The Midnight Train (The Midnight World, #2)(51)

Death’s Brother


As a thousand writers have observed a thousand times over, death and sleep are closely related. ‘To die, to sleep; to sleep: perchance to dream’ was how Shakespeare put it. But the line the Ghost was thinking of was from the novel that had found him when he had needed it, The Grapes of Wrath: ‘Death was a friend, and sleep was Death’s brother.’

And that was how he felt right then. A brother to himself.

He felt like his own protector. And that was a comforting feeling, given he had lost his protecting big brother. But now he realised what he was doing. He was protecting himself. Sacrificing one self to save the other.

Because sleep was where the world of ghosts and the living could meet.

The truth was that he was not really any different to the Wilbur lying asleep on the bed. He was Wilbur – he had always been Wilbur.

He wondered what was going to happen when Wilbur fell asleep. And he kept wondering, right until it was too late to stop.





The Dreamer


What happened was that things started disappearing around him, and it happened quite quickly. The wardrobe, the table lamp, the table itself. Then the carpet, the walls, the door, the open suitcase, the clothes, the window, the view, the camera, the bed. Everything was replaced by darkness. Everything apart from Wilbur himself. He was still in a lying position, right in front of him, hovering in space.

He thought of what Agnes had said. There is no knowing anything.

And then things really changed.

Slowly, the world around them was being made again. Instead of striped wallpaper, there was now a long wall of red brick. Instead of carpet there was tarmac. Instead of a bed, the sleeping Wilbur was now lying on a bench.

‘So we are back here,’ whispered his ghost tentatively, as he wondered what was going to happen next. He caught sight of the sign he had seen the first time. The one which said ‘Wilbur’.

The dreaming Wilbur opened his eyes. He stared at his ghost.

‘You,’ he said. He wasn’t scared. He had the kind of acceptance he would never have had if awake.

‘Me,’ said the Ghost, looking around anxiously and wondering whether the train was coming.

‘Am I dreaming?’

It was a hard question to answer, especially as the Ghost was worried about what he had just done. He decided to say what he thought was true. The answer itself a spinning coin. ‘Sort of. You are still Wilbur Budd. You are still asleep in the hotel bed in Venice. But I am going to show you something I want you to see. Or try to. If the train comes.’

Wilbur didn’t seem to be listening. He sat up. ‘You’re exactly the same as me. Even down to my clothes.’

‘Yes,’ he said, looking down the track towards the dark void beyond. ‘I have lived your entire life and I am now the Ghost of you. Or, let’s be technical: the Ghost of Wilbur.’

‘The Ghost of Wilbur?’

The Ghost examined their surroundings. The station seemed pretty solid and predictable. Then, as he looked at his identical companion, he had a thought. ‘If I am the Ghost, let’s call you the Dreamer?’

‘Um, all right. But, more pressingly, where am I? Where’s Maggie? What on earth is going on here? It’s like Sheffield train station.’

‘It’s not. Look at the sign. This station is for you.’

‘Am I dead too?’

‘No. You are sleeping.’

The Dreamer was noticing something. A sound. ‘What the heck is that?’

The familiar chug of the steam engine. But this time there was a screech and rattle as well. Loud enough to hurt their ears. And all its other noises – the hiss and roar of the steam, the piercing whistle – seemed louder too. It was like the whole train was beyond control, as though it could fall apart at any moment.

‘Get up, Dreamer. We’ve got a train to catch. And I don’t think it’s going to stop.’

‘What? How can we get on a train that’s moving?’

‘I don’t know. But we’re going to have to.’

The Dreamer stood up as the Ghost saw the front of the locomotive. It arrived, shaking, on the tracks, struggling to stay upright, still speeding as it reached the platform’s edge. He saw Agnes leaning out of the first carriage.

‘What’s happening?’ the Ghost shouted to her.

‘The unpredictability!’ she shouted back as she passed. ‘Like I told you! Quick! You’ve got to get on the train or you’ll be stranded—’

He couldn’t hear the word after that, as she had gone too far down the line and the metal wheels were grinding loud against the tracks.

The 1974 Wilbur – the Dreamer – stared at this gleaming blue and black three-cylinder express passenger engine with motionless wonder. ‘Just like the one I had as a lad,’ he said, barely heard above the noise. But the Ghost was dragging him as he started to run.

‘The Duke of Gloucester,’ said the Dreamer, remembering the train Dougie had given him as a kid.

‘Quick!’ shouted the Ghost. ‘Jump onto the step and hold on to the handrail.’

So they both sprinted. The Ghost made the jump first. Landed. Held on with one hand and reached his other arm out for the Dreamer, dragging his equal weight for a while until he too made it onto the step. It was another effort to get the steel-plate door open, but they did it and burst inside. The Ghost was relieved to see the train looking as it always had.