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WESLEY’S DIARY - PART 5
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CONSTANTINOPLE - FEBURUARY 24th 1923
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Everyone is Makryat I am writing this in the salon car of the Simplon Orient Express. I must take care to account for every detail of the previous 12 hours, regardless of how trivial it may seem. We know that Makryat is on board, but he has doubtlessly disguised himself or murdered a passenger and taken their identity. As usual, sleep seems to be a rare commodity amongst our group: We have organized ourselves as far as possible so that none shall be alone or unobserved for any length of time. If Makryat is able to take the identity of one of us, we are finished. Simon Grand has made an excellent plan of who is sleeping in which compartment in the Paris and Calais carriages so I will not recount these details here, except to say that we are rather spread out between the two carriages. I myself have been allocated a single berth in the Calais car but spend most of my time in the saloon, the restaurant, or in one of our double berths where our weaponry is currently located. As we departed from Constantinople last night, we discussed various possibilities for identifying Makryat. One of these included an incantation and meditation which allows the instigator to speak to an aspect of the Lord of Chaos, Nyarlathotep (Note to self: I am recording this superstitious nonsense as if I actually believe it! It is the facts that count! The scientific and empirical facts!) Be this as it may, we agreed that the following questions would be the most pertinent: "Where is the scroll of cleansing?" "How can we destroy the simulacrum?" "How can we kill Makryat?" Doctor Gaidar (A man of medicine and science!?!?) is the one to conduct the séance. The timing of the answers is unknown.  Doctor Gaidar Talk To A God Dinner: Getting to know our fellow travelers Following our discussions, we are each summoned to one of two of the dinner sittings, just as we have already grown accustomed to on our long journey to the Orient. This time there is a difference. Our knowledge of the fact that one of the greatest threats to civilization is on board this very train, (and our awareness that in all likelihood we are the only ones between himself and his insane quest for power) has driven us to the edge of our normal sense of caution and plunged us into a darkened labyrinth of fear and paranoia: Everything that we eat or drink is poisoned, everyone that we see suddenly has a slightly different expression on their face than we would have expected - a glance that lingers just a fraction too long, a smile which conveys far less sincerity than it should, attire that is somehow too casually worn. During dinner, the Englishman Harrow, is extremely blunt and rude to the staff; but aside from our constant fears and lack of sleep, we succeed in mixing with the other passengers and disguising our omnipresent suspicions to a sufficient-enough extent so that we can socialize effectively. Amusingly, the pompous Harrow, an archetypal arrogant British bore, attempts to out-boast our very own Simon Grand: Luckily, Grand has both the wit and the humor to out-maneuver him by responding to his bragging with a dignity laced with irony that the increasingly drunken Englishman does not detect.  Gupta Tells All I notice that the Hindoo is deep in conversation with a small-time hack writing for "Spritz about town" and "Whizz" named Gatling. Lighting another Lucky, I try to eavesdrop their conversation, and it is with a sense of foreboding that I hear Singh relate a number of our episodes to the journalist in his typical matter-of-fact nature: "Oh yes Sir, you see - after we left New York, where I had been deported as criminally insane and as a threat to national security from one of the most advanced institutes for the treatment of dangerous lunatics. I realized that I must naturally renounce my position as the 11th Guru and return to an existence in closer harmony with my fellow man: But you must see, Sir, that after we had defeated the Thugees and had traveled to the dream world, that it was only a matter of time before we would have to return to Europe - and now we are here! And what wonderful adventures we have had! Why, Sir, we are currently on the trail of a lunatic who can wear the skin of any man and seeks to enslave the entire world unless he can be stopped! We are all now trapped on this train with a ruthless killer, Sir, and our cabins may well soon become our coffins! By the way, do you know, Sir, that I am a master of over 750 tantric and vedaric yogic moves and that I can ride an elephant backwards down a swift-flowing river?" After dinner: Drinks in the salon, a mysterious telegram. After dinner we retire to the salon car. Gattling has, in the meantime, done his rounds through the carriage and is obviously on the trail of a massive exclusive for "Spritz about town". There appears to be some friction between him and our very own newshound Irma Bloomberg. They agree to differ as they search for exclusive stories, shaking hands and announcing: "May the best newshound win!" Meanwhile, I take this opportunity to relax, smoke, observe my fellow passengers, and write some notes for my journal. The braggart Englishman, Harrow, is again completely intoxicated and continues to make a fool of himself as he tries to out-boast Simon Grand. A wealthy lady from East Hampton, Ms. Lorna Cambell-Barnes, strikes up an interesting discussion whilst she talks of the society Salons she holds.  