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The night air was cold. Mr Mellet gazed down the empty station platform, his breath emitting in small clouds. He was glad his business at the remote village of Little Wicket was finished. The deceased’s relatives had been suspicious of Mellet even after they had rung to confirm his standing with solicitor’s Bingley Bingley Bingley Beardsley Bingley and Bingley.

When the train finally arrived, creaking and wheezing down the rails, he grabbed his suitcase and marched smartly on board. The silent and empty carriages filled him with a certain reticence but he dismissed it as simple fancy, the product of spending too much time around superstitious country folk.

Mellet shut the compartment door, placing his briefcase on his knee. The train pulled away from the station with a motion so smooth it was almost dreamlike. He felt an odd unease, as though somebody unexpected had crept up behind him.

Turning his head he was astonished to see Mr Bingley himself, partner to the law firm, leering down at him. Mr Bingley wore the outfit usually reserved for the Christmas pantomime; his yellowed teeth exposed in a grotesque grin, suspenders and pantaloons gleaming in the moonlight.

Mellet blinked, and found himself quite alone. Shaking his head, he gazed blindly out of the window. In time he forgot his delusions, amusing himself by filling his pipe. He was contemplating a game of cards when the compartment door flew open with a terrible crash. “Good God!” exclaimed Mellet loudly.

“Sorry about that squire,” apologised the rotund ticket collector, tipping his cap.

“No harm done,” Mellet snapped. He searched his pockets. “I’m terribly sorry,” he muttered, “I seem to have misplaced my ticket.” He continued to rummage but it was nowhere to be found.

“That’s quite alright sir,” said the ticket collector cheerfully, “you won’t be needin’ it where you’re going.”

“I beg your pardon?” enquired Mellet, the creeping sensation returning.

“I said, you won’t be needin’ it on this train. This train only has one stop sir.” The words had barely left his mouth when the train picked up an impossible speed, almost tearing Mellet from his seat. The ticket collector bellowed with terrible, unending laughter.

“I say, what’s this about?” Mellet called, but he couldn’t hear his own words over the thunder of the engine. “Oh God no!” he cried, clawing desperately at the window.

Then all was still. Mellet hardly dared move in case it was merely the eye of the storm. When he raised his head however, the ticket collector had gone. They had arrived at a familiar station. Nervously he rose and made his way to the exit.

He was in London. Confused, he found a man in station uniform. “Oh yes, London Liverpool street. End of the line, all trains stop here,” he explained. Raising his hands to the side of his mouth he called loudly, “All passengers stuck on the train to Hell receive a free cab service to their intended destinations.” Breathing a sigh of relief, Mellet followed him to the line of carriages outside.