The Feaster From The Stars (Blackwood and Harrington) (6 page)

‘But you believe it to be so, don’t you?’ said Sophia.

Blackwood was silent for a few moments before replying, ‘Alfie Morgan believes it to be so. Whatever he encountered on that train while in the Kennington Loop left him with a shattered mind and the desire to repeat a word which, according to Dr Castaigne, is the name of a planet many trillions of miles from Earth.’

Sophia shook her head. ‘This is utterly bizarre. It makes no sense whatsoever.’

‘I agree,’ Blackwood sighed. ‘It’s completely outrageous; nevertheless, we must get to the bottom of it. We must find out what the connection is between the London Underground and a planet drifting through the fathomless depths of space!’

The psychometrist from the Society for Psychical Research was already waiting on the street outside the train depot at Golders Green when Blackwood and Sophia arrived.

‘Thomas, this is Mr Walter Goodman-Brown of the SPR,’ said Sophia. ‘Walter, this is Mr Thomas Blackwood, Special Investigator for Her Majesty’s Bureau of Clandestine Affairs. I must apologise for our lateness…’

‘The apology should be mine, sir,’ Blackwood interrupted with a smile as he and Goodman-Brown shook hands. ‘I was following a new lead in this case and rather lost track of the time.’

‘A new lead already?’ said Goodman-Brown. ‘I can see that your reputation is well-deserved, Mr Blackwood.’

The Special Investigator gave a brief nod of thanks and took in the psychometrist. The man was of slightly-below-average height and was dressed conservatively in a suit of dark tweed. He had a pleasantly studious look about him that was emphasised by the apparently ill-fitting spectacles he wore, which he kept readjusting on the bridge of his nose. In fact, he looked more like a librarian than a talented psychic with the ability to divine an object’s origin and history merely by touching it.

‘Shall we?’ said Blackwood, indicating the entrance to the depot.

‘This is where the train is being kept?’ said Goodman-Brown as he and Blackwood followed Sophia inside.

‘It is. The Bureau gave instructions to the Central and South London Railway to bring it here and leave it completely untouched until we’ve had a chance to examine it. No one has been aboard since it arrived from Kennington.’

Goodman-Brown nodded his approval.

As soon as they entered the foyer, a harassed-looking man in an ill-fitting suit that had clearly seen better days approached them. Blackwood showed him his credentials and introduced his companions.

‘Good day to you all,’ said the man. ‘I’m Derek Sullivan, manager of the Golders Green Depot.’

‘A pleasure,’ said Blackwood.

‘You’ve come to examine the train?’

‘If you’d be so kind.’

‘I’m glad you’re here, I don’t mind telling you, Mr Blackwood. I’m at my wits’ end with these fellows…’

‘Which fellows?’ asked Blackwood, as Sullivan led them across the foyer and through a door leading to the main depot.

‘The maintenance gangs. Your orders to leave the train untouched were rather superfluous, I’m afraid: no one wants to touch it, anyway. In fact, they’re refusing to go anywhere near the blessed thing! You can’t have a train running unchecked and unmaintained, so at present it’s all but useless.’

‘I see,’ said Blackwood. ‘Have they really been that unnerved by the Kennington Loop incident?’

‘Oh yes, sir. Word of the incident has spread like wildfire right across the network. Potentially, we’re looking at a very serious problem. Lots of workers have been missing their shifts, claiming to be sick – drivers and maintenance men. But just between us, I believe I know the real reason…’

‘They just don’t want to go down into the tunnels.’

‘Exactly. Here we are…’ Sullivan opened a door and led them out onto a short metal catwalk overlooking the maintenance shop.

It was a huge space, spread out beneath a shallow-arched ceiling of glass and wrought iron girders, filled with light and noise. At least a dozen carriages were undergoing maintenance at that moment, and men were hurrying to and fro between them, carrying tools and components and shouting information and instructions to one another over the general din of hammering and welding.

Blackwood was about to ask where Alfie Morgan’s train was, but he quickly realised that the question was unnecessary. Away in the distance, on the far side of the maintenance shop, a single carriage stood by itself. No one was paying it any attention; no one even looked in its direction. Blackwood pointed to it and glanced at Sullivan, who nodded grimly.

