Nine

‘This is the Director of Operations speaking.’

‘This is Jackson from Eastern Region. I’m afraid that we have a severe problem here, sir.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard a preliminary report. A runaway train.’

‘I’m afraid that it could be considerably worse than that. We also have an inexplicable and massive communications failure. The train passed through Darlington a short while ago. Seventeen people have been killed. They fell onto the line.’

‘Killed? Oh my God . . . They fell onto the line?’

‘I’m still awaiting full details, sir. We’ve lost contact with Darlington.’

‘This is terrible . . . terrible . . . How in God’s name did the train get to Darlington? I understood that it was to be diverted.’

‘That’s my point, sir. We’re not able to divert the train. The King’s Cross lines appear to be fixed and we just can’t change them.’

‘That’s ridiculous, Jackson. What on earth do you take me for?’

‘I’m sorry, sir. But if you check with the people at your end you’ll find that the same thing has happened. We just cannot change the line. All traffic has been stopped here; we narrowly avoided a derailment at Darlington.’

‘I just can’t believe this! Are you seriously telling me that . . . Wait . . . Have you had any crews out to change the line manually?’

‘Yes, sir. Three men are dead. Electrocuted.’ Silence, then: ‘Can you hear me, sir?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘They tried to divert the line manually. They were killed instantly.’

‘But the King’s Cross line . . .’

‘. . . isn’t electrified. No, sir.’

‘Signal box reports?’

‘We can’t get through to any north of York. Hell, we can’t get through to anybody north of York now. But we have received divisional reports that a number of boxes on the King’s Cross route appear to have been destroyed.’

‘Christ, what’s going on . . . ? What about the train itself? Do we know what has happened on board?’

‘We’ve no way of knowing, sir. All communications are dead. I’ve sent observation crews up ahead to intercept the train as it passes. But none of them have reported back.’

Silence.

‘Sir?’

‘We have to get the army and the police involved, Jackson. An emergency plan. I’ll arrange for King’s Cross to be evacuated at once. I suggest that you suspend all operations and do the same at York. We can’t have any more deaths.’

‘We’re in the process of doing that already, sir, but there’s something else you should know.’

‘Yes?’

‘The train will be here in York in about twelve minutes. We may not have time to evacuate the station completely.’

‘Twelve minutes? That’s ridiculous. The train only passed through Darlington at . . .’

‘Yes I know, sir. But we’ve estimated that the train is travelling at 200 miles per hour.’

‘But no train . . .’

‘No, sir. No train can travel that fast.’

At the very last, Mark had known that it could only be him.

‘What in God’s name are you?’ he said, leaning back heavily against the cabin door, trying to keep as much space as possible between them.

‘You know who I am. I am the Ghost Train Man.’

‘I know that you’re trying to use my fear against me, Azimuth. I know that you don’t really look like that. You’ve been in my mind, dug into my childhood nightmares and taken on that guise because you think it will frighten me.’

‘Ahhh. Very, very clever, Sensitive.’ The words hissed like water on live coals. ‘But then, if I were to show you what I really am, you would go mad. All men have fear and I can find it. I am the Ultimate Fear that lives in all men.’

‘What are you?’ Mark asked again in disgust.

‘I am the rails, the generator, the locomotive . . . At last, I have flesh.’

Beyond the Man, Mark could see through the front windscreen as they hurtled onwards, impossibly fast.

‘You said you wanted to talk to me.’

‘Ah, yes. To talk. I will taste of all men when I arrive. The Man Who Sought but Could not Find will be tasted soon – ­just as I tasted his woman. The soldier and his woman are inconsequential, the holy man, too. But you . . . ah, you . . .’ The Ghost Train Man was pointing at Mark with one long, bone-­white finger. ‘You will not be like the others.’

‘Why do you want me?’

‘All upon whom I have set my hand, I have tasted. None have denied. But you . . . you have thrice denied me. Now I cannot take your mind. None has ever done this before. All have been tasted. You are . . . dear to me . . . and you can give me so much. Here! Look back . . .’ And suddenly, the Ghost Train Man had swung his arm and the cabin was gone.

They were standing in an empty nothingness, a limbo, the abode of the demon. Mark clamped down his own mental defences, knew that if he clung tightly to his self-­will, no harm could befall him.

