The time was barely four in the afternoon but it was almost dark as Duck approached Haultraugh. The snow had been falling steadily throughout his journey from Knapford, large white flakes almost appearing to glow as they caught the beam from his headlamp in the most disorientating way. Any guilt he had felt at the prospect of abandoning his passengers before the evening rush had melted away in barely any time at all.
He half expected to find the station deserted as a result of the weather, and so the sight of Donald at the opposite platform came as something of a surprise. The heavy snow did nothing to hide the baleful expression with which the Caledonian engine greeted him. "He's done it again," he called, and Duck looked beyond him to see Isabel. Her front wheels appeared to be off the line. The shouting coming from the far side of the track told him that a crew was attempting to lever her back onto the rails while Donald pulled.
There could be no question who was responsible. "What happened?" Duck asked resignedly.
"Run aff," said Donald shortly. "Feared of the snow, mebbe. Used tae his cosy southern branch line, Ah suppose."
Duck snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, Donald. Snow does fall in England, you know."
Donald gave Duck a withering look which made his feelings on the English reaction to snowfall abundantly clear. "Ye wouldnae be so lenient if he weren't Great Western," he growled.
That hit home. Duck raised an eyebrow and gave the larger engine a cool look. "Are you implying that I've been unfair?"
"More than implyin'. Dinnae deny that ye've been protecting him," returned Donald, his eyes flashing dangerously. A line had been crossed now and his patience, never particularly copious, had all but drained away. "The Fat Controller would hae heard months ago if it had been anyone else. Ah shudnae be here, Ah should be on the Main Line plowing with Douggie."
"Let me help, then," Duck offered. "All of the branch lines have been closed because of the snow so I'm not needed elsewhere."
Donald glared at him. "Ye need to find Oliver and talk some sense intae him," he told Duck. "This has gane on long enough. Oh," he added as an afterthought, "can ye take Dulcie back tae Arlesburgh? Poor lass disnae need to be stuck oot here."
Indeed, Duck could just make out the shape of another coach through the blizzard, uncoupled and waiting beyond the end of the platform. "Very well," he sighed and set off again, feeling very grateful for his snow plough as he regarded the hidden tracks ahead.
Donald had been correct: Duck had been protecting Oliver over the course of the last few months. He had, however, been completely wrong about Duck's motivation. It wasn't because Oliver was Great Western that Duck had felt the need to shield him from the consequences of his odd behaviour, but because he was Oliver. The poor engine had suffered so much already that it seemed almost cruel to let him be subjected to the full force of the Fat Controller's disapproval, even if he was acting strangely. Duck hadn't forgotten the stricken expression on his face as he'd been retrieved from the turntable well after his accident and the tremor in his voice as he told Sir Topham Hatt, "I look like a load of scrap iron." For all he had arrived on Sodor full of tales of his daring escape, the experience of being condemned and having to flee for his life had obviously affected him deeply.
That being said, the difference between the overconfident character who had first joined his branch line in the summer ready for a new lease of life and the engine who was now abandoning his coaches in the snow was immense. Oliver had become anxious, snappy, unreliable, and Duck had absolutely no idea what had triggered this transformation. It was almost as though the joy had seeped out of him as the long summer days drew in, diminishing more and more as autumn gave way to winter. It was frustrating; infuriating at times, but still Duck had made allowances. It felt like the right thing to do.
And then, Duck had to admit, he had his own reputation to uphold. The Little Western was his branch line and if word got out about Oliver's actions, it wouldn't reflect well on his abilities as a leader. No, it was far better that he manage the situation himself and keep branch line business far away from the prying eyes of the big engines at Tidmouth.
"He thinks someone's trying to kill him."
Dulcie's voice was so quiet that Duck didn't initially realise she was speaking to him. If she hadn't been coupled with her face immediately behind his bunker, it was doubtful that he would even have heard her. All the same, he had to ask her to repeat the statement, just to be absolutely clear.
