Tom Westlake looks out of the dining room window across the valley where dense mist hangs in the low regions, tall trees rise through the ghostly blanket. Oak, elm and sycamore cast their heavy leafed limbs into the void above as if praying for light. His sister sits at the table spooning breakfast cereal into her delicate mouth, his ample back subduing the early morning light in the room.

“I’m excited about this Jessie. I think it’s a storyline with massive potential and these next two weeks should see us break the back of it, I reckon?” He says turning to face her as he fastens the top button of his shirt. “Your pictures, my story. Should work a treat?” Another question that goes unanswered as the metal spoon clacks against pearly teeth in her mouth.

“I reckon,” she replies eventually looking at him with disinterested eyes. “More of a holiday for me rather than work. Just a few photos you said. You got the hard bit Tom, all that narrative to think about. The proper creative stuff, you know that brain teasing, lost in the wilderness, writer’s block, ‘I can’t seem to put two words together stuff’.”

“You got a point sure,” he scoffs smoothing his ruffled bed hair into shape. “But its teamwork Jessie. You said it back home, do us good to get away for a couple of weeks. This book you know is a joint project right? The story of events we’re looking at has never been told before, it’s been kept under wraps for decades, so there’s bound to be an audience for it. It’s steam trains and the most vicious of accidents I’ve come across for Christ’s sake and it’ll get our minds of the other crap that’s swirling around our lives’ right now. You know help to stem all the grief and anger we feel and get it behind us, so we can try and move on a bit.”

In the distance Tom hears the rattle of wheels on aged rails, exaggerated rhythms flowing in the breeze as they pass over worn joints and a single toot of a whistle indicates a passing locomotive.

“Wasn’t that the most beautiful sound ever, in its day, eh Jess? The power in them heavy metal beasts, the smell and hiss of steam under pressure, the thunder in the air as the old loco’s career through the air and pass you by. Is there anything more impressive than that, shame it’s all dead and buried. Diesel loco’s got no love in me, big dumb ugly things they are,” he says moving closer to the window peering out into the wilderness of mist shielding his eyes with a raised hand from the growing light. “The 6.47 on its way I bet.” He laughs turning back to his sister. “You know what sis, if it’s not raining around here, then it’s just constant mist. Why is there never any sun in our lives Jessie?”

She raises her eyes, nods slightly in agreement and tilts the cereal bowl to scoop out the last remnants of milk and corn flakes from the very bottom. It’s early August, the moors and hills have breathed colour and vibrancy into the landscape, the trees in full bloom, birds and wildlife screech and howl their joyful celebrations. The mist has all but burnt away as the two siblings approach Tom’s old Ford Cortina. Jessie keeps her camera bag close to her side as she climbs into the passenger seat, the Leica fully loaded with 35mm film and several rolls lie nestled in the bag with her prize selection of interchangeable lenses. Tom throws his pad, pencils and various ordnance survey maps of the surrounding area onto the back seat, it’s a just in case measure as he knows the area well. The car starts easily with one twist of the key. He breathes a sigh of relief as it’s not always been the case, the vehicle is far from reliable. Many times in recent months the cranking of the engine has left the motor dormant looking for a spark and Tom howling insults, screaming and kicking the machine calling it just ‘a piece of crap.’ Today he’s happy, the scene is set, everything is aligned and in the right order, together they are in search of a railway line closed many years before Beeching took his axe to British Rail. There is a story to discover, but it must be dredged from the mud and dust that has settled over its truth for decades. A tale that was horrific at the time and devastating for the legacy of the families and survivors involved.

“A close friend of mine in our steam group gave me the nod on this story Jess, said it would pay dividends. Said the truth of what really happened had never been unearthed or examined after it happened. The papers said the court brought no charges against the directors of the rail company or any of its employees, which was odd because somebody or something was responsible for the deaths in that tragedy. Very odd, wouldn’t you say? Other pressures brought to bear eh, favours pulled on the court big wigs, big business not wanting to get bad press or ruin its golden reputation. It sucks sis, it needs exposing, a lot of innocent people died that day and it was all hidden my friend said, brushed under the carpet like it was small time, you know irrelevant. But we’ll get there, find the real facts and put everything straight. You and me sis, we can do it.” He quickly looks at her as he drives, the car crunching gears, revving  like it has a mind of its own. She’s sullen, almost uninterested in his words, her mind detracted by other events she struggles to break the shackles of. Tom’s interest in steam cancelled everything else in his life. It has been his passion from the earliest days he could remember from being dragged, as a boy, from station to station by his father, made to wait on exposed embankments, braving snow and ice to see and check off the famous loco’s from a list stretching pages long. Then came Beeching, a pseudo expert who destroyed a rail network that was once the finest in the world. The age of steam was destined to the scrap heap, glorious locomotive works of art dismantled into piles of junk metal all superseded by machines that ran on diesel, had no character with faceless drivers operating featureless engines. It nearly drove his father to despair, there was no viable alternate hobby to replace the years he’d treasured scouring the country for steam-age gems. The man was shattered, old age took its toll upon a comfortable chair watching videos, reading Railway World Annuals from an age long departed and occasionally he presenting his passion to unenthusiastic school children and other semi-interested forums. Tom, as a man, imbued those characteristics and immersed himself in the myth and mystery of those times, wrote articles, books denouncing the loss of an industry, driving a wedge between Beeching’s viability proposals and the common sense of a nation. It made no difference, there was some fan mail regarding his work but economics proved to be the catalyst of the day. He made enemies, not rivals but powerful dangerous men who controlled big organisations in a world that was barred to Tom Westlake. They made threats, intimidated his publishers and agents, he backed off but that was years ago and times have changed. His mind was made, this is my time he knew instinctively and nobody is going to stop me. Fuck ‘em he thought your days are over, mine are on the rise and I’m taking some of you down.  “It’s all government bodies Jess,” he says keeping his eyes on the road, “they’ve been utterly complacent in management of the network and harboured so many secrets, and there’ll be plenty of those to uncover if we can only find a way in? Big money investments and returns on capital, millions to be made through change and where did those fortunes fall eh? Bet you can guess and all these hidden mysteries helped dictate its downfall. So let’s uncover a bit of truth, we deserve it and they deserve the reckoning in my book.” Jessie sits in silence looking through the dusty insect splattered glass of the windscreen as they drive forward to the start of their project journey.

The car stops, there are no parking places, no reference or display of notoriety just indentations where previous vehicles had pulled up on the roadside to view the overgrown track ballast and decayed signs, but it is also the point of entry to Lower Moss tunnel half a mile long with a dubious history on a line abandoned years ago.

“Look Jess,” Tom says reluctantly, realising he might be touching a frayed nerve as he leans backward to retrieve his papers from the rear seat of the car. “I know you’re not excited or enthusiastic about this project but I need you to be on side right? It’s a perfect opportunity to get your work viewed by the outside world. You’re good Jess, real good at what you do. Having a hobby is great and I should know, but you shouldn’t hide your talents away when your this good. You need this as much as I do, you need the exposure. Poor joke I know.” He unlatches the door of the old car and puts one foot onto the soil and hesitates. “We’re both devastated I know by what’s happened, but they wouldn’t want either of us to drop into a world of gloom. We gotta get on with things, the law will have their day over this I’m sure, but either way, we’ll have to abide by what the court says. So, come on, grab your stuff sis and work with me on this yeh? Let’s get the bit between our teeth and make something we’re proud of, frighten a few in their high and mighty seats and present this shocking tragedy to an unexpectant world. They’re gonna love it?”

She smiles for a second, “You know I’ll always do my best,” bare words of enthusiasm thought Tom as he strains to leave the car. “I’m just lacking concentration all the time. This has hit me hard that’s all. I can’t forgive and I can’t forget.” They clamber over the fence onto the old track bed and disappeared into the growth of trees and bushes that have become established since the rails were pulled from the route ten years ago. They slog a quarter of a mile through bracken and dense undergrowth wet with morning mist and dew, their feet and clothes dank clinging to legs and arms. Jessie was on the point of saying enough is enough, I don’t need this crap as bushes rub and scratch at her face. It felt like a never-ending trek going nowhere and she felt less than inclined to continue regardless of its potential rewards and eventually had to share her thoughts.

“What the hell Tom. I thought this little trip was about Victorian steam architecture, and all its bricks and mortar not a moorland ramble. I wanna head back, I’ve had my fill of this crap.” It is the voice of dissolution pushing aside the need for resolve. “And I’m pissed wet through I might add.” She stops for a moment and looks down at her clothing and boots. “For God’s sake.” She sighs in despair. “You do get me doing some shit.”

“Two more minutes sis that’s all. Come on, no point turning back when we’ve come this far. Did I tell you there’s a surprise at the other end – you’ll love it.” Tom has no intention of letting his sister leave, she is more than just an important part of the project, he needs her to be his crutch as much as she needs him at this time. The tree line comes to an abrupt end and the old track opens up to a small gradient that is half chewed sod, heather and reeds where historic water has pooled over the years.  An old road, no longer in use by the nature of the ground runs diagonal to the old track. A few scattered sheep graze innocently unaware of the approaching pair, huge stonework, arched at its peak meet their eyes, dark and brooding from ages of soot and weather slowly rise in the distance to encapsulate the tunnel entrance.