‘See! See here!’ cried the Ghost Train Man.

Mark saw a church, saw a group of children kneeling before the altar rail. He saw a priest – a bishop – in full regalia, passing along the line of children, blessing them. He looked closer and saw himself as a child. Sitting not far behind him was his mother, weeping into a handkerchief and wishing that her husband, Mark’s father, was here to see. The bishop placed his hand on the little boy’s head, and Mark remembered how he had felt then. It was his Confirmation. And despite the lightheartedness and unconcern that Mark feigned when he was playing with his friends in the schoolyard, he felt strongly that this was the right thing to do. The other kids would joke about it all, and dismiss it offhandedly. Mark would joke about it too, because all the others did so. But, secretly, he felt it deeply. And now, in this nowhere place with the Ghost Train Man, he realised that he still felt it, even though he had not been to a church service since Helen had been baptised. Indeed, he had not even been inside a church again until he had gone with Chadderton to speak to Father Daniels.

‘See?’ said the Ghost Train Man with indulgent glee. ‘And now . . . see!’

Mark was twelve years old. He was sitting in a classroom, talking to Father Wilson who had been dead now for fourteen years. Mark was telling him that he wanted to be a priest. And Father Wilson was asking him why.

‘I just think I should be, Father.’

‘Now you know that’s no answer. Why the sudden decision, my boy?’

After a moment’s hesitation, Mark said shyly: ‘Well, the other kids sort of went through with the Confirmation, you know . . . like . . . it was something that you just do. It didn’t really mean anything.’

‘And it meant more to you, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Well . . . yeah. I felt strongly about it, Father. So I think perhaps that I should be a priest or something.’

Father Wilson slapped him on the back and laughed. ‘You’re a good boy, Mark. You feel things more deeply than the others. You’re sincere. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. But you’ve got your boyhood ahead of you yet. You’ve got a lot of living to do. Let it rest for a few years and then, if you still feel the same way, we can talk about it again . . .’

The image had gone. Mark and the Ghost Train Man stood facing each other against a backdrop of nothingness.

‘That doesn’t make me special,’ said Mark.

‘Ah, but yes . . . it does. There is much to savour here, Thrice Denied! You offered yourself to the Other. You gave freely. And that offer still has its mark in your blood. It is always a part of you.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Renounce your offer before me. Bow down and worship me. Acknowledge me as All and I will make you Man Supreme among Men. I will embody and walk within you. I will be of your mind but I will not taste you. All things will be yours when this vessel arrives.’

‘Walk within me? But you’re doing that in the train. You’re turning this train into your own flesh. You haven’t any need for my body.’

The Ghost Train Man laughed, eyes sparkling in unholy glee.

‘Yes, this vessel will be my own flesh. But I have need of disciples, Sensitive. My chosen, through whom I may embody and feed, with all mankind to feed upon. First will come the Great Tasting. Then will come a gathering of those who remain. We shall breed them, Sensitive. Breed them for the Tasting as your own kind breed cattle. And of my chosen, you shall be supreme! All can I give you!’

Mark felt his mind tilt as it was assailed by visions of what Azimuth promised. Images of gratification in every form jumbled for space in his brain. He saw himself as a king with the remnants of a shattered mankind subservient to him. He alone would choose the sacrifices to Azimuth. Power and glory for ever and ever. A supreme being with mastery over all. He saw cities being toppled and rebuilt at his command, saw in that brief instant every imaginable form of pleasure . . . and pulled back, slamming down his defences before he could be irrevocably lost in his own mind.

‘Bow down and worship Me. Renounce your offer and acknowledge Me as All.’

‘No! You want me to . . . renounce . . . because your possession of me would be all the sweeter. I renounce you!’

‘Do not spurn me, Sensitive! I sensed your promise when first I made to taste you. For too long a time have I been trapped within these lines. Riding these rails, feeding and tasting of pitiful creatures’ fear. Such as you are rare to taste. I have a claim on you. You are mine. And the promise you made to the Other must become a promise to Me. I waited for you to return. But you resisted. And your resistance was sweet.’

Again, the hissing, sibilant sound of water and fire. ‘Do not spurn Me, Sensitive. You should be overjoyed that I have wanted you.’

‘Go back to Hell where you belong!’ shouted Mark.

