1.
I finished the last dregs of my lukewarm coffee with a measure of distaste and looked around for somewhere to dispose of the cup. I was about to set off towards the nearest litter bin when the familiar sound of an approaching train distracted me. The train moved slowly, its few carriages seemingly empty, and trundled on through the station without stirring any interest amongst those on the platform. As the train gradually receded from view I heard a man’s voice beside me.
“Ghost train.”
“Sorry?” I replied, turning to see a large man in a railway company uniform beside me, a silver whistle on a chain around his neck. He had removed his peaked cap and was absent-mindedly rubbing the thinning, greying hair on his pale head. He nodded in the direction of the receding carriages.
“Ghost train. That’s what we call ’em. Not many of ’em left these days. They run ’em ’cos it’s cheaper than closing the route. Just one a month through ’ere now. Nobody uses ’em ‘cos nobody knows they’re runnin’”. As he finished speaking, he sighed in way that sounded almost wistful.
“Oh right, I see.” I could think of little more to say.
I looked left again for any last glimpse of this seemingly unusual sight, but the train had disappeared around the curve of the tracks. It then occurred to me that this would be a good opportunity to ask about my Dover train, which had been annoyingly absent from the display on the nearby screen. When I turned back towards the guard, though, he had already walked off along the platform, his cap back dutifully on his head. Instead, I walked over to the display screen and looked up at its orange letters. Still there seemed to be no mention of my train but then suddenly the display flickered and there it was; platform 8c for the 8.52 to Dover Priory. The same screen informed me that the current time was 8.41. I looked round to see that I was, rather conveniently, on platform 8a and further to my left I could see a sign for 8b. The platform continued well beyond the sign and I assumed that 8c must be further on so I set off in that direction, dropping my empty cup into a bin as I went.
Sure enough a sign for 8c eventually came into view and once I was beneath it, with the gentle curve of the tracks ahead, I looked back to see that it was really quite some distance from where I had stood drinking my coffee. There was no sign of my train yet. I turned away from the platform and gazed out over the undistinguished panorama of the grandiosely named Ashford International station and the nondescript buildings beyond. It was a dull, overcast morning which did nothing to enhance the view, whilst the still air was just chill enough for my breath to briefly manifest itself.
As I turned back again I was surprised to see a train standing on the platform. I had not heard it approach and there had been no announcement. I looked at my watch; it was 8.48. This must surely be my train. I moved towards it but hesitated. There were no other passengers and no guard in sight. I set aside my doubts and pushed the button beside the nearest doors; they slid open and I stepped inside the carriage with more confidence. The carriage, though, seemed no warmer or more inviting than the platform.
Three or four minutes later the train jolted into life. I relaxed a little into the worn seat and watched through the dirty window as the train curved away from the station. Apart from myself the carriage was disconcertingly empty, but I was glad to be on the move again at last. All being well from here I would make it to the meeting with a few minutes to spare. I hoped that there would be better coffee.
2.
Soon the train was moving at a stately pace through the Kent countryside, where early morning mist still clung stubbornly to the fallow winter fields like an uninvited guest, whilst the sky overhead appeared more oppressively grey than earlier. Seen through the grimy, smeared glass this presented little distraction and I decided, not without some reluctance, that I should familiarise myself with the business of the morning’s meeting. So I took the folder of papers from my case, retrieved my reading glasses from a pocket and settled down to work.
I did not look up again until I felt the train slowing to a halt and I saw that we had reached the faded Victorian charm of Folkestone. The station was fairly quiet and still no-one entered my carriage. Despite this we remained stationary for quite some time and I began to feel a little impatient. I looked at my watch but for some reason it had stopped at 8.52. I was in need of another coffee. Soon though I felt the familiar jolt and was about to return to my papers when a slim young woman appeared and sat opposite me, despite the emptiness of the carriage. I had not been aware of her entering.
The woman was in her mid-20s I guessed but curiously dressed in a long, white muslin dress with a high collar, a white woollen shawl over her shoulders and black ankle boots. She had a pale complexion and thin lips but was pretty, her dark brown hair tied up at the back, but as if done somewhat hurriedly, so that a few stray lengths curled around her neck and ears. In her white-gloved hands she clutched a white purse, which she opened to take out a white handkerchief with a delicate lace border.
I was curious. It was far too early in the day for a fancy dress party, but perhaps she worked somewhere that required her to dress that way? I wanted to ask her but something about her manner discouraged me. Indeed she seemed oblivious to my presence. We had reached the coast by now and the woman sat with her face close to the window, her eyes darting back and forth as if seeking something out, and I sensed that her mood was agitated. Presently we reached the first of the tunnels that lead through the famous cliffs into Dover, but despite the impenetrable darkness beyond the glass the young woman remained transfixed to the window.