‘All right, Mr Sullivan,’ the Special Investigator said. ‘I think we can take it from here. We’ll be sure to let you know when we’ve finished.’

‘I shall be in my office,’ said Sullivan, and with a nod to Sophia and Goodman-Brown, he took his leave of them.

They walked along the catwalk to the stairs leading down to the shop floor. As they descended, Blackwood said, ‘How long have you been practising the art of psychometry, Mr Goodman-Brown?’

‘I prefer the term “contact analysis”, Mr Blackwood.’

‘Forgive me.’

‘Not at all. I first realised I had the gift when I was a small boy. My father was a carpenter, and he would make me toys – ships, railway locomotives, that type of thing. And while I was playing with them, I would become aware of certain mental impressions: internal visions, if you will, of my father actually constructing the toys – fashioning the components, assembling them and so on.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘Oh, that’s not all. Not only was I aware of the toys’ immediate history, but also of the trees from which the wood was hewn. With my mind’s eye, I saw where they had grown; I could pinpoint the time at which the saplings first sprouted and the time at which the trees were cut down. Their entire history was spread out before me while I was in contact with my toys, somewhat in the manner of a landscape glimpsed in dream.’

‘You have a singular ability, sir,’ said Blackwood as they reached the bottom of the stairway and began to walk across the rough concrete floor towards Alfie Morgan’s train. As they passed, the workers momentarily stopped what they were doing and looked at the visitors. Some spoke to each other in low tones, while others grinned at Sophia and extended invitations for her to join them in the local pub later on. Sophia ignored them, although she found their attentions rather amusing in the manner of an off-colour joke, while Blackwood resisted the urge to walk over and thrash the lot of them.

The maintenance men fell silent, however, when they saw where the three newcomers were headed.

When they reached the carriage, Goodman-Brown took off one of his gloves and touched the front bogie. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Brand new… wooden-bodied composite motor coach… built by the Brush Electrical Engineering Company in Loughborough.’

Blackwood smiled. Goodman-Brown was clearly anxious to display his ‘contact analysis’ skills without delay – although his preliminary observations were hardly world-shaking. Nevertheless, he wished to encourage the psychometrist as much as possible, and so he nodded approvingly and said, ‘Excellent. I can see we’ve got the right man for the job.’

Goodman-Brown glanced at Blackwood and gave him a broad smile. ‘You misunderstand, sir. I wasn’t performing a contact analysis; I’m something of a railway enthusiast and was merely expressing my admiration for this particular model.’

Sophia giggled, and Blackwood grinned ruefully. ‘I see. I beg your pardon.’

‘What a fine beast,’ sighed Goodman-Brown as he walked back towards the carriage’s midsection, which contained a pair of sliding doors. ‘Wonderful!’

‘Shall we climb aboard?’ asked Sophia.

‘Yes, do let’s!’ replied Goodman-Brown, looking around until his gaze alighted upon a set of steps, which he pulled over and placed before the doors; without a platform, they were more than four feet above the ground. He then mounted the steps and pulled the doors open manually. Blackwood and Sophia followed him into the carriage.

The interior was silent and dimly lit: the gas jets had been switched off, so that the only light came in fitfully through the windows from the maintenance shop. Although most of the workmen had recommenced their activity, the sounds were oddly muted, as if coming from a very great distance. Sophia looked up and down the carriage, at the empty bench seats lining each side, and shuddered. ‘Something
was
here,’ she said quietly. ‘One does not have to be a psychometrist to feel it.’

Blackwood had to agree. There was a very strange atmosphere in the carriage, and although he was tempted to put it down to imagination, he couldn’t quite bring himself to dismiss it so easily. ‘Mr Goodman-Brown,’ he said. ‘First impressions?’

‘Lady Sophia is quite right: there is a residue here… something… I’m not sure what…’ He took off his other glove and sat down on the right-hand seat, placing his hands palm down upon the fabric. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. As he sat there, perfectly still, his breathing grew deep and steady, in the manner of one asleep.

‘I can see the train,’ he continued presently. ‘It’s moving into the tunnel…’

‘The Kennington Loop?’ asked Blackwood.

