The Furthest Station Page 5

  We’d dubbed it the Hangover Stone.

  Nightingale said the freshness of the vestigia should be enough to attract any ghosts, but just to be on the safe side we planned to top it up with a low-grade werelight as each southbound train approached.

  At Jaget’s suggestion we’d strung a second line of tape a couple of metres further up the platform so that people wouldn’t be looking over our shoulder. Jaget in his own, BTP-issue, high-visibility vest loitered so we could concentrate on the task at hand. I handed him the antiquated Leica camera and made him designated camera man in case we actually caught a ghost. The Leica was old enough to have a manual winding mechanism but Jaget assured me he could handle it.

  “You should see some of the gear that’s still in operation on the Tube,” he said. “This is practically high tech.”

  The first southbound train was due in shortly and already the platform was about a third full of people drinking coffee out of cardboard cups and really wishing they weren’t on their way to work. One or two close to us glared blearily in our direction, but it really was far too early in the morning for curiosity.

  Jaget took a couple of pictures of the sleeping Toby to check the camera. Nightingale checked the destination board.

  “Two minutes,” he said.

  I blew on my fingers to warm them up and flexed them a bit before casting a werelight so low down the visible spectrum it was practically invisible and, more importantly, very localised. Then I turned to the Hangover Stone which was, in fact, a half brick nicked from some builder’s rubble in the Folly’s basement. When I touched it with the werelight it quickly glowed a cherry red. I motioned Jaget over to take some pictures.

  “I want to know whether that’s real or not,” I said.

  I cautiously poked it with my finger and there was no heat. So probably not.

  “Don’t play with it, Peter,” said Nightingale. “The train is almost here.”

  I joined Nightingale to stand between the stone and the commuters further up the platform.

  The train was moving slowly by the time it reached our little party and the driver had plenty of time to stare curiously at us before remembering to bring his vehicle to a smooth stop. The doors opened and the early morning zombies shambled in.

  I glanced at Toby, who yawned again and gave me a hopeful look.

  The doors closed and the train whined off in the direction of work and despair.

  Toby, realising that nothing in the sausage department was going to be forthcoming, curled up and went back to sleep.

  “That was a bit of an anti-climax,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” said a voice behind me. “There’s plenty more trains where that came from.”

  I looked around, expecting a member of the public. But instead a ghost stepped into existence like someone walking into the light of a campfire. He was a tall, thin white man in a navy pinstripe suit and a bowler hat. He carried a full-length furled umbrella and a rolled-up newspaper under his arm. He was faded and see-through in the daylight—an impression? An interpretation of the mind’s eye? Or were real photons bouncing off something—however intangible? I heard a click and a whirr as Jaget took some shots with the antique Leica. He was using a very fast film so perhaps we’d settle that question.

  Although, going by our past record, I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

  The ghost waved his umbrella at Nightingale.

  “You, sir,” he said. “Are you responsible for this delightful scene?”

  “Can I help you?” said Nightingale.

  “You could oblige me by continuing much as you are,” he said and stretched out his hands as if warming them against a fire. The palms and fingers, I saw, became increasingly solid as they approached the Hangover Stone. I made a mental note to check the photographs to see whether that was a true physical phenomenon or not. “Things have been growing rather thin of late.”

  “Glad to be of service,” said Nightingale and formally introduced the three of us to the ghost.

  “Name of Mr Ponderstep,” said the ghost.

  Because we were police we couldn’t just leave it at a name—although no first name, I noticed—we always have to get an address, occupation, National Insurance number3, previous convictions, inside leg measurement, favourite Pokémon…Mr Ponderstep didn’t mind, he said, as long as we kept the magic flowing. He lived, or rather had lived, in West Drayton back when Harrow was hardly part of London at all. He’d caught the 7:15 into town each weekday morning, where he’d worked as a merchant banker.

  When I tracked his records down much later, I discovered he’d fought at the Somme as an infantry lieutenant and had been awarded the Military Cross for conspicuous gallantry in the face of the enemy. He mentioned none of this during our conversation but Nightingale warned me against attributing this to ghostly incompleteness.

  “People didn’t talk about the Great War back then,” he said—not even when they were dead.

  He did talk about his wife, his daughter and Splinter, his golden retriever. In fact it was quite hard to shut him up, even when the next southbound train pulled in—noticeably short on ghostly riders.

  Not so the Hangover Stone, because we turned back from the departing train to find a transparent figure in riding boots, a rain cape and a tricorn hat had joined Mr Ponderstep.

  “So, who are you?” I asked.

  “I am but a humble road agent,” said the ghost. “Cut unkindly short through the actions of jealous and unchristian men.” He slapped a hand theatrically to his chest. “Shot through the heart not more than half a mile from this very spot.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “They call me Black Tom,” he said, and I made a note.

  Black Tom held out his hands palm first towards the Hangover Stone.

  “Splendid,” he said. “The nights can be so chill. Strange to meet such a fine company out here amongst the clowns, but then the city has become very strange of late.”

  “How so?” asked Nightingale.

