Page 68 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘What is it, Maman?’ asked Irving, sliding along the seat and poking his head out the window.

His voice came from a distance. Through the plumes that enveloped the platform, the squeeze of people, animals, luggage and railway personnel harrying folk to either board or step away from the carriages, a drab, lanky figure emerged and stood motionless amidst the maelstrom. I forgot to breathe. His eyes were the same fierce red I remembered, dangerous jewels in a pale face, boring into mine. He raised his cap, exposing the spotted dome of his head.

‘Can you see him?’ I asked hoarsely, a hand at my throat.

‘Who?’ Irving looked up and down the platform.

‘Him …’ I pointed a shaking finger.

‘Maman.’ Irving pulled at my sleeve, his brow creased, fear in his eyes, darker than his father’s, than mine. ‘Who do you mean?’ Irving’s fingers curled around my wrist.

‘No-one. It’s alright. I’m alright.’ I patted his hand and gave him a half-smile. ‘I just thought I saw …’

‘Père?’ supplied Irving when I didn’t immediately answer.

I directed my gaze back to where the man had stood. He was gone.

‘Yes. Father.’

Hot then cold sluiced through my body as I allowed Irving to pull me inside while Mrs Simpson wrestled the door. I went through the motions of making sure Irving was seated comfortably beside me, facing the direction of travel, that the windows were closed. Mrs Simpson sat opposite. At Irving’s request, and with my consent, Mrs Simpson delved inside the basket of food we’d brought. I declined the offered cake. I’d no appetite. Unable to resist the urge to look out the window again, I scanned those remaining on the platform.

Thus far, the spectre had been a flicker in the corner of my eye, the prickle on the back of my neck, a certain feeling I was being watched. He invaded my sleep, occupied shadows. But this was the first time, outside of dreams and illusions, of sensations, that he’d made such a bold appearance; that he’d appeared in daylight. Why? I’d thought moving house, leaving the place where he had met his demise, would free me of his presence.

One of the stories from his childhood that Bram was fond of telling was about the Doom that would appear when someone was about to die. Bram would narrow his eyes, hunch his shoulders and in a voice deep and yet sibilant, tell of how it took on the shape of a human or an animal and would haunt the footsteps of the fated, whisper in their ears, torment them to madness by reminding them of their mortality. Is that what this spectre represented? Was he somehow the harbinger of my death? If so, why had I not met it yet? Or was it imminent?

I shuddered.

‘Would you like a blanket, Mrs Stoker?’ asked Mrs Simpson. ‘You’re milk-pale and oh, my, you’re shivering.’

I took the blanket she held out; what could I say? Forgive me, Mrs Simpson, but this ghastly apparition has been haunting me for a few years in my nightmares, and he just manifested on the platform. I’d be thought hysteric. Was I? How could something I conjured from a tragedy, then terrible imaginings, combined with fears about my life unravelling, have such a visceral effect upon me? Further fed by all the supernatural tales Bram told and the plays I saw.

I recalled what Henry had said about Irving. How he’d blamed me for the child’s reaction. What if he was right? I forced myself not to look at my son lest I see proof of my culpability.

I needed to tell Bram about the spectre. If anyone could understand the power of imagination, the awful demons the mind could summon, it was him. In the wake of the make-up episode, Bram had written a shocking, evil story, ‘The Dualitists’, about a pair of child-killers, inspired by my description of Irving and Henry as a diabolical double. Bram had approached Mr Courtier-Dutton, another recent addition to my salons, who published a magazine for theatre-lovers called The Stage. When Mr Courtier-Dutton learned the story was inspired backstage at the Lyceum, he’d bought it immediately. I’d been appalled Bram could compose such a wicked tale – and by my part in its conception – but Bram explained it had taken hold of his mind and wouldn’t let go. I consoled myself that at least he was being published again.

When the train began to lurch away, the wheels shrieking and grinding, the long, loud whistle announcing its departure, I rested the back of my head on the seat. Something moved in the corridor, and I sat bolt upright.

What if the drowned man hadn’t remained on the platform, but had boarded the train? What if even now he was moving along the corridors, searching for me?

As Irving and Mrs Simpson chatted, she pointing out the various landmarks we passed, exciting him about the ship to Dieppe and then another train to Paris, I rose and, as calmly as I could, pulled down the blinds on the windows facing the corridor, darkening our compartment slightly. Their conversation washed over me, not in a soothing way, but like a tide fast coming in, leaving nowhere safe to climb.

When I sat back down, this time near the interior door so my son, his mouth half-full, could look out the window, I found myself unable to stop staring at him. He squealed at a herd of cows being driven down a road. Laughed at the ramblers awkwardly climbing over a stile. I noted the spark in his bright eyes, the sheer excitement the trip evoked. His joy, his anticipation, made me heartsick. All I could think was, if the devil-eyed man does come for me, what’s to stop him taking my boy too?

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

SS Victoria, 13 April 1887

Unable to sleep, I crept out of the ship’s cabin, leaving Irving and Mrs Simpson fast asleep in their bunks, and went up on deck. It was a cold, clear night, sometime past midnight. The channel was as calm as when we’d left Newhaven a few hours earlier. The moon carved a silvery passage across the onyx waters. The great funnel of the Victoria silently expelled its fumes into the cool night as the ship chugged along. I leaned against the rail and inhaled deeply. I was so tired, my overwrought mind refusing to settle. From the moment we’d left the train to when we boarded the steamship, I’d searched every face, every shadow, but seen no sign of my unwelcome … what did I call him? Lurker? Shadow? Nemesis? Haunting?

I was about to move when I glimpsed a figure in a dark robe. My ears roared. I spun around, ready to confront him, only to find a nun tottering over the deck.

‘Good evening,’ she said, approaching carefully.

‘And to you, sister.’ I tightened my shawl.

‘Lovely night to be at sea, is it not?’ she said tersely, gripping the railing hard and staring with wide, frightened eyes over the water.

‘You’ve not sailed before?’ I asked gently.