

Mark looked hopelessly up at Chadderton.

‘I can remember. I know what happened to me on this train. Oh, my God. I can remember.’

‘What happened?’ Chadderton heard himself ask.

‘I wasn’t thrown from the train at all, Chadderton. No one threw me from the train. I jumped.’

Joe had been working as second man on locomotives for six months, serving his time before he could become a qualified driver, and he had been on the King’s Cross run with George before. All the way down from Edinburgh, they had chatted about the forthcoming football match at St James’s Park. George was good company on long runs like this, and he was a damned good driver. But Joe could not understand why George had moved the train out nine minutes before it was scheduled to leave. He had studied the working timetables back at the depot at the same time as George; he had double-­checked them again. And both of them knew just exactly when their train was supposed to leave Newcastle Central Station. They had even talked about it on their way down. There would be an eleven-­minute wait before they started off again. And yet, George had set off again within a couple of minutes of arrival, without saying a word.

‘What’s up then, George?’ asked Joe. ‘You know fine well we’re too bloody early.’

‘Light’s on green.’

‘Yeah, I can see that. But the published time’s 15.33. We’re supposed to stick to that, otherwise it’s going to send all the other traffic to cock.’

‘Light’s on green,’ said George again faintly, as if he was in a dream.

The guard’s van communicator sounded. George ignored it. It sounded again and Joe waited for him to say something. But George continued to stare ahead, a vacant sort of look on his face. Joe picked up the receiver. Charlie Watts was on the other end.

‘What the bloody hell’s going on, George? You pulled off when people were still getting on, for Christ’s sake! People were still getting on!’

Joe looked across at George, unable to say anything.