  “Why, the coaches run on iron tracks,” he said. “And at such speeds a man might despair of making an interception.”

  I looked over at Nightingale who shrugged.

  “With hindsight,” he said, “we really should have anticipated this problem.”

  When a third ghost—a morose, thankfully silent, young man in frock coat and top hat—joined us it became clear that soon the entire ghost population of Harrow was likely to line up at our psychic soup kitchen.

  “Psychic soup kitchen,” said Jaget who was still snapping away. “Good one.”

  “Go easy with the camera Jaget,” I said. “That film’s hard to come by.”

  Nightingale decided that he’d find a nice secluded spot away from the station and stage an all-you-can-eat magic buffet for the local ghosts. As they trailed hopefully after him, the three ghosts vanished into the morning sunlight. But I swear I could still hear Mr Ponderstep talking about his wife’s Sunday brisket, heading up the stairs to the station concourse.

  Toby didn’t so much as look up to watch them go. He stayed sleeping through the arrival and departure of the next two trains, but on the third he leapt to his feet and stared intently as it rolled into the station.

  “Finally,” I said and Toby whined. I wasn’t sure I liked the anxious tone, but if this was our train then at least we could slope off for refs afterwards.

  The rush hour was in full flush and the platform was rammed. Travellers were pushing up against our first line of tape and glaring at Jaget because he was blocking their access to their habitual carriage door. We’d arranged the tape so that anyone getting off at our end, including actual alive people, could filter out.

  We didn’t see our girl at first, just heard a young voice cry—“Doggie!”

  Toby’s head snapped around to look at the closest train door; I followed his gaze and saw her. She was young, white and dressed in late Victorian style—a white pinafore over a dark-coloured dress and a wide-brimmed
straw hat. She was too transparent to be sure of any colours, but I thought her eyes were blue and her hair blonde.

  She skipped off the train, ducked under our tape and, laughing, made a dash for Toby. He in turn pulled his head loose from his collar with suspicious ease and bolted up the platform. The ghost girl totally ignored our carefully crafted magical lure and chased after him. Exeunt dog pursued by ghost.

  At the high point of rush hour in Harrow station there’s no appreciable gap between a train leaving and a platform filling up, so that even as I started after them I saw Toby and the ghost girl vanish into a thicket of grumpy commuters. Fortunately, despite them all looking like a sack full of misery, the travellers knew which side the next train was due, so I cut across to the relatively-empty other platform and ran up that.

  Harrow on the Hill has an elevated concourse built over the tracks through which the commuters trudged like extras from Metropolis. As I ran up the stairs I waved my warrant card and shouted—

  “Police! Police!”

  The crowd parted in front of me in reluctant confusion with, I estimate, a third wondering who I was chasing, a third wondering why the police were chasing me and the last third thinking This I need first thing in the morning.

  At the top I saw Toby slip under the ticket barrier and got a barest flicker of a sense of movement that indicated the ghost girl was following. I didn’t have time to alert the London Underground staff, so I vaulted the barrier and hoped they believed me when I shouted police again.

  Someone yelled “Oi” behind me, but I had Toby in my sights as he streaked between the legs of the commuter and down the stairs towards the street. Here the bland 1930s art deco stylings of the station gave way to the horror that was the 1980s where every public building was deliberately crafted to look as much like a urinal as possible. I’ve got longer legs than Toby, so I went down stairs faster than he did—still catching flickers of movement that I assumed was the ghost. A short barren indoor shopping precinct led to the main road which Toby crossed at full speed.

  Presumably the ghost wasn’t worried about the traffic, but I was. I had to slow down and watch in frustration as Toby raced into the shapeless red brick pile that was the St Anne’s shopping centre. I made up the lead coming down the stairs into the shopping centre’s central atrium and was right behind them when Toby made the mistake of running into WH Smith’s and got himself cornered in the Back to School section. There he made his stand before a wall of brightly coloured folders and discounted plastic Ziploc school stationery kits—now with safely blunted plastic compasses.

  Toby bared his teeth as the ghost, much more visible in the store’s strip lighting, advanced with her hand held out.

  “Good doggie,” she said. “Don’t be afraid.”

  I slipped around until I was facing her. She didn’t notice me—her whole focus was on Toby.

  “Good boy,” she said, her face bright with excitement.

  Toby snarled and then snapped at her hand.

  The ghost snatched it back, as if being bitten was a real possibility, a look of confusion on her face.

  Toby looked at me and then managed an impressive jump right into my arms. Once safely there he wriggled around until he could face the ghost and bare his teeth at her.

  She looked on the verge of tears.

  I told Toby to behave and gave the ghost my best winning smile.

  “My name is Peter,” I said. “What’s yours?”

  She looked longingly at Toby and then at my face.

  “You’re awfully brown,” she said. “Are you from the Empire?”

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me your name,” I said. “It’s only polite.”

  The girl gave me a dainty little curtsy. “Alice Bowman at your service,” she said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said and told her that my mum was from Sierra Leone, which she actually knew was in West Africa, which put her ahead of the bulk of the modern population.