"He thinks someone's trying to kill him," repeated the coach sombrely. "I know that sounds ridiculous but he's said as much, twice."
Duck squinted into the snow. "But what on earth has put that idea into his smokebox? He made it to Sodor, he's a North Western engine. He's safe. No one can touch him now."
"He doesn't feel safe," Dulcie told him. "There have been too many incidents involving him recently. You're going to say that it's just coincidence but I'm certain he thinks there is more to it."
"Too many incidents?" repeated Duck, adopting an amused tone which didn't really reflect how he felt. "Beg pardon, Dulcie, but if that's his view, he needs to have a little talk with our Percy. He knows all about 'incidents' and the frequency with which they occur on this railway."
Dulcie sighed. "I knew you'd react like that. My guess is that Oliver knows it too, and that's why he hasn't spoken to you."
There was nothing really to be said to this, and Duck lapsed into silence, casting his mind back to the 'incidents' involving Oliver during the last few months. The trucks, still mindful of Scruffey's fate, were generally quite tame in the new engine's presence but somehow he had managed to end up in a few non-truck-related mishaps.
The first had been a near miss with Gordon at Knapford. The points had been set incorrectly, leading Oliver straight into the larger engine's path and it had been nothing short of a miracle that both engines had managed to stop themselves before a nasty collision occurred. A signalman had been disciplined and no one had thought any more of it. At the time Duck had remarked that, knowing Gordon, he had probably just disregarded a signal instructing him to stop as he thought he should take priority. Oliver had stared at him before muttering, "It wasn't like that at all." Duck had subsided, feeling strangely chastened. It was easy to forget, at times, that Oliver's relationship with the Tidmouth set was so different to his own. ("Ye're jealous," Donald had observed once, "that they've taken tae him so fast when they didnae tae ye." Duck had dismissed this interpretation without further consideration. He didn't rely on the approval of other engines for his sense of self-worth.)
This had been followed a few weeks later by one of those autumn storms from the Atlantic which often caused such disruption on the western side of the island. A tree had toppled onto the line right in front of Oliver and although he managed to avoid colliding with it, he had been surprisingly unsettled by the episode. Perhaps he would have calmed down more quickly if, upon his return to Arlesburgh, a paper bag hadn't blown into his face, covering one of his eyes while he waited by the ballast hopper. Oliver's shrieks of terror had brought workers from both the North Western and the Arlesdale railways running. Once the bag had been removed, he had been in no fit state to continue working and was sent to the sheds to recover. Unfortunately Mike was present and lost no time in relaying the story to those who hadn't witnessed the event for themselves, resulting in Oliver withdrawing into a sulky silence which lasted for several days. Donald had reacted angrily, snapping at Oliver to "pull yerself together", while Douglas had held lengthy but apparently fruitless conversations with Toad. Duck had resorted to his standard method of playing simple in the hope of getting to the heart of the problem, but Oliver had seen through it, leaving the pannier tank to privately lament the gradual change in his friend. He genuinely missed the old Oliver, the cheerful one who had been so incensed by Bulgy's behaviour. That August bank holiday weekend seemed such a long time ago now.
And then, shortly before Christmas, there had been the horse which ran out on to the tracks in front of Oliver during the early run to Knapford, the busiest commuter service of the morning. The animal had been spooked by a careless car driver on the outskirts of Haultraugh and had bolted, throwing its rider. In a blind panic it had charged toward the railway line, jumped a fence and ended up on the track. A group of passing schoolchildren had attempted to raise the alarm but no one had wanted to risk walking on to the rails when a train was due, and so it had still been there when Oliver approached. Once again, fortune had smiled on him and the horse had escaped up the embankment and into a meadow physically unharmed, although it had apparently taken most of the morning for people to corner the beast and transfer it safely to its stable. Oliver, on the other hand, had been completely beside himself, and Duck had been summoned to take the train to its destination. It was just as well, really, as Oliver would undoubtedly have attracted unwanted attention if he had arrived at Knapford in such a state. He had refused to be drawn on the reasons behind his disproportionate reaction, telling all who attempted to engage him in conversation that he would far rather be left alone.