‘Yes.’ Without opening his eyes, Goodman-Brown turned his head to the right, in the direction of the driver’s cab. ‘Mr Morgan is there… he is not pleased… he doesn’t like the Loop – none of the drivers do. I can see him now. The train is following the tracks into the tight curve of the Loop… the wheels are squealing on the metals… Morgan is wincing at the sound. I can see the light…’

‘The light?’ said Blackwood.

‘The signal light; it has changed to red. Morgan is bringing the train to a halt. The air is hot, stifling… uncomfortable. No… Alfie doesn’t like it down here. He’s counting the seconds until the light turns to green.’

Suddenly, Goodman-Brown’s head snapped around to the left. ‘What was that?’

Blackwood leaned towards the psychometrist. ‘You can hear something?’

A frown crept across Goodman-Brown’s forehead. ‘Yes… a noise. It sounds like… yes, the connecting doors between the carriages… far back, at the rear of the train. They have opened… and closed. But that can’t be: Alfie is alone on the train.’ Goodman-Brown’s voice had become a whisper. ‘There is no one else. There it is again! Alfie is wondering whether the train’s guard came back aboard, but he doesn’t think that’s very likely.’

Blackwood and Sophia looked towards the rear of the carriage. The other carriages were of course no longer there, having been decoupled from the motor coach and transferred to other trains. Through the connecting door at the rear end, they could see the wall of the maintenance shop.

‘There it is again!’ said Goodman-Brown. ‘Closer now… a little closer. Alfie is listening in the silence… the signal is still on red. He has no choice but to wait here.’

‘Do you know what’s making the sounds… what’s moving through the connecting doors?’ asked Blackwood.

Goodman-Brown shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Mr Blackwood. I am in physical contact with this carriage only – not the others. This is where the contact analysis must be performed; this is where my psychic awareness resides.’

‘I understand. Take your time, sir.’

Goodman-Brown smiled. ‘I have no choice. I must wait, as Alfie waited, to see what comes through those doors.’ He winced. ‘Another one… Alfie is looking back along the train from his driver’s cab… but he can’t see anything. Another! Click-clack! Closer still. Whatever it is… it’s moving along the train.’ The psychometrist shook his head. ‘Poor Alfie. He’s afraid now. He’s calling out, asking who’s there. I can feel his fear… growing… growing! It’s in the carriage directly behind this one. The door is opening…’

Blackwood, Sophia and Goodman-Brown were all looking at the connecting door at the rear of the carriage.

‘The door is opening,’ Goodman-Brown repeated, his voice suddenly strained, as if he were finding it difficult to breath. ‘Something is coming through. Oh God…
oh God!
’

‘What is it Walter?’ Sophia cried, her gaze still fixed upon the door.

‘It’s in the carriage!’ he hissed. ‘I can
see
it! Oh, dear God. It’s like nothing…’ His voice trailed off, so that the only sound in the carriage was his ragged breathing.

And then Walter Goodman-Brown screamed, just as Alfie Morgan had done. He screamed until there was no breath left in his lungs, and then he inhaled and screamed again, and again.

Blackwood lunged forward, grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him out of the seat.

‘Thomas, we have to get him out of here, now!’ said Sophia.

‘Understood. Give me a hand.’

With Goodman-Brown between them, they staggered back to the doors at the centre of the carriage and hurried down the steps to the shop floor. The psychometrist was virtually insensate now, his body a dead weight. Blackwood and Sophia laid him down upon the concrete.

‘Walter,’ said Sophia, bending over and examining his contorted face. ‘Walter, can you hear me?’

Some of the workmen who had been alerted by Goodman-Brown’s screams hurried over. ‘What’s goin’ on?’ demanded one. ‘What the bleedin’ hell do you people fink you’re playin’ at?’

‘Go and fetch Mr Sullivan,’ said Blackwood.

‘Hold on,’ the man said. ‘Who the bleedin’ hell are you lot, anyway?’

‘Shut up and do as you’re told!’ thundered Blackwood, standing up to face the rapidly growing group. Withdrawing his identification from his coat pocket, he added, ‘We are Crown investigators, and you will follow my orders or pass the night behind bars.’

Startled, the workmen glanced at each other, and one of them hurried off towards the offices.

He returned less than a minute later, accompanied by Derek Sullivan, who looked down at Goodman-Brown. ‘Good God! What’s happened to the fellow?’