  “Are you really a policeman?” she asked. “The master said I was to find a policeman or a magistrate but not a priest. Definitely not a priest.”

  “I am most certainly a police officer,” I said and showed her my warrant card. “Who is your master?”

  “Not my master, silly,” said Alice. “The Master, the master of the palace.”

  “And he wanted you to find a policeman?” I remembered the Postboy looking for someone to deliver a message to. “Did he want you to deliver a message?”

  “He wanted me to tell you a story,” she said. “I wish I had a doggie.”

  “If you tell me the story I’ll let you pet him,” I said and decided not to worry about how I’d persuade Toby to allow that until after I had the bloody story.

  “Promise?”

  I opened my mouth to say that, absolutely, I promised, no problem, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie—which is very unlike me. Words have power in the demi-monde and breaking a promise is supposed to have consequences. Not that I’ve seen any verifiable proof of this, you understand, but better safe than sorry.

  “Once he gets to know you,” I said, “I’m sure he’ll let you pet him.”

  Which seemed to satisfy Alice, who nodded.

  “What was the story about?” I asked.

  “About a princess, of course,” she said. “All the good stories are about princesses.”

  I asked her to tell me story, and she flopped down to sit cross-legged and then made it clear she wasn’t going to start until I did the same. So down I went and I couldn’t help notice that my knees started complaining almost immediately. Toby made himself comfortable in my lap, yawned and pretended to go to sleep.

  “This princess,” I said. “Does she have a name?”

  Alice shook her head.

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “In a castle.”

  “Do you know the name of the castle?”

  “Do you,” asked Alice, “want to hear this story or not?”

  “Pray continue,” I said. My knees were now really beginning to ache—I don’t think I’d sat cross-legged for so long since I was in primary school.

  “Once upon a time…” said Alice.

  There was a Princess who lived in an unfortunately unidentified Kingdom who was beautiful and, well, basically beautiful, and there was this wicked man who didn’t like her. Alice didn’t know why he didn’t like the Princess or even why he was wicked, although he undoubtedly was.

  Now the Princess liked to visit the people of her kingdom, particularly the sick and unhappy, leaving early in the morning and returning to her castle in the evening very tired from all the help she had been giving. She did not know that the Wicked Man, again nothing in the way of useful identification, had been watching her.

  “He watched her go out in the morning and come home every evening,” said Alice. “And each time he saw her, he hated her more.”

  His hatred grew so fierce that he could no longer bear to see her walk free in the sunlight and so he laid his plans against her. One morning he put a magic potion in her tea and she fell into a swoon. While she slept he turned himself into dog and carried her away to his evil lair and threw her into his deepest darkest dungeon.

  But what the Wicked Man didn’t know was that right next to his dungeon lived the Master and all his friends in a splendid fairy palace made all of glass. The Master showed the Princess how to open the secret door to the palace and while the Wicked Man wasn’t looking she slipped inside.

  “Does the Master have a name?” I asked.

  Alice shook her head emphatically and as she did I saw a crack appear in her neck and run down under her collar. It was a very fine break and Alice didn’t seem to notice, but I remembered the Postboy and I figured I didn’t have much time left. I asked whether the Princess was stuck in the fairy palace and Alice said she wasn’t stuck exactly, but the only way out was through the dungeon and that was locked from the outside.

  “The Master says that someone must be dispatche
d to save the Princess without delay,” said Alice. “Sir William said he wasn’t afraid to go but no help came so Tommy and Frenchie said they would, and then Clifford and Elizabeth, and then it was my turn.” There was a spray of fine cracks at the corners of her eyes and mouth. “There, that is my story and now I claim my reward.” She gave me a hopeful smile.

  I was wondering how to persuade Toby to submit to ghostly petting when a look of dismay passed across Alice’s face.

  “Oh,” she said and stood up. “I think my time is over.”

  “No,” I said and, standing, brandished a squirming Toby at her. “Don’t go.”

  “Nanny says I should be brave and that Mummy and Daddy are waiting for me in heaven,” she said and then leant forward to confide a secret. “But do you know what’s curious? I think Nanny’s talking rubbish. I don’t think anybody knows what happens after you die. There, I said it. Die, die, die, death, death, death.” She giggled and hiccupped and looked serious again. “Perhaps it’s just another world, maybe, perhaps you go somewhere that’s like this world only better. What do you think?”

  I know what my mum believes and I know what I believe, but in a situation like this it isn’t about your personal convictions. It’s about what the person standing on the edge needs.

  “My father believes that everything is music,” I said. “And when you pass on you become part of the tune.” One improvisation amongst the millions and millions of melodies that create the symphony of everything. My dad basically believes that your life is your one chance at a solo—so it better be a good one. Mind you, he also thinks that Miles Davis was the Second Coming and most of the world’s woes are due to humanity’s failure to recognise him as such.

  “I only know one song off by heart,” said Alice. “Would you like to hear it?”

  There were fine lines of darkness spreading across her face and across the crisp white front of her pinafore. It looked like the cracked pattern of parched mud. I considered trying a werelight but I doubted that would help.

  “Yes, please,” I said, and Alice began to sing.