Last Train Home
“… see, the key to really benefit from air source heating is insulation. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, But Jerry, if I’ve got to pay to re-insulate my house, then I’m spending not saving, and I understand your concerns. However, after the initial outlay you can become…”
Harold willed Jerry to stop talking and gazed around the room desperate for somebody else to come and interrupt. He eyed Tina from finance talking to Dave from marketing, but there wasn’t any salvation there. The whole office floor could see they were one boozy Christmas party away from shagging. Instead, Harrold zoned out the dull endless accounts of information about air source heating. Fragments of mince pie rained down upon him as Jerry took bites between words. His ability to speak and eat without interruption was a contradiction to the stereotype that men can’t multitask. He searched the room for a distraction amongst the cheap tinsel and plastic tree. Jerry prattled on about an energy source that was quite frankly pointless to Harold, a man who lived in a high-rise apartment building. He was busy counting the baubles by the time Jerry came up for air.
“Anyway, are you coming into town for a few jars after this, Harold? My wingman. Santa needs his helpers if he’s going to unload his sack,” Jerry laughed alone at his shit joke.
“… Pardon?” spluttered Harold startled by the sudden change of conversation.
“Drinks Harold! Are you coming to parley? It’s Christmas Eve for fucks sake.”
“Oh…” said Harold. “No. Sorry Jerry, I’m catching a train back to my mum’s tonight.”
Harold didn’t wait for a polite silence but turned on his heel before Jerry could start up again.
***
The train deposited Harold onto the station platform to await the last part of his journey. He skated his way over the frozen snow to the timetable. There was only one other train that stopped here, and it was the same he’d used to escape his hometown all those years ago. Harold hadn’t expected the line to still be open, he was almost disappointed by the discovery when booking the ticket. Still, he’d put the return visit off for too long and now after the news of his father’s death he couldn’t any longer. It would be his mother’s first Christmas without her husband and the guilt weighed too heavily upon him.
Harold didn’t hold many positive memories from childhood. Both parents had been cold and indifferent. He never wanted for food or clothes, nor was he mistreated in any way. Even on the rare occasion his dad would take a slipper to his arse cheeks, Harold could tell, there just wasn’t any enthusiasm behind it. That summed up his mother and father in a nutshell. Life wasn’t much better at school. The other children were distant, not unkind, just reserved and the teachers no different. They handled him more delicately, but he could see their forced smiles. What had puzzled him most was his isolation from church when it was mandatory for all the other children – Every cloud and all that. When the time came to leave the town and get a job, Harold was more than ready to escape. There’d been some correspondence with his parents over the years since. Now reduced to an infrequent letter after he gave up on the long silences of the phone calls. The most recent informing him of his father’s passing. By the time he’d read it the funeral had already taken place. Harold questioned who he was really going back for – his mother or him. She hadn’t seemed disappointed at his absence within the letter.
He checked his watch – 17:42 – The train was due in six more minutes. The snow was floating down in heavy flakes. It was safe to say it would be a white Christmas this year. Once the train arrived it was usually a forty-five-minute journey back to his hometown. There weren’t any other stations along this distant vein of the national railway. Aside from one disused station Harold remembered from his many trips to the city in his latter teens. He’d asked his father about it once, but it was met with an extra helping of the cold indifference he was used to. His mother asked him not to mention it again, and he hadn’t. As he shivered on the barren platform huddling underneath an asbestos roof, Harold pictured the station. The brickwork long reclaimed by ivy even when he was a young child. Harold remembered how grand the building looked for such a small station and wondered what town or village lay behind it. He’d tried to find it in later life with the help of the internet, but the stories were brief if not vague. It was something he would try and bring up with his mother. At least it would fill the predictable and uncomfortable silences.
The train screeched to a halt and even with Harold’s limited engineering expertise, he could tell the wheels were struggling for purchase. It meant walking to the far end of the platform to board. The door opened automatically, and Harold escaped the relentless snowfall. He wasn’t surprised to see he was the only passenger.
“Tickets. Tickets please,” said a conductor entering the empty carriage. Harold humoured him and held his aloft.
“Thank you, sir,” he said punching a hole through the card.
Harold admired his commitment to the season as his Santa hat swung from side to side.
“Not very busy tonight,” Harold said in a shit attempt of making light conversation.
“Never is. Not these days,” he replied with a glimmer of sadness in his eye. “Only one station on this line. I can’t see them keeping it open for much longer.”
