Curtain Call
Created | Updated Jun 8, 2007
John Brockwell poured the boiling hot water into his enamelled tin mug with his left hand. His right hand had been favoured before his accident, but no more. Using a tea spoon he squeezed the tea bag against the side of the cup as it was removed. With a well practised flick he through it into a bucket which served as a bin. Two heaped spoonfuls of sugar were shovelled into the cup before he added a splash of milk.
In his small office a fire flickered in the hearth. The room was only eight feet square, just big enough for a table, chair and cupboard. Before sitting down he glanced out of the small net curtain window which looked out across the platforms of Paragon Station, the main rail terminal serving the city of Hull.
One of the large station clocks suspended from the ceiling showed the time as ten minutes past three, the station was deserted and cold. It was mid November 1952, the start of a cold winter for the residents of the city. Outside his office the cold wind blew in from the open end of this great Victorian building whipping up ashes from the tracks and depositing them wherever the fell. In corners collections of half burnt paper sat once used as fire lighters in the engines now blew here and there. The bighting wind also dislodged the fine powdery soot which lay in every nook and cranny of the iron works supporting the roof. All was quiet as he sat down in front of the fire and took a sip of his hot tea. His capacity as Night Guard to the station was simple. Each hour he had to inspect the security of the entrances, ensure the clocks where correct and deal with any traffic coming in or out of the station. The later task was one which seldom bothered him. The main line station was used on the whole for passenger traffic which seldom ran through the hours of the night. Freight which tended to run at night as well during the day bypassed the station travelling both too and fro from the docks inland.
John could feel an itch on his right elbow. He put the mug of tea down and instinctively tried to scratch it. A pointless task he knew, but still after ten years it still caught him out.
A piece of red hot shrapnel had punctured his arm during the War. He had been serving in the Royal Navy when his ship, HMS Endeavour had been hit by a torpedo. The arm had too be amputated, not much of it remained in tack. On occasion though his nerve endings would tingle into tricking him that a part of the long gone appendage was itching. With care he rubbed the stub which marked the end of right arm. It made him think back to those dark days of the war.
As his mind drifted back to those times at sea he listened to the wind howling in the beams and rafters of the station. The burning fire kept him warm as he finished off the last dregs of his tea. He coughed as a few of the rough leafs lodged in his throat. Time had come for him to do his rounds around the station. Picking up the keys from the table he stood up out of his chair before putting them in his pocket, they were quickly followed by his pocket watch, whistle and flags. Finally he lit the hand held lamp and reluctantly stepped out into the cold night air. Closing the office door behind himself he soon realised that the temperature was not as low as it had been earlier that night. The air was still in the station, but still he could clearly hear the sound of the whistling wind far above him. Another kind of whistling sound was also audible, it was an engine pulling a freight train, “Must be coming onto the mainline?” he pondered to himself, all the time knowing that it was precisely that.
The office door opened directly onto platform three, the first of the two platforms were mere siding at the front and to the right of the entrance. These were his first port of call, so he set off toward them.
In the darkness outside the range of the station lights he could see two red lights, these lamps hung on the centre of the buffers at the end of the two lines which platforms one and two served.
High up in the main signal box the signalman waved at the Guard who raised his lamp twice in recognition. This was mealy a reassurance to one another that all was well. It was strange, he always thought to himself, but he and the signalman had never met, never engaged in any form of discourse. No doubt one day they would.
Turning on his heels he turned in the direction he had just came. The hourly inspection continued. All platforms were still empty, all doors secure. Standing in the entrance to the ticket office he shone the lamp around, the beam of light cast an eerie glow over the desks and now shuttered windows.
The sound of the catch clicking shut echoed around the empty ticket hall. The walls were tiled as was the mosaic flooring. Any sound bounced around off each and every hard surface.
All was well as it was every night, every hourly inspection, every night, always the same.
Slowly with the lamp down by his side the journey back toward platform thee and the comfort and warmth of his small office, but before that he must turn his attention to the last part of his rounds.
Adjacent to the ticket office and entrance hall stood the stone façade of the Station Hotel. One of the doors which were in the wall was used to access to the cellar of the both the hotel and the station via an n old stone staircase. The passages under the hall lead to a network of tunnels which to the left were utilised as a cellar by the hotel, but to the right the dark passageways lead out under the platforms.
Slowly he turned the key in the lock, the door swung open. In his hand the lamp shone down into the darkness. The stone steps lead down into what appeared to be eternity. Slowly he descended into the darkness. Though he knew no one could be down there in the catacombs he would always be on his guard just in case.
Once in the passageways there would come a point where he could not see either end. This would naturally make him feel ill at ease with his surroundings, the slightest noise would cause his heart to race at speed.
Quickly he rushed down each of the tunnels then out into the dim light of the station once again gladly locking the door behind him.
Passing through he wrote iron gate he felt a distinct chill run through him, had someone walked over his grave? More likely, he decided that it was the wind whistling down from the end of the station.
He closed the gate and snapped the bolt across then began to turn away, but suddenly he stopped and turned back toward the entrance hell and the ticket office. He could not be sure, but he thought he had seen someone out of the corner of his eye flash past. The blur had gone from right to left or so he thought. Squinting his eyes he peered into the gloom, no one was apparent. For a moment he considered calling out, but then thought better of what would be a pointless act.
Once John had left his post at six the following morning he thought no more of the occurrence, though it had dwelt heavily on his mind for the rest of that nights shift. For the remainder of the night it was never far away form his thoughts.
The following evening was very much the same as it was most nights. His hourly checks would be carried out, he would read the newspaper and drink mug fulls of tea.
No traffic was due that night so his duties were simple, check the clocks, lines and gates.
At two o’clock he prepared himself for the hourly inspection, flags, whistle and pocket watch were all placed in the relevant pockets and then finally his lamp. Locking the door behind him he set off along the platform towards the goods yard. As he reached the end of the platform he looked up over at the box, the signalman was there, as always going about his business. John gave the prearranged signal to signal all was well.
The wind which had blown through the Station the night previous was now gone, the air was still and calm. So quiet was the night that he could hear the rats scurrying along the lines. As he walked down the edge of platform three he whistled a tune to himself. He wasn’t sure what it was, but stopped as its echo returned. The sound was more then a little haunting.
Minutes later the lamp shone around the ticket office. The room was much the same as the previous evening, empty, dark, silent. On one of the many desks though sat a brown suitcase, its two catches holding the lid closed where aided by a brown leather belt, “Lost luggage?” he asked himself. Closing the door behind him he continued on his rounds.
The cellars were next.
The key turned in the lock then a pause as he started to open the door. As he did he felt his body fall back, something had knocked him over, it wasn’t physical, nothing had touched him, but something had exerted a force on him. John was conscious too the fact that two figures, well he presumed that they were figures rushed past him, one after another.
