Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller (10 page)

The silence suggested
they did.

When the guard and boy
had left, the atmosphere in the carriage remained calm and subdued, and after a
while Sam felt his pulse begin to slow as he grew increasingly confident that
he wasn’t about to be lynched. He glanced sheepishly across at the old woman,
who had resumed her knitting as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

A few minutes later the
train driver’s voice erupted from the overhead speaker system, informing the
passengers that they would shortly be arriving at York Station. The Darlington
fans began to organise themselves, draining their beers and collecting their
rucksacks. Not one of them acknowledged Sam; not that he wanted their attention.
Unfortunately, he also needed to disembark at York to change onto the London
train; he could have taken the direct service had he been prepared to wait
another thirty minutes and pay another twenty-five pounds, but a shortage of
both time and money had prevented him from doing so. He’d already decided to
wait for the mob to leave first before sneaking out behind them, but
nevertheless he was as nervous as hell.

He only hoped that
nobody noticed him as he crept out of the train behind them. Or even worse,
that nobody was waiting for him.

By
the time Sam stepped down from the train onto platform five, the Darlington
boys had already disappeared up a flight of steps that led to the exit gates.
Scanning the platform to double-check that he wasn’t about to be jumped on, he swung
his travel bag over his shoulder and made his way towards a different set of
steps that would take him to platform eight. From there he would catch the
train for the second and final leg of the journey to London.

As the train pulled out
of the station he stopped to wave goodbye to the old lady. After everything
she’d done to help him he thought it only appropriate to give her an old-fashioned
send-off. He looked through the window of Carriage D as it went by but she
wasn’t there.
Strange
, he thought, dropping the smile he’d prepared for
her and walking away.

As he slowly ascended
the steps, cursing his decision to pack so many unnecessary clothes and
toiletries, it dawned on him how close he’d come to a serious beating. Had it
not been for the timely intervention of the train guard, there was no doubt
that the boy would have set about him. He didn’t know which was worse: the
physical pain of being assaulted, or the embarrassment of the assailant being
young enough to be his son. Either way, he knew he was lucky to have escaped
unscathed.

Surprisingly for a
Saturday morning, the covered bridge that spanned the network of tracks below
was eerily quiet. Sam could only assume it was as a result of him being the
last person to disembark, but even so, it seemed strange for there to be nobody
else around. Not thinking anything of it, he switched his bag onto the other
shoulder and began crossing the bridge, bemoaning the inadequate light emanating
from three flickering overhead strip-lights.

As he neared half-way he
heard a sharp, metallic sound coming from behind him, like a coin being dropped
onto the ground. He turned to see what it was, but there was nothing there. He
watched for a while longer, waiting to see if the sound he’d heard was just
somebody dragging their suitcase up the stairs behind him, but nobody emerged.

It was then, however,
as he heard his name being whispered behind him, that he knew he wasn’t alone. He
spun around, expecting to see the boy from the train with his gang, but again
there was nobody there.

‘Hello?’ he asked,
looking up as two of the strip-lights suddenly died. ‘Is there anybody there?’
Of
course there isn’t you bloody idiot
, he thought, trying to convince himself
that he was alone. But somebody had called his name, he was sure of it.
The
wind…it’s just the wind.

Despite the remaining
strip-light’s best efforts, it was now almost impossible to see along the
bridge. It was as if a mist had descended on him, impairing his sense of
direction.

He decided that the wisest
course of action was to get off the bridge as soon as possible. If someone was
playing tricks on him, he’d be far safer standing on a platform in full view of
other passengers and station staff.

He turned to leave, but
as he did so he felt a sudden coldness against his skin, an icy breeze that passed
through him like sharp, hardened steel. To make matters worse the third
strip-light went out, plunging the bridge into absolute darkness. His mind unwillingly
flashed back to the dark figure standing in the churchyard, and even though he
knew he’d imagined it he allowed his subconscious to suggest that the figure
was somewhere on that bridge with him now. Watching him. Coming for him. Only this
time there would be no passing car to distract his attention. This time, there would
be no running away.