As we emerged from the tunnel I thought to ask her if she was okay. I was about to speak when she lay back on her seat and looked directly at me with her dark eyes beneath long lashes. She smiled warmly, revealing a crooked front tooth. At that very moment we entered the second tunnel and the lights in the carriage failed. My own eyes struggled to adapt to the sudden blackness, though I could just about make out the feint white impression of the young woman’s dress. There was no sound apart from that of the train echoing faintly in the tunnel.
As the light returned I blinked and shielded my eyes for a second until, as my vision cleared, I immediately saw a dark red patch on the white of the dress, spreading downwards from the neckline, expanding, and deepening even as I watched. The woman’s throat had been cut, the long incision gaped open and her head had rolled to the window side, her mouth half open.
I let out an involuntarily noise, half gasp and half stifled scream. But I was unable to move. Like the young woman’s now lifeless body I too was completely still. It was as if we were momentarily trapped in some kind of tragic tableau. After what was probably no more than a few seconds I stood up and looked up and down the carriage, but it was as empty as before; no assailant, no witness other than myself and no one to call out to. The third tunnel soon consumed the train and once again the carriage lights failed. I sat down again, feeling unsteady and groping for the seat as I did so. The carriage was darker than ever and the tunnel seemed endless. When at last the light flooded back in, I closed my eyes and held them shut for a long as I could, half fearful as to what I would again be confronted with and half hopeful that my mind had simply been playing strange tricks on me.
The young woman was gone. Her body was gone. I leaned forward and peered incredulously at the seat her pale and bloodstained form had so recently occupied. There was no trace of her, no stain on the patterned fabric. I reached out towards it, as if my sense of touch might somehow contradict the evidence of my eyes, but my shaking hand recoiled from the task.
The train entered the final tunnel and I slumped back fearfully in my seat. This time the lights remained resolutely on and I could not avert my eyes from the empty seat opposite. As we emerged into daylight for the final time I hastily put my papers back into my case and prepared to leave the train, keen to get away but also wondering what I should do at Dover, what I should say, if indeed I should say anything. Would anyone believe me? I struggled to think clearly.
As I stood by the doors and the station platform came into view I felt a strange sense of familiarity, even though I had only been to Dover once before, many years ago. But this was not Dover. The station signs announced Ashford International and soon I saw the kiosk where less than an hour ago I had bought a coffee. The train was coming to a stop. Bewildered and impatient I felt for the button to open the doors but it would not release me yet. Finally, I stumbled out onto the concrete and saw a familiar sign above me. I swung round in each direction, my hands shaking and barely able to keep hold of my case. There were no other passengers leaving the train, just a few further up the platform who seemed to have been awaiting its arrival. An announcement informed passengers that the 8.52 to Dover Priory was now ready to board at platform 8c. I stood still, unable to move, unable to focus my thoughts. I was aware of a figure to the side of me and turned to see the guard from earlier, still wearing his company cap. I called to him hesitantly, like a man who hadn’t spoken for many years.
“Is this. . . is this . . . the Dover train? The . . . the . . . 8.52?”
The guard looked at me dubiously from beneath the shiny black peak.
“It is indeed sir.” he replied.
Then, removing his cap and slowly rubbing his head with his short, stubby fingers, he began to walk away, but stopped, turned his head towards me and dolefully added:
“Calling at Folkestone.”
3.
I stepped back onto the train. To the same carriage, to the same blue patterned seat. I could have moved of course, could have changed. I could simply have got on another train entirely and gone home, pretended to be ill. But I didn’t do any of these things and I have no idea why not; perhaps I was indeed ill. Strangely, I could feel the taste of bitter coffee in my mouth. But at least my watch seemed to be working again. It was now 8.48.
Soon, from a distance, I heard the guard blow his shrill whistle and just at that moment the doors clanked open as a latecomer boarded the train. A young woman sat down opposite me; pale skinned with thin lips and long dark brown hair. She wore white jeans, a white t-shirt and a white parka jacket with fur-trimmed hood. On her feet were bright red trainers. My mouth went dry. I was aware that I was staring at her but she did not appear to notice. Instead, she opened her white shoulder bag and took out a mobile phone, pressing at the screen with white painted fingernails and studying it intensely. I felt immediately comforted by this very familiar and very modern ritual. I breathed more easily again. And yet . . .
The train jolted forward and began to accelerate away. Soon we had left the town and railway sidings behind. Outside, beyond the dirty carriage window, patches of early morning mist clung stubbornly to the bare Kent earth beneath a lowering slate-grey sky. The train briefly slowed and a murder of crows descended from the grey above and settled among the bare branches of a lone tree that punctuated a barren hedgerow.
Inside, the young woman put her mobile phone away, rummaged through her bag and took out a large white plastic hair clip. She then began to gather and twist her hair into a bunch between her slim fingers before clipping it in place at the back, but rather untidily so that a few stray lengths curled around her neck and ears. When she seemed satisfied with the result she looked at me, for the first time, with dark eyes beneath long lashes, and smiled warmly with her thin lips, revealing a crooked front tooth.