It took him a moment to recover from the shock of what he thought had just happened. His thoughts raced through his mind, the process only took a split second, though to him it felt like an eternity.
Two men had pushed their way through the door and past him, but how? They came out of the cellar, the door, he looked at it. It was only hanging open an inch or so, how had could they have got through such a small space? Quickly he turned too try and see where they had gone, they would be locked in with him, that point raised another question, how did they come to be in the cellar? Through the hotel perhaps? That was the only explanation.
Getting to his feet he set off in pursuit. Where these two men dangerous, they themselves could be in danger if they were not careful. He set off at a brisk pace which soon turned into a run, nowhere could he see the two intruders.
For at least half an hour he searched the halls, offices and rooms of the great old Victorian station, still no sign of the men could be seen. Surely there must be only one place they could have gone, back into the underground passageways.
He had to make an inspection. For many minutes he stood silently looking at the door, it was still hanging as it had been when the men had jumped out upon him.
His head knew he had to go in, but his legs would not move. Bracing himself he reached out an arm and slowly opened the door.
The beam from his lamp danced around the walls. He could hear nothing, absolute silence rang in his ears. Down in the cellar tunnels the slightest noise echoed, even a breath was amplified. Silently he stood in the darkness not daring to breath. Still nothing, then up above in the station he heard the clank of something small and metallic hitting the marble floor.
Quickly and with a certain amount of fear he ran up the stone steps and looked around quickly, his eyes flitting from one end of the hall to the other.
Moments later he found himself rushing back towards his office, he had encountered no one in the confines of the station, this left only one possibility. Who had ever been there with him that night must have left via the tracks? Rushing down platform three he passed his office and on toward the goods yard.
Once out in the cold night air he looked up towards the signal box. Raising and lowering his lamp he tried to attract the attention of the occupant.
Finally he caught the signalman’s attention who slid open one of the windows.
“Did you see anyone leave on the lines?” Brockwell shouted up toward the box.
“What?” the signalman replied, a train had passed on the dock line and was making the guards words fade into the background.
“Did you see anyone on the lines?” he repeated, a little slower and louder then previously.
“I haven’t see anyone.” Replied the voice from above.
In his office the fire was going out, he put another shovel full of coal onto the dying embers. Coal was not in short supply there, though it was in general terms, a relic of war time rationing. Once the fire was blazing again he sat down in his chair and sighed. He didn’t now what to make of the events of that night. For the first time the thought the station mat be haunted crossed his mind, but did he believe in such things? The mug of tea was still too hot to drink when the time came to once again begin his rounds. He was not alone now, the station was beginning to come alive with activity. The stokers and firemen had started to arrive now ready to prepare the boilers to make steam. He didn’t hear the noises of the railwayman outside, so deep was he in his own thoughts. When a knock finally came to the door he reacted as though he’d been woken from a deep sleep, part of him wanted to jump in fright while part wanted to withdraw away somewhere else altogether.
The man who entered was Harold, his day shift counterpart. He always came in to see John on his arrival, start the change over from one shift to the other. Today though he was not alone, another man accompanied him. This second person seemed strangely familiar. Where did he know him from? The third party was introduced as Mathew Rollinson, the nightshift signalman. Of course the signal man, that’s who he was.
He had shown some concern about his fellow nightshift worker and now wanted to know what had prompted the nights out of the ordinary occurrence. Had someone been in the station?
John recounted his experiences, he did not know weather they would be taken seriously, after all even to him they seemed to be almost paranormal.
Rollinson assured him that to his knowledge no one had departed the station via the lines. John believed him after all why should he lie about such an occurrence.
After sitting down and going over the nights events with a cup of tea John was sent home and told to rest. Where things getting on top of him to the extent that he was seeing things? They never said as much, his two visitors, but that is what they must have been hinting at with their comments. If these visions were ghosts then whose ghosts were they? As he thought things over his mind rejected the possibility that they could be anything else but flesh and blood. Still, he had to consider all options.
His father had worked on the railways all his life. Maybe he knew of the station been haunted, even then would he believe it? His father had never spoken of a ghost, but that didn’t mean to say that there wasn’t one.
Donning his flat cap and wrapping a scarf around his neck he left the station via the front entrance. The day was bright and cold, the small of autumn was hanging heavily in the air, though it was hard to pick out over the smell of coal fuelled fires. He took an electric tram car down the tree lined Beverly road. Instead of going straight home to his wife and bed he was heading out of town to try and shed a little light on the mystery of the two phantoms he had seen only a few hours previous.
At then green front door of thirty six Wellington Street he didn’t break his stride as he opened the door and entered. His father who had retired some ten years previous was pleased to see his son walk through the back door into the kitchen, but also a little concerned. Why was here at such a time as this?
Once John had assured Mr Brokwell senior that all was well with his domestic life he could continue with the reason he was here. Both men sat in the back kitchen and smoked a cigarette. John told his father in detail of the occurrences of the previous night, before asking the question he had dreaded asking, “Have you ever heard of the station being haunted?”
His father sat back and thought. He had heard men’s tales of ghosts that walk the deserted platforms and lines of Hulls railways. All workers and staff on the railways that had come to an unnatural death were said to walk the location of their demise, a silent warning to others.
“Ah, this was not silent though,” he explained, “I heard something, some kind of metallic clank.”
Both men where distracted by the sound of footsteps coming down the staircase. Moment’s later Johns mother appeared at the foot of the stairs.
His father suddenly became very distant from the conversation. Standing up he poured her a cup of tea from the brown pot before helping to seat her in the chair he had just vacated.
Once the usual pleasantries were over he motioned his son outside into the backyard.
“What’s wrong father?” the elderly women asked not overjoyed with her husband for taking away her son from her.
“Oh, its just work talk mother.” Replied the old man limping as he opened the back door. Years of hard work on the railway had left him crippled arthritis in his knees, but he struggled outside into the cold morning air. He did not want his wife privy to this conversation, too many old wounds may be reopened.
Outside in the yard father and son simultaneously lit another woodbine. “So son,” said the older man, “you say two men rushed past you from the cellar.”
“Yes.” Remembering back filled him full of terror, he took a long drag on his cigarette.
“Then you heard the sound of something metal being dropped.”
“That’s about it.”
“I’m afraid to say I might know what it was you heard.”
John was relieved, “Oh good, I’ve been full of worry about it.”
The relief of it being something rational released him feeling of overwhelming tension on his sanity.
“When I say I know, I know of it.”
His sons smile dropped slightly, this wouldn’t be closure to the matter completely, but it may put his mind at rest, “Well?”
Brockwell senior extinguished his cigarette under his boot before inhaling through clenched teeth, “It was over fifty years ago now that I heard about it and its goes back even further then that.
Before the station was built there was a theatre on that site, I can’t remember what it was called now, your mother will know, but I’d rather you didn’t ask her.” The reason why was about to become apparent, “in them dates all theatres had a set of actors who performed the plays they put on. The leading actor would be now as the principle. There would be a lot of jealousy surrounding the principle as you can imagine.