“I remember when I was a kid, there was always that empty station we’d pass. The train never did stop there. When did they close it?”
The conductor’s face contorted with a hint of repulsion. Not too dissimilar to the one from his own parents. He wondered why the mention of the disused station evoked this reaction. He didn’t hang around to let Harold ask. Instead, the humming rails lulled him into a doze.
***
Harold was startled awake by the sudden loss of velocity. Unpeeling his face away from the frozen window to look outside, dumbly searching for the familiar sight of his childhood town. A void of darkness returned his puzzled expression in the reflection. Train lights replaced by the silver glow of moonlight piercing the carriage from the opposite window. Harold’s breath cut through the icy air. He shrugged his coat back on when a dull orange orb floated down the centre aisle.
“End of the line,” came the voice behind the lantern.
Harold squinted to make out the conductor’s face.
“Are we at the station?” Harold asked confused by the view from outside.
“Snow laid too thick on the lines. We’ll have to make the rest of the journey on foot.”
“What?!” he asked incredulously.
“Sorry lad, just the way of things. Now come on, grab your stuff and follow me. Godlow station isn’t that far.”
Harold’s mind spun through the most likely scenarios – Taxi – Bus – Fuck it, why not a helicopter.
He stepped off the train into deep drifts of snow and felt the cold up to his knees. The conductor was already a few yards ahead as Harold tried to keep pace with him. The only light along the side of the tracks shined from the conductor’s amber beacon.
“What about the driver?” Harold asked. His voice lost to the howling wind and swirls of frosted flakes as the conductor carried on.
“Hang on!” Harold shouted to his back. Nothing. He stumbled on in pursuit using the conductor’s footprints in the snow to navigate. Now the distant light had disappeared into the darkness ahead, Harold found himself heavily reliant on the moon and thankful for the reflecting snow. The walk was relentless work on his legs as he worked his way through the conditions. Trainers intended for a journey on a train became saturated and the freezing temperature burned his skin. Harold could feel the tissue in his feet protesting as each toe threatened him with the first stages of frostnip. He pulled the thick winter jacket tighter around himself and pushed on.
Finally, a brick building loomed ahead. A single light sat upon the elevated platform, so Harold climbed the icy steps and freezing handrails to retrieve it. The lamp was just like the one the conductor had been holding. He picked it up and was instantly grateful for the small amount of heat that radiated from the flame. The luminosity lit up the platform and Harold guessed it was only twelve-foot-long at best. The building behind it contradicted the platform’s size. Harold studied the three-story construct – the architect had spared no attention to detail. Gargoyles peered out from beneath a white blanket to make Harold feel like he was being watched. He stumbled towards the colossal entrance in search of shelter from the blizzard. The double wooden doors had freed themselves from the doorway long before now and Harold wondered if they had been helped down by vandals. Graffiti insulted the walls of the impressive foyer and creeped up towards the gantry running across the span of the vaulted ceiling. The interior was as empty as the window frames. Harold gazed in awe and wished he could have seen it when it was open. Such grandeur for a station that was barely used. Harold explored the vast space in search of a spot to shelter from the freezing wind blowing through the broken glass. Instead, he found a rusted turnstile leading out to the rear. There must be a nearby village or town, even if he’d never heard of it. He couldn’t stay in the station all night.
The turnstile led to another open door and with it the harsh winter’s night. Pushing on he found himself in a square courtyard. A stone fish fountain stood in the centre, so Harold took care to keep to the edge of the area despite the heavy snowdrifts. The only exit was via a set of stone lions standing guard on their pedestals. A seemingly endless expanse of frozen land awaited Harold on the other side. He followed a winding path visible only because of the brick walls either side. Harold battled on against everything the weather could throw at him before he spotted another building at the furthest reaches of his vision. He worried that it was the station again, such was the size. Then he spotted the lights from behind the curtained windows. Harold was staring at a mansion. The awareness that he was now trespassing wasn’t enough to deter him from the hope of warmth.
After what felt like the longest part of his journey, he finally narrowed in on the door. Numb fingers reached out for the brass knocker and there was a fear his skin would tear away once he released it. The door boomed across the land before returning with an echo from within the mansion itself. Harold waited. He tried three more times before pushing it open. A wall of heat forced its way out of the opening and dragged him inside, the door closing behind him from a gust of wind or something else. The vestibule eclipsed what he’d seen in the station and he struggled to take it all in. The winding staircase wide enough to drive a car up, split off onto two walkways. Six doors adorned the upper floor and of course, a suit of armour sat neatly in between. On the ground floor, Harold stepped towards the flickering light from a fire in a nearby room. He was so overwhelmed by the familiarity of the place and the eyes of the paintings that followed him with keen interest. Harold almost forgot that he was in somebody else’s house.
