The Midnight Train (The Midnight World, #2)(52)

‘This isn’t the Duke of Gloucester,’ he told the Dreamer. ‘This is the Midnight Train.’

Agnes appeared through the door at the end of the carriage as the train began to steady.

‘Well, I suppose you are very lucky chaps. The train could hardly handle that much unpredictability, but now you are both on board and the transition is done, things should hopefully smooth out.’

‘That’s good,’ said the Ghost. ‘That means when this journey is over you will probably wake up.’

The Dreamer wasn’t listening. Instead he was taking Agnes in for the first time. The young but old-fashioned woman, dressed in her long pencil skirt, prim blouse and cloche hat, which she was in the middle of straightening after her bumpy ride. He wondered if he would get the connection.

‘I recognise you … The eyes … Hold on … Mrs Bagdale? … Lovely Mrs Bagdale!’

‘Mrs Agnes Deborah Amaryllis Bagdale at your service,’ she said, with a dry reluctance. ‘Or ghost thereof. I looked very different then, of course.’ She gave a sympathetic look and gestured for the two Wilburs to head to the seats.

‘Yes!’

‘Listen, Old Bean, or Young Bean, or whatever I should call you,’ said Agnes to the Dreamer, ‘I would like you to know that absolutely none of this was my idea and nor was it recommended. And while I hope you will wake up at the end, I can’t promise. But here we are …’

‘It’s all right,’ smiled the Dreamer. ‘Don’t fret. It’s a dream. I’m dreaming. I’m asleep in a bed inside the Hotel Proserpina in Venice.’

Agnes tilted her head. ‘Fifty per cent correct. You are definitely dreaming, but what you will be shown isn’t a dream. It’s your future.’

‘I tried to explain,’ said the Ghost.

Agnes raised her eyebrows. ‘I think you should try just a little harder.’

The Ghost tried to think of how he could be more convincing. So he turned in his seat towards his dreaming self. ‘Think of those times you sensed someone was watching you … Like in the cinema, when you were dating Alice, and you felt like someone was walking across your grave … It was me, standing right next to you. And think of today, in Venice, on the Rialto Bridge, when I whispered in your ear and you brushed it away like a mosquito, and then when you saw me … when you saw me on the bridge … dressed exactly as I am now, exactly as you are …’

This was where the doubt kicked in. The moment that the Dreamer understood the dream was no longer just that. ‘I … that was just a …’

‘And the cemetery. When you kissed Maggie years ago. When you heard my voice and thought you were going mad.’

The Dreamer puffed out his cheeks and exhaled deeply.

‘There it is,’ clarified Agnes. ‘He believes. Now, I suppose this is what the train was waiting for.’ And she pointed out of the window as Venice magically appeared. ‘Right, it looks like we are getting this show back on the track.’





Mirage


They sat on the long green velvet seat as the train stuttered a little, as it would do every now and then from this point onwards.

‘We won’t be entirely out of the woods until the end,’ said Agnes with a note of disapproval aimed at the Ghost. ‘Because this was a train made for one Wilbur. But please don’t meddle any further, and we might pull through.’ The Ghost nodded, sheepishly.

The Venice beyond the window, like everything that had passed the train’s windows, was a landscape of the mind and memory. A psychological collage. So the restaurant where they were eating that night – La Zucca – was right next to the Piazza San Marco, which was right next to the hotel’s dining area.

‘It’s me and Maggie,’ said the Dreamer, utterly confused. ‘We’re in both places at once. The restaurant and the hotel.’

He noted the restaurant, a charming little place, in a limestone corner building perched down an alleyway and backing right over a canal.

‘Look,’ said the Ghost. ‘Look and remember what Maggie is eating. She’s having the bigoli in salsa. It’s like a really thick spaghetti. And look at what she’s wearing, the long blue dress … And see, there, on the next table, the bald man with a birthmark on his scalp …’

His dreaming companion was confused. ‘What?’

‘Trust me,’ the Ghost said. ‘For if you wake up.’

Venice slid by in no time at all. And now they were back in Sheffield. The Ghost was watching his other self absorbing the view. Seeing his fixed gaze as he saw his future.

‘It’s going so fast,’ said the Dreamer, fascinated.

‘Life does that if we’re not very careful.’

The Ghost sighed. This was the heart of it. He had used work to accelerate his existence, to soften life’s jagged edges into a blur.

And he was good at it. It gave him meaning and he had loved it. But work – to the excesses he had done it – was also a way to live without living. A way to transfer emotions over to something less personal, something with lower stakes. By turning Bagdale’s Bookshop into Budd Books he had attempted to reinvent himself. An attempt to become business. To become money. To become a sign above a shop. To transcend himself rather than just being the man he was. To race through time with no weight and substance, but with maximum velocity.