Anyway, at this theatre the understudy to the star was furiously jealous of his superior. The rivalry was well known in the company and the principle played on it, even mocking the understudy when he was in earshot.
One night the understudy waited back after the performance, once everyone had gone he confronted the lead actor and told him that he wanted the head parts.”
“Why was that dad?”
“He thought that the principle was too old to take the most of the roles they were performing. There were probably more reasons then that, but I don’t know what they were. There was argument and the younger man stabbed the principle.”
“Where about in the theatre was it?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know the lay out and how it maps onto the station.
I’m not saying that it’s their ghosts you’re seeing, but it is possible.” He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Quietly John looked toward the house before asking in a whisper, “So why don’t you want me to ask me mam about it?”
After taking another deep inhale on his cigarette he spoke, not making eye contact once, “One of the actors was in your mams family. It was a long time ago, but that side of the family never talk about it.”
On his way home John thought of what his father had told him, the tram journey home past in an instant. Why didn’t his maternal half of the family ever speak of the events, after all it was so long ago now, had the long lost relation been the victim or the murderer? Maybe that was it, maybe the shame of having a murderer in the family had shamed the line for generations to come.
This interested him, he had to find out more about it. The tram stopped at the top of Baker Street, with a piece of quick thinking he jumped of and headed in the direction of the Central library.
Some three hours later he sat at a desk in the library, tiredness was starting to get the better of him, but still his researches continued. All around him lay copies of the Hull Daily Mail. It was now three o’clock and he was conscious that he had had no sleep that day and his shift at the station was fast approaching. He was about to return to the latest pile of newspapers back to the archives when something caught his eye.
The headline on the next paper to be inspected read, ‘Murder at the Place’. Accompanying the bold black text was a sketched picture of the Palace Theatre. Under the pencil drawing were numerous columns of text detailing the events of a midsummer night in the year 1818…?
‘It was with great regret,’ began the article, ‘that the death of Henry Morton was released today. His body was found yesterday morning with stab wounds to his stomach.’
The article went on to describe the victim, his family details and career. As much as sit praised the life of the principle actor aligned to the Palace Theatre it was damning of the understudy suspected as he was of murder, Ernest Rollinson.
Rollinson according to the paper, ‘filled with jealousy’ over the actors talents and fame.
‘He begin of lesser talents would never hold the principle roll Morton was still playing. There fore Rollinson murdered to pave the way for his own ends.’
Digesting the information as quickly as he could he left the library? He would have to call in at home, have something to eat then catch the tram back to work. He knew what reception would be waiting for him at home. His wife would not be best pleased with his absence for the entire day.
At seven o’clock that evening he sat on his chair in front of the fire in his small office a mug of tea sat before him though he was so tiered that he almost didn’t have the strength to drink it. He hoped that tonight would be a quiet one, the last thing he wanted was a shift full of incident.
Outside the confines of his office he could hear the dayshift leaving, their shift complete. The last of the engines were now leaving, only the few night trains would be running.
His eye lids felt heavy and a numbing feeling was coming over him when he was brought back to his senses by a nock at the door. Instantly the opened, in came the station Master followed by a blast of smoke filled cold air. As he closed the door behind himself he let out a series of barking coughs the like of which would only be the result of a forty a day habit.
Brokwell looked up at the new comer coming through blurred eyes trying to focus on his superior and trying to sound as though he was fully in control of his senses.
“Ah, evening.” Said the Station Master. His grey hair was cut short across the back of hid neck so the GNER cap sat perfectly on his head. “There will be several pieces of traffic leaving during the night. Some line works at Boothferry Park require the opening of platform six. I’m leaving you in full charge, if the rounds aren’t logged as normal, don’t worry just make sure we don’t have any unwanted visitors coming in.” then he stopped and looked into Johns bloodshot eyes, “Are you alright?”
“Yes Sir.” He replied mustering into order.
“You look as though you could fall asleep any minute, but if you’re alright then…” with that he was gone.
That was all John needed, a busy night. All he wanted to do was collapse into his chair in front of the fire, how would he cope with all the extra work?
Later that night he starred long and hard at his pocket watch. The time was fatly approaching nine o’clock, time for his rounds. By this hour he was requiring constant stimulation, he decided that tea was probably as good as anything. He poured himself out yet another cup of the hot sweet drink and cupped his hand around it. Carrying the mug along with his usual tools of the trade hindered him in his work somewhat. The inconvenience though was necessary for the fortifying drink was keeping him awake.
Standing at platform one he half heartedly shone his lamp around. As was normal he signalled the box who replied with the standard confirmation.
Slowly he walked back toward the bottom end of the platforms, not showing too much enthusiasm, delaying the inevitable moment when he must open the door to the cellars.
All platforms were correct and in order so he made his way toward the ticket office. As he walked through the hall he became aware of someone there also with him. His first reaction was that it must be the maintenance crew arriving for the nightshift then realised that it could not be so, all entrances were locked. He had the keys for the gates in his hand? Quickly he turned to see who was with him, but no one was. A distinct chill came over him as he took a sip of hot tea. His condition was not helped either by the sound of what he thought to be footsteps echoing through the building. Standing at the ticket office door he froze as stiff as a corpse. His breath was becoming erratic as he told himself to pull himself together. The noise he could hear was almost curtain to be no more then a rat or other animal, his tiered mind was doing the rest.
The ticket office was all clear, all was well.
Only one port of call was remaining on the nine o’clock round, the cellars. All too quickly he was standing by the door which lead down to the subterranean world beneath the station.
John shone his lamp down into the black underworld to light the way. As he took a step into the doorway three almighty bangs came up out of the blackness and echoed through the station, not having any time to recover from this shock the sound of a sickening cry followed. John in freight he dropped his tin mug. It clattered down the stone steps finally coming to rest in the darkness below. He gripped the door frame with his fist not wanting to follow the mug. His whole body was shaking like a nervous kitten. Once again he heard that same noise as before coming from his rear.
It was then that like a breeze of relief drifting over him he realised that the noise was the sound of the nightshift crew. Turning away form the door he made his way back to the main entrance sorting through the large bunch of heavy keys as he rushed toward the gate. On arrival he unchained the heavy iron gates and let the workmen in before locking the gate behind them. Many vagrants lived in and around the area of the station, he didn’t want any entering and setting up camp in the building.
As the lock snapped shut he heard the sound of an engine pulling in. The blasts of steam from the boiler filled the high arches in the roof as the driver let off steam.
The workmen knew the routine, John watched as they all climbed aboard the third class carriage, laughing and joking as they embarked. John would not be in such a cheery mood if a nights working exposed to the elements awaited him.
Stepping out onto platform six he looked out into the night and waited for the signal to drop. Though he could not see the signal box the red filtered light shone through the hazy mist which swept in off the river. When the red light turned to green he blew his whistle and waved his flag. The driver opened the regulator and the train pulled out.