“It’s bricked up, that’s it then, bloody hell!” She says sounding demoralised that all her efforts had amounted to little or no reward.

“I checked it out sis a few weeks back. Look again, I’m not gonna bring you all this way for nothing am I?” He says excited at the prospect of the birth of his studies. “Look there’s a door,” he says pointing up at the looming archway cloaked in red brick and graffiti tags.

“A door, right. How stupid of me to miss that,” she says sarcastically looking at her brother with eyes of contempt.

“I’ll show you. It’s there I promise, It’s been painted to look like old brick, but it’s open. I went inside the last time I was here, so I know.” He replies pushing her forward in gentle persuasion.

There is nothing inside but black, no light at the end of the tunnel, no vents above casting down shadows or illuminating beams onto the trackless ballast below, it’s an empty void, they could be floating in space. No sound, but the occasional splash of water on stone that echoes as if amplified and a scurrying amongst the gravel bed of something moving quickly, escaping, diving for cover knowing there are invaders present. 

“Do we have to Tom? I’m not happy about this darkness and that stale smell of smoke and steam. It stinks and is getting right up my nose? What the hell is that smell?” Jessie says trying to focus on her brother, stopping in her tracks looking for light and ready to about turn.

“It’s the only way to fully understand and experience what those quarry workers had to endure in that terrible tragedy. I’ve got torches, put the smell and everything to one side. It’s only half a mile to the other end. Be there before you know it sis.” Replies Tom trying to put her mind at rest and attempt to reinvigorate her enthusiasm for continued support.

“I don’t know much about it all,” she says knowing it’s a slight point of embarrassment and lack of forethought on her behalf. “I didn’t want to get hung up on the real-life drama of their lives knowing what we had just lived through.” She adds lighting up the torch Tom has just handed her.

“Understandable I guess Jessie, but we are only one small family, lets no forget that and the hurt, the drama, the pain we feel is just the two of us. There’s no conflict or suffering to anyone else is there, other than the man charged with murder, but I don’t care about that, he’s a criminal and the law will deal with that man in due course. We just have to look at unknown faces in court and pray the judge prescribes the correct sentence for the crime when the man is proven guilty? These were twelve workers and a driver, mutilated beyond recognition, pieces scattered everywhere. Think about that, the clearing up, the driver of the train having to live with that potential guilt the rest of his days. And he didn’t, there’s a footnote in the reports that states he took his own life some months later. He just couldn’t deal with the remorse apparently, it sucked the life from him and he threw himself to his death not several hundred yards from here to rid himself of the pain. Tragic in itself sis, the burden of guilt too great to endure and then those thirteen men. Thirteen families, wives, children, maybe grandchildren, I don’t know. Consider the collective pain and anguish they had to endured? Their men, sons, brothers, husbands gone in a minute of deadly fate never to return, never be held or supportive, or earn a wage, raise their own children and grandchildren. Whole future generations lost in one terrible event, never to live, enjoy life, have freedom. You see, in my opinion what we have lost is small, though it hurts like hell and I’d love to kill that man, but in comparison think of those thirteen men setting out to work on a sunny morning thoughtful of returning to their loved ones at night, tired out and hungry. But they never did and the authorities hid the details, hushed it up as though it was inconsequential and irrelevant and that’s our job to uncover the real truth and let the secrets be known.” Tom walks on, Jessie remains silent deep in troubled contemplation as the light from their torches illuminates the decaying brick work of the long archway of the tunnel stained with damp, dripping water from streams flowing across the surface of the hills above and rubbish, elements of occupation either historic or current. It’s hard to tell in the gloom of the lamps. Others have been here, or are still resident. Who could blame them, it’s mostly dry, wind free and safe within these hidden redundant refuges.

“Not sure these will be any good Tom. I’m using the longest exposure I dare.” The flash pops and fizzes on her camera as it recharges itself.

“Just take ‘em sis, you got the film. They’ll be good, keep snapping away. We can use the best ones, maybe twenty or twenty-five good shots would be good. Internals and externals of the tunnel and we can feature some maps, diagrams and overlays to enhance the story. The publisher is keen, very keen in fact, but we got deadlines, so the basic draft has to be pretty well wrapped up in the next few weeks.” He says, further encouragement in his words as they trudge along the track bed, gravel shifting and moving beneath feet unsettling their balance in the half-light of the gloomy torches.

“Ghosts?” She looks at her brother with a nervous drawn face. “Can you feel ‘em Tom? There’s some here isn’t there prowling? This is the perfect place, full of innocent death. I’ve got that feeling again, like eyes burning into me. I’m not happy about this, there’s some hostility in the air. It’s creepy and cold wrapping itself around me like a cloak of pain, tight and claustrophobic, it’s shouting that I need to get out.” She shivers, looking around into the dark recesses, checking for signs in the acrid air. Nothing appears. “All that angst and pain, lives taken short in the accident? Must have left behind some disturbing memories? A shift in the afterlife, you know souls not taken up to a better place and left behind to fester in their own morbid torment.” She says fidgeting, struggling with uncontrollable fingers to alter her lens focal points and shutter speed. “I’m gonna put in a faster film Tom,” she looks around frightened, pretending everything is normal. “Might help the image display but could come out fairly grainy. A chance I’m gonna take, might get some interesting shots with it?” Jessie nervously opens the bag at her side, relieved to discard intimidating fascinations and checks several film canisters before pulling out the one she needs. They stop as she changes the film in the dim light, the quiet of the tunnel overbearing without the sound of their voices. Rodents mewl somewhere down the line, there’s a number of them but it’s hard to guess, the atmosphere is eerie, cloying as if something hidden is stirring through the sadness of the occasion, the ancient brickwork creeping with forgotten hostility and historic memory it cannot relinquish. Tom feels nothing, it’s just an empty tunnel, but Jessie is struggling to mask the fear of the unknown menace that steals into her subconscious with every step.

“You have to imagine how busy this line was after the war.” Tom explains the legacy of the rail line and its historic importance to his sister “All the metal suddenly gone for the war effort, households handing it over, pots and pans, railings, everything got used up, so there is this vast need to replace it all. Demand is overwhelming for raw materials of every description. Economics are going off the scale for iron ore in particular and stone and limestone for building.  The mines were working shift after shift digging out ironstone, night and day, seven days a week to supply the country’s needs. The trouble with that, from a human standpoint, is simple. Excessive and unrealistic timescales lead to complacency when everything is pushed way passed their natural limits, safety slips, standard procedures stop or fail as the pressure to perform is unsustainable, so accidents become trivial, acceptable almost and therefore nothing is ever reported. It all becomes irrelevant to the process of advancement and commerciality. Money and power sis, beats human welfare any day and this day was no exception.” She nods, there is no vocal confirmation the details have been understood, she clicks away with the camera, the flash illuminating the cavern, the echo resounding from the brickwork, algae dense, dark and fetid. “Spooky eh sis, your right. Got to be some wayward spirits in here.” Tom stops abruptly, pensively peering into the gloom, eyes squinting trying to get clear focus. He grabs his sisters arm. “What the hell was that?” He whispers aiming his torch at her face. “You hear that, something moving up there Jessie.” She screams involuntary and moves unconsciously behind her brother.

“What is it Tom?” She whimpers cradling her bag like it’s the greatest comfort against something unimaginable. She turns. “I’m out of here, this is all too much.”

He realises his error. “Sorry it’s just a bad joke. Shouldn’t have done it. There’s nothing there – honest. I made it up.” He chirps putting his arm around her, calming agitated nerves. “Come here, give us a cuddle, not far now.”

Something suddenly creates momentum up ahead, in the thick darkness where brickwork meets ballast, rustling, dragging gravel, laboured motion through stagnate pools of water, distant murmur, muffled and droning and then light. The tunnel bends, the siblings look at each other confused in their own torch light, halting their movement, looking for peace in their endeavour. The camera flashes, there is nothing to see, all goes quiet, then a single voice in the distance.

“Who’s there?” Running feet gaining ground, nearer and nearer. The flash explodes again, two men stand at the apex of the corner, their torches grounded, heavy coats cover bulky torsos. “What you doing here?” Shouts one of the men, the other moves forward at a pace something heavy in his right hand that moves violently as he strides ahead. “You need to get out now or we’ll shift you out.” Shouts the nearer of the two men.

“A short cut,” shouts Tom nervously.

“No short cut for you fella or the girly.” Screams the man looking like an ominous gargoyle as his torch flashes across his face. “Get yourselves out . . . now. How’d you come by this?”

“Well the entrance was open and . . .”

“And what?” Shouts the man as he stands menacingly, feet apart, almost expecting combat, the iron in his hand feigning aggression. Jessie says nothing, nervous of the occasion, slouching for cover against her brothers broad frame.

“Hey steady on mate. What is this? We only want to see the viaduct. Put that bar down, we aint about to get rough right?” Explodes Tom, agitated adrenaline heightening his survival instincts.

The two strangers stand side by side in the gloom in unity, unpassable, their torch beams scanning the tunnel ceiling like searchlights in an historic sky.

“Come on – shift it. Let’s move,” demands one of the men.

Tom starts to move forward, his sister keeping close behind, fearful something is about to explode. “Okay, okay.” He says caving to hostile pressure.