A train rushed by
underneath, metal wheels screeching against metal tracks, drowning out any
other sound. Sam allowed himself to draw breath but remained fixed to the spot,
incapable of moving; hoping that the lights would come on and that someone –
anyone
– would emerge from the steps and pry him away from this terrifying alternate
reality. He closed his eyes, but that only made it worse. He saw his little
sister grinning at him with jagged teeth.
You said you’d bring me flowers,
Sam. You promised.
In his mind, both she and the dark figure were walking
towards him now, their arms reaching out for him.

‘This isn’t happening!’
he shouted, stepping backwards against the side of the bridge. He slapped
himself and took a deep breath, hoping to find that everything had gone back to
normal; like a scary scene in a movie that turns out to be only a nightmare.
But why didn’t this feel like a nightmare? Why did it feel so real?
Maybe
because it IS real, Sammy-boy
.
As real as your wife’s affair
.

He heard a voice call
out to him. It belonged to the old woman from the train, although he couldn’t
see her. ‘What’s the problem, Sammy-boy?’ she hissed, her mouth breathing into
his ear. ‘You’re not scared are you?’ She began to sob. ‘Why did you leave me
alone with those nasty boys? Why didn’t you protect me? You’re such a gutless
COWARD!’ Her voice bellowed with rage into his ears and he felt two strong
hands clamp down on his shoulders. They weren’t the hands of an old woman. They
were big, powerful hands like flesh-clad iron claws, gripping him as if he were
a chunk of meat in a vice, and every time he tried to move they tightened their
grip, until the pain became so strong that he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

As he struggled to get
back up to his feet, he opened his mouth in a desperate attempt to scream for
help. However, as he did so he felt something thick and rubbery - like a fat,
slippery eel – press at his lips before forcing its way down his throat to his
gut, causing him to gag and gasp for air. He moved to his knees, his body
convulsing as he tried to regurgitate whatever it was that had entered him. His
throat stung, raw with dry-retching, and he couldn’t breathe. Eventually he
rolled over onto the floor and stared vacantly up towards the ceiling; his eyes
glazing over like those of a dead fish. All he could feel as he lay there was
his heart pulsing against his ribcage, crowding out any competing sensation.

The last thing Sam
Railton saw before losing all consciousness was his sister hovering above him; a
sad, tearful look on her face. As he drifted away, he heard her say the words:

You have to run away,
Sam. He’s coming to get you
.

And then there was
nothing.

There
was a time, admittedly many, many, moons ago, when young men, (actually, scrap
the
young
), when men of
all
ages would openly stop and stare
whenever Janice Spratt walked into a room. Long auburn hair, emerald green
eyes, elegant lines…yep, she was a beauty alright, and boy did she know it. The
unfortunate thing about beauty, however, is that it almost always comes at a
price. For Janice Spratt, that price was intelligence, or rather a blatant lack
of it.

It wasn’t that she was
academically stupid, having graduated from high school with respectable grades
in nearly every subject, but rather that she was severely lacking in common
sense. Nowhere was this more apparent than in her love life; the expression
treat
‘em mean to keep ‘em keen
was undoubtedly coined with Janice in mind. The
meaner they were, the keener she was, which probably explained why she ended up
falling head over heels in love with a good-for-nothing dropout called William
Railton.

William Railton, or
Billy, as he was more commonly known, was not an easy man to like. He was the
kind of man who automatically saw the bad in everything, the kind of man who
was convinced that the world was out to get him. Indeed, such was the size of
the chip on his shoulder that it was surprising to most folk in Cranston that
he could even manage to walk down the street without falling over.

