Hell Train (25 page)

‘It occurs to me that you could have some doubling up,’ said Carreras. ‘Roy Ashton’s brilliant at changing people’s appearances, and it might stretch the team a bit to have them playing more than one role.’

‘Interesting metaphysical idea,’ said Francis, ‘as if the tests were being played over and over with the same protagonists.’

‘Does that mean we get paid twice over?’ asked Thorley Walters. Everybody laughed.
No.

‘W
ELL,
I
THOUGHT
that went rather well,’ said Emma, hanging back after the others had left the lounge.

‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Shane. ‘I’m pouring sweat. My hands were shaking.’

‘I don’t know why. They seemed to think your ideas were very sound. We have some lovely young writers in here sometimes, very earnest, utterly clueless. Michael listens to all of them. He still wants the finished script tomorrow morning, you know. They’re all heading off before lunchtime.’

‘Then I have to write another role for Peter Cushing,’ said Shane. ‘This is too great an opportunity to miss. Are you free later?’

‘I’m typing up scripts until around seven. More rewrites on
The Mummy’s Shroud,
not that I imagine they’ll save it.I could meet you back at the pub.’

‘It’s a deal. It’s cold in my room, though, and I keep finding dead beetles around the bed.’

‘It’s the time of year. Perhaps we could set up in the snug and work there.’

‘Emma...’

‘Yes?’

‘If this doesn’t fly, if they turn it down, I’ll have no reason to stay. I don’t know where that leaves us.’

She smiled back at him. ‘Look, there’s a window of opportunity. We have a cast. We need a script. If it doesn’t work out, don’t worry. It just means that I’ll never see you again.’

He watched her swing her handbag onto her shoulder and head for the door. She didn’t seem to have a care on the world. This was her home. She fitted in perfectly, like Isabella in her family’s town. If he failed to deliver, or was turned down, she’d no doubt express disappointment or even regret, but he knew she wouldn’t wait around for him. Writers were ten a penny. Despite the warm welcome he had been given, he felt sure that someone else could be brought here on Monday to deliver another script, and the same process would begin all over again. The smiles. The tea. The kindly persuasion. The endless politeness.

There were no more chances left for him. LA was a bust. He had burned his bridges there, and there was no other work on the horizon.

It was tomorrow or nothing.

He had an advantage. He was a storyteller. He could do that anywhere, write about pretty much anything if he had the research to hand, and if he gave this his best shot, who knew what the future might hold? Because the next piece of work was always the one that held the key to his fate. And the British seemed more honest. In LA he’d felt more like the victim in one of his own horror films, bled dry by sinister creatures who were only after his life force.

He returned to the inn and set to work once more.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

THE SPECIMEN

I
SABELLA LOOKED DOWN
again, but now there was no beating heart in her hands.

Has she been hallucinating? She thought back, trying to understand what was real and what was false, sifting the events out from each other.

When Miranda had been tested, Thomas had been locked in the coffin. She had seen Nicholas face his demons, but those had turned out to be real. The soldiers who arrested him were still sitting further along the carriage. All of them had seen the Red Countess board the train, and the dying victims had been played by damned passengers. The
Arkangel
was enlisting its performers as they were needed from the stations through which it passed. All of them were puppets commanded to appear, being called into service to allow the Devil his day. That was why the Conductor had performed a rigorous selection process at each of the stops.

It meant that the dice were loaded against any of the living surviving their tests.

‘If Nicholas fails, I will be the only one left alive,’ she said aloud as the full horror of the thought hit her.
The only one left on a train filled with the soulless dead.

Exhausted and fearful, she entered the nearest compartment and dropped heavily into a seat, to find that she was not alone. Sitting opposite her was an elderly man in cream-coloured tropical clothes. His myopic, watery blue eyes peered out from a kindly face at her, eager to engage. She had seen him boarding the train at Snerinska. Above him on the luggage rack were a set of leather suitcases, a butterfly net and a steel box with straps.

He looked harmless enough, but she knew better now than to trust anyone.