“It’s not safe mate. There’s been a shift in the structure further up. Ceiling bricks collapsed, the water ingress has faulted some major damage.” Explains one man using pleasant tones. The other moves forward, the torch light shows a strong angular face, longer than usual hair hanging to his collar, a moustache, broad and heavy covers his upper lip. It’s impossible to see his mouth move when he talks.

“Vagrants sometimes come in here, especially in winter. Keeps ‘em dry. Once found a body, not pretty, been here for weeks. The rats had had a go at it, they only knew who it was by their teeth, so we keep a look out see every few weeks when we check the tunnel structure for internal deterioration.”

Up ahead the exit shines bright like a vision of heaven against the foul darkness of the tunnel, the door moves back and forth in the flowing air almost sending morse code in its agitation. It bangs intermittently against its fixings.

“They’re reinforcing this next week so it’ll block the place up good from the likes of you and vagrant types wandering in, so you better find another way around mate.”

Tom drops his guard, his overstated nerves abate, he sees the second character, the taller man smiling walking towards them, he guesses he’s probably in charge.

“We just want some pictures,” states Tom changing his stance on the gravel bed, “for a book we’re doing about a tragedy that happened . . . “

The tall man interrupts abruptly. “In 1948, the quarry workers yeh? Bad business that,” he says grinning like he’s got secrets to tell.

“You know it then,” adds Tom impressed he’s been fortunate to find someone of knowledge.

The stranger gets closer. “ Should do, my father was the train driver, that’s why I do this job to make sure accidents like that never happen again.” They walk towards the light, Tom and the tall man Frank in conversation. Jessie lags behind silently, keeping abreast with the other younger man with long hair and moustache. A multitude of feet press down on wet gravel as they walk, the sound a cacophony like the oak beams of a galleon twisting and straining in the cold ocean. “It never came out. The truth that is. Properly.” Frank says letting loose a personal opinion.

“Why not?” Ask Tom puzzled there maybe a new angle to develop. “What happened?”

“It shouldn’t have been there. The train. It was an extra journey the bosses laid on to get the ironstone out. The lorry driver never saw it coming, never heard the whistle either, I guess, as he was struggling to get the heavy wagon over the lines as the clutch was playing up and he couldn’t get the thing moving over the raised rail bed. But it should have been safe for at least another hour or so as there was no train due according to the timetable, but it wasn’t safe was it? And there was no time for the train to stop because you don’t see the crossing until you’re almost on it. There should have been a phone there so that anyone can check with the local station to make sure the line is safe or call for help. But no, additional cost, inconvenience and expense to run the thing, so they said it wasn’t needed, then to save face the rail company blamed the wagon driver for the accident said he should have called for help, or stopped the train. But tell me how on earth was he supposed to do that – here in the middle of nowhere? It was an unbelievable miscarriage of justice. The company was at fault and fully responsible for adding the extra train with no communication for the change. Got ‘em off the hook though eventually, so there was no compensation to pay and zero damage to their corporate reputation.” He stops and studies Tom for several seconds then continues. “You see, big business today can overcome all corporate responsibility. They can blame the underdog, the guys with little backing, limited resources, no way of battling or beating these giants. So the truck driver took most of the blame for it. He was innocent, but dad couldn’t live with the deaths of those thirteen men on his hands knowing the real truth of the tragedy and couldn’t gain any momentum to force the law to open a full inquest, though he tried with everything he had. He thought his death might spark a proper inquiry, but that got buried too. So everything was pushed under the carpet, hidden like it never happened.” He stops walking and grabs Tom’s arm bringing him to a halt. “You gonna expose this?” He says as a command not a question with a face as chiselled as granite.

“That’s the idea, you gotta know I hate these people as much as you do but for different reasons and you’ve just given me a whole bunch of new evidence and details to use in the narrative with your permission. Whether it will  get published with your incriminating testimony is not guaranteed. There will be monitoring, censorship to deal with. Publishers are not gonna risk liable claims Frank, so we might have to water down the truth somewhat to get it into print.” He says with an apology. The other man looks away and shakes his head in disgust.

“No-one has the balls anymore to speak the truth, we all look the other way with indifference. Those families lost loved ones, they should have got damages, claims should have been made, but no-one had the guts to fight for them. It’s a disgrace mate, they were robbed of everything because of corporate shit . . . someone should have taken a gun to them, that’s what should have happened?”

“I’m gonna do my best,” says Tom. “Give it my best shot, try kick some ass, but it might be out of my hands in the end.” They walk into the bright light of the morning, the mist finally burnt away by the sun. Tom gets the names of the two men and phone numbers to call should he need them. Apparently Frank Morton has documents and old photographs from the tragedy that might come in useful. Jessie takes more shots from the outside, the two strangers loom large and aggressive in a number of portraits and geographical shots taken around the exterior of the tunnel. They walk on leaving the men to their work and disappear once more into the undergrowth of track abandonment.

Jessie looks down, it’s a huge drop to the base of the viaduct, maybe a hundred feet. She steps back from the edge, part of the parapet is gone, decayed over the years from northern weather and lack of repair. It traverses a small ravine, way below is a river, shallow in depth meandering its path between the arches of the viaduct. There is no sign of activity on the bridge, a small trail criss-crosses between the long grass drawn to seed by the sheltered sun of a warm summer. Sheep most likely graze, the feed luxuriant and rich, there are small shrubs blossoming towards the colour washed sky and nests cradling young Robins and butterflies flitting, developing wings, looking for flowers, looking for nectar.

“It’s idyllic Tom? Have you ever seen anything prettier? The landscape over the valley is breathtaking? This train ride in its day must have been beautiful. This scenery. The view.” She points across the low wall into the distance. “Look nothing but fields. No houses, no villages, just sheep and cattle, it’s like going back a thousand years,” she adds looking at Tom with blissful eyes and a radiant smile. It’s the first time he has witnessed her smile in weeks. Their own tragedy has weighed heavy on her shoulders, Tom has managed to be resilient to the outcome. Pragmatic in his thought process. Shit happens, it’s not true that it only happens to everyone else, but it’s left a huge hole, something Tom can deal with, Jessie on the other hand has lost her best friend and role model. The twin components in her existence that cannot be replaced. She’s at base level struggling to crawl out of a pit of bewilderment.

“Do you think the train driver thought that when he leapt to his death just feet from where you’re standing?” Says Tom feeling agitated. It’s a question he’s forced to ask, it’s partly the reason they are standing here.

Jessie turns on her brother, the smile gone. “Don’t spoil the moment for God’s sake. I’m looking at the beauty of the place not the disastrous elements you want to conjure up. It’s a wonderous place isn’t it and I can picture the rails crossing the viaduct, hear the train as it pushes out from the tunnel, with steam and smoke swirling like it’s on fire. Some sort of mechanical demon looking for new souls to devour. Wasn’t it once a magnificent piece of architecture Tom, and now it’s just forgotten, slowly taken apart by nature. A piece of lost history, a modern pasture for sheep and wildlife? Beeching has a lot to answer for, closing all these beautiful rural lines, maybe some private investors could open them up again, you know get punters to fall in love with the age of steam all over again. How good would that be?” She laughs knowing the reality of the suggestion is too simplistic to undertake in today’s economic climate.

“Sometimes Jessie I just . . .” He says shaking his head with a cynical smile.

“Come on Tom lets run, last one across is a cissy. Still got my legs. You wanna try and beat me. No chance pal.” She sets off, camera secured in her right hand, the bag holding her precious accessories slapping at her hip. Tom falters for a second then sets off like the wind, his long summer coat flowing behind him like wings reducing his speed across the tufted grass, dragging over bush and brambles.

“Ghost.” It’s a statement not a question Jessie says as she scans the photo’s picked up earlier that morning from the developers in the town just ten miles down the road from where they are staying. She looks at one in particular, a dingy internal shot of the tunnel. Tom peers over her left shoulder curious at the comment that suddenly came out of the blue.

“What ghost, there’s no such thing? It’s just some grainy texture on the film from the lack of light in the tunnel. Remember you had the aperture setting high. You said this might happen.”

“I hate to challenge your theory Tom, but that’s a head and legs in my opinion, even if the effect is smoky and almost indistinguishable, but that definitely looks like a figure and that’s really shitting me up thinking that was in the tunnel with us. I said it was creepy in there, now I know why.” She says looking around at her brother suddenly feeling nervous. “What if it’s followed us here for Christ’s sake?”

“Nah it can’t be. Give it here a minute.” He says taking the photo from his sisters hand and looking at it for several seconds, moving in and out of the light to try refine the image features. “Well, on closer inspection, you got a point sis, there is something there I reckon, it aint just mist or water on the photo is it, unless there’s something wrong in the development?”

“It’s a figure Tom, look closer, see the hat, the dungarees he’s wearing. That’s a ghost of a man, I’m telling you. A train driver?” She puts the photo back on the table with the rest of the bundle and shivers. “Don’t get me back in there Tom. I’ve had it with that dark depressing place. You don’t think the two guys we met there . . . ?”

“Give up Jess,” he interrupts tapping her gently on the shoulder. “It’s just your imagination running wild. Of course they were real. I’ve got their numbers and everything.”

“Well I ain’t going back. No way brother. I’m done with that tunnel.” She demands finally.

