William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

at its destination safely and on time.
    As he had already heard from the clerk days ago, there was nothing wrong with the track—there was no connection whatever with the fraud, or with Arrol Dundas, or therefore with Monk.
    With overwhelming relief he kept telling himself that over and over again. He would go back to London and assure Katrina Harcus that there was no reason whatever to fear a crash on the new line. Baltimore and Sons had never been implicated in the Liverpool crash, and Baltimore himself had been exonerated of fraud in the trial of Dundas.
    Which did not mean he had been innocent.
    But if land fraud was what was happening now, on the same scale as before, then it was not unreasonable to believe it was Nolan Baltimore who was involved this time as well, rather than Michael Dalgarno. Monk could at least tell that to Katrina.
    Although even as he said that to himself, he knew she would want more than hope, she would need proof—just as he did.
    He went back to the station and caught the evening train to London. Perhaps because he had been reading most of the day, and had slept little and poorly on the previous night, in spite of the wooden seats and the awkward, upright position, the rhythmic movement of the train and the sound of the wheels over the track lulled him to sleep. He drifted into a darkness in which he was even more conscious of the noise; it seemed to fill the air and to be all around him, growing louder. His body was tense, his face tingling as if cold air were streaming past him, and yet he could see sparks red in the night, like chips of fire.
    There was something he needed to do: it mattered more than anything else, even the risk of his own life. It dominated everything, mind and body, obliterating all thought of his safety, of physical pain, exhaustion, and carrying him beyond even fear—and there was everything to be afraid of! It roared and surged around him in the darkness, buffeting him until he was bruised and aching, clinging on desperately, fighting to . . . what? He did not know! There was something he must do. The fate of everybody who mattered depended on it . . . but what was it?
    He racked his brain . . . and found only the driving compulsion to succeed. The wind was streaming past him like liquid ice. He strained against a force, hurling his weight against it, but it was immovable.
    There was indescribable noise, impact, and then he was running, scrambling, blind with terror. All around him the sound of screaming ripped through him like physical pain, and he could do nothing! He was closed in by confusion, thrashing around pointlessly, bumping into objects in the darkness one moment, blinded by flames the next, the heat in his face and the cold behind him. His feet were leaden, holding him back, while the rest of his body ran with sweat.
    He saw the face again above the clerical collar, the same as before, this time gray with horror, scrambling in the wreckage, all the time calling out.
    He woke with a violent start, his head throbbing, his lungs aching, starved of air, his mouth dry. As soon as he moved he realized the sweat was real, sticking his clothes to him, but the carriage was bitterly cold and his feet were numb.
    He was alone in his compartment. The smell of smoke was in his imagination, but the fear was real, the guilt was real. Knowledge of failure weighed on him as if it were woven into every part of his life, staining everything, seeping into every corner and marring all other joy.
    But what failure? He had not saved Dundas, but he had known that for years. And now he was no longer rationally sure that Dundas had been innocent. He felt it, but what were his feelings worth? They could have been simply born of the loyalty and ignorance of a young man who owed a great deal to someone who had been as a father to him. He had seen Dundas as he wished him to be, like millions before him, and millions to come.
    The dream was a crash—that was obvious. But was it from reality, or imagination read into the accounts of those who were there, or even a visit to the scene afterwards, as part of the enquiry into what had happened?
    It was not the rail line which had caused it. It was not the land fraud, which could make no difference to anything but money.
    So why did he feel this terrible responsibility, this guilt? What was there in himself so fearful he still could not bear to look at it? Was it Dundas—or himself?
    Could he find out? Was he just like Katrina