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.
‘This isn’t theDuke 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 …’