“No need to. I got what I need and more and besides while you were doing a bit of shopping I rang Frank Morton and arranged to meet him Friday tea down at the Punch Bowl in town. Says he’s got documents from the court case, witness statements, affidavits and pictures taken at the time he’d like to show us. So you see we have the son of the deceased train driver on board and . . . maybe, just speculation mind, the ghost of his father but we can fathom that out when we meet.” He jumps around the kitchen in excitement, his mind going wild with all the new angles the story seems to be gaining with each new day, thoughts beyond his control, a stroke of absolute luck he cannot believe. He stops. “Jesus sis can you believe this, we are definitely onto a winner here? Someone is giving us a big helping hand here.”

Tom sits back down at the table and tenderly hold his sisters hand, he needs to be persuasive. “You’d like to visit the viaduct again right? You said how beautiful it was and today is a sunny warm morning. Perfect,” he gestures through the lounge window moving his arm in an arc in presentation of the outside world. “The sun is in an ideal position, the world is glorious and everything in life is wonderful. So I’d like to get some more pictures Jess, that’s okay right? A bit more brightness against all the gloom we’re dragging up, it will lighten up the narrative. I don’t want page after page of despair and heartache and I think a few good photo’s will lift it, give it some bounce, you know for the publisher and the readers to consume.” He says hoping his sister will take the bait following the previous evenings discussions where she had fallen into a morbid depression after seeing the ghost in the picture, thinking about her lost parents. Would they be watching from above, she thought, or had they not passed over after the accident, waiting, seeking vengeance, ghosts themselves, lost in a sensile purgatory of their own making. She had shivered, felt grossly troubled and gone to bed without further chatter. Tom could hear the chocking sobs through the bedroom door, but chose not to intervene, her grief personal, devastating her emotions. He knew the healing would be long and arduous, maybe reconciliation to normality would become an incomplete process? The death of parents hits everyone hard, turns everything upside down. She was lost, emotionally numb. He tried the empathy stance to comfort her when the darkness took over, it was a battle he wasn’t liable to win, she choked on the emptiness and disappeared into a void of limited communication unable to think or make simple decisions. He had to help, tried his best to help, but found it limiting in reality, he prayed this project would be the catalyst to release her from loss and distraction.

The old Cortina started, one turn of the key was enough. Tom always prayed it wouldn’t let them down, he felt someone was guiding, watching over them, protecting, unlike the afternoon his mother and father were killed instantly by a reckless drunk driver six times over the legal limit of alcohol consumption. It was a Wednesday, 2.15 in the afternoon, the day only halfway through and already drink saturated through the blood stream of a man, capable of nothing but staggering to a death machine in a pub car park and talking incoherently to friends who hadn’t the bottle or sense to remove the keys from his hand. ‘I can drive, I’m fine okay,’ he’d slurred aggressively as mysterious hands tried to locate several locks on his out of focus car door ‘No problem, just Ieave me the hell alone or you’ll feel my fist,’ witness’s heard as he fell against the side of the car looking to hold onto something solid, to take the strain from crumbling limbs. Tom paused a moment to relive the agony, they never knew what hit them, a side swipe through a red light pushed them into the path of an oncoming heavy goods vehicle that would never stop. Wrecked car, wrecked lives, a wagon driver ejected through his windscreen and fired over the smashed car following the impact and slammed into the oily grit and grain of the tarmac, until the drag of his clothes brought him to rest fifty yards later. He would never walk again. The drunk driver unhurt, pleaded innocence at the scene declaring the car shouldn’t have been there. That’s when the rage started, the death of two innocents, a badly injured wagon driver and a stupid drunk unable to see his error or apologise. At the first court hearing all the attendants saw him smiling, even laughing when pleading not guilty. He shouted, cajoling the judge that ‘two old ‘ens shouldn’t have been in his way.’ Tom livid with fury exploded in the court room with a venom he had no idea he could muster, vowed in public that there would be recriminations to deal with, accusations to put to rights and threats that the guilty would have a price to pay. Jessie became lost in a dark hole of despair and was unable to speak for several days. The judge warned him against his outburst in court, Tom could laugh about it now, it seemed irrelevant to all the other crap in his life, but at the time his verbal rant was considered unacceptable in a British court of law.

They drove quietly into the undergrowth of sunny pastoral terrain that beckoned them with its fields of vibrant rainbow flowers and grassy stems chocked with wildlife. It was perfect, a moment of sheer delight, but moments pass, yet history remains to blight the darkness in memories that fester beneath the surface of decency. Tom’s mind wandered like a searching bee, as the heat of the sun tortured his thoughts to past times and the evolution of his sister. Jessie was married once, but it didn’t last. Three years in fact, almost to the day. Her husband left said he couldn’t cope with her moods and anxiety, but had he really tried to help her? Tom grimaced at the thought. No he had not, there was no patience or concern over her condition, no kindly communication or understanding, just words of failure and reproach. It had not helped her, only made the fragile situation a tender blister about to burst. And it did, a vitriolic outburst from a mouth only known for gentle persuasion gushed abuse the man had not heard before. She went to the bedroom in anger and frustration and slammed the door putting the final bricks in a barrier that had been slowly rising for almost the whole of their married life. He packed a suitcase the following day, without words of genuine help or affection and left. Jessie found him some weeks later in a semi-detached house with another woman and her two children. Her determination was to never trust another man again, he had been visiting that house for months according to some whistleblowing acquaintance. Jessie took everything, her husband left empty handed with a few trinkets and a broken conscience into the arms of a ready-made family.

Tom on the other hand, an evangelical bachelor was married only to steam and the art of written narrative, he had however, succumbed momentarily to engagement and the acceptance of a future marriage, but she called it off rather abruptly claiming he was self-centred, distant and thoughtless and in her wild opinion truly unresponsive to the quest of matrimonial bliss. He profoundly agreed, stating he was only going along with it for good measure and in true expression and concern there was never any potential in it he said and they parted ways, in the friendliest of manners. Tom sniggered at his lucky escape from wedlock and looked across at his sister in the passenger seat, quiet, contemplative, her thoughts hidden behind a mask of secrecy pulled like a second skin across her weary features. But he loved her, more than he cared to admit, she was everything and all that he had left. Her mental state and welfare was all that mattered. Any love interests he might have with the opposite sex were secondary to steam and affection for his sister.

  “We can make this work eh, you and me sis?” Questioned Tom as they trudged through heavy undergrowth and laden trees following a new route since the closing of the tunnel. He had studied the map, prepared the path in his mind, it was not far, maybe another half hour and they should be there. He looks at her as they walk, moving branches with his hands as independent feet stumble over tufted grass and reed beds in the low-lying earth. “We got unique pics, a piece of untold history to die for, no pun intended and whatever Frank Morton brings to the meet tomorrow night and my bet is it’s gonna be dynamite, so you see its all-good sis. He says he has a fist full of docs and other stuff we can have if it fits our storyline and he’s only after a name check – that’s it. So hey, give me a smile will ya?”

She looks back at him lost in confused reflection, her face a picture of sorrow. “I keep seeing them Tom, at night, they come in lucid dreams. Carefree laughing faces peering through a shattered windscreen, not a worry in the world and then bang, an explosion in my head with blood showering everywhere like rain and their faces changing as I watch, shifting in slow motion, almost unrecognisable as the ruptured flesh and sinew drops into their laps leaving just skulls with petrified eyes and slack jaws that clack and splutter. They’re just talking, you know, mum and dad, like nothing has happened. I see their faces everywhere, in windows, creeping out from behind random trees, even in my cereal bowl. I don’t know what to do Tom, I can’t cope and then there’s the end of the trial and sentencing coming up in a few weeks’ time, it’s all driving me nuts, I can’t even think straight. And what if that man gets away with it? What if the jury comes out on his side, says he’s right and our mum and dad were in the wrong. What then? This constant pressure and anxiety is killing me. I need some help you know Tom before I crack up completely.” She stares straight through her brother, eyes are glazed, tears rolling, she is lost in an emotional timebomb of stinging pain. He puts his wide arms around her, hugs her solidly like a bear, strokes the back of her hair as if she’s a weeping child that’s grazed its knee.

“He won’t, there’s no way he’ll get off with this. The barrister was positive about that.” He says trying to draw comfort in positive thinking. After a few seconds she pulls away, releasing his tight grip with a face stoney, a mind deep in thought, fixated by grief and emptiness.

“But the defence stated there were mitigating factors, maybe new evidence?” She bursts out with some anger. “What you say might be wrong, what if defence sways the jury, it could happen? What then eh? Our parents guilty of their own deaths. It could be a harsh reckoning Tom for both of us and I could never deal with that. I need to get out of here.” She turns and starts to walk back across the brush and scrub of the hidden path.

Tom grabs her quickly spinning her around. “No, no Jess. Wait. We got each other. We need to be strong right now together. It’s hurting me just as much, it’s just that I’m hiding it behind this mask of whatever. It’s breaking me up as well sis. No denying it, but let’s finish this and then go see someone after, that can help us right? Get our minds in a better place. That make sense? I’m with you forever, always on your side, you know that being strong for you,” he says tugging her arm and gently pulling her closer. He holds her face in his hands and affectionately kisses her gently on the cheek. “Come on, look at the sun, the birds. There’s beauty her sis, we just gotta find it. Let’s get them pictures yeh?” He says finally. She looks at him closely, believing, trusting the elements of nature and her inner mantra, tears streaming from eyes teaming with pain and sorrow. She nods and they walk on silently.

