The Midnight Train (The Midnight World, #2)(45)

‘By ’eck, I bloomin’ got it. Now I just need to bump into Paul Newman!’

More laughter. Except in Doreen’s eyes.

The Ghost caught sight of his mother. She was looking on with a smile. He hadn’t spoken to her much that day, he remembered, not wanting her to say the wrong thing as she often did. But looking on now, it seemed unlikely she would have.

‘Oh, Mam. I’m sorry. I should have tried harder …’

And he winced as he heard the rhythmic chugging behind him.

‘No,’ he said, as it stopped right there on the church grass. ‘No, Agnes, this is too early. Can I just stay?’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘The next stop is your honeymoon.’

And so he returned to the train and caught quick flashes of the rest of the day. Charlie getting stoned in the Queen’s Head toilets to calm himself down after his speech … Doreen hugging Maggie and crying on her shoulder … Claudette and Charlie dancing energetically to some unheard and long-forgotten song at the wedding disco … His mother talking to Alfred as she cut into a quiche …

The problem was this:

Everything that was once so slow in life, was now so fast. But while the time had shortened, the power of it all had strengthened in potency. So, if living normal life was like sipping water, experiencing it flashing by out of a train window was more like downing whisky after whisky.

He was drunk and battered from the blur.

‘I wish it would slow down,’ mumbled the Ghost as Agnes reappeared beside him. ‘The good parts always go so fast … And then we’re going to get into the other parts.’

‘It’s not about good or bad, Old Bean. You know this as well as you know your fingers. It’s about what your memory tells you is representative, so at the end you get to say So that was who I was. That’s what you linger on. That’s where the stations are. Together they map who you are.’

And then, of course, he saw himself at the airport, wearing the same clothes as the Ghost. The same sandals, flared jeans, short-sleeved shirt. The scruffy hair and large sideburns too. Wilbur was looking up at a departure board, waiting to know when the flight to Venice was boarding. Maggie, beside him, was dressed in her orange jumpsuit and looked happy and keen and full of life. They were holding hands.

And then the train began, finally, to slow down.

There was nothing to see outside the window.

‘Venice,’ Agnes muttered to herself. ‘The human city, as Patricia Highsmith said in The Talented Mr Ripley. No cars, you see. “The streets were like veins … and the people were the blood, circulating everywhere.”’

‘Did you ever go to Venice?’ the Ghost asked.

She shook her head. ‘No, actually, no, I didn’t. I didn’t really like to travel. Who needs travel when you have a mystery novel, eh? Now listen, Old Bean. Here, more than anywhere, it is important that you do not speak to your younger self. You said it was on your honeymoon that you saw yourself. As you know, just because nothing happened the last time doesn’t mean that couldn’t be changed. And if your past changes, there will be no afterlife, no ghost of you, no eternity. Do not dilly-dally when you hear the whistle. Do you understand?’

I do not understand, no, he nearly said. All I understand is that I want the living versions of me and Maggie to be happy.

But Wilbur looked at Agnes and wondered if he even needed to give an answer.

Eventually, he decided that silence was better than telling a lie.





Hotel Proserpina


The Midnight Train had arrived beside the Grand Canal in Venice.

The Ghost looked around him.

He saw gondolas on the water, and tourists and pigeons on the ground.

A water taxi was heading to shore.

Behind him he saw a ramshackle terracotta-fronted hotel. Above the door was a hand-painted, elegantly lettered navy and white sign: Hotel Proserpina.

So here he was.

Friday 9 August 1974.

He looked back at the canal. Of course, the couple in the back of the water taxi were himself and Maggie. It was the day he had been most truly himself, which was why he looked exactly like he did as a ghost. And even his first ever experience of air travel hadn’t dented his smile. His expression was one of wild wonder and curiosity. And it was no surprise.

Maggie had an expression of wonder too as she stepped out of the water taxi, the heavy Pentax camera hanging around her neck.

For both of them, this was the furthest away from home they’d ever been. Wilbur had never even been to London. Arriving in Venice was like arriving on another planet.

‘Oh, bloody hell, it’s amazing,’ said Maggie.

Wilbur agreed. ‘It looks better than in the brochure.’

And the Ghost followed them as they walked under the chandeliers of the Proserpina’s narrow lobby, passing old paintings and bookcases and marvelling at a vase bursting full of white roses.

Maggie gave Wilbur a look. The look said I like this place.

Oh, thought the Ghost, studying himself as he squeezed Maggie’s hand. A thought that was as close to a sigh as a thought can be. I miss you, Maggie.

Seeing them, the receptionist rushed out from behind her desk with an eager smile.

‘Benvenuti! Ciao! Hello! Is it Mr and Mrs Budd?’

Mr and Mrs Budd.

‘It is,’ said Maggie. ‘Since last Saturday!’