Moments later he watched as the red tail light disappeared around the right hand curve of the track.
The sound of the signal clicking back into position made him look upward into the mist night, the light was now back to red as were al l the signals. Tucking his flag under his arm he mad his was back to the comfort of his office.
Once the door was closed he took off his hat and hung it on the peg before sitting down in his chair. Putting a shovel of coal onto the fire he decided to make himself a brew. He couldn’t though could he, his mug was still were it had fallen at the bottom of the cellar steps. He wasn’t going out for it now, it could wait until he did his next rounds.
Picking up his pen he entered the arrival and departure times of the train and the fact that hr had unlocked and relocked the side entrance gate. Once his official duties were complete he took out a note book from his bag and read through his researches of earlier that day. To him it was interesting in several ways. The facts that a theatre had once stood on this very site fascinated him. He sat and wondered what it actually looked like inside. The newspaper sketch had shown its external appearance, but not the interior. Was it a grand lavish affair with columns and golden scroll work or was it a mere flee pit? John felt at most comfort with the grand theory.
The second point he found of interest was the murder. Could actors generate so much jealously that they were driven to murder to gain fame? Obviously one had, Ernest Rollinson. Where had he heard that name recently? Rollinson? Then like a flash it came to him, “Of course.” The signalman was called Rollinson, what a coincidence.
The third point of interest was the fact that his own family had been involved with the affair, but on which side, victim or accused? If it was the accused his mother was related too could he and his nightshift colleague be some kind of distant cousins? Now he would probably never know for sure.
The railway issue pocket watch showed the time to be five minutes to three. As at this time every night Brockwell stepped out onto platform three. Fatigue was now taking its toll on him. The lamp in his left hand felt the weight of a sack of coal, lifting it to give the all clear to the signalman took an extra effort of both strength and will power. The second he saw he colleague wave John turned and headed back into the station. Half way down the platform he heard the click of a signal, the workmen must be on there way back.
Realising this he headed for the platform gate and opened it for the nightshift to exit. Stepping out into the hallway he noticed the cellar door was open, momentarily he froze before recalling that it was he who had left it open earlier to let the men into the station. His mug was still down there, he would retrieve it once al was quiet again. From outside he could hear the puffing chimney of the tank engine drawing up to the platform.
He would lock the cellar door then meat the train.
As John walked away from the now secure cellar door he heard something knocking. He looked around in puzzlement attempting to see what could be making such a noise.
The noise was one he recognised, and surely it couldn’t be what he thought it to be. The noise sounded not unlike his enamelled mug being dragged along the stone floor of the cellar. The thought of a rat climbing over his cup filled him with dread, turning on his heels he unlocked the cellar door once again and shone his belt mounted lamp into the darkness. The light throw a shadow on the wall, the beam had flashed across someone’s face, he jumped back in flight, rats he had expected, a third party however he didn’t except to see.
The beam from his lamp flickered as it shone from side to side down the stairway, but no one seemed to be down there, unless they had stepped back into the shadows out of the searching beam. John thought for a moment, the face he had seen in the half light was familiar to him, but who was it?
Because the face was so familiar he only had the slightest reservation about descending to retrieve his cup.
The light shone down, still all was deserted, John took a step down carefully watching his feet. He didn’t want to slip as his heavy boots landed on each step, then he saw something move down below. Quickly he looked up and shone the lamp down. There was the same face again, but now the figure was climbing the stairs with a determined stride. A hideous look of rage was on his face, it was at that point when John realised who the face belonged too, it was the face of the signalman, Rollinson. Strange, why wasn’t he in the box, what was he doing in the cellar. John inhales and was about to ask those very questions when his whole attitudes to the situation changed. Rollinson was not wearing the uniform he was used to seeing him in. It must have been a trick of the light, but John’s feet seemed to be disappearing into the stone steps as he ascended the staircase. As if this was not worrying enough in his right hand he carried a knife.
John turned in fear and ran for his life. As quickly as his fatigued body could move he crossed the main hall of the station.
He dare not look behind him until he was half way to the ticket office. On platform six the tank engine steamed to a halt at a safe distance from the hydraulic buffers.
John looked over at the carriage doors opening, safety in numbers was his first thought. Quickly he glanced around checking his rear. To his surprise the hall was now empty, no one could be seen, but he could hear his pursuer.
Frantically he looked to his right then left, still no one was apparent. Then for some unknown reason he looked up, could the noise of running feet becoming from above him? The sound was not of shoes hitting the hard stone floor, but more of the slap of leather shoes on wooden floorboards.
John saw, but didn’t believes his eyes. Above him in the roof of the station hall between the girders, unsupported two men grappled with one another. A glint of light flashed as the knife which Rollinson raised above his head then quickly down into the other mans body, repeatedly it rose and fell.
John watched, in his stomach he felt sick watching the spectacle above him. Once the massacre was over Rollinson dropped the knife. It fell from his hand down past the two phantom figures, john watched it fall and fall glinting in the lights before finally landing in his right, false arm. The blade was no phantom, he let out a piercing sheik of pain. Why was it hurting, the arm was made only of wood. Blood began to bubble up out of the wound. John found it hard to hold on to the reality of the situation.
On platform six the driver and fireman had that moment stepped off the footplate of the tank engine. Too their amazement they could see the night guard on the floor looking upward. They both simultaneously broke out into a jog on seeing him lying there. Their advance was broken by the heavy iron gates which served as a barrier between hall and platform, the guard had neglected to unlock it.
Soon though the engine driver had vaulted over the gate as he heard the guard cry out in pain, the cry was followed instantly by the sound of a metallic clink, it was as though a metallic object had fallen from a great height.
It took only a matter of seconds for the drink to reach Brockwell who was now lying on the floor with his left hand tightly grasping his right arm, blood seeped throw his clenched fingers.
The driver was amiss to why the guard was on the floor. A look of anguish was on his face, his torso twisting and turning with agony, “What is it?” he asked
Only the words, “My arm…” could be made out through the cries of pain.
“What about it?”
“Look.” Shouted John looking down at where the knife had entered. Then he stopped, his frame had ceased to twist in agony and he seemed to freeze. Something had changed to his situation, slowly he removed his hand from the artificial arm. All that he saw was the arm of his jacket, no hole, no blood, no knife.
“What, but?” he gasped, “Did you see them?” he asked the driver, “Did you see them, up there?” he looked up into the roof.
The driver looked but could see nothing.
John lay there trying to work out what had happened, was he so tiered that his mind had imagined it? The driver helped him to his feet. By this time a crowd had gathered at the platform gate, all craned their necks to see what was occurring with the two men in the station hall.
John brushed himself down as he stood and tried to make sense of it all. As he took a step towards the platform gate he was stopped by the voice of the engine driver. “Here you dropped this.”
