The Midnight Train
The strangest thing of all, given that it was death, was that he could breathe better than he had been able to for years.
It wasn’t – obviously – actual breathing.
But it had the feel of it. Some kind of procedural memory of the soul.
Just as he had the feel of his own body.
But, no. Not really the feel of his actual body.
This body he was in now wasn’t aching or stiff.
His fingers felt like they would be able to play the piano with ease.
He felt the young skin of his face. Not really young – he could feel his closely-shaved stubble – but tight, and relatively untextured. Apart from the two large sideburns.
There was an energy inside him. It was quite remarkable.
A kind of flame that had flickered and faded over the years but which was now back, and ready to be appreciated.
That was the whole trouble with life. It gave you every day in succession, so that every miracle to be cherished became a norm to be ignored. But now he felt it again.
Alive.
And next he heard something in the air.
A whining sound, growing slowly.
A mechanical chug. A rising rhythm growing in force, accompanied by a whistle. A train.
As it approached he saw plumes of vapour.
It was a steam engine. He recognised it as a three-cylinder passenger express engine, specifically, complete with carriages trailing behind.
He knew this because as a boy he’d had this precise train, but in miniature.
It had been his pride and joy. The Duke of Gloucester.
It looked exactly the same, but larger, gleaming with deep, dark-blue magnificence.
But in place of Duke of Gloucester written on the grey nameplate on the side of the boiler, it said, in bold black letters:
THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN
Someone stepped off the first carriage.
An old-fashioned but not particularly old-looking woman.
She was dressed in the style of a former time. Possibly the same time as the train. Long pencil skirt, prim blouse, cloche hat. She had perfect posture and a small, stern mouth. He felt like he recognised her from somewhere.
‘Good day there, I’ve been expecting you,’ she said in a mildly tremulous voice, a clipped, old-fashioned English that was instantly familiar but from where he couldn’t recall.
‘Sorry,’ Wilbur said. ‘If you don’t mind me asking – who are you?’
‘Let’s start on a first-name basis. I’m Agnes, and this is the Midnight Train.’
Death was also the death of sense, it seemed. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said. Exasperated, bewildered, scared. ‘But – I hope you don’t mind me asking – what the bloody hell are you talking about?’