Thirteen

Azimuth was stronger than it had ever been. It surged onwards and ahead to its ultimate freedom, glorying that its imprisonment on the lines would soon be over forever.

Mark continued to probe secretly, keeping his existence apart from Azimuth, knowing that one mental slip on his part would be the end of everything. He saw the lines of force across the countryside, saw how they interconnected with the King’s Cross line; finally understood how the ‘connection’ had accidentally been made. He advanced down the King’s Cross line itself, towards London. Following the surging, pounding lines of force, he moved ahead of the Ghost Train, testing and probing.

And then, he found what he was looking for: another line under construction which branched off from the main line a hundred miles ahead; a stretch of local line which extended three-­quarters of a mile but which had not yet been completed. A railway line leading nowhere.

He felt danger and fled back to meet the train. But Azimuth was still unaware of his presence. He saw that the soldier was dead; saw the Catalyst advancing on the terrified young girl while Chadderton hovered behind it, unsure of what to do next. Mark decided to risk it, planted the thought in Chadderton’s mind, and then realised that he had made a mistake. Instantly, Azimuth had sensed him. Forces stronger than himself converged on him yet again, more dangerous and powerful than they had ever been before. It began to hunt, puzzled that it should have scented him when it knew that he no longer existed. Mark fought to hide, realising that he had found the way to defeat Azimuth, only to let it slip away from him because of his concern for two human beings.

Waiting to be discovered, he suddenly felt agonising pain shoot through the fibre of Azimuth’s being. Azimuth turned aside from its search and brought its concentration to bear on the source of the pain, believing that this was where the unseen presence was to be found. The pain grew greater. Azimuth shrieked, the depth of its agony sending more spasms into Mark’s consciousness. Something was burning. And, as Azimuth turned aside, Mark seized his opportunity and plunged into the power source which permeated the atmosphere, knowing at the same time that he was laying himself wide open to discovery and attack. In an instant, it was done.

Mark flowed ahead down the line, took control of the points, and switched. He felt the points move, felt the rails shift and lock. Using Azimuth’s own power, he fused the points so that they could not be altered. The Ghost Train had been diverted onto the line under construction. It had been diverted onto a line with no ending: a one-­way ticket to the limbo from which Azimuth had been summoned.

Now, Azimuth had found him. A shock wave hit Mark full on. Azimuth tried to flow into his mind and destroy him but found only the ruins of his memories, the pillaged temple of his thoughts. It searched the ruins like a scavenger hunting for a refu­gee. It scented him and gave chase. But Mark was long gone to his place of safety. Howling and screaming in rage, fear and pain, Azimuth returned to the line and attacked the change which Mark had brought about. But the change had been made with its own power. The alteration in Azimuth’s line of force was immutable.

The spasm of rage and pain which Azimuth now vented on the railway lines, stretching hundreds of miles back to Edinburgh, contorted and withered them like living tissue. Screeching and protesting, the lines buckled and curled upwards and sideways, like steel snakes in a fire.

Mark doubled back and returned to his body in the driving cab. Azimuth surged and flowed through the fabric of the train, too concerned now to notice his presence as it tried with all of its strength to reverse what Mark had brought about. Energy crackled and flared in the driving cabin as Mark clambered slowly and painfully to his feet. He had forgotten the constant, gnawing pain in his bones. There was a great roaring sound behind him; some kind of commotion. Something was clawing blindly down the train towards the locomotive. Something that screamed and thrashed and spread fire. Fire.

Fire.

The danger signal registered with Mark seconds before the driving cab door burst inwards to admit the flames of Hell itself. He curled tightly down on the floor as a blazing fireball exploded into the cabin.

‘MASTER!’

The screaming belonged to some abominable demon-­child that was in dying agony and which shrieked for help from its inhuman master. Mark felt his hair burning as he flung himself out into the living corridor which formed the bridge to the rest of the train. The bridge itself was burning furiously. The generator still pounded maniacally as flames licked around it. Frantically, Mark scrambled away from the cabin, feeling the searing blast on his back as the cabin erupted into flame. The force of it hurled him forward, pitching him down the corridor and into the mutated carriage ahead. He knew that the thing which had burst into the cabin had been the Catalyst. Now, its frenzied screams were drowned by a harsher, louder and more inhuman bellowing.