John turned to see the man standing up after picking something off the cold hard floor. In his outstretched hand lay a knife.
As he looked at it glinting in the light his hand grabbed his right arm were he had just seen that knife enter.
In his small office a fire flickered in the hearth. The room was only eight feet square, just big enough for a table, chair and cupboard. Before sitting down he glanced out of the small net curtain window which looked out across the platforms of Paragon Station, the main rail terminal serving the city of Hull.
One of the large station clocks suspended from the ceiling showed the time as ten minutes past three, the station was deserted and cold. It was mid November 1952, the start of a cold winter for the residents of the city. Outside his office the cold wind blew in from the open end of this great Victorian building whipping up ashes from the tracks and depositing them wherever the fell. In corners collections of half burnt paper sat once used as fire lighters in the engines now blew here and there. The bighting wind also dislodged the fine powdery soot which lay in every nook and cranny of the iron works supporting the roof. All was quiet as he sat down in front of the fire and took a sip of his hot tea. His capacity as Night Guard to the station was simple. Each hour he had to inspect the security of the entrances, ensure the clocks where correct and deal with any traffic coming in or out of the station. The later task was one which seldom bothered him. The main line station was used on the whole for passenger traffic which seldom ran through the hours of the night. Freight which tended to run at night as well during the day bypassed the station travelling both too and fro from the docks inland.
John could feel an itch on his right elbow. He put the mug of tea down and instinctively tried to scratch it. A pointless task he knew, but still after ten years it still caught him out.
A piece of red hot shrapnel had punctured his arm during the War. He had been serving in the Royal Navy when his ship, HMS Endeavour had been hit by a torpedo. The arm had too be amputated, not much of it remained in tack. On occasion though his nerve endings would tingle into tricking him that a part of the long gone appendage was itching. With care he rubbed the stub which marked the end of right arm. It made him think back to those dark days of the war.
As his mind drifted back to those times at sea he listened to the wind howling in the beams and rafters of the station. The burning fire kept him warm as he finished off the last dregs of his tea. He coughed as a few of the rough leafs lodged in his throat. Time had come for him to do his rounds around the station. Picking up the keys from the table he stood up out of his chair before putting them in his pocket, they were quickly followed by his pocket watch, whistle and flags. Finally he lit the hand held lamp and reluctantly stepped out into the cold night air. Closing the office door behind himself he soon realised that the temperature was not as low as it had been earlier that night. The air was still in the station, but still he could clearly hear the sound of the whistling wind far above him. Another kind of whistling sound was also audible, it was an engine pulling a freight train, “Must be coming onto the mainline?” he pondered to himself, all the time knowing that it was precisely that.
The office door opened directly onto platform three, the first of the two platforms were mere siding at the front and to the right of the entrance. These were his first port of call, so he set off toward them.
In the darkness outside the range of the station lights he could see two red lights, these lamps hung on the centre of the buffers at the end of the two lines which platforms one and two served.
High up in the main signal box the signalman waved at the Guard who raised his lamp twice in recognition. This was mealy a reassurance to one another that all was well. It was strange, he always thought to himself, but he and the signalman had never met, never engaged in any form of discourse. No doubt one day they would.
Turning on his heels he turned in the direction he had just came. The hourly inspection continued. All platforms were still empty, all doors secure. Standing in the entrance to the ticket office he shone the lamp around, the beam of light cast an eerie glow over the desks and now shuttered windows.
The sound of the catch clicking shut echoed around the empty ticket hall. The walls were tiled as was the mosaic flooring. Any sound bounced around off each and every hard surface.
All was well as it was every night, every hourly inspection, every night, always the same.
Slowly with the lamp down by his side the journey back toward platform thee and the comfort and warmth of his small office, but before that he must turn his attention to the last part of his rounds.
Adjacent to the ticket office and entrance hall stood the stone façade of the Station Hotel. One of the doors which were in the wall was used to access to the cellar of the both the hotel and the station via an n old stone staircase. The passages under the hall lead to a network of tunnels which to the left were utilised as a cellar by the hotel, but to the right the dark passageways lead out under the platforms.
Slowly he turned the key in the lock, the door swung open. In his hand the lamp shone down into the darkness. The stone steps lead down into what appeared to be eternity. Slowly he descended into the darkness. Though he knew no one could be down there in the catacombs he would always be on his guard just in case.
Once in the passageways there would come a point where he could not see either end. This would naturally make him feel ill at ease with his surroundings, the slightest noise would cause his heart to race at speed.
Quickly he rushed down each of the tunnels then out into the dim light of the station once again gladly locking the door behind him.
Passing through he wrote iron gate he felt a distinct chill run through him, had someone walked over his grave? More likely, he decided that it was the wind whistling down from the end of the station.
He closed the gate and snapped the bolt across then began to turn away, but suddenly he stopped and turned back toward the entrance hell and the ticket office. He could not be sure, but he thought he had seen someone out of the corner of his eye flash past. The blur had gone from right to left or so he thought. Squinting his eyes he peered into the gloom, no one was apparent. For a moment he considered calling out, but then thought better of what would be a pointless act.
Once John had left his post at six the following morning he thought no more of the occurrence, though it had dwelt heavily on his mind for the rest of that nights shift. For the remainder of the night it was never far away form his thoughts.
The following evening was very much the same as it was most nights. His hourly checks would be carried out, he would read the newspaper and drink mug fulls of tea.
No traffic was due that night so his duties were simple, check the clocks, lines and gates.
At two o’clock he prepared himself for the hourly inspection, flags, whistle and pocket watch were all placed in the relevant pockets and then finally his lamp. Locking the door behind him he set off along the platform towards the goods yard. As he reached the end of the platform he looked up over at the box, the signalman was there, as always going about his business. John gave the prearranged signal to signal all was well.
The wind which had blown through the Station the night previous was now gone, the air was still and calm. So quiet was the night that he could hear the rats scurrying along the lines. As he walked down the edge of platform three he whistled a tune to himself. He wasn’t sure what it was, but stopped as its echo returned. The sound was more then a little haunting.
Minutes later the lamp shone around the ticket office. The room was much the same as the previous evening, empty, dark, silent. On one of the many desks though sat a brown suitcase, its two catches holding the lid closed where aided by a brown leather belt, “Lost luggage?” he asked himself. Closing the door behind him he continued on his rounds.
The cellars were next.
The key turned in the lock then a pause as he started to open the door. As he did he felt his body fall back, something had knocked him over, it wasn’t physical, nothing had touched him, but something had exerted a force on him. John was conscious too the fact that two figures, well he presumed that they were figures rushed past him, one after another.
It took him a moment to recover from the shock of what he thought had just happened. His thoughts raced through his mind, the process only took a split second, though to him it felt like an eternity.