“Hello!” he called.
The only voice to return was that of his own. And so he followed the source of heat and entered a parlour.
“Oh, hello,” Harold spluttered to the back of the figure in the wheelchair by the huge fireplace. The body didn’t even flinch as Harold tip-toed his way past the dusty Winchesters and the predictable Grandfather clock. His steps mirrored the metronome of the pendulum as he inched ever closer to the stranger and more importantly, the fire. He was a foot away with an outstretched hand when he saw the shrunken shrivelled head of the occupant. A sickly musty smell crawled its way up his nose.
“He will not speak to you!” a voice bellowed from behind Harold.
“Oh… I’m… sorry,” he fumbled for words as he turned to look at the source. A grey beard with flecks of black met with the man’s unkempt hair. Harold studied the regal outfit of the homeowner and guessed it was some high-ranking military uniform. Moth eaten and thread bare. The gold lion’s head mounted on the walking stick looked like it cost more than Harold’s one bedroom flat.
“Hush now. Your words are wasted on me,” came the deep plummy tone of the man. “Come. We must get you washed and dressed for dinner.”
Harold followed his host back out of the parlour and up to the first floor until they arrived at one of the many doors.
“Towels are on the shelf. You will find the bath water comfortable I suspect. Mary will deal with your soiled garments. In the meantime, help yourself to one of the gowns and find me in the dining room once you’ve ridded that body of filth.” He opened the door for Harold to reveal a bathroom tiled from floor to ceiling in white. It had a clinical feel and the smell of disinfectant stung his eyes. Yet he stepped inside reluctantly unable resist the draw of the steaming bathtub.
“Mary!” the man shouted down the stairs. “The bastard has arrived.”
Harold turned towards the man at his outburst of words to question what they meant but the door was already closed. Hypnotised by the rising steam, Harold let it go. He’d ask what the man meant later.
***
Wrapping the soft gown around his warm skin he left the medically scented bathroom. He wondered how he would find the dining room, but the inviting smell of glazed meat guided him towards a hall with a long table fashioned with silver cutlery. Christmas crackers were placed with concentrated precision at each place sitting. Harold counted twelve seats. He walked over to the fireplace and studied the towering Christmas tree. The setting was a perfect replica of the stereotypical picture printed on seasonal greeting cards. Tall wax candles glimmered and dripped from the overhead chandelier.
“Sit!” the man’s voice ordered from behind. Harold obliged immediately taking the nearest chair.
“The bath was lovely,” he began. “Thank you so much for letting me in. The train had to be abandoned due to the weather and I lost the conductor. I thought I was going to freeze to death in that abandoned station.”
“Not abandoned!” the man snapped.
Before Harold could apologise for offending his host, a gaunt and decrepit maid crept into the hall with a plate of food. He grimaced at the nicotine yellow veil that hid her face.
“Eat!” ordered his host as the plate was put down in front of him. Harold didn’t argue and greedily tucked into the roasted meat. The maid left as the man stood by Harold’s shoulder.
“That’s it. Eat,” he said more relaxed this time. Harold did.
“Ah,” the man said rubbing his hand along the bridge of Harold’s back. “The bastard has returned. It’s okay boy, it’s just the way of things.”
Harold tried to question the man, but the mouthful of food just wouldn’t break down. His jaws were struggling to grind it quick enough. The knife and fork dropped from his hands with a clatter onto the plate. Strength was ebbing away as he listened to the man rubbing at his back.
“You were born for this night boy,” the host said using both hands now to massage blood flow. Harold saw through his own eyes as his head came crashing down onto the plate. He didn’t feel a thing as the upturned fork pierced his cheek.
“Mary, tell the good doctor we’re ready.”
The drug’s dosage was too much for Harold’s brain to comprehend and so he fell into a merciful state of unconsciousness.
***
Harold stared up at the vaulted ceiling below the chandelier. A man in a doctor’s robe was beaming with pride at a large syringe containing a milky white substance.
“Did you get it? Did you get it all?” the host questioned frantically.
“Yes. A very good batch indeed,” the doctor replied. He twisted the cylinder slowly in his hands to inspect the contents.
“Shall we prepare the guardians?”