‘Dear me,’ said the old gentleman, ‘are you quite all right?’

‘I’m sorry—it’s just, well, it has been an eventful journey.’ She made an attempt to tidy her hair while covertly studying him. He had looked like any other passenger when he boarded, but then so had the murderous Professor Io. Had he been a part of her test? Real or imagined? Dead or alive?
How could you tell?

Perhaps the damned weren’t all under the control of the Conductor. She felt that Professor Io had acted out of grief, and, being a wily showman, could not easily be kept in his place. Besides, if he had been her test, what flaw of her nature had he been trying to expose? She had to be on her guard. She could still be in danger.

‘Can you tell me, what is the name of the next stop?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ said Isabella.

‘I’ve been on so many trains in the last few days, I’m really feeling rather too exhausted to care. But I imagine it goes to the border. What is our final destination?’

‘It’s been removed from all the maps.’

‘Ah, the war, I suppose. They’re being careful about security.’ He reached forward and offered his hand. ‘Dr. Arthur Freely. I’m not supposed to be on this train.’

‘No, none of us are.’

‘And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’ His kind eyes twinkled at her.

‘I am Isabella.’

‘Well, Isabella, what is a nice young lady like you doing by yourself on a train in the dead of night, not knowing where she goes?’

‘I was travelling with an Englishman, but he fell from the train.’

‘Good lord! Do you suppose he’s all right? Are
you
all right?’

‘I don’t know. Everything has been...’ She stopped herself, wary of giving out too much information. He looked like an elderly angel, but for all she knew, he might be a lizard, a vampire or the Devil himself.

‘Forgive my questions, you must think I’m terribly rude. An unchaperoned young lady travelling alone, please allow me to set your mind at ease. I’m on my way back from the Far East,’ he explained. ‘Burma, actually. I missed my connection. The war, everything’s upside down. A dreadful crossing, missed trains, and then this one appearing out of the blue. It’s not on any schedule, did you know that? The porter was unable to give me any information. Rather a rude fellow, I thought.’

‘It is all very mysterious,’ Isabella cautiously agreed.

‘But that’s the war for you. I was lucky to get this far, really.’

Above him, the steel box shook suddenly and its straps rattled. Dr Freely looked up in concern. ‘I’ve been collecting specimens for the Royal Gardens in London. They sent me to Burma in search of entomological anomalies. Made quite a find up there. But I don’t think it’s very happy being taken from its home territory and jostled around.’ He pointed to the luggage rack.

Isabella was amazed to be having such an absurdly sensible conversation. She was still thinking of Thomas’s bloody heart in her hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘what do you mean?’

He pointed to the box. It was buzzing violently. ‘It will make my reputation. An entirely unknown species, smuggled out of the densest part of the jungle.’

The train seemed to be speeding up. Isabella looked at the darkened windows. ‘I think our destination...’ she began. ‘We really have to find a way off the train.’

‘I agree. There was a terrible commotion in the corridors earlier. Some rowdy soldiers, a lot of shouting. I heard some awful singing that sounded like shrieking cats. Then it sounded like someone was running along the roof. What was going on out there?’

‘Evil, sir,’ she replied. ‘A powerful evil.’

‘Then perhaps we’re safer staying in here. It is the way of the world at the moment. Everything is in upheaval, and I’m afraid it will only serve to make us mistrustful of our fellow men.’

She looked at him uncertainly. He seemed to divine her thoughts. ‘But of course, how thoughtless of me once again. A stranger on a train, whatever must you think. I left my spouse behind in Mandalay. Here. A pretty little thing.’ He showed Isabella a cracked sepia photograph of his wife.
Pretty
was hardly the first adjective that jumped into Isabella’s mind. Dr Freely’s wife had a face that could send a dog under a table. ‘I must get back to England. I don’t know how long I can keep it alive, you see.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘My specimen.
Coleoptera Freely.
Well, I haven’t sorted out the proper Latin name for it yet, so I have taken the liberty of appending it myself.’ Above them, the box shook and threatened to fall. ‘I wonder if it’s unhappy about being kept in the dark? Would you like to see?’

