Hell Train (7 page)

‘Then we are in unknown territory. More excitement.’

‘Not too much, I hope,’ said Thomas.

Miranda did not bother to explain that she was being sarcastic.

I
SABELLA LED
N
ICHOLAS
along the ornately decorated corridor of the train. The lower half was clad in polished teak boards, topped with a slender brass rail. Above this, the walls were painted a lustrous deep green, with fitted brass lamps and framed maps lining the way. The air smelled of pipe smoke, dusty fabric, wood shavings and metal polish, but there was something else in the air—a tang of sulphur, probably from burning coal. They passed a decorative silver plaque embossed with the name of the train and a date:
Arkangel—Maiden Voyage, August 1887.

They were picking up speed now, racing through the lush green countryside beneath a black sky sprinkled with coldly glimmering stars like points of frost.

‘That couple,’ said Nicholas, ‘English, obviously. Perhaps we should find out what they’re doing here.’

‘There’s time enough for them later. First we have to see—’

‘See what?’

‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone else here.’ Isabella was anxiously peering in through the compartment windows.

‘Of course not. This is the first class carriage. We’re in peasant territory. The locals will all be in third. This part won’t fill up until we reach a decent city.’

‘Oh. I have never been on a train before.’

‘Why did you pull back?’ Nicholas demanded to know. ‘You could have got us killed.’

‘I did not want to board.’

‘In Heaven’s name, why? There’s nothing to be frightened of now. You are being borne away from the town with each passing second.’

She shook her head. ‘I realized we had no choice.’ She would say no more on the subject.

‘You are angry with me,’ said Nicholas, after the silence between them had grown too long. ‘I fought in self-defence, you know. It was him or me.’

‘My poor Josef.’

‘Come, I’m sure he has suffered worse. Anyway, there is nothing to be done now. Let’s find out where we’re going.’ He took her hand once more and continued along the corridor.

She stopped to point to a framed map on the wall. ‘Look, there are four stops after Chelmsk on the route: Snerinska—Schlopelo—Blankenberg—Zoribskia.’

‘You must know these towns.’

‘No, I have never left my village. On my thirteenth birthday we planned to visit the coast, but we were prevented from making the trip. That was the day they shot the English teacher.’

‘What had he done wrong?’

‘He tried to run off with one of the local girls.’

Nicholas squinted at the faded map, attempting to follow the blue train line to its conclusion. ‘What’s our final destination? What comes after Zoribskia?’

Isabella traced the route with her finger. ‘The terminal is obscured. Ink has been poured on it. There must be someone on board who can tell us.’

They walked along the rocking passageway to its end, opened the door and stepped across into the second class carriage. Here they found another map detailing the train’s route, but this too had lost its final destination. The terminal in the bottom left-hand corner had been scratched out, even more severely than the last.

Ahead, Nicholas could see a dark figure unaffected by the swaying of the train. He approached the motionless man, a tall, dark-eyed fellow with a long chin, dressed in a blue conductor’s uniform with double rows of brass buttons, black silk piping and a round flat cap. He stood in his alcove surrounded by mementoes of his journeys, waiting to be called upon, like a statuette kept in a cupboard. His sea-legs absorbed the roll of the carriage, keeping his torso still and erect, something that probably came with experience.

‘I say, are you in charge here?’ Nicholas demanded to know.

The figure slowly turned to stare at him, as he might peer at an insect. He had a pair of lethal-looking silver clippers in his right hand. ‘I am the Conductor of the
Arkangel
,’ he replied in perfect English. He was as pale as ivory. The low timbre of his voice resonated from somewhere deep and far away. Although deeply set in the caves of his skull, his shining black eyes missed no detail.

‘Well, what is our destination?’ asked Nicholas sharply.

‘That must depend on you.’

‘Perhaps you didn’t understand the question. Where does the train terminate?’

‘We need to stay on board until we cross the border,’ asked Isabella. ‘Is that possible?’

‘You will finally come upon a border, yes.’

‘Then we’ll need tickets to get us there.’ Nicholas dug into his jacket and began to count out some notes from his billfold.

The Conductor looked down at the notes in his hand as if being proffered used toilet paper. ‘I cannot accept your money.’