Two men had pushed their way through the door and past him, but how? They came out of the cellar, the door, he looked at it. It was only hanging open an inch or so, how had could they have got through such a small space? Quickly he turned too try and see where they had gone, they would be locked in with him, that point raised another question, how did they come to be in the cellar? Through the hotel perhaps? That was the only explanation.
Getting to his feet he set off in pursuit. Where these two men dangerous, they themselves could be in danger if they were not careful. He set off at a brisk pace which soon turned into a run, nowhere could he see the two intruders.
For at least half an hour he searched the halls, offices and rooms of the great old Victorian station, still no sign of the men could be seen. Surely there must be only one place they could have gone, back into the underground passageways.
He had to make an inspection. For many minutes he stood silently looking at the door, it was still hanging as it had been when the men had jumped out upon him.
His head knew he had to go in, but his legs would not move. Bracing himself he reached out an arm and slowly opened the door.
The beam from his lamp danced around the walls. He could hear nothing, absolute silence rang in his ears. Down in the cellar tunnels the slightest noise echoed, even a breath was amplified. Silently he stood in the darkness not daring to breath. Still nothing, then up above in the station he heard the clank of something small and metallic hitting the marble floor.
Quickly and with a certain amount of fear he ran up the stone steps and looked around quickly, his eyes flitting from one end of the hall to the other.
Moments later he found himself rushing back towards his office, he had encountered no one in the confines of the station, this left only one possibility. Who had ever been there with him that night must have left via the tracks? Rushing down platform three he passed his office and on toward the goods yard.
Once out in the cold night air he looked up towards the signal box. Raising and lowering his lamp he tried to attract the attention of the occupant.
Finally he caught the signalman’s attention who slid open one of the windows.
“Did you see anyone leave on the lines?” Brockwell shouted up toward the box.
“What?” the signalman replied, a train had passed on the dock line and was making the guards words fade into the background.
“Did you see anyone on the lines?” he repeated, a little slower and louder then previously.
“I haven’t see anyone.” Replied the voice from above.
In his office the fire was going out, he put another shovel full of coal onto the dying embers. Coal was not in short supply there, though it was in general terms, a relic of war time rationing. Once the fire was blazing again he sat down in his chair and sighed. He didn’t now what to make of the events of that night. For the first time the thought the station mat be haunted crossed his mind, but did he believe in such things? The mug of tea was still too hot to drink when the time came to once again begin his rounds. He was not alone now, the station was beginning to come alive with activity. The stokers and firemen had started to arrive now ready to prepare the boilers to make steam. He didn’t hear the noises of the railwayman outside, so deep was he in his own thoughts. When a knock finally came to the door he reacted as though he’d been woken from a deep sleep, part of him wanted to jump in fright while part wanted to withdraw away somewhere else altogether.
The man who entered was Harold, his day shift counterpart. He always came in to see John on his arrival, start the change over from one shift to the other. Today though he was not alone, another man accompanied him. This second person seemed strangely familiar. Where did he know him from? The third party was introduced as Mathew Rollinson, the nightshift signalman. Of course the signal man, that’s who he was.
He had shown some concern about his fellow nightshift worker and now wanted to know what had prompted the nights out of the ordinary occurrence. Had someone been in the station?
John recounted his experiences, he did not know weather they would be taken seriously, after all even to him they seemed to be almost paranormal.
Rollinson assured him that to his knowledge no one had departed the station via the lines. John believed him after all why should he lie about such an occurrence.
After sitting down and going over the nights events with a cup of tea John was sent home and told to rest. Where things getting on top of him to the extent that he was seeing things? They never said as much, his two visitors, but that is what they must have been hinting at with their comments. If these visions were ghosts then whose ghosts were they? As he thought things over his mind rejected the possibility that they could be anything else but flesh and blood. Still, he had to consider all options.
His father had worked on the railways all his life. Maybe he knew of the station been haunted, even then would he believe it? His father had never spoken of a ghost, but that didn’t mean to say that there wasn’t one.
Donning his flat cap and wrapping a scarf around his neck he left the station via the front entrance. The day was bright and cold, the small of autumn was hanging heavily in the air, though it was hard to pick out over the smell of coal fuelled fires. He took an electric tram car down the tree lined Beverly road. Instead of going straight home to his wife and bed he was heading out of town to try and shed a little light on the mystery of the two phantoms he had seen only a few hours previous.
At then green front door of thirty six Wellington Street he didn’t break his stride as he opened the door and entered. His father who had retired some ten years previous was pleased to see his son walk through the back door into the kitchen, but also a little concerned. Why was here at such a time as this?
Once John had assured Mr Brokwell senior that all was well with his domestic life he could continue with the reason he was here. Both men sat in the back kitchen and smoked a cigarette. John told his father in detail of the occurrences of the previous night, before asking the question he had dreaded asking, “Have you ever heard of the station being haunted?”
His father sat back and thought. He had heard men’s tales of ghosts that walk the deserted platforms and lines of Hulls railways. All workers and staff on the railways that had come to an unnatural death were said to walk the location of their demise, a silent warning to others.
“Ah, this was not silent though,” he explained, “I heard something, some kind of metallic clank.”
Both men where distracted by the sound of footsteps coming down the staircase. Moment’s later Johns mother appeared at the foot of the stairs.
His father suddenly became very distant from the conversation. Standing up he poured her a cup of tea from the brown pot before helping to seat her in the chair he had just vacated.
Once the usual pleasantries were over he motioned his son outside into the backyard.
“What’s wrong father?” the elderly women asked not overjoyed with her husband for taking away her son from her.
“Oh, its just work talk mother.” Replied the old man limping as he opened the back door. Years of hard work on the railway had left him crippled arthritis in his knees, but he struggled outside into the cold morning air. He did not want his wife privy to this conversation, too many old wounds may be reopened.
Outside in the yard father and son simultaneously lit another woodbine. “So son,” said the older man, “you say two men rushed past you from the cellar.”
“Yes.” Remembering back filled him full of terror, he took a long drag on his cigarette.
“Then you heard the sound of something metal being dropped.”
“That’s about it.”
“I’m afraid to say I might know what it was you heard.”
John was relieved, “Oh good, I’ve been full of worry about it.”
The relief of it being something rational released him feeling of overwhelming tension on his sanity.
“When I say I know, I know of it.”
His sons smile dropped slightly, this wouldn’t be closure to the matter completely, but it may put his mind at rest, “Well?”
Brockwell senior extinguished his cigarette under his boot before inhaling through clenched teeth, “It was over fifty years ago now that I heard about it and its goes back even further then that.
Before the station was built there was a theatre on that site, I can’t remember what it was called now, your mother will know, but I’d rather you didn’t ask her.” The reason why was about to become apparent, “in them dates all theatres had a set of actors who performed the plays they put on. The leading actor would be now as the principle. There would be a lot of jealousy surrounding the principle as you can imagine.
Anyway, at this theatre the understudy to the star was furiously jealous of his superior. The rivalry was well known in the company and the principle played on it, even mocking the understudy when he was in earshot.