Thick green steam curled and billowed in the carriage. The overhanging green cartilage and muscle hissed and spluttered, exuding a stinking odour. Flames leaped and danced sporadically. It reminded Mark of trying to burn a pile of wet leaves. Ahead of him, the next carriage was a raging mass of flame. There could be no way out.

Mark turned to the carriage window beside him. Could it be done?

Of course it can’t be done.

They do it on TV.

But that’s not real.

Two SAS men once did it for a bet.

But they were killed.

I can’t stay here!

The wind will rip you off the roof. There’ll be nothing to hang onto. Your body can’t take it.

Fuck it!

Mark tore a suitcase free from the overgrown mass that had once been a seat and swung it at the all but absorbed window. The glass shattered instantly, tattered green creepers whipping out through the ragged gap. Mark could feel the suction on his body. He plunged through the smoke to the window frame and braced one foot on the window’s rim, reaching upwards and over into the blackness above him. A spurt of flame belched from the driving cabin as he forced himself through the aperture. The wind screamed and tore at his body.

Chadderton dragged the girl after him down the train, the fire axe firmly clasped in his other hand. For a little while, she had wanted to return for the soldier’s body, but he had been able to convince her that by now the carriage they had been in was a fireball. Smoke curled and billowed around them as they pressed on, and Chadderton knew that the fire was creeping slowly but insidiously along the length of the train towards them. Somewhere above the roar and crackle he could hear another sound: a distant howling that could have been the wind but which he knew was more than that. As they stumbled into the guard’s van, he could feel the occasional shuddering which seemed to shake the train as if it were a living creature in agony.

Chadderton did not know what had happened to Mark when he made his way to the front to meet Azimuth, but he knew that he had at least been alive up to the moment when he had put the idea of the Holy Water into his head. But he had heard and felt nothing since then and he could only believe that Mark was dead.

He pushed the girl ahead of him into the guard’s van and turned to examine the dividing section which separated the van from the preceding carriage. It was a thick, all-­enclosing casement of heavy duty rubber. He looked down at the floor, shielding his eyes against the smoke. He could not see how the van was linked to the carriage. He began tearing at the floor, trying to lift the metal plating to see if it housed the link. He had no way of knowing that all carriages were vacuum-­sealed, that the guard’s van could not be separated manually from the rest of the train.

Chadderton knew that they could not jump from the train. Not at this speed. At standard speed, the fall would almost certainly be fatal. But now, at the fantastic speed that this train was travelling, there could be no hope whatsoever. For a second, he thought that perhaps he should throw the girl from the train anyway and then follow her. After all, they would be better off dead than living in a world where Azimuth was free to feed from the human race. He crammed the thought down, refused to give it further consideration and continued to tear at the metal plating. He pushed the girl back as smoke swirled spectrally around them, and attacked the plating with the axe. In his heart, he knew it was hopeless.

Groping blindly through fast-­swirling smoke and poisonous fumes, Mark clawed hand over hand. Physically, he knew that he could never make it. He called on the new-­found power which still inhabited his ravaged mind to fuse mind and body, thought and action together. His mind told his body that it would not allow him to fail. It commanded his hands to find a grip where there was no grip. It forced his body to resist the raging whirlwind that threatened to scoop him from the train like an autumn leaf. It told the pain to dissipate. Pain, pain, go away. Come again another day. The child within him threatened to upset the delicate balance, but his mind adjusted and commanded full attention. His left hand groped upwards and found a ridge of metal about one inch deep. Exultant, he heaved himself upwards. Hand over hand, one foot at a time, looking for every rivet, every indentation in the metal, ignoring the fear within him that tried to tell him he could not possibly succeed. Inch by inch, slowly and positively. Mind over matter.

Mind over matter . . . Come on . . . another inch . . . now, your left foot . . .

And suddenly, Mark was on the roof of the train, smoke swirling and streaming past him as the King’s Cross express pounded onwards. He began crawling back along the train, over the carriage roofs, feeling the hot metal underneath him as the fire raged and spread. Slowly, slowly. He steadied himself against an air vent, screened his mouth with one hand as clouds of foul-­smelling smoke from the vent engulfed him. He crawled slowly around it and rested on the other side, gulping in several lungfuls of clean air before continuing.

Instinctively, he knew that Chadderton was in the guard’s van. He began to crawl again.

Chadderton flung the axe to the floor. He had dented and gouged the metal, but there was no way he was going to be able to break the housing and unlink the guard’s van from the rest of the train. They were going to have to take their chance by jumping after all.

