tattered thing advanced; Dani glimpsed Gideon’s face – white, mouth agape, eyes staring – as he retreated, out of the doorway, onto the landing. The tattered thing pursued him; the dead crowded after it. Only St. John Dace remained in the room, watching them go.
There was a scream from Gideon, then a splintering sound, a crash, and another scream; one that faded, receding, and ending in a wet crunch of impact. Then silence.
St. John turned and looked down at her. Blood ran from his eyes. “Sleep,” he said, and a cold hand rested on her brow. And then there was nothing.
8
M ORNING WOKE HER ; thin pale light stinging her eyes through the room’s window, and the faint twitter of birdsong outside.
Dani opened her eyes. Her head pounded. She sat up; the pain washed outwards to fill her whole body. Her stomach seemed to slop about inside her like a bucket almost full to overflowing. She put a hand over her mouth; the nausea subsided. She was still holding the talisman; its edges had dug into her palm and drawn blood.
She was free, she realised. The other restraints had all been neatly unfastened. Her rucksack sat beside the bed. She opened it quickly; everything was packed.
She made her way outside. To her right was a staircase. The banister had broken. She peered over; the stairwell circled downwards over three floors, presumably to ground level. Below her lay a small broken figure, like a discarded doll.
She went down the staircase, emerged at the bottom. Gideon’s body was twisted awkwardly in the middle, bent at an angle she wouldn’t have believed possible. Steam rose from his bloodied mouth; breath. Still alive, at least for now. His eyes flickered towards her, mutely pleading.
She pulled her rucksack back on, stepped over him and went out.
S HE DESCENDED THE path back towards the abandoned station, breathing in the cold clear morning air. Her headache faded; the nausea passed.
This time there was no ambiguity about what might or might not be there. The trees on either side of the path were lined with smocked and uniformed figures; each, as she passed them, raised a finger to their lips, or to where their lips had been.
She nodded, again and again, as she passed. She’d keep her silence on this. Who’d believe a tale like hers in any case? Besides, the little she’d glimpsed of that tattered, spindly thing had been more than enough. It’d haunt her dreams as it was; if she angered the dead by disobeying them, it might do more than that.
For now, she only wanted to get away from here and find her way back to Dunwich Road; everything else, even deciding whether she went on to Manchester or back to her family, could wait.
As she neared the entrance to the platform, a figure stepped out. Military uniform, neatly pressed, and his eyes no longer bled.
St. John Dace touched his finger to his lips.
“I will,” she said.
He smiled, and touched his finger to the brim of his cap, in salute. And then she blinked and he was gone.
Dani looked back up the path, and it was empty. The wind rustled in the trees, and a bird twittered somewhere. Otherwise, there was nothing.
She stood like that for a long time, before she finally turned and walked away.
HOW BRIEFLY DEAD CHILDREN DREAM
Human life is not so much sleep
As that part of sleep in which we dream
What a tiny fragment of being
In the black sleepless night before, after
And how briefly dead children dream...
Bolesław Taborski, 1927-2010
1
F IVE DAYS FROM Christmas and Myfanwy’s awake, in the cold iron dark of the night. She blinks and sees her breath in the air. It shouldn’t be that cold; she put the heating on, and there’s no-one else here to switch it off. She’s been alone a long time.
But she is not alone tonight.
Myfanwy.
She doesn’t hear her name so much as see it, printed on the black night air. She realises she can’t hear the bedside clock ticking. She looks and sees the
There was a scream from Gideon, then a splintering sound, a crash, and another scream; one that faded, receding, and ending in a wet crunch of impact. Then silence.
St. John turned and looked down at her. Blood ran from his eyes. “Sleep,” he said, and a cold hand rested on her brow. And then there was nothing.
8
M ORNING WOKE HER ; thin pale light stinging her eyes through the room’s window, and the faint twitter of birdsong outside.
Dani opened her eyes. Her head pounded. She sat up; the pain washed outwards to fill her whole body. Her stomach seemed to slop about inside her like a bucket almost full to overflowing. She put a hand over her mouth; the nausea subsided. She was still holding the talisman; its edges had dug into her palm and drawn blood.
She was free, she realised. The other restraints had all been neatly unfastened. Her rucksack sat beside the bed. She opened it quickly; everything was packed.
She made her way outside. To her right was a staircase. The banister had broken. She peered over; the stairwell circled downwards over three floors, presumably to ground level. Below her lay a small broken figure, like a discarded doll.
She went down the staircase, emerged at the bottom. Gideon’s body was twisted awkwardly in the middle, bent at an angle she wouldn’t have believed possible. Steam rose from his bloodied mouth; breath. Still alive, at least for now. His eyes flickered towards her, mutely pleading.
She pulled her rucksack back on, stepped over him and went out.
S HE DESCENDED THE path back towards the abandoned station, breathing in the cold clear morning air. Her headache faded; the nausea passed.
This time there was no ambiguity about what might or might not be there. The trees on either side of the path were lined with smocked and uniformed figures; each, as she passed them, raised a finger to their lips, or to where their lips had been.
She nodded, again and again, as she passed. She’d keep her silence on this. Who’d believe a tale like hers in any case? Besides, the little she’d glimpsed of that tattered, spindly thing had been more than enough. It’d haunt her dreams as it was; if she angered the dead by disobeying them, it might do more than that.
For now, she only wanted to get away from here and find her way back to Dunwich Road; everything else, even deciding whether she went on to Manchester or back to her family, could wait.
As she neared the entrance to the platform, a figure stepped out. Military uniform, neatly pressed, and his eyes no longer bled.
St. John Dace touched his finger to his lips.
“I will,” she said.
He smiled, and touched his finger to the brim of his cap, in salute. And then she blinked and he was gone.
Dani looked back up the path, and it was empty. The wind rustled in the trees, and a bird twittered somewhere. Otherwise, there was nothing.
She stood like that for a long time, before she finally turned and walked away.
HOW BRIEFLY DEAD CHILDREN DREAM
Human life is not so much sleep
As that part of sleep in which we dream
What a tiny fragment of being
In the black sleepless night before, after
And how briefly dead children dream...
Bolesław Taborski, 1927-2010
1
F IVE DAYS FROM Christmas and Myfanwy’s awake, in the cold iron dark of the night. She blinks and sees her breath in the air. It shouldn’t be that cold; she put the heating on, and there’s no-one else here to switch it off. She’s been alone a long time.
But she is not alone tonight.
Myfanwy.
She doesn’t hear her name so much as see it, printed on the black night air. She realises she can’t hear the bedside clock ticking. She looks and sees the
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