‘I don’t—’

Before she could protest further, Mr Freely rose and took down the box. He hesitated to open the lid. ‘A word of warning. Don’t get too close. It seems to get over-excited by females of the species.’

He carefully loosened the leather straps and opened the lid of the box. Inside was a wooden cage, which he gingerly raised. Hardly daring to look, Isabella peered between the bars.

Inside was a fist-sized, boring-looking green and black beetle clutching the end of a twig. Relieved and glad of the distraction, she turned her attention to the insect and moved closer for a better look.

The insect suddenly split its carapace, revealing large iridescent emerald wings. Then it opened its mouth—a mess of whirling, spinning thorn-like claws. It made a rapid clicking noise like fingers being fed into a rotary fan. Isabella jumped back.

‘And it’s hungry all the time,’ said Mr Freely.

‘What is it?’ Isabella asked.

‘Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea. It was living in a Fever Tree.
Acacia Xanthophloea
. I made the cage from its bark. Apparently that’s the only thing that will hold it.’ He put the cage back in its box. ‘I say, you really don’t look at all well. Can I get you something?’

Isabella felt faint. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw blood. The compartment was overheated, and the events of the evening had exhausted her. It was almost midnight. ‘Thank you. Some water, perhaps.’

Mr Freely rose and left the compartment, happy to help.

The insect was still buzzing in its cage. Isabella eyed the box with suspicion. The insect could scent her. It was hammering at the tree-bark cage, trying to get a grip on the bars with its mandibles.

She felt her curiosity gaining a foothold and tried to fight it, but the beetle was making the most extraordinarily odd noises.

Isabella took a closer look. It gleamed darkly in the foliage, rather beautiful. The wings were retracted now, so that it hung by its hooked mandibles from a twig, gleaming like a Faberge egg made of black enamel.

Leaning over the lid of the cage, her crucifix dangled between the bars. When she raised her head, she found herself stuck. The cross was caught.

She tried to free it, but the crossbar of the crucifix was too wide. A wooden pin held the cage lid shut. Keeping one hand firmly on the lid, she carefully removed the pin. The beetle had dropped back into its foliage and was motionless once more. She opened the lid a crack and freed the cross.

Outside, the wheels of the train screeched, making her start.

Turning her attention back to the cage, she quickly closed the lid and sat down.

But now the cage was silent. It had stopped rattling.

What if Dr Freely’s prize specimen had become over-excited and had expired?

She peered into the box, trying to see down through the lid of the cage. It was no good, she couldn’t discern any movement. Lifting the handle, she raised the cage from its box and tried to see inside. Where the beetle had sat was now just a flattened patch of leafage. There was nowhere for it to hide. The cage was empty.

In the few seconds that the lid had been opened, she had let the bug out.

Surely that wasn’t possible? She removed the peg once more and checked inside the cage. Could it have escaped in the brief moment that the train had braked and gained her attention?

She looked around the compartment but could not see it anywhere.

She searched in the luggage racks. She dropped to her knees and checked under the seats. Was this the test? To make sure that someone’s prized specimen did not escape? Was Mr Freely even part of this, or just a harmless, confused old explorer? She peered into the darkness beneath the cushions.

The bug flew right at her. The noise it made was astonishing. The sound seemed to vibrate inside her bones. Its iridescent wings were a dark blur. They were beating a hundred times a second, propelling it with immense force. She threw herself onto the floor, out of its path. It tore the air above her head, ruffling her hair.

The insect bored straight through the seat and the wall opposite in a shower of horsehair and wood splinters. She rose and stared through the hole. It had gone through into the next carriage.

She looked up. Mr Freely was standing in the door with a glass of water in his hand, astonished.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE BOY

N
ICHOLAS SAT IN
the open carriage to await his challenge. He could not allow his eye to stay from the door. He had no idea what to expect. He was shivering and wet, but alive and close once more to the woman he was now sure he loved. He would survive for her sake.