Lorna Cambell-Barnes We stay as late as possible in the salon carriage. The longer we are awake and together, the less likely we are to be attacked. At around 11.30pm, the train arrives at Bulgarian customs. We each take up positions by the windows to see if we can spot anyone leaving the train. In the foggy darkness, illuminated by the orange-grey light of the gas-lamps from the small, characterless customs house, I just spot two figures leaving the train two carriages down. One of them is without doubt the large frame of one of the train guards from the Calais car, a Corsican by the name of Souchard. The other is our very own Lakeby, no doubt up to no good. I draw the attention of Yegor Gaidar to the shadowy figures. He pats the pistol concealed beneath his jacket and leaves the train in stealthy pursuit. I watch as he passes through the orange light until he disappears into shadow behind the customs house. Moments later he reappears and rushes back down towards us as the engine blasts steam into the bitterly cold night air to announce its entry into Bulgaria. Gaidar's usually impassive mien betrays some concern. Without saying a word, he unfolds a small piece of paper: +++URGENT+++JOIN+SOE+STOP+0320+++STOP+++M+++STOP+++ A glance between us indicates that there is no need for further discussions. Unless we can do something fast at the next station, we are going to be in serious trouble. Makryat must be on to us already. So much for trying to keep a low profile. Who delivered the telegram?And where is Souchard? The question is: Did Makryat persuade Souchard to deliver the telegram? Is he a servant of Makryat? Or is he Makryat himself, and the true Souchard already long dead? Unfortunately, there is too little time and/or opportunity to pursue our suspicions. In the meantime, Doctor Gaidar performs his "ritual to summon Nyarlathotep". Observing him perform the ritual, it is clear that his sanity is edging closer to the brink. With bated breath we await the appearance of this omnipotent demigod - until nothing happens. I curse myself for even beginning to allow myself to believe in this nonsense before returning to my watch duties and smoking.  Where Is Makryat Kraut shags Countess in Khazi The train comes to a slow halt, the locomotive exhaling into the frozen night air. Inter-allied police board the train briefly before we proceed towards Bulgaria, briefly passing through Greece. I learn that Irma has spoken to Lakeby and persuaded him to spy on other passengers. We try to track Souchard down and find out what his game really is, but curiously there is no sign of the fellow, who appears to have vanished. Eavesdropping at various doors we catch snippets of useless information. My particularly low estimation of the drunken English bore Harrow is completed as we hear him trying to harass the only single woman on the carriage, Miss Constanza. An evening of red herrings and disappearances is completed as Bloomberg makes the scoop of the century by unearthing the unfortunate Countess and German industrialist Groenig in flagrante during a session of coitus interruptus in the romantic setting of the cramped carriage privy. No doubt the photos will generate considerable revenue and circulation for those informative and educational bastions of public knowledge amongst those "reputable" "journals" such as "Spritz about town" etc. Svelingrad: Enemies at the Gates Bloomberg then decides to directly confront one of the attendants about the whereabouts of Souchard. They are clearly concerned but cannot explain his absence. The train approaches its stop in Svelingrad on schedule at 03.20 hours. A dark cloud of foreboding descends upon us as we sense that Makryat is about to play his hand again. As the ghostly gaslight station slides slowly into view from out of the night fog, we take up our pre-determined positions so that we can get a good view of all who join or leave the train. On the platform side, I spot the curious form of a strangely bandaged man, wearing dark glasses and in a wheelchair pushed by an angular and somewhat distant looking male nurse. My attention is distracted as Trent calls out: "Look! Those must be Makryat's boys!" And so it would seem to be: A gang of surly thuggish ruffians have congregated close to the third class carriages and appear to be negotiating their way on board the train. As I am next to the carriage door, I waste no time in disembarking and running to a group of Bulgarian policemen I see standing on the platform. In a mixture of English and German, I am able to explain to them that the ruffians are Turkish insurgents seeking to cause trouble or worse on the train to discredit the fine reputation of Bulgaria as a democratic modern nation. At first they are skeptical and look at me with some suspicion. The words "Turks" and "Communists" however, seem to do the trick, as the officers jump into action and run over to the group. A heated exchange takes place as passports and papers are examined. It would appear that some weapons have been discovered and more police are soon on the scene to drag away the furious fanatics. Gupta greases garlic on Fenalik's door and Gaidar finds out . nothing As the police are heavy-handedly disposing of Makryat's thugs, the others have been keeping themselves busy observing the entrance of the mysterious bandaged figure. Luckily, a PhD in Quantum Chemistry is not required to ascertain that this man is clearly our dear friend Fenalik. It seems that Gaidar's parting gift to him the last time we met has left him in a state of some considerable discomfort. Before he is able to board the train, the Hindoo is sent scurrying to his reserved birth in the Calais car to coat the doorway with garlic as a welcoming gesture. The way Fenalik cringes and squirms as his assistant, the imaginatively titled Egor Bezkov, brings him into his quarters, provides us with the final damning evidence which we need to identify yet another fiend intent on killing us. And if we thought our luck couldn't get any better, we are then shortly thereafter proven to be wrong once again, as Gaidar emerges from his compartment looking disheveled and confused: "I have spoken to Nyarlathotep. He told me . nothing. Except, he showed me a vision of the Skinless One standing next to the Sedefkar Simulacrum. Nyarlathotep then said to me: "I am not the Skinless One!" Simon Grand, who seems to have been distracted by something out of the window whilst Gaidar recounts his vision, suddenly exclaims: "Look over there chaps! The train is being followed by wolves!" A sliver of distant sunlight briefly illuminates the horizon between the heavy dark snow clouds and the foggy Bulgarian forests. And there indeed, we can all see a pack of malicious looking wolves pursuing the train with their familiar, loping gait. We have survived our first night aboard the Orient Express despite Makryat's best attempt to summon his fanatical allies to dispatch of us. With at least four more nights to go before we reach Calais, we must hope that our luck holds.  Horror On The Orient Express
London, Last Stop. |