very real threat to his life and work. Here there was … nothing. He looked back at the train and seriously considered returning, reporting that there had been nothing of interest at the building, and carrying on until they either reached the main line again or were forced to back up.
“Pull yourself together,” he said quietly to himself. “There’s no time for this childishness.” He mentally shook himself by the shoulders, drew himself up, and marched down the line.
The fear grew still worse. Now, however, an uncompromising mixture of determination and pride outmatched it. The feeling deepened into an impression of impending doom mixed, oddly, with loss. The burden of a sudden nameless longing made Cabal gasp with unfamiliar emotion. No. No, it wasn’t unfamiliar at all, just suppressed, and the sudden whirl of remembrance made his eyes prickle. He gulped, then sucked in a breath and kept walking. With agonising slowness, the building revealed itself around the bend as he walked purposefully on, and he belatedly realised that it was a station. This was good news; although it had clearly been abandoned years ago, there must still be a sign or something to say which station it was, information enough to deduce which line it stood on. He willed the clue to be somewhere obvious: the pain in him was so intense now, he just wanted to sag to his knees. The feeling of loss was like a spear through his heart. Keep walking, he kept telling himself. If you succumb, you’re lost. Just get the information and then walk back to the train, mission accomplished. Don’t run. Don’t falter. Control it.
The station had clearly once been very well run indeed. By the platform were flower beds in which nasturtiums and poppies fought gamely for soil against weeds. The stones that surrounded the beds still showed signs of having been assiduously whitewashed a long time ago. The paint was peeling, posters hung from their frames, and the windows were grimy. Yet there was a sense of order gently giving way to entropy. The fact that the windows were all intact was interesting; Cabal had learned a lot about human nature over the past few weeks and knew full well that where there were boys and unattended glass, there was also likely to be some property damage in the near future. Cabal had already had several run-ins with wilful young lads who seemed to believe that their age and sex gave them some sort of dispensation to commit petty acts of vandalism. One such had particularly infuriated him and was now a permanent fixture in the House of Medical Monstrosity. They’d moved smartly out the next day before the local constabulary got involved.
That the station windows were still in place argued that the station was rarely if ever visited, which, in turn, raised the question “Why build a station in the middle of nowhere, where nobody is ever likely to use it?” It was a question that turned the balance in Cabal’s mind. Up to now, he would have been content to learn the station’s name and go back to the train. Now, however, there was a mystery, and Cabal hated mysteries. The strange emotional turmoil he was in still frightened him, and because it frightened him, it also angered him. It felt so … imposed.
And, of course, it was. He felt foolish for imagining that its root had been within him at all. It was from outside. It was from … He looked up at the station. It was coming from here. The vague feelings that had so disturbed him were replaced with cold logic as he put them in their place. It was some form of empathy, he knew now, almost certainly supernatural. He still felt the fear and the loneliness and the dreadful sense of loss, but now it no more touched him than being warm or tired could emotionally touch him. It was simply a sensation, something that his body had detected and that he’d stupidly assumed to be part of him. He climbed up off the line, walked to the waiting-room door, in passing checked the station’s name — Welstone Halt — and entered.
If he was expecting an immediate solution to the mystery, he was disappointed. The waiting room obviously hadn’t been used for many years. There were a few tables, and a bar with a large tea urn on it, and glass displays that must have once been temporary home to sandwiches and cakes. The strange feeling was very strong here, Cabal noted. Sometimes a spasm of tension travelled down his back, making his head twitch involuntarily. He noted that, too. There were yellowed newspapers lying on one of the tables. He picked one up and studied its front page. There were a couple of advertisements for cigarettes that consisted of the name of the brand reprinted several times in a column — cutting-edge marketing for the time — and the headlines “BIG PUSH EXPECTED” and “ALL OVER BY CHRISTMAS.” Cabal shook his head. It had been no such thing. Why did people always expect wars to be over by Christmas, as if a kindly fate wanted all the families to be back together and all that unpleasantness over and done with? As a man who dealt with life out of death, he was perhaps more appalled by war than most. He had been chased out of towns by any number of solid citizens, all of whom obviously considered themselves morally superior to him, although they would cheerfully send their sons to die in conflicts that could and should have been resolved diplomatically. Cabal, on the other hand, rarely killed unless absolutely necessary. In the cases of Dennis and Denzil, it had admittedly been a question of eugenics as well as self-defence. It was the gene pool or them. But war? Cabal threw the newspaper back on the table with contempt.