Billy Railton certainly
had his demons, but he also had charisma in spades. He could charm the birds
down from the trees when he had a mind to, although they never hung around for
long once they got to know him. Not that he gave a damn…he never cared for most
of them anyway. Besides, usually by the time they saw the light and headed for
the hills, he’d taken from them all that he wanted, namely a chance to feel
himself between their thighs. You’d be forgiven for thinking that with all his
practice he’d be a pretty impressive lover, above average at least, but you’d
be wrong. Why? Because Billy Railton had never made love to anyone in his life,
including his own hand, when sober. In fact, since turning thirteen he’d
accomplished next to nothing when not under the influence of some kind of stimulant.
This was also the case with many of his so-called friends who, along with
Billy, formed the violent gang known as The Knuckle Dusters.

Back in the seventies
there weren’t many gangs in Cranston: the small, industrial shithole from where
Janice and Billy and the boys from The Knuckle Dusters hailed. Aside from the
lesser known and short lived Black Hoods, The Dusters, as they later became
known, was
the
gang around town. You fucked with The Dusters at your
peril, although in reality they were nothing more than a drunken posse of small
town jerk-offs. Billy was the leader. Not because he was the smartest, but
because he was the craziest. He was feared for his psychopathic tendency to
lash out without thinking; a trait that had on more than one occasion landed
him a night in the cells.

Ironically, it was the
day after one of those very nights (December 11
^th
, 1974 – to be
precise) that he first kissed Janice. The Dusters had been trawling the streets
in the hope of some action, when Janice emerged screaming from Dell’s Bar,
hotly pursued by Gregg Andrews, her boyfriend at the time. Even fearless Billy
Railton was taken aback by the expression of blind rage on Gregg’s face as he
caught up with Janice and threw her against the shutters of Grelend’s
Hardware
Store. She groaned as her head struck the shutter face-first, her nose
exploding on impact, leaving behind a curious design of blood on the corrugated
metal as she slid to the ground.

‘You fuckin’ bitch!’
Gregg screamed, moving in for a second round. ‘You fuckin’ cheatin’ whore. I’m
gonna rip your fuckin’ tits off!’ Janice wasn’t in a position to resist;
instead she just lay there, powerless to fend off the bastard with whom she’d
shared a bed for just shy of six months.
Treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen,
Janice. Isn’t that the way you like them? Don’t all pretty girls love a bad boy?

Fortunately for her, The
Dusters
had been standing ringside to witness Gregg’s handiwork, and the
boys smelled blood.

‘Hey Gregg,’ Billy
said, coming to the front of the gang. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that only a
coward hits a woman?’

‘Fuck you, Railton,’
Gregg replied. ‘You stay out of this, or I’ll do the same to you as I’m gonna do
to this bitch.’

‘Like fuck you will,
you fuckin’ prick!’ Billy shouted, the red mist descending. ‘I’m gonna fuckin’
kill you!’

With that, Billy leapt
across behind Gregg and slammed him into the wall. Gregg grunted in agony but
kept to his feet and turned to face his assailant. The two boys glowered at
each other like a pair of rutting stags. Gregg knew he had to hold his nerve: if
he could get the better of Billy then the other Dusters would back down as well.
Once the shepherd was beaten, the flock would disperse. But first he had to
deal with Billy, and that wasn’t going to be easy, especially given the look in
his eyes.

Seizing the initiative,
Gregg was first to move, launching himself at Billy and lashing out in blind
fury. Billy reacted immediately with the same venom; both boys going at each
other with a lack of skill and finesse that would’ve been classed as comical
had it not been so violent and raw. The Dusters watched on like bloodthirsty
voyeurs, hollering their support for their leader, while all the time paying no
attention to the helpless girl collapsed crying in a heap by the hardware
store. Blow by blow, it soon became apparent that Billy was getting the better
of his opponent, although from the cuts to his own face it was clear that he
was taking his fair share of the pain. Eventually he managed to roll Gregg over
onto his back and straddle him, pinning him to the ground and going to work on
his face like a boxer pummelling a punch bag. Gregg knew he was in trouble. He also
knew he was powerless to do anything about it. He’d dished out his fair share
of medicine in his time… it was his turn to swallow a dose.