One night the understudy waited back after the performance, once everyone had gone he confronted the lead actor and told him that he wanted the head parts.”
“Why was that dad?”
“He thought that the principle was too old to take the most of the roles they were performing. There were probably more reasons then that, but I don’t know what they were. There was argument and the younger man stabbed the principle.”
“Where about in the theatre was it?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know the lay out and how it maps onto the station.
I’m not saying that it’s their ghosts you’re seeing, but it is possible.” He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Quietly John looked toward the house before asking in a whisper, “So why don’t you want me to ask me mam about it?”
After taking another deep inhale on his cigarette he spoke, not making eye contact once, “One of the actors was in your mams family. It was a long time ago, but that side of the family never talk about it.”
On his way home John thought of what his father had told him, the tram journey home past in an instant. Why didn’t his maternal half of the family ever speak of the events, after all it was so long ago now, had the long lost relation been the victim or the murderer? Maybe that was it, maybe the shame of having a murderer in the family had shamed the line for generations to come.
This interested him, he had to find out more about it. The tram stopped at the top of Baker Street, with a piece of quick thinking he jumped of and headed in the direction of the Central library.
Some three hours later he sat at a desk in the library, tiredness was starting to get the better of him, but still his researches continued. All around him lay copies of the Hull Daily Mail. It was now three o’clock and he was conscious that he had had no sleep that day and his shift at the station was fast approaching. He was about to return to the latest pile of newspapers back to the archives when something caught his eye.
The headline on the next paper to be inspected read, ‘Murder at the Place’. Accompanying the bold black text was a sketched picture of the Palace Theatre. Under the pencil drawing were numerous columns of text detailing the events of a midsummer night in the year 1818…?
‘It was with great regret,’ began the article, ‘that the death of Henry Morton was released today. His body was found yesterday morning with stab wounds to his stomach.’
The article went on to describe the victim, his family details and career. As much as sit praised the life of the principle actor aligned to the Palace Theatre it was damning of the understudy suspected as he was of murder, Ernest Rollinson.
Rollinson according to the paper, ‘filled with jealousy’ over the actors talents and fame.
‘He begin of lesser talents would never hold the principle roll Morton was still playing. There fore Rollinson murdered to pave the way for his own ends.’
Digesting the information as quickly as he could he left the library? He would have to call in at home, have something to eat then catch the tram back to work. He knew what reception would be waiting for him at home. His wife would not be best pleased with his absence for the entire day.
At seven o’clock that evening he sat on his chair in front of the fire in his small office a mug of tea sat before him though he was so tiered that he almost didn’t have the strength to drink it. He hoped that tonight would be a quiet one, the last thing he wanted was a shift full of incident.
Outside the confines of his office he could hear the dayshift leaving, their shift complete. The last of the engines were now leaving, only the few night trains would be running.
His eye lids felt heavy and a numbing feeling was coming over him when he was brought back to his senses by a nock at the door. Instantly the opened, in came the station Master followed by a blast of smoke filled cold air. As he closed the door behind himself he let out a series of barking coughs the like of which would only be the result of a forty a day habit.
Brokwell looked up at the new comer coming through blurred eyes trying to focus on his superior and trying to sound as though he was fully in control of his senses.
“Ah, evening.” Said the Station Master. His grey hair was cut short across the back of hid neck so the GNER cap sat perfectly on his head. “There will be several pieces of traffic leaving during the night. Some line works at Boothferry Park require the opening of platform six. I’m leaving you in full charge, if the rounds aren’t logged as normal, don’t worry just make sure we don’t have any unwanted visitors coming in.” then he stopped and looked into Johns bloodshot eyes, “Are you alright?”
“Yes Sir.” He replied mustering into order.
“You look as though you could fall asleep any minute, but if you’re alright then…” with that he was gone.
That was all John needed, a busy night. All he wanted to do was collapse into his chair in front of the fire, how would he cope with all the extra work?
Later that night he starred long and hard at his pocket watch. The time was fatly approaching nine o’clock, time for his rounds. By this hour he was requiring constant stimulation, he decided that tea was probably as good as anything. He poured himself out yet another cup of the hot sweet drink and cupped his hand around it. Carrying the mug along with his usual tools of the trade hindered him in his work somewhat. The inconvenience though was necessary for the fortifying drink was keeping him awake.
Standing at platform one he half heartedly shone his lamp around. As was normal he signalled the box who replied with the standard confirmation.
Slowly he walked back toward the bottom end of the platforms, not showing too much enthusiasm, delaying the inevitable moment when he must open the door to the cellars.
All platforms were correct and in order so he made his way toward the ticket office. As he walked through the hall he became aware of someone there also with him. His first reaction was that it must be the maintenance crew arriving for the nightshift then realised that it could not be so, all entrances were locked. He had the keys for the gates in his hand? Quickly he turned to see who was with him, but no one was. A distinct chill came over him as he took a sip of hot tea. His condition was not helped either by the sound of what he thought to be footsteps echoing through the building. Standing at the ticket office door he froze as stiff as a corpse. His breath was becoming erratic as he told himself to pull himself together. The noise he could hear was almost curtain to be no more then a rat or other animal, his tiered mind was doing the rest.
The ticket office was all clear, all was well.
Only one port of call was remaining on the nine o’clock round, the cellars. All too quickly he was standing by the door which lead down to the subterranean world beneath the station.
John shone his lamp down into the black underworld to light the way. As he took a step into the doorway three almighty bangs came up out of the blackness and echoed through the station, not having any time to recover from this shock the sound of a sickening cry followed. John in freight he dropped his tin mug. It clattered down the stone steps finally coming to rest in the darkness below. He gripped the door frame with his fist not wanting to follow the mug. His whole body was shaking like a nervous kitten. Once again he heard that same noise as before coming from his rear.
It was then that like a breeze of relief drifting over him he realised that the noise was the sound of the nightshift crew. Turning away form the door he made his way back to the main entrance sorting through the large bunch of heavy keys as he rushed toward the gate. On arrival he unchained the heavy iron gates and let the workmen in before locking the gate behind them. Many vagrants lived in and around the area of the station, he didn’t want any entering and setting up camp in the building.
As the lock snapped shut he heard the sound of an engine pulling in. The blasts of steam from the boiler filled the high arches in the roof as the driver let off steam.
The workmen knew the routine, John watched as they all climbed aboard the third class carriage, laughing and joking as they embarked. John would not be in such a cheery mood if a nights working exposed to the elements awaited him.
Stepping out onto platform six he looked out into the night and waited for the signal to drop. Though he could not see the signal box the red filtered light shone through the hazy mist which swept in off the river. When the red light turned to green he blew his whistle and waved his flag. The driver opened the regulator and the train pulled out.
Moments later he watched as the red tail light disappeared around the right hand curve of the track.