Through the trees the sun casts dynamic pillars of light on hidden undergrowth, the scene is astonishing like an old English costume drama where the film colour is turned to maximum, it dazzles them both with its dramatic intensity. Blinding, luminous, almost like a tunnel into a hidden lair of virgin foliage. Jessie clicks away with her camera taking picture after picture, accessing every angle looking for the most striking of shots. They have not come across the viaduct. Tom thinks they have missed it, taken the wrong path somewhere several hundred yards back.

“We’re lost aren’t we Tom, you’ve no idea where we are and, of course, left the map in the car?” Jessie begs sarcastically spinning the film onto the next shot in readiness.

“Nah, don’t think so. It’s just a slight miscalculation. We’ll come across it up here any time soon, you’ll see,” he replies unconvincingly with a rub of the chin and a flick of mocking eyebrows. The small wood of trees suddenly breaks out into a path of trodden dirt, its dry and heavily used, the flowers and grass at its edges wilting, turning brown, dying. Adjacent to the path a single rail track disappears into the distance, there are buildings up ahead with smoke circling from a lonely chimney pot nestled quietly into the backdrop of rolling hills and the hidden moorland. “Well, there’s a surprise.” He says hunkering down to touch rust covered rails. “And I’ll be blowed a station up yonder. Wasn’t expecting that sis.” He adds struggling to bring into focus the buildings and empty platforms in the distance. “Got to have a look at that eh, it might throw some more light onto our quest. Come on get a move on, more hidden surprises maybe?”

The dirt path leads onto a platform facing them on the left of the track, there’s a small iron bridge, rust bursting through the rough maroon and cream colour scheme that spans the two platforms and connects to the station buildings on the other side. Tom and Jessie climb the steps and cross over, the boards beneath their feet creak and groan, the wood worn away revealing points of decay as they gingerly make their passage. Jessie clicks away the camera with the sun behind her, the view is perfect, the images bright and clear in the lens viewfinder. She changes the film, stuffs the used roll into a plastic film container and stows it away in her precious bag. The waiting room door is ajar, inviting and Tom peers inside looking for some activity amongst the quiet momentum of the station buildings. There is a fire in the grate at the end of the room, roaring up the chimney in the heat of an August afternoon, sparks flick onto the hearth, flames crackle and burst from the glowing embers as the siblings step inside. A man stands erect next to the fire, his back facing the two visitors. He doesn’t turn as they come inside and close the door. Tom opens his mouth about to ask a question, the camera flash explodes behind him several times, but the man speaks before Tom has chance to direct his voice.

“It’s always cold up here, it’s the wind you know,” he says quietly rubbing his hands towards the heat of the flames. “Perishing weather on the moor, can’t seem to get warm these days.” He says still looking deep into the blaze roaring at his feet. Tom notes the uniform and hat perched tightly on his head and thinks he must be part of the station staff. Jessie sides up to her brother and pulls a conspicuous face and whispers in his ear out of range of the other man.

“It’s August Tom and a warm day at that,” she says gently nudging his arm with her elbow. Tom looks at her and pulls one of his puzzled expressions with a furrowed brow and twisted mouth.

“I guess he has a low tolerance to cold then – I don’t know,” he reflects walking towards the man at the fire. “Excuse me,“ he says softly over the man’s shoulder.

He turns to face Tom and speaks again. “Can I help you at all? Jack Asquith station master at your service sir. Just warming the blood for a moment or two whilst I wait. Parky out today sir?”

“The weather today suits me just fine thanks, but I was wondering.“ Tom hesitates instantly recognising the familiar gold braid on his uniform and hat denoting his position. He looks across at his sister who’s now seated on one of the wooden benches that stretches down either side of the waiting room. “Is there a train due anytime soon?” He says excitedly, unaware that the rail line was still in use.

“Oh yes sir,” says the station master. “On the hour, every hour here at Moorland Cross sir, serving the community, serving industry. A right busy line this sir I must say.” He adds turning back towards the fire.

“When’s it due, the next one?” Tom asks.

“Oh soon, any time now sir, any time at all.” The station master replies as he looks at his pocket watch, checking the time, then begins to buttons up his open jacket top. “Must go, duty calls I’m afraid. Glad of the chat though, been quiet round here lately, not like the old days eh? Troops coming and going, saying their farewells to family and friends. A right hub of activity it was. Quiet now though.” He says opening the door of the waiting room, half leaving and then turns back to the two visitors . “Parky out today, you should have overcoats in this weather,” he says finally, noting the sparse summer clothing of Tom and Jessie.

“One other thing,” says Tom as the station master takes a step outside. “Are we on the right track for the viaduct? We seem to have missed our way.”

“The viaduct?” He replies with a puzzled expression fiddling with the whistle tied around his neck.

“Yes, the old viaduct at the end of the railway tunnel where the accident happened.”

“An accident, you say. Oh my, I didn’t know. Was it bad . . . the accident then? Must be on the other line sir, about a mile through the trees. Just follow the path, can’t miss it for sure,” he says and then is gone through the door that closes with a bang caught by the wind and a sudden draft of cold air. Tom and Jessie pause briefly and then return outside into the warmth of the afternoon, the station master is nowhere to be seen, he must have disappeared into his office to attend to the on-coming train. There are no other staff present to accept the locomotive or passengers waiting to board. The station platforms are empty, the atmosphere calm but strange. They walk on towards the old iron bridge. Tom looks back the place is deserted. He thinks he hears a whistle blow somewhere down the line. Jessie turns and checks where her brother is and steps onto the bridge. Tom’s not sure if she heard the sound or not.

The vista across the viaduct suddenly opens up before them, it looks more glorious and defined than before as the warmth of the August sun has launched a myriad of late flowers into shape, their colours sparkle, attentive butterflies and bees hover and nibble gaining their fill of nature’s harvest. Within seconds Jessie is clicking away, photo after photo, enhancing the beauty with several filters and exposure settings. She is in her element and Tom notes the renewed vigour in her work stance, the look of joy on her tired face. It makes him smile, he is happy that she is happy, the manner of her presence blossoming wildly like the gentle waving flowers she sits in the midst of, holding court with a camera, delighting in the bosom of the earth. He watches her, doesn’t speak, lets her work uninterrupted. The hours pass, the sun fades, the clouds draw in and dampen the earth with dewy moisture. Time to leave.

The Cortina refuses to start, the moment Tom feared has finally arrived. It cranks and splutters, coughs and groans under duress but will not spark into life.

“What now?” He says despondent that twilight is seeping through the trees, shadowing the land into a misty gloom. “It had to happen now. We’re miles from anywhere and nowhere near our digs sis. It’ll take all night to walk back there and I didn’t notice a telephone box on the way here. So what do we do now?” Tom adds looking at his sister sat primly in the passenger seat, camera bag on her lap as if it holds all the personal treasures she owns.

“The station,” she suddenly declares to Tom with a glimpse of childish surprise spread across her face. “Moorland Cross, that’s the answer Tom, there’s gonna be a telephone there? We can try get some help or maybe a tow from one of the local farmers. The station master has to know some kindly folk in the nearby villages? It’s worth a try.”

“Of course sis. Brilliant idea. Didn’t think of that one.” Tom gets out of the car and slams the door in defeat not bothering to lock it as he heads once more into the shadowy mass of foliage that surrounds them at the roadside. Jessie is a few steps behind him as she tries to keep up with his vigorous stride, her mind wanders into the consuming landscape, has thoughts of attentive ghosts and sinister creatures that scurry behind trees and dwell in the darkest hollows of the earth. She quickens her pace realising Tom is almost invisible in the secret shadows as he powers onward in the fading light of dusk. Within minutes the station suddenly appears as the two siblings clear the woods and fall into a clearing, lights and smoke in the distance, an all too familiar view as Tom remembers the scene from a few hours before. An owl hoots somewhere, other birds finalise their bedtime routine. Tom cannot register it’s origin, it could all be close or in the far distance, it could be the call of a lonely steam locomotive. He cannot tell, the noise confusing and muffled and muted by the depth of the woodlands and the rolling hills that pervade the terrain.

“Is that it?” He says looking at Jessie wondering how they managed to arrive at Moorland Cross so quickly. “I thought it was like miles away not just a couple of minutes walking through the wood. How come it was so far away last time? It took ages to get there. We must have gone a  longer way round I guess?”

Jessie pulls up the hood of her coat, pushing her long hair back inside the cover as a shiver jolts through her body. Her eyes dart from side to side, she looks around, hunting in the dim light, searching for something. She doesn’t know what, but nerves tickle in her stomach, the atmosphere is eerie, sticky with foreboding. The lights in the distance buildings brighten guiding the two explorers to a potential rescue.

“This is all a bit odd Tom, it’s making me very uneasy to be honest. I’m really not happy. I’ve got that ‘want to run’ feeling again. I’m only doing this ‘cos they must have a telephone to contact the main station and signal box, so hopefully we can get some help, other than that I’d stay in the car, I’d feel happier,” she says, eyes still hunting in the undergrowth as they walk.