The otherworldly feel had been with him for so long now that he had begun to acclimatise to it, like getting used to a cold: he knew it was there, but it wasn’t the be-all and end-all. He walked to the grimy window and looked out into the bright world beyond. This wasn’t getting him anywhere; he should just return to the train with the name of the station, see where they were, and leave. But… he knew he couldn’t. Not until he knew why this place stank psychically to high heaven and why it had been left to fall into stately disrepair for so many years. Cabal didn’t just call himself a scientist; he had those vital necessities that so many scientists lack — an enquiring mind and almost painful curiosity.
“I’ll just stay for a few minutes,” he said aloud. “Then I really must go.” Silence was the only answer. “I’m a necromancer. I understand your concerns. I may be able to help you.” He thought of the box of contracts and added, “We may be able to help one another.” He continued to look out of the window as he drew a slim cigar from an inside pocket. He didn’t smoke as a rule, but he liked the novelty of having at least one vice that he couldn’t be hanged for. As he unwrapped the cellophane from the cigar, crinkling it pleasantly between his fingers, he felt the ambience shift in the room. The fear and loneliness were leaving him, leaving the air. He had enough experience of such things to know the source of these feelings beginning to coalesce somewhere nearby. No matter, it would present itself when it was ready. Pocketing the cellophane, he put the cigar in his mouth, took his father’s silver matchbox from his waistcoat, and struck a match.
“Spare a light, sir?” said a voice that was near him yet as distant as the grave.
Cabal paused for the briefest moment. Then he lit his cigar. There wasn’t a tremor in the flame. He turned slowly and held the still-burning match out. “There you are,” he said evenly to the soldier.
Cabal watched him with dispassionate calm as the soldier leaned forward and lit a roll-up. He was dressed in a khaki uniform contemporary with the old newspapers; a cheap peaked cap, gaiters, a corporal’s stripes, and buttons polished to a high sheen, despite which they didn’t catch the light. It was as if Cabal were looking at him through a light mist. The soldier drew appreciatively on his cigarette, held the smoke for a long second, and released it through his nose in languorous streams. “God bless, sir. It seems like a month of Sundays since I last had a gasper. My mate Bill borrowed me matches off me and never gave ’em back, which is Bill all over. I’ve been waiting for the tea counter ’ere to open so I can buy some, but I ain’t sure it’s going to. Rationing, I suppose.”
“Not rationing, I’m afraid,” said Cabal, making his way to one of the tables and seating himself there. “The buffet is closed permanently. Please, join me.” He gestured to the chair opposite him. The soldier smiled brightly and came over. The smile wavered slightly when he saw that the chair Cabal had indicated was drawn under the table. The chair beside it was largely out, and he sat on that one instead.
“Closed permanent? But there’s loads of people use it. The works are just over the ridge.”
“Really? I must admit, it doesn’t seem like a humming hub of commerce here. When was the last time you saw somebody in here?”
“Oh, not long. It can only be a couple of hours since I got off the train. It was odd, though. The place was empty. The stationmaster’ll get in trouble over it, I don’t doubt.”
“A couple of hours,” echoed Cabal without comment. “What have you been doing since then?”
“I …” The soldier touched his forehead as if trying to recall. “I … fell asleep, I s’pose.”
“And what did you dream?”
The soldier looked at him oddly. “Who wants to know?”
“You look rather wan,” replied Cabal with masterly understatement. “I think your dreams must have been very disturbing. Sometimes they have meaning.”
“And you know what they mean?”
“I might. If you don’t tell me, I won’t be able to tell you.”
The soldier took off his cap and laid it on the table. He ran his fingers through sandy hair as he tried to concentrate. “But what if I don’t want to know?”