‘If it is the wrong currency—’

‘It has nothing to do with the currency.’

Perhaps the railway did not wish to encourage dishonesty. ‘How else can I pay?’ Nicholas asked.

‘Those without tickets must find another way.’

There were places in Eastern Europe where bills had to be stamped and restamped by teams of clerks before payment. ‘Even if this is some kind of local custom, it still doesn’t make any sense,’ he said. Clearly the man was not of a helpful disposition. ‘Wait here, Isabella. I’ll be back.’

There had to be somebody else on board the train. Nicholas pushed on ahead and came to the next second-class carriage. Here two of the compartments were occupied with single men. One was grave and correct, in the garb of a decade ago, an aesthete perhaps, or an actor. He sat with his chin on his knuckle staring out at the rushing countryside. Curiously, there was fresh dirt on the shoulder-pads of his frayed jacket, as if he had just been dragged from a grave. The other passenger was a rotund fellow with a caliper on his leg, a man who was clearly falling upon hard times; a salesman, judging by the sample case stowed above his head. Neither of these men would be willing to give up their passage home.

Nicholas continued onwards, searching without success.

The third and final pair of carriages housed the lowest grade of compartment. Here the wooden slatted third class seats were arranged in an open plan, with iron luggage racks large enough to hold suitcases and crates of vegetables. At the far end he found a sleeping peasant couple, the ruddy-cheeked wife collapsed upon the husband’s shoulder like a dozing potato. This was more promising.

Nicholas studied the husband and noted his top pocket, from which protruded a pair of unstamped tickets.

Returning to the centre of the train he found the Conductor in exactly the same place, as if he had not moved a single muscle. Nicholas offered him the purloined tickets. The Conductor threw him a suspicious look, but took them all the same.

‘I would like to upgrade those tickets to first class,’ he explained.

‘There is no difference in payment,’ said the Conductor. ‘Passengers find their own class and sit there, for that is where they are most comfortable.’

‘That sounds very... communistic. What is our journey time?’

‘We must travel deep into the night.’

‘Hm. Not very exact. Do you have food and drink on board?’

‘There is no dinner service on this line apart from tea, which you will find in the samovars throughout the train, one per carriage. Sustenance may be obtained from the porters at the stations, who may be persuaded to come to the train.’ He clipped the tickets and handed them back, but as Nicholas went to take them, he found the Conductor holding them tight until Nicholas was obliged to look at his eyes. ‘You are now travellers on board the
Arkangel
,’ he intoned. ‘I must insist that you read the instructions printed on each carriage and pay heed to them.’

The Conductor turned and stepped back into his alcove, his hands dropping to his sides. He seemed quite content in this position, rocking with the bounce and sway of the train.

Nicholas and Isabella made their way back along the carriage. Nicholas stopped before the framed panel of instructions and read:

All Passengers Are Respectfully Reminded:

You Must Be In Possession Of A Valid Ticket

You Must Not Alight At The Stations

You Must Remain Until Your Journey’s End

He stared at the notice board in puzzlement. ‘How odd to find such a thing, and printed in English too, as if for our benefit alone,’ he said. ‘But what does it mean? What are stations for if not to alight onto?’

He went to the window and looked out. All he could see was rushing greenery, dark forests, icy stars and the spit of yellow sparks from the wheels as they flinched against the iron rails.

CHAPTER NINE

THE UNKNOWN

N
ICHOLAS RETURNED TO
the carriage, and Isabella went to smarten her appearance. She returned, having brushed the mud from her hem and pinned up her hair, and once more looked like the embodiment of summer. Her youthful luminosity quelled his fears and gave him fresh hope.

‘The strangest fellow,’ he said, ‘talking in bloody riddles. What can he have meant?’

‘The Conductor is well known in our town.’

‘You know him?’

‘No, but I have heard the terrible stories about him. The foundrymen speak of him in hushed voices.’

‘Stories? I don’t understand.’

‘You know how men will talk. They’re worse than wives.’ Once again she avoided his searching gaze and turned her attention to the window. ‘We had no choice but to board. But we are here now, so we must make the best of the situation.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have the gravest fears that—’

Just then, Thomas and Miranda passed the compartment, gesticulating and arguing. Thomas was obviously searching them out.

