Chris Priestley - Tales of Terror from the Tunnels Mouth

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Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin and New York

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY

This electronic edition published in April 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Text copyright Chris Priestley 2009

Illustrations copyright David Roberts 2009

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 4088 1194 8

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Also by Chris Priestley

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Uncle Montagues Tales of Terror

Tales of Terror from the Black Ship

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For H.S. with thanks

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The Train

It was the first railway journey I had ever made alone. My stepmother had come to the station to see me off and proceeded to embarrass me with unwanted hugs and kisses and the nursery voice she always adopted for such displays of affection.

My father was away at war, fighting the Boers in the searing heat of South Africa, and I would gladly have joined him there in preference to spending another moment with his dreary and irritating wife. Not that Id ever had what you might call a close relationship with my father either.

But to my relief, the holidays had finally come to an end and I was off to a new school. Ordinarily I would, no doubt, have felt nervous about this move, but life with my stepmother over those weeks had been an ordeal that had tested and emboldened me to face anything my new school might present by way of challenges. I was fearless.

Or so I thought.

We had been waiting on the platform for the better part of half an hour, my stepmother having insisted on us being preposterously early, so concerned was she that I might miss my train.

We were sitting on a wooden bench on the platform and, conversation having long ago run dry, I was reading the London Illustrated News and my stepmother was dozing. She has the most extraordinary capacity for falling asleep at a moments notice. Any kind of pause in the routine was an excuse for a nap. I swear she was more cat than human.

I looked about me. It was a dull, rural English station on a rather pleasant and sunny morning. There were three or four other passengers who had arrived during the time we were there, and there was a portly, bearded stationmaster, who walked up and down the platform, looking at his watch every two minutes and smiling and tipping his hat to everyone he passed.

All was, in fact, utterly mundane, drearily peaceful until, that is, my stepmother awoke from her catnap with a sudden strangled yelp that made me jump several inches in the air and caused concerned and embarrassed glances from the other passengers waiting at the station.

For goodness sake, I said, blushing and trying not to catch the eye of any of the onlookers. There are people watching.

Oh! she said, turning to me in a quite delirious way, her eyes wild. But Ive had the most awful premonition.

I should mention at this point that my stepmother considered herself to have a gift in that regard.

You were dreaming, I said, smiling at a man who was looking at my stepmother with an expression that betrayed a not unreasonable concern that she may have escaped from a lunatic asylum.

But I had the distinct impression of danger, my dear: deadly danger, she said, still staring at me in that deranged manner.

What on earth are you talking about, madam? I hissed.

I wish you wouldnt call me that, she said, putting her hands to her temples.

I was fully aware that she did not like it, but there was no way on this earth that I was going to call her Mother, as I knew she wanted me to.

What danger? I asked again.

I do not know, she said. I see... I see a kiss.

A kiss? I said with a laugh. It doesnt sound dangerous. Or at least not deadly dangerous. Unless I am kissing a crocodile.

A kiss, she repeated. And a tunnel a long, dark and awful tunnel...

I am to kiss a tunnel? Well, that at least sounds a little dangerous, I said with a withering smile.

But my stepmother continued to stare at me in the oddest way and, ridiculous though her statement was, there was something unnerving about her gaze, and I was forced to look away.

This premonition of my stepmothers was as vague as usual. I sighed and looked down the line, willing the train to arrive. I longed with all my heart to be away from her.

You were sleeping and had a nightmare, I said, making no effort to disguise my disdain. Or a day mare or whatever it is one has when one is dozing on a station platform in broad daylight.

My stepmother bristled at my tone of voice.

Please do not talk to me in that way, she said.

Im sorry if Ive said anything to offend you, I answered, looking away.

But I was not sorry at all.

A whistle sounded down the track and heralded the imminent arrival of my train. I could not have been more relieved. I stood up.

Well, I said. Here it is.

My dear boy. My stepmother flung herself upon me in the most vulgar fashion.

Please, I said, squirming with embarrassment. There are people watching.

I finally extricated myself from her jellyfish embrace and, picking up my bag, I moved to board the carriage.

I do wish you would catch another train, she said, grabbing me by the sleeve.

I carried on regardless.

After waiting here for the best part of an hour? I dont think so.

The idea that I would willingly spend another moment on that platform with her! I stepped up into the carriage and slammed the door shut with a force I hoped might transmit some of my feelings, but when I looked through the open window of the carriage door, my stepmother was holding a handkerchief to her face and making fanning motions with her other hand, as if she were about to swoon (while surreptitiously glancing about in the hope of an audience, of course).

A burst of steam hid her from view and I found the illusion of her disappearance intensely pleasurable, but as the train moved off I caught a glimpse of her frantically waving. I pretended not to see and set about finding a seat.

I walked down the corridor, looking into the compartments until I found one with a vacant window seat. The only other occupant was a stiff, military-looking gentleman with a ruddy face, firm and jutting jaw and exuberant moustache. I will call him the Major. He nodded a greeting as I walked in.

Would you mind awfully if I joined you, sir? I asked.

Not at all, he said, sitting up to attention at my approach.

I smiled and thanked him, putting my bag in the luggage rack above my seat. The Major sniffed loudly.

Providing that you are not a whistler, he continued as I sat down.

I beg your pardon, sir?

A whistler, he repeated. Cant abide a whistler. Sets my teeth on edge, dont you know.