The beating was
relentless, Billy’s hands moulding Gregg’s face into a mash of pulp and bone.
If it hadn’t been for the fortuitous arrival of Sergeant Brian Jennings…well,
it would’ve been a brave man who’d have gambled on Gregg surviving. Gripping
Billy by the back of his shirt collar, Sergeant Jennings yanked him off Andrews
and threw him onto the pavement. Almost immediately, Billy was back on his feet
and going in again for the kill, seemingly oblivious to the presence of a
uniformed officer.

‘Back off, Railton,’
Jennings said, moving between the two fighters like a referee. Billy looked up
and studied the sergeant’s face, his chest heaving as he gradually came to his
senses.

‘It’s over, Billy,’
Jennings said. ‘You’re under arrest.’ Jennings undid a clasp on his belt and
withdrew a radio, placing it to his mouth. ‘PC Trent, are you receiving me?’
Loud
and clear, sir
. ‘I need an ambulance sent immediately to the junction of Middle
Street and Salvation Street. Two casualties, one serious. And I need you to
send backup, is that clear?’
Affirmative, sir
. ‘Good. And make sure
we’ve got a cell ready…we’re going to need it. Over and out.’

Billy
was released the following morning with a warning not to leave town, not that
he’d had any intention of doing so. People like him never strayed far from
home; the big wide world held limited appeal for their uninquisitive, uneducated
minds. Instead, he’d made for the nearest watering hole, intent on numbing the
pain of his battle scars and sharing his heroic account of the previous evening
with anyone who’d care to listen. Not once did the welfare of Gregg Andrews
cross his mind. If truth be told, Billy’s sole regret from the entire evening
was that he’d been wearing his brand new suit at the time. He must’ve shovelled
a hundred tonnes of coal down at the mine to pay for that shiny grey zoot suit
-
the
symbol back in 1974 of the man about town – and now it was torn
and tattered and stained with the dried blood of two men.

Feeling downright sorry
for his predicament, Billy rounded the corner of Victoria Street and headed to The
Turf bar. As he was about to enter, a voice called out behind him: ‘Hey Billy…you
forgot something.’

Billy spun around to
find Janice Spratt standing there, a pair of sunglasses and a strip of adhesive
bandage across her nose hiding the worst of the damage. She was holding a brown
hat in her hands and smiling at him, and even with all her bruises and
bandages, Billy thought she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever laid eyes on.

‘I believe this is
yours?’ she said, moving closer towards him and offering him the hat. ‘I’m
afraid it’s looking a little worse for wear.’

For once, Billy was
lost for words. His eyes moved dumbly from the hat to Janice and then back to
the hat again. Eventually he spoke: ‘Thanks,’ he said, accepting the hat and
placing it on his head. ‘I must look like a tramp.’

‘Not really,’ she lied,
and even in Billy’s bruised and hungover state he sensed she was flirting with
him.

‘You didn’t have to
come looking for me just to give me the hat,’ he said.

‘I didn’t.’

‘Well, why did you?’

‘I wanted to say thank
you, for last night and everything.’

‘No need to thank me.
That bastard had it comin’.’

‘He might have killed
me if you hadn’t have been there to stop him.’

‘Probably would’ve.
Anyway, how are you feelin’?’

‘Me? Oh, I’m fine.
Slightly sore, but I’ll live.’

‘Fine enough for me to
buy you a drink?’

‘What…now?’

‘Why not? Unless you
had somethin’ better planned?’ He winked at her and gave her his most seductive
smile; a smile he’d used on many an occasion with many a girl, often with
considerable success.’

‘Okay,’ she said,
returning the smile with equal panache. ‘But I might as well warn you right
now, Billy Railton - I’m looking for more than just a drink.’

She didn’t resist as
Billy took her by the hand and pulled her to him. She didn’t flinch or even
look away as he removed her sunglasses and stared at her blackened eye before
gently kissing it, slowly tracing his mouth down her face until their lips met
and their tongues introduced themselves.

And so, on the morning
of December 12
^th
, 1974, as she stood there tingling with lust and
excitement, little did Janice Spratt know that she was about to make the
biggest mistake of her life.