The Ghost Train Man’s face was flowing and changing as anger consumed him. Contorting and spreading like a wax mask in a flame. Mark could feel waves of hate radiating at him. Deep inside, fear was scratching and struggling to be free and Mark knew that this of all things would work to Azimuth’s advantage. He fought back, thought of Joanne and Helen, fuelled his anger. He thought of the months of lost life; of this hideous parasite feeding from his mind. He thought of all the other men, women and children who had been consumed by this monstrosity. And, as he fought, Azimuth’s rage grew stronger. Mark knew that now, free will or not, Azimuth meant to destroy him. The blurred face before him was shifting and changing. Mark fought down his own fear and horror as the eight jewelled eyes of a spider appeared on the darkening visage. A sibilant voice was hissing at him: You would have died without Me. And now, I may not have you, I may not embody within you, Sensitive. But here . . . in my domain, in time, I can destroy your mind.

Mark felt his resolve slipping. He turned away from what the Ghost Train Man was becoming. He screamed his anger and rage and knew that he was going to lose.

And then, he grasped at his shirt, found the small silver crucifix and gripped it tightly. In that instant, he saw Helen in a hospital bed, still in shock, knowing that she had not moved for over three days. But, as grief for his daughter flooded his soul, he could see that she was sitting up in bed. Her eyes were clearing.

‘Daddy . . .’

A nurse was hurrying across the ward towards her, was trying to restrain her, trying to make her lie down again. Helen’s eyes were flashing and angry.

‘The Bad Man!’

‘There’s no bad man, dear. Now come on, try to sleep. Just lie down and relax!’

Mark could see that Helen was looking upwards straight at him, as if he was floating near the ward ceiling. Instinctively, he knew that his daughter possessed a special inner power that could help him, but that she was not strong enough now to save him from Azimuth.

‘The Bad Man!’

Mark felt his last defence crumbling when he saw the small shadowed shape walking noiselessly down the ward towards Helen’s bed. He knew that the nurse could not see the newcomer as he finally drew level on the other side of Helen’s bed. One arm was held upwards across his face, shielding it from sight. The other was held out across the bed to Helen, and Mark realised that the small figure was almost transparent; he could see the bed right through him. Helen’s hand moved across the counterpane and grasped that of the little boy. She looked up at her father with an increased intensity as Azimuth finally crawled through Mark’s defence.

‘No!’ shouted Helen and Mark felt something powerful beyond words flowing from her. He felt it blast into and through him, cleansing his cobwebbed mind. He felt Azimuth retreat from the attack. He felt it wither and retreat, spewing hate and malice. The screaming echoed louder and louder, then began to diminish.

Helen lay back in bed, closed her eyes and slept again.

Robbie was gone.

Mark felt all sensibility leave him. He pitched forward into a blank, safe place and knew nothing.

The speaker at York station repeated its message over and over again.

‘Passengers are requested to leave the station immediately. Please follow police instructions and leave the station by the nearest exit.’

It had been a much more difficult task to evacuate the station than had been anticipated, even with police supervision. Two trains, unaffected by the sudden and inexplicable fixing of the King’s Cross line and unaware of the danger, had arrived at other platforms, disgorging a flood of passengers. Keeping order was almost impossible as the milling crowds were hastily directed towards the exits. Something was very, very wrong. The speaker continued to repeat its message. The sense of unease began to grow; there was a feeling that something was coming.

Then came the pounding sound in the rails and the approach of a great wind.

The atmosphere had changed. An instinctive rising tide of panic began to manifest itself in the bustling passengers. The entreaties of the speaker and the shouted police commands to evacuate the station in an orderly manner fell on deaf ears. The panic swelled and suddenly there was a chaotic rush for the ticket barriers. The station echoed to frenzied screams as the terrified crowd swarmed at the barriers in a desperate attempt to get away from the station. Passengers who fell to the platform were crushed underfoot. Police struggled desperately to control the crowd, their own instinctive fear at the unknown approaching horror suddenly overcoming their sense of duty as they joined the fearful stampede.

A great roaring filled the station. The superstructure began to vibrate. Windows and overhead skylights suddenly exploded, showering the crowd with deadly shards of glass.

When the mutated King’s Cross train rounded a bend and screamed towards the platform, the first passengers to see it were insane even before it exploded into the station.