Something exploded further down the carriage and Chadderton looked up to see that the buffet car was beginning to burn. Soon, the fire would reach them. He moved to the guard’s office, disregarding the stiff, blue-­faced corpse on the floor, and wrenched the fire extinguisher from its clasp on the wall. Savagely, he struck the operating device against the wall. Jets of white liquid spurted outwards. He aimed the nozzle at the partition dividing the van from the carriage, soaked the rubber, coated the partition with a thick layer of foam. When the extinguisher ran dry, he stood back and hurled it through the nearby window.

‘What are you doing?’

‘We’ve got to buy ourselves a little time. The foam might hold back the flames, but the biggest danger to us right now is the smoke. If we break all the windows in here, the place won’t fill up with it and at least we won’t suffocate.’

Perhaps suffocation isn’t such a bad idea, he thought. It’s probably a better idea than throwing yourself off the train.

He retrieved the axe and began breaking the windows. Smoke billowed past them, sucked out through the jagged gaps. The sound of rushing air and the clatter of wheels on the tracks drowned out any further conversation. The buffet car was blazing when Chadderton looked back.

God in heaven, what are we going to do?

Les . . .

Mark?

Yes . . .

Where are you, for Chrissakes?

Above you. On the carriage roof, I’m nearly with you. But I’ll need help . . .

The voice in Chadderton’s head faded momentarily. He felt himself panic. He had believed Mark dead. Now, more than anything else, he didn’t want to be alone to face death.

Mark? You still there? Without realising it, Chadderton was not speaking aloud. Instinctively, he was thinking back. The fact that he had not used his voice had not registered with him.

I’ve stopped him, Les. I’ve stopped Azimuth. I’ve sent him back to where he came from . . .

Without asking questions, Chadderton believed Mark immediately. It had something to do with the way the other man was speaking in his mind.

Keep moving, Mark. Don’t stop!

I’m here.

Chadderton looked up at the heavy duty divider which separated the van from the last carriage, seized the axe once more and began hacking at the rubber. Something else exploded in the buffet car. Flame blossomed angrily. Chadderton attacked the rubber as if it were alive, saw the tangled green stuff that rippled and intertwined in it and realised that it was alive. The axe swung until his arms and shoulders felt as if they were coming apart. He had succeeded in tearing a hole in the rubber above him. He discarded the axe, reached up and ripped the rubber apart with his bare hands. In the suction of the train’s passage, a huge chunk tore up and away from sight, leaving a gap three feet wide.

‘Mark!’ Chadderton was shouting now, the girl looking at him as if he had suddenly gone insane. And then, she stifled a scream as a head appeared in the gap. It was Mark.

The train shuddered again and something up at the front screeched and ripped away. Mark clutched at the rim of the gap, his hair dancing madly in the wind. Chadderton steadied himself against a wall and grabbed for the axe again.

Get back from the gap, Mark. I’m going to widen it.

Mark was shaking his head now. Chadderton watched as he took in several deep breaths. It looked as if he was gathering his strength.

It’ll take too long, Les. We don’t have the time. Leave it . . . I think . . . I think I can find the strength to do it myself now . . .

What do you mean, do it yourself? Look, just shut up and move back. You aren’t going to be able to stay up there much longer.

I can do it!

Chadderton took an involuntary step back as the rubber casing at the side of the dividing section began to peel back with a groaning, cracking sound. For a second, he thought that the train was about to disintegrate around them. Then he saw the look on Mark’s face and knew what was happening. Even from where he stood, he could see the familiar scar standing out vividly against the pale white skin. Smoke flashed and streaked around him as the rubber peeled back and ripped away. Chadderton held the girl to him as the final section cracked apart and was whisked away from the train. He leaned forward, reaching up towards Mark, feeling an idiot grin spreading across his face.

All right, you clever bastard. Come on down.

No, not yet. Stand back.

Chadderton retreated into the guard’s van with the girl as Mark hunched himself forward on his elbows to look down at the metal housing concealing the link between the van and the carriage on which he lay. For five long seconds, nothing happened. Then the metal began to buckle. Groaning and screeching, the plating began to twist. Chadderton moved the girl further back. And then the casing ripped apart, metal plates clattered aside and spilled away from the train. Beneath, red steam rose from the ragged hole. Chadderton could see the white-­hot lines beneath as the train thundered onwards. Mark was smiling now and Chadderton jumped forward, holding out his hand. Mark reached down to take it. They were going to make it.