“I’ve got it too Jess, spooky I know but it’s just the whisper of the trees and the shadows of the moon casting their eerie spell on us. You should quit watching those horror films and put on something with a bit more warmth and humour.” He steps forward out of the clearing onto the dirt track they followed before. “Get a move on lass, I’m freezing in this cold air. That fire with be a friendly treat to calm our emotional madness.”

Once again they cross the bridge, it creaks and groans as if acknowledging their presence and they file into the bright lights of the waiting room with its welcoming hues of brown, maroon and cream and its lingering smell of worn and well-trodden planking under foot. The station master stands with his back to them warming his hands, he doesn’t say anything or register their sudden appearance.

“Good evening, we meet again and I was hoping you might be able help us, we have a slight automobile issue?” Says Tom surprised to see the man standing immediately before him. The station master turns slowly, looking unemotionally at his two guests and speaks without recognition, leisurely taking the pocket watch from his waistcoat.

“Parky out sir, need to wrap up well this time of year I must say. Just warming myself while I wait,” he says looking down at the old-time piece hanging from its fob, monitoring the position of the hands without thought that he had conversed with this same pair a few hours earlier.

“Excuse me,” pipes up Jessie suddenly tired and agitated at the lack of urgency. “Have you a telephone we can use to call someone about our car? Do you know anybody, a mechanic or farmer maybe,” she shakes her head in anticipation of the attention and reply, “that can help get us back on the road? We know it’s late, but the station is open and . . .”  

“Jack Asquith, station master at your service miss, been in this business a long time now serving the community, serving industry.” He glances down at his watch again, closes the cover noting the time on its face. “There’ll be one along any minute, if you care to wait. On the hour, every hour, serving the community, serving the . . .” Jessie suddenly interrupts quite irate at the man’s nonsense. Tom stares in amazement that his sister has taken up the mantle of confrontation.

“We know that Mr. Asquith, you mentioned it before when we spoke some time back, do you not remember us? We need to use your telephone, you must have one –  a bit of help maybe to save us freezing to death out there.”

Asquith looks into the fire and places the watch back into his waistcoat pocket and peers into the faces of his two visitors. There is no smile, no sense of familiarity, no display of emotion.

“It’s the wind you know miss, off the moor? Parky this time of year. Must go I’m afraid, duty calls. The office has all the administration and paperwork if you care to check off the inventory on the manifest. You’re quite welcome to stay awhile, might take some time to load but it’s warm in here and there’s plenty of coal for the fire. Parky out today I must say.” He moves slowly to the door with a gesture of hands and is quickly lost to the outside in a blast of cold air, the door closing with a shudder. The two look at each other bewildered at the current sequence of events, Tom lets out a puzzled grunt, Jessie sits down and ruffles her long hair lost in anxious thought. 

“What the hell was that?” Asks Tom wildly looking down at his sister and gently touching her hunched shoulders. “Was that the strangest thing ever? Tell me you just saw what I did? Is this some kind of weird Deja vu loop, because if I have any sanity left with everything else that’s going on in our messed-up lives at the moment, then what I just saw with Asquith is evidence we need serious help and a manifest? What’s he on about?”

She looks up at him from her seat tugging at her hair trying to placate her wired emotions and laughs nervously like a child on the brink of hysteria. “I don’t pretend to know Tom, but we need to get the hell out of here before things get anymore weird. All this is pulling me apart and it’s getting stranger and stranger by the hour. Maybe my mind is making me see things, hear things that don’t exist, because I’m not sure, but I am of one thing . . . it’s killing me, I’m breaking up inside bit by bit. You can’t see it Tom, ‘cos I’m pretty good at hiding this suffering, most of the time, but it’s not good this freaky environment for me, I’m verging on melt down right now as we sit here. So can we please find this telephone and then get back to the car before I lose the rest of my mental faculties?”

Tom dials zero from the telephone they find in the main station office, the station master is nowhere to be found, the rest of the place is deserted, feeling eerily empty of life and sound. No-one answers and the line just rings and clicks. Tom presses the cradle several times to try alert the operator, no-one picks up. He says ‘hello’ a dozen time hoping the person on the end is daydreaming or temporarily away from their post, it just rings out with its weary echo.

“It’s dead Jess, no answer. What do we do now?” He says apologetically to his sister who looks deflated and lost in a swirl of dread.

“We can go back to the car,” she offers, “and wait there till morning, but we’ll probably freeze to death in the night or we stay in the waiting room till it gets light, which I don’t want to do and then walk to some nearby house for help. The station master ain’t gonna sort us out, he’s like the invisible man? Now you see him and puff . . . he’s gone.”

“Okay, let’s just stay put, you need to deal with it as best you can sis? Go back to the waiting room and get warm and I’ll have one last look around for the station master. He can’t be far away. Maybe he has some transport we can borrow. A long shot but worth a try eh? Stay calm if you can sis, it’s gonna be okay. Nothing to worry about just a hiccup and we’ll be out of here by morning at the worst right?” They both depart the office, Tom strolls along the platform, shouting for Asquith as a mass of human shadows drift through the gloom of the yellow lights as darkness descends on Moorland Cross. Jessie shivers at the thought of spending more hours in this desolate predicament, nervous tremors rumble through her system and vivid spikes of worried negativity crash her fragile mind. Tom returns empty handed, lacking any news. They both sit opposite each other on the hard wooden benches, deflated, Tom with his head in his hands, Jessie leaning back, head against the upper boards of the bench. She clutches her camera bag, it’s something to hold onto, a safety blanket, an emotional comfort in trying times. A possession most treasured other than intense memories of her parents, consoling and comforting her in times of need and depression when all curled up, foetal on her bed unable to move, or think, a black hole of despair surrounding her as wide as a canyon. That was a long time ago, times have changed, she has changed and Tom is there like a sentinel leading the way, her forever human safety blanket giving light to the dark passages of life. She smiles briefly knowing that he has given up so much of his time and life to be her one true friend and guardian. There are no words she can think of to express her infinite gratitude.

“How come he just disappears? Do you think he has a house around the corner and nips off home for a brew?” Tom says raising his head to look at his sister. She is already asleep, head tucked into the corner groove of the bench. Hopefully she can sleep the whole night he thinks, even if it’s fitful, it’s better that hours of worry and drama. The fire roars in the grate, spitting and glowing brightly as the internal draught fans the flames. He doesn’t recall putting any more coal into the opening or seeing anyone else provide it with additional fuel, it must be something he didn’t notice and puts the thought to one side as the warmth of the atmosphere lulls him into a drifting sensation of abstract thoughts and random questions. His eyelids droop, shadows creep, the lights fade into a deep yellow as the seconds pass. The dusty wooden boards of the floor, knotted and irregular with wear appear like rusty rails disappearing into a distant fiery furnace that rages with anger and destruction. He awakes with a jolt as if he’s been coerced from sleep by heavy sound. There are people in the room. Mr. Asquith and several others crowding the heat of the fire, coats draped, dropping water onto the floor, shoulders white with snow. One man shakes his hat, the slush goes everywhere, another closes her umbrella, water stains the dry boards dark brown. “Damn weather,” says one man to his friend. “Be glad when spring comes, this cold is troubling my bones.”

“Parky out sir,” the station master pipes up looking at no one in particular. “The wind off the moor?” He says turning to confront another well-dressed man of about fifty, his trilby at a jaunty angle on his head, overcoat buttoned tightly to his neck and a cigarette hanging from a moustachioed mouth. “Yes sir,” he acknowledges, “there’ll be one along any minute now. On the hour, every hour, serving the community, serving industry.” Tom sees him looking at his pocket watch and in his startled brain knows exactly what the next phrase will be. He has no idea if this is reality or purely a dream he has woken inside of. He puts his fingers in his ears, tries to clear the fuzz of sound. The general drone of conversation is unnerving, he watches the station master, sees his mouth open and close, knowing the words he’s saying as he closes the lid of the watch, inserts it back in his pocket and leaves through the waiting room door in a swirl of white flakes and a blast of northern cold. A sudden glare of brilliant light and noise bursts into his head, he jerks with the shock and opens his eyes, it’s daylight, the clock on the wall reports its 6.43 am, the fire at the far end of the room roars intensely, the flames chasing up the chimney, sparks cascading onto the stone hearth at its feet. He rubs his eyes, the dream a distant play, fading, becoming remnants of a pictorial pastiche he has no idea was ever real or a relived memory from a past life. He moves over to Jessie asleep, lying flat on the old wooden boards of the bench, she looks angelic he thinks and a shame to wake her, but they must move, get back to the car and get it sorted before they waste any further time in this strange room teeming with inuendo, benign hallucinations and dreamy thoughts of fact or possible fiction. Tom has no idea what’s happening, like Jessie his judgement is impaired, emotionally ruined, but he knows the only answer is to leave, and soon, before one step further down the route of uncertainty leads to irreparable damage neither can return from.

Tom places the key gingerly into the ignition of the old Cortina and momentarily waits looking at Jessie in anticipation and fear, praying to an uncertain God that all is well in their world and the damn thing starts. It cranks and coughs with a splutter of intention then bursts into life and Jessie lets out a scream of joy. Tom smiles and nods his head in wonder. “Can you credit that Jess, unbelievable, making us spend a night in that ghostly place. Think this car’s working against us, you know got friends on the other side. Evil friends, bent on taking us on some devilish ride into the unknown.”  He bangs the steering wheel in frustration as Jessie snorts with feelings of disbelief, clutching tightly the camera bag on her lap and looks at Tom intently.