‘Oh, hullo!’ he said, his suburban middle class English a faint absurdity in the Slavic atmosphere of the ornate train. ‘I thought you must be English. I was saying to Miranda. Thanks for your help at the station. We were rather making a mess of things. Too much luggage. The town...’

‘It’s been taken. You’re civilians?’

‘We were on a touring holiday.’

‘But this is a war zone,’ said Nicholas in astonishment.

Thomas looked affronted. ‘I believe it was actually neutral territory when we set out.’

‘We were advised not to come,’ said Miranda, taking Nicholas’ side. ‘Everybody said it was a quite preposterous idea, but Thomas is giving up his diocese in Henley-Upon-Thames and taking up a new position in East Anglia. He was absolutely insistent upon making the trip. Butterflies and wildflowers. He’s interested in cataloguing them.’ She could not have made her lack of interest plainer.

‘I knew it was to be the last chance we’d have to take a trip before settling into our new vicarage,’ Thomas explained.

‘You’re safe so long as you keep heading north,’ said Nicholas.

‘Do you know where we’re going?’ asked Miranda.

‘We’re trying to find out, but the maps in the corridors have all been defaced.’

Miranda straightened her hat and checked the lacing on her gloves. ‘You must think us unforgivably rude. Our peculiar situation is simply no excuse for poor manners. I am Mrs Wellesley, but you must call me Miranda, and this is my husband, the Reverend Thomas Wellesley.’

‘I’m Nicholas Castleford, from London. And this is Isabella.’ If he was bothered by the fact that he had no idea of her last name, he did not show it. Isabella doubted he would be able to pronounce it anyway. They all shook hands with grave formality.

Miranda was already wondering about their relationship, and assumed the worst. A cultured Londoner and a local girl, it was probably best not to ask. That was fine. She was an expert in avoiding subjects. All Englishwomen of quality were. ‘What is your destination?’ she asked.

‘Eventually London,’ said Nicholas. ‘It may take some time to get there.’

Miranda studied Isabella with mischief in her eyes. ‘But surely you are not English.’

‘No,’ Isabella admitted. ‘I had to leave my home.’

‘And you’re afraid of what you might find.’

‘London has long been a dream, but only that.’

Miranda tilted her head, studying the girl. Quite a beauty. ‘My dear, life is nothing more than a journey towards our dreams. We give chase to them, then when we pin them down they die—like butterflies.’ She gave Thomas a sour glance.

‘I think it is time for me to make my own destiny.’ Isabella felt lost among these curious English people who clearly preferred to say one thing and think another.

‘But of course you must. We are emancipated women, are we not? But I fear for your country, my dear. Carpathia is no longer in a state of neutrality, and those soldiers arriving at the station were in Bulgarian uniforms, were they not? They are fighting with the Turks and Germans. We heard such stories about them in England, about tossing newborn babies on bayonets. The most frightful barbarians, all. Tell me, where is your family?’

‘My mother died last year.’

‘How sad. What was wrong with her?’

‘She was suffering from hereditary disappointment.’

‘And your father?’

‘I left my father behind.’

‘You poor dear.’ Miranda took her cold hand and patted it between white gloves. ‘Well, I do hope we shall be friends.’

Thomas was peering at the train’s fittings with interest. ‘This is a Krupps-Henschell Turbine locomotive from 1887,’ he said. ‘But decorated in a manner that’s quite unique. There’s something about the style I can’t quite put my finger on. I can’t imagine what it’s doing on this line. Marvellous engines, built locally, made to last. Lined brass pistons, they never dry out or overheat.’

Miranda gave her husband a look of exasperation.
Less husband than ornament.
‘Arrange a table in the supper car, Thomas. I shall go and find the Conductor.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Miranda, there won’t be a supper car,’ Thomas replied, but his determined wife had already gathered her skirts and tacked off along the corridor. Miranda had always been formidable. Once, on an outing in Richmond, she had slapped a horse in the face for whinnying at her. He reminded himself of that whenever he thought of answering back.