“Oh yes!” The doctor snapped back to attention.
The host must have seen the fear in Harold’s wide peepers. “Don’t worry bastard.”
The doctor winced at the choice of name.
“What?” said the host.
“It’s just… I mean, bastard? I know its tradition, but couldn’t we try calling them by their name. You know, role with the times,” said the doctor.
“But he is a bastard. Born out of wedlock. What’s his bloody name anyway?”
“Harold.”
The host shook his head in defeat. “Fine. Fair enough,” he turned back to Harold.
“Harold the bastard. Don’t fear for what we’ve already taken, for that was already ours. It is what you will give us that really is your true gift. There really is no better present one can give at Christmas,” the host rubbed his meaty palms together in delight. “Prepare the female guardian for insemination Doctor.”
***
Depressing reality that can only come as a wave of despair welcomed Harold back to awakening. His legs were bound by rope hanging him upside down above the dining table. Transparent tubes trailed like tendrils from different parts of his body. He followed the flowing red liquid as it slowly descended towards ten goblets placed evenly around the table. Harold noticed that all the places had been filled by other guests. There was a young couple looking nervously up at him. Everyone else around the table seemed to be more of an age with the host and the doctor. He thought he could recognise a few faces – the conductor – his old school principle – the vicar. The man in the wheelchair was there, an oversized Santa hat hung over the side of his shrivelled head. Still, Harold could see the resemblance of his father in the distorted face. The maid sat beside him. Her veil now removed. Harold willed the woman to look but she refused his gaze – Mum.
Blood drained through the tubes and slowly filled the goblets. The host stood up from his seat.
“Friends! Our flock has grown,” he motioned towards the young couple. “Our next guardians, Sarah and Tony. Both understand the role they’ve taken on. The good doctor has successfully implanted Sarah for our next feast. Our lifeblood to eternity. It is important that the child is well looked after but you must resist any emotional bonds with the wretch. Twenty-five years from now on Christmas Eve and like Twenty-five years ago and so before, we will harvest the benefits of the sacrifices we have all made. The bastard’s bloodline is our burden to protect and ours alone. Look above you now,” he paused for effect. The older members of the group followed his gaze towards Harold’s pale body. Only the maid, wheelchair user and the young couple looked away.
“A direct descendent of Christ!”
Harold tried to laugh but the sudden rise in blood pressure only served to drain him quicker. The dizziness reminded him of his current predicament so he did what any boy would do when he was in trouble – looked for his mother.
“In just a moment our cups will be filled by the blood of Christ. We will drink to our eternity,” the host started up again loving the boom of his own voice. “But first, we must show our new guardians the benefit of the sacrifice they are making. Phillip and Mary,” the host turned his focus on the maid and elderly man in the wheelchair. “You have served this commune well. As the most recent of our guardians, we invite you to taste the fruits of your hard labour. You have fulfilled your promise of raising this vessel and bringing it here tonight. Now you too will share our gift. Drink!”
Harold watched his mother pick up her goblet and gulped at it in a gluttonous frenzy. He watched his own blood spill down her chin. His father’s frail hand struggled with his own cup before she helped pour it through her husband’s blue lips. The transformation happened before their eyes. The young couple gasped in wonder as they saw a glimmer of their promised fate. His mother’s skin grew tighter by the second as she began to resemble the woman he remembered. Harold’s father followed suit and slowly stood from the wheelchair grinning. He stopped himself to spare Harold a quick glance.
“Sorry Harold lad. Nothing personal.”
A tear fell from Harold’s eye and he willed it to drop into one of the goblets in a last-ditch attempt to spoil the flavour of his sacrifice. But it missed. His mother looked up at him and for the first time caught his eye – before turning away quickly leaving Harold with the remnants of an apologetic smile.
The host picked up his own goblet now brimming with blood, “Happy Christmas everyone, and to you, Harold the Bastard!”
Last Train Home was originally published by Grinning Skull Press as part of their annual Deathlehem printed anthologies.
Bio:
James Jenkins lives in Ipswich, UK with his wife and children. He is a writer of gritty realism, dark humour and noir. His debut novel Parochial Pigs is published with Urban Pigs Press. The sequel Sun Bleached Scarecrows is available from Anxiety Press. The third book in the Pigs series, The Swine, The Pig and The Porker was released with AP in July 2024. James is also the co-founder of Urban Pigs Press and can sometimes be found featuring as an editor for Punk Noir Magazine.
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