“Let’s get these developed today Tom,” she says suddenly excited, almost forgetting the current turmoil,  wondering what secrets they might reveal. “I’m pretty certain we got some gems in here, they’ll put underlying context into the narrative of your story. You know, help build a more intriguing framework, which is what you want and hopefully we can get them back before we meet Mr. Morton at the Punch Bowl tonight and see what goodies he brings to the party.”

At 6.10pm Tom and Jessie are standing at the entrance of the pub waiting for the main door to open. It’s been a long arduous day, they are in need of something to liven their minds and expectations. A refresher, a reviver, something strong to numb and wash away the damning fortunes of the day that endlessly circle around them like vultures on a frantic road. Once inside Jessie heads to a window booth overlooking the street. It gives her comfort, the viewpoint into an alternative world of normality, so far removed from her own. Tom strolls to an empty bright bar and the smiling face of an eager barman and orders their drinks. Several other customers venture through the door and start to chat – friends meeting, needing to off load the pressures of the day, wash the dirt and grime from their throats. Frank Morton appears and hovers in the doorway looking around the room, it’s now 6.25 pm. He spots Tom and Jessie immediately and walks over greeting them with a nod of his head, they are both silent feeling jaded from the days turmoil.

“Glad you made it Mr. Morton,“ says Tom rising from his seat. “What can I get you from the bar?” He asks gesturing him to sit at their table.

“A pint of Red Barrel, that’s pretty safe here, some of the other beers at this place are pretty crap to be honest. Thanks, by the way.” He sits down next to the window and pulls out some papers from his inside jacket pocket and places them on the table in front of them. “I sifted through what I had and thought these might be useful. A chunk of official documentation always fits well in a book I guess, gives it gravitas, some authenticity,” he says to Jessie fiddling with some envelopes and what looks like old photographs.

“We really appreciate you helping us out with this Mr. Morton,” says Jessie taking a small sip from her glass of gin and tonic, her camera bag nestled against the window as the last of the afternoon sunshine warms the air around them. “It’s Tom’s project really, he’s the passionate one I’m just along for the ride, a helping hand so to speak. Photography is my line of work, it’s a dire line to tread to be honest, in terms of rewards, but it’s all about the one picture captured at the right moment, that’s what brings the satisfaction in this game, not the money, it’s the accolade.” She states patting the bag. “I have the past couple of days work in here that I managed to get developed quickly so we can look through them with you. Thought it might be interesting as you have some personal history with steam around here and the accident that happened.” Frank nods in agreement as Tom sits back down and hands the man his beer.

“Cheers,” says Tom. “Health and happiness and all that crap to one and all. Let’s hope we have something solid to work on eh, Mr. Morton?”

“Frank, call me Frank please,” he says pushing the papers across the table towards Tom.

“What have we here?” He picks up the bundle lightly as if it contains miniature works of art.

“Years and years ago,” says Frank thinking of the past, “I found these hidden away in my father’s old stuff, but this particular one,” he points to a specific paper in Tom’s hand, “I managed to get hold of personally, and is a transcript of the official inquest following my father’s death. It states categorically, due to his reduced mental capacity and overwhelming and consuming guilt he felt after the death of the workers, suicide was the only verdict and the prime solution to the emotional abyss he’d fallen into and deemed his only escape. That’s interesting as it provides a first-hand account of the aftermath and consequences of the accident, particularly where my father was concerned. The second document belonged to my father, and is a full record of the court hearing regarding charges brought against the rail company for negligence. How he got his hands on it I do not know but here it is, and the detail makes for fascinating reading, particularly the pleading made on behalf of the company. Ultimately, they were exonerated of all responsibility over the incident and blame was placed firmly at the feet of the wagon driver, though there was some degree of negligence attributed to my father, the engine driver for failing to stop. Strange as no charges were ever issued against the corporation, or against my father which would seem odd under the circumstances and suggests perhaps other concerns and pressures, favours possibly, were brought to bear with the prosecuting council and judge? However, that singular fact formed the reason my father took his own life. How do you deal with the knowledge that the law had partly attributed the deaths of those thirteen men at your feet? The answer is overwhelmingly simple, he couldn’t bear that pain and felt there were limited options open to him to quell the suffering he felt. It almost destroyed my mother too. The company provided no help, financially or mentally, they just wished him all the best at the time and left him to his own devices. To be clear there was never any compensation paid to any members of the families of the deceased after the accident or to my mother either. The company owners ventured no apology, didn’t bothering to contact or discuss the incident with either my month or father at any point following the trial. It was disgusting really, shameful the way they acted, destroying a man’s life and reputation without any remorse or consideration, regardless of how that may or may not have affected my mother. It’s a grudge I cannot shift or remove. Years have passed I know, but it’s still there, the hatred, the need for retribution which is why I’m handing these to you both, with nothing in return but an acknowledgement as to ownership of the documents which may cause me some grief later, but right now I don’t give a damn about that. The truth needs telling and I’m trusting that you can try make that happen for the sake of my family and the descendants of all those that died that day.”  

“Appreciated Frank, but as I said the other day we’ll do everything possible to get this story out there. Might be difficult as it’s potentially dynamite and could cause some severe legal recrimination, but we’ll try. Times have changed, so unearthing this might drag up some media speculation.” States Tom placing the papers back on the table being careful not to damage their delicate condition.

“We’re on your side Mr. Morton. Tom has researched this for months, but what you’ve given us opens the door to something else completely. Something incredibly serious that changes the whole aspect of the story.” Jessie adds looking at her brother. “You’d agree on that Tom right?” She says finally.

“Absolutely, this is a big deal and I’ll give you more than pure credit if this story gets into print. Goes without saying Frank. And pictures you’ve brought too I see?”

“More things of my father’s I found after mother passed away.” He looks through them briefly like shuffling a pack of cards. “Most are prints of the train wreck and the smashed-up truck probably taken hours after the accident. The bodies of the deceased, or what was left of them appear to be gone, so there’s nothing gory. I thought they would be relevant to the story and probably unique as they don’t appear to be in the public domain or any newspapers from around that time.” He stops for a second pondering the last of the pictures in his hand. “Oh, didn’t realise I had that one?” He says inspecting the detail before handing the photos over to Tom. “Moorland Cross, now that’s an interesting one.”

“Oh why?” He says taking a gulp from his beer glass before viewing the photo Frank passed across.

Jessie looks up and speaks with a grin of appreciation knowing she will never have to go back to that place again and suddenly feels overwhelmingly safe in the confines of a noisy public house.

“We stayed there last night as a matter of fact, we thought they’d have a telephone to get some help as Tom’s car wouldn’t start. Anyway, nothing worked so we stopped over.” Frank’s beer jerks in his hand, he gags briefly, coughing slightly to clear his throat. The picture trembles in Tom’s hand as he looks at his sister, his mouth open, eyes glazed. “Odd man that Jack Asquith, the waiting room was lovely and warm with  fire roaring in the grate. Funny that as it had been a hot August day.” She adds with a slight puzzled frown.

“1946 Frank, the date on this picture?” It’s one of several questions coursing through Tom’s mind after he turns the photo over and reads the inscription on the back. “Can’t be right?” He queries with a look of disbelief.

Jessie still in a world of her own making stares into space reliving several moments from the previous day.

“Gave me some weird dreams in the night, people coming and going, blasts of snow and icy winds. Glad to see the back of that place, scared me half to death. Got some good shots while we were there, of the station and waiting room.”  

“We were there this morning,” chips in Tom staring at Frank across the table who looks on wide eyed and baffled, because he’s hearing words he doesn’t understand. Situations and events that cannot have taken place.

“You’re mistaken,” he says abruptly not appreciating the rhetoric.

“No, Jess is right, we stayed last night. Chatted with Jack Asquith about trains. ‘one every hour, on the hour, serving community, serving’ . . . “

“It’s not possible,” he interrupts loudly, banging his half empty beer glass down onto the table. It shocks Jessie from her reminiscences.

“What’s going on?” Asks Tom. “I don’t get it, this picture of Moorland Cross? It’s just rubble, like a bomb site.” He laughs looking at his sister for backup. “It’s obviously not the same place, is it?”

“The nameplate on the platform. See it? It’s there, half covered by wood and stone I know but its Moorland Cross. It can’t be any clearer than what you see.” He says forcefully slapping the photo down onto the wet surface of the table. “So believe it and quit with your made-up stories, there’s no purpose to them?”

“No, no, no it’s not possible.” There’s frustration in Tom’s voice as he tries to make the man opposite believe his truth.

“What’s the problem with the picture Tom?” Asks Jessie unaware of what the strong words are about and picks up the old print from the table. She scans the detail and looks up horrified as latent images begin to freeze in her mind’s eye.

“We were there Frank. It’s not a lie. The buildings, the bridge, Jack Asquith all there, all intact, all untouched. Jessie can corroborate that.” He says having difficulty understanding what the other man is trying to tell them.

Frank Morton chews on his lip for a moment taking in the puzzled expressions of the two people sat opposite him and then begins to speak.