The sound of the signal clicking back into position made him look upward into the mist night, the light was now back to red as were al l the signals. Tucking his flag under his arm he mad his was back to the comfort of his office.
Once the door was closed he took off his hat and hung it on the peg before sitting down in his chair. Putting a shovel of coal onto the fire he decided to make himself a brew. He couldn’t though could he, his mug was still were it had fallen at the bottom of the cellar steps. He wasn’t going out for it now, it could wait until he did his next rounds.
Picking up his pen he entered the arrival and departure times of the train and the fact that hr had unlocked and relocked the side entrance gate. Once his official duties were complete he took out a note book from his bag and read through his researches of earlier that day. To him it was interesting in several ways. The facts that a theatre had once stood on this very site fascinated him. He sat and wondered what it actually looked like inside. The newspaper sketch had shown its external appearance, but not the interior. Was it a grand lavish affair with columns and golden scroll work or was it a mere flee pit? John felt at most comfort with the grand theory.
The second point he found of interest was the murder. Could actors generate so much jealously that they were driven to murder to gain fame? Obviously one had, Ernest Rollinson. Where had he heard that name recently? Rollinson? Then like a flash it came to him, “Of course.” The signalman was called Rollinson, what a coincidence.
The third point of interest was the fact that his own family had been involved with the affair, but on which side, victim or accused? If it was the accused his mother was related too could he and his nightshift colleague be some kind of distant cousins? Now he would probably never know for sure.
The railway issue pocket watch showed the time to be five minutes to three. As at this time every night Brockwell stepped out onto platform three. Fatigue was now taking its toll on him. The lamp in his left hand felt the weight of a sack of coal, lifting it to give the all clear to the signalman took an extra effort of both strength and will power. The second he saw he colleague wave John turned and headed back into the station. Half way down the platform he heard the click of a signal, the workmen must be on there way back.
Realising this he headed for the platform gate and opened it for the nightshift to exit. Stepping out into the hallway he noticed the cellar door was open, momentarily he froze before recalling that it was he who had left it open earlier to let the men into the station. His mug was still down there, he would retrieve it once al was quiet again. From outside he could hear the puffing chimney of the tank engine drawing up to the platform.
He would lock the cellar door then meat the train.
As John walked away from the now secure cellar door he heard something knocking. He looked around in puzzlement attempting to see what could be making such a noise.
The noise was one he recognised, and surely it couldn’t be what he thought it to be. The noise sounded not unlike his enamelled mug being dragged along the stone floor of the cellar. The thought of a rat climbing over his cup filled him with dread, turning on his heels he unlocked the cellar door once again and shone his belt mounted lamp into the darkness. The light throw a shadow on the wall, the beam had flashed across someone’s face, he jumped back in flight, rats he had expected, a third party however he didn’t except to see.
The beam from his lamp flickered as it shone from side to side down the stairway, but no one seemed to be down there, unless they had stepped back into the shadows out of the searching beam. John thought for a moment, the face he had seen in the half light was familiar to him, but who was it?
Because the face was so familiar he only had the slightest reservation about descending to retrieve his cup.
The light shone down, still all was deserted, John took a step down carefully watching his feet. He didn’t want to slip as his heavy boots landed on each step, then he saw something move down below. Quickly he looked up and shone the lamp down. There was the same face again, but now the figure was climbing the stairs with a determined stride. A hideous look of rage was on his face, it was at that point when John realised who the face belonged too, it was the face of the signalman, Rollinson. Strange, why wasn’t he in the box, what was he doing in the cellar. John inhales and was about to ask those very questions when his whole attitudes to the situation changed. Rollinson was not wearing the uniform he was used to seeing him in. It must have been a trick of the light, but John’s feet seemed to be disappearing into the stone steps as he ascended the staircase. As if this was not worrying enough in his right hand he carried a knife.
John turned in fear and ran for his life. As quickly as his fatigued body could move he crossed the main hall of the station.
He dare not look behind him until he was half way to the ticket office. On platform six the tank engine steamed to a halt at a safe distance from the hydraulic buffers.
John looked over at the carriage doors opening, safety in numbers was his first thought. Quickly he glanced around checking his rear. To his surprise the hall was now empty, no one could be seen, but he could hear his pursuer.
Frantically he looked to his right then left, still no one was apparent. Then for some unknown reason he looked up, could the noise of running feet becoming from above him? The sound was not of shoes hitting the hard stone floor, but more of the slap of leather shoes on wooden floorboards.
John saw, but didn’t believes his eyes. Above him in the roof of the station hall between the girders, unsupported two men grappled with one another. A glint of light flashed as the knife which Rollinson raised above his head then quickly down into the other mans body, repeatedly it rose and fell.
John watched, in his stomach he felt sick watching the spectacle above him. Once the massacre was over Rollinson dropped the knife. It fell from his hand down past the two phantom figures, john watched it fall and fall glinting in the lights before finally landing in his right, false arm. The blade was no phantom, he let out a piercing sheik of pain. Why was it hurting, the arm was made only of wood. Blood began to bubble up out of the wound. John found it hard to hold on to the reality of the situation.
On platform six the driver and fireman had that moment stepped off the footplate of the tank engine. Too their amazement they could see the night guard on the floor looking upward. They both simultaneously broke out into a jog on seeing him lying there. Their advance was broken by the heavy iron gates which served as a barrier between hall and platform, the guard had neglected to unlock it.
Soon though the engine driver had vaulted over the gate as he heard the guard cry out in pain, the cry was followed instantly by the sound of a metallic clink, it was as though a metallic object had fallen from a great height.
It took only a matter of seconds for the drink to reach Brockwell who was now lying on the floor with his left hand tightly grasping his right arm, blood seeped throw his clenched fingers.
The driver was amiss to why the guard was on the floor. A look of anguish was on his face, his torso twisting and turning with agony, “What is it?” he asked
Only the words, “My arm…” could be made out through the cries of pain.
“What about it?”
“Look.” Shouted John looking down at where the knife had entered. Then he stopped, his frame had ceased to twist in agony and he seemed to freeze. Something had changed to his situation, slowly he removed his hand from the artificial arm. All that he saw was the arm of his jacket, no hole, no blood, no knife.
“What, but?” he gasped, “Did you see them?” he asked the driver, “Did you see them, up there?” he looked up into the roof.
The driver looked but could see nothing.
John lay there trying to work out what had happened, was he so tiered that his mind had imagined it? The driver helped him to his feet. By this time a crowd had gathered at the platform gate, all craned their necks to see what was occurring with the two men in the station hall.
John brushed himself down as he stood and tried to make sense of it all. As he took a step towards the platform gate he was stopped by the voice of the engine driver. “Here you dropped this.”
John turned to see the man standing up after picking something off the cold hard floor. In his outstretched hand lay a knife.
As he looked at it glinting in the light his hand grabbed his right arm were he had just seen that knife enter.