And then, when their fingers were inches apart, the smile of relief on Mark’s face suddenly clouded. Chadderton could stretch no further. He strained forwards, not understanding why Mark was holding back. Their fingertips were almost touching.

Reach down, Mark. I can’t get any closer.

Oh, my God, Les. Oh, my God.

What is it? Come on, man! Take my hand!

Mark’s smile had turned into a mask of tragedy. Even from where he stood, Chadderton could see that tears were coursing down his face.

Tell Joanne that I love her, Les. Tell Helen, too.

What in God’s name are you talking about, Mark? Take my hand!

Mark was slowly withdrawing his hand. Chadderton tried to lunge out and grab him. It was no good. They were too far apart.

Mark! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

I can’t, Les. Don’t you see? . . . It’s still in me!

At the last moment, just before their hands touched, Mark realised what had happened. He had damned Azimuth back to Hell. There could surely have been no escape . . . but, yes, Azimuth had found one way to escape. Fusing his mind and body to pull himself out of that burning carriage and over the rooftops, Mark had let slip a vital defence. Now, he realised that Azimuth had seized its last opportunity. As Mark had crawled back, something else had crawled back to safety with him. It had found a place in his mind: a tiny, ruined place that he had overlooked. He had saved it; was in the process of saving it. It had left the driving cabin, knowing that it was on its way to limbo. Ever the parasite, it had almost found a way to be free. If Mark touched Chadderton’s hand, it would transfer immediately to him. And be saved.

It’s still in me!

No! Mark . . .

Mark pulled back his hand completely. Now, angrily, he refocused his gaze on the link between the carriages.

No, Mark! No!

With an explosive clang the metal link flew apart in its housing. Slowly, gradually, the gap between the carriages began to widen.

Speechless, Chadderton watched as the train pulled away. And in that moment, he felt something screeching and tearing itself out of Mark’s mind. Something which fled from him towards the front of the train again in a desperate bid to save itself. Mark slumped on the roof of the carriage, the smile returning to his face. Smoke billowed around the ragged gap below him as the train moved rapidly away and the guard’s van began to slacken speed. Mark was fumbling in his shirt now and fading daylight sparked on something that hung around his neck. The dying rays of the sun seemed to imbue it with a magnificent lustre, as if the light were coming from within. He was holding it tightly to his chest. And he was still smiling. In that instant, Chadderton knew that Azimuth had been beaten.

The train suddenly veered to the left and began to scream down a branch line that Chadderton knew was not part of the main line.

‘Do something!’ yelled Chadderton. ‘Save yourself! You can do it!’

But his words were borne away on rushing wind. There was a two hundred yard gap between them now as the Ghost Train thundered on ahead in its billowing shroud of flame and smoke. The guard’s van suddenly juddered violently. Chadderton grabbed the girl, steadied himself against the wall and watched as the van continued on down the main line, knowing that Mark had switched the points once the train had passed onto the branch line. The van trundled at an ever-­slowing pace down the King’s Cross line and Chadderton and the girl watched as the Ghost Train screamed from sight behind a screen of trees. They listened as Something howled its anguish to the uncaring sky. They watched the train’s invisible progress by the trail of smoke, the glitter of flame through the dense tree cover.

And then, a grinding, shrieking, tearing sound. A roaring series of explosions like the mammoth bellowing of some great beast. A great glare of flame against the horizon. A twisting cloud of flaming debris. A carriage suddenly rearing above the tree-­line before vanishing from sight. Another explosion, igniting nearby trees. On and on and on. The shrieking of rending metal. And now, another shrieking, not meant to be heard by human ears. A shrieking that echoed long and loud and then began to fade away into the distance. Moving off, further and further away into the night sky . . .

Chadderton felt bitter tears coming, fought them, would not allow them to surface. The explosions seemed to go on forever. With the girl beside him, he watched as the train blew itself savagely apart, mushrooms of orange flame lighting up the countryside. For the first time, he became aware of what seemed to be a criss-­cross of searchlights both behind and ahead of the railway track. One by one they were going out.

‘You poor bastard,’ he murmured at last, still staring at the blazing wreck as the first sounds of the railway police and army trucks drew near to the stationary guard’s van.

And then he realised that his pity was misplaced. Mark had faced his own worst fears and had beaten them. How many men could say that? And, in that realisation, Chadderton could feel a sense of triumph within him. For an instant, it seemed that the thought had been put there by someone else . . .