“Jack Asquith was keeping himself warm in the waiting room that afternoon. It was bitterly cold, February 1946, snow was falling. Workers were about to move unused munitions held over from the war onto a goods train that was scheduled to arrive anytime. From Moorland Cross they would travel south to a secret destination and be dismantled under expert care in a secure unit. They’d been stored in one of the sheds at the back of the station for a number of years quite safely. Jack should have been out there supervising the operation after the train arrived, that was his sole task, the only important job he had to do that afternoon, but the cold had chilled him through as he waited for the freight train to arrive. So irresponsibly he stayed in the waiting room warming those icy bones leaving inexperienced workers to complete the job. There were some passengers waiting for trains heading to York and the midlands. And it all went wrong.”   

“Went wrong Frank, what do you mean? This picture can’t be . . . there is no station. Like how? Someone rebuilt it then, ‘cos it was okay this morning when we left.” States Jessie quite perturbed at the story Frank Morton appears to be conjuring up from his imagination. “What’s the point of making up stupid stories about Moorland Cross, we’ve got enough on our minds after the murder of our parents and the emotional suffering that’s caused. We don’t need more little tricks and photographic pranks pulled right now. Enough is enough. I’m going outside to get some air.” She stands and looks at Frank with menacing eyes of disbelief, “So stop pissing about with this ridiculous story.” And walks away to the front door clutching her camera bag and disappears outside.

“Frank, Frank,” says Tom exasperated at the other man’s deniable point of view.  “You gotta stop this, she’s already on the edge as it is.” He looks over as Jessie vanishes through the pub doorway. “This court case over the accident with our parents is driving us mad right now – Jess especially. I can’t have her falling into further depression with your ridiculous explanation of events at Moorland Cross. We know it’s lies your saying, but it might just finish her. So can we put this pointless charade behind us and just get back to the details of the quarry accident okay? That’s why we’re here right? So let’s be civil about this whole episode, no need of stories eh?” He says annoyed, fearfully Jessie’s mind could fall into that black hole of despair once again. “We saw it, both of us. The station, the waiting room, we even crossed the old iron bridge, so don’t tell me I’m imagining things, because if you are then your little trick, whatever you’re trying to gain by it is pointless.” 

“There’s no trick, nothing to gain by me telling the truth, there’s no plot or intent on my behalf to unhinge your sister. I’m not employed by anybody from your court case to harass you if that’s what you think. The truth is the truth, plain and simple. You could not have seen what you saw at Moorland Cross as it doesn’t exist. Maybe you’ve endured some lucid dream episodes or emotional hallucinations caused by the distress you’re under? Perhaps medication you’re taking is working against you both, something the doctor’s prescribed, to ease the burden that’s maybe disturbed your perception. You tell me Tom?” Frank Morton curls his fists into balls and rubs his thighs under the table to ease the aggressive mood that’s building in his head. “I can’t be any clearer. The holy truth, on my mother’s grave is that the station is an overgrown ramshackle mess of broken bricks and hateful memories. Something went badly wrong that afternoon in 1946. There was no time for staff or passenger to shelter, no ability to cry for help or say goodbye to their loved ones. Do you understand yet, do you know what this is leading to? The munitions detonated, human error the probable cause. Several massive explosions followed by intense fire ripped through the buildings and sheds tearing them to pieces in seconds. The station was totally destroyed and Jack Asquith, his team and several awaiting passengers died that day. Just gone Tom, obliterated, nothing to find, but the odd burnt piece of cloth or a bit of shoe leather. The place was a fiery furnace, the army came and cordoned it off with a one-mile perimeter that kept curiosity seekers and onlookers out of the way and then officials kept a lid on the whole episode saying it was an unfortunate accident. Formal press information stated it was caused by overheated fertiliser. It’s all bull shit, it has never been investigated, the truth was hidden under a mountain of lies to save face for the military and government.” Tom’s face turns rigid with shock, he downs the remnants in his beer glass and looks around the room trying to focus on reality, thinking maybe this is a parallel universe they’ve entered and is not the normality they inhabit. He looks back at Frank who’s straight faced and calmly leaning back into the brown fake leather seat of the booth his hands pulled from under the table and now in a ball resting on his chin. He gently nibbles his thumb nail thinking.

“It’s your imagination Frank. Something you made up, a story? That’s what this is. But why?” Tom suddenly says aggressively. “All a secret you say, then how do you know, I’ve never heard about this in all my years researching and writing about steam engines and railways. It’s all a pack of lies, stories you’re making up for no good reason that honestly baffles me and it has to stop. Right now! What’s the point of it all, what’s to gain?”

“It came from my mother. You see Jack Asquith was her brother. So can you imagine the turmoil in our lives Tom? Can you fully understand that emotional grief eh, can you? My father – her husband and her brother too – gone. Can you even imagine what effect that had on our family, because I do, it put my mother into an early grave, that’s for sure.” He sits forward and grips Tom’s hand. “So don’t ever talk to me about lies. You were never there at that station either of you. Perhaps that’s some fiction you’ve made up eh? Just between the two of you to provoke me, get a new angle on the story for your stupid book? Maybe it’s just an offset for the fear and alarm we cause you in the tunnel. I wouldn’t put it past the spite of some folks. Moorland Cross no longer exists.”

“It does and I can prove it! Wait there.” Tom get up from his seat and rushes outside. He stays there some minutes coaxing his sister back inside the pub, to the window seat with some reluctance. “Jessie has them. The photo’s, look the ones we took at the station.” He reaches across to take her bag and she snatches it back with a fearful scowl.

“Don’t touch it Tom. It’s mine,” she scolds, knocking his hands away from the precious bag resting squarely on her lap. “Don’t you dare,” she says with a vicious rasp in her throat. “These are mine. My work, my craft and design and don’t you forget that. You construct the words, that’s all . . . so do not interfere.” Frank Morton looks on stunned at the venomous outburst coming from her precious sweet mouth. She pulls the unopened envelopes from the bag, one falls from her grasp and explodes as it knocks over Tom’s empty glass, several photo’s cascade from the packet onto the tabletop in front of them face down. She picks them up as if they are precious metals, holding each one gingerly between her fingertips as if the face of each one is laced with poison. She spreads them out across the table. “Photos of the tunnel and viaduct mostly in this set.” Jessie follows each one with a critical eye, the two men lean inwards to get a closer view. “Rubbish, shit is what these are.” She says forcefully pushing aside several prints. “I told you the place was too damn dark for clean shots, but this one here?” She points to one print and touches Frank’s elbow with her other to focus his attention, “is of you and your friend when we had our angry exchange of words in the tunnel.”

“What’s that?” Says Frank leaning right across the table gesturing to a specific feature on the print Jessie pointed out. “Is that a man next to me. Look, right there?” Tom and Jessie look at each other as they had seen the apparition before in other photographs.

“We think it might be your father Frank? The clothes, the hat, it makes perfect sense that he’s around protecting you. Looking over you, guarding your back.” States Tom looking sideways at his sister who remains silent.

“The ghost of my father you say?  Well that’s as false as your Moorland Cross story. I don’t believe ghosts exist, it’s all smoke and mirrors to make a few quid from life’s unfortunates, so put that back into your sack of shit,” he says dismissing the temptation as an irrelevant proposition. “Ghosts my ass, I have no interest in fake bullshit, just show me Moorland Cross. You saw it, you were there apparently and I said not a grain of truth in it, so show me the evidence,” demands Frank Morton searching for overdue proof.

“This is the set,” says Jessie opening another bundle. She spreads them out on the tabletop for all three to see. “The iron bridge look,” she points with a warm smile of triumph. “Still got its vibrant maroon and cream livery and this one here the north bound platform and access to the waiting room and look it clearly says on the signage Moorland Cross.” She moves a few aside to reveal other photo’s underneath and giggles like a embarrassed schoolgirl. “Look Tom our friend Jack Asquith in the waiting room and the glorious fire roaring in the grate. I can almost hear him saying ‘on the hour, every hour.’ So there you have it Mr. Morton, photographic evidence surely cannot lie,” she says nudging her brother with that smug ‘I told you so’ commitment. Frank scans the pictures, picks one up and turns it towards the two siblings with a face as cold as ice.

“Ain’t nothing on ‘em Jessie. Everyone is blank, just washed out grey and indistinct outlines on every single picture. There’s no images, no signs, no Jack Asquith, no nothing on any of these. Jesus, what game are you two playing?”

“But the images are there Frank as plain as day. Can you not see them?” Implores Tom grabbing one photo. “Look see, even the sheds at the rear of the station are visible on this one.”

Frank stands up suddenly, banging his thighs on the hammered brass tabletop looking distraught and puzzled like he’s visiting friends at an asylum for the insane. “You’re both mad,” he says with a slight shake of the head. “Seek some help, a psychiatrist to straighten you both out or get measured up for straight jackets? There’s nothing to see on these photographs, nothing at all. You’re deluded, deranged even, seeing things that don’t exist except in both of your disturbed minds. Don’t contact me again?” He quickly strides to the door of the pub, turns abruptly for one last look and is lost to the waiting street. Tom and Jessie look at each other shocked at his sudden disappearance and then laugh madly as they hug each other as only brother and sister can.

END

12th May 2025