Duck had been forced into direct action this time. He had charged Alice and Mirabel with the task of interrogating Isabel and approached Toad himself. The coaches had no luck, reporting that Isabel would only say she didn't want to think back to the bad times they had gone through. Toad was equally unhelpful.
"Perhaps Mister Oliver has good reason to feel scared," the brake van had said. Duck had pressed him for more information but had been ever so politely rebuffed. "It's not my place to say. Excuse me, Mister Duck, but why are you asking? Are you concerned about the branch line or about Mister Oliver himself?"
"I'm concerned about Oliver, of course," Duck answered sharply, attempting to squash his indignation.
Toad looked at him thoughtfully. "I see. And does Mister Oliver know that?"
Duck had been annoyed at his friendship being called into question, but deep down he had to admit that Toad's enquiry was probably justified. Everyone on the North Western knew how proud he was to have been given his own line and how eager he was to run it according to the high standards of his original railway. But when it came to other engines, Duck suspected that he sometimes came across as stand-offish, more focussed on his work than on those around him. He'd never been sort to pour out his soul unless under severe provocation and he was really quite in awe of Edward's instinctive ability to understand how engines might be feeling. Oliver probably didn't see him as being able to provide much in the way of comfort. It really wasn't one of his skills.
Duck sighed, recalled to the moment by the abrupt realisation that getting lost in his thoughts while negotiating a blizzard was not the best of ideas. Edward would know what to do, but he was miles away on his own branch line in the middle of the worst weather that January could throw at the island. Anyway, this was a Little Western issue and as such it fell to Duck to resolve it, or to at least try. You wanted the responsibility of a branch line, Montague. You can't simply dodge your duties when they become difficult.
"So what happened today?" he asked Dulcie.
"There was something on the tracks," said the coach gloomily. "I don't know what, it was hidden under the snow. Oliver didn't see it and when he felt it under his wheels he panicked. He stopped and demanded to be uncoupled. The porter at Haultraugh refused and he became so agitated that he bumped Isabel's front wheels off the rails."
Duck was horrified. "He bumped Isabel?"
"The passengers had already got out. We were told that the line was closing early when we pulled into the station."
Duck breathed a very small sigh of relief. If passengers had witnessed such an outburst then the game really would be up.
"They uncoupled Oliver then and he sped off," Dulcie went on. "We saw him a few minutes later running bunker first back up the line."
"I'll speak to him," Duck promised. "We can't have him running around in a state of terror, that's no way to live."
"Good luck," Dulcie said, and her tone made it clear that she was doubtful that this would achieve much.
By this time they had reached the yard and, having deposited Dulcie in the carriage sheds, Duck headed for his own berth. Oliver would probably have taken shelter in the engine shed, although the heavy snowfall meant that any evidence of his journey was no longer apparent. If he hadn't returned to Arlesburgh, Duck's intervention would just have to wait. There was no chance of going anywhere else on an evening like this.
His hunch proved to be correct when the shed came into view and there was Oliver staring straight at him, his face tense and his eyes as big as his driving wheels. It was a deeply unsettling sight and Duck found it hard not to shudder as he slowly spun around on the turntable and backed into the shed, suddenly nervous at not being able to see the other engine.
"Well, here you are, then!" he said, trying to keep his tone light. "Beg pardon, Oliver, but on this branch line we generally take the coaches home with us when snow closes the line."
"Don't do that," Oliver said, staccato and terse. "Don't make light of it. You always make jokes when you're angry and you don't want to show it."
That shut the conversation down effectively and the two sat in awkward silence as Duck's crew dumped his fire and completed their usual evening checks, all the while bemoaning the cold and the lack of doors on the shed. It was hard to believe that under normal circumstances the evening rush would barely have started. Across the island people would be finishing work for the day and trying to work out how to get home without their usual rail services.
Eventually his driver and fireman trudged off through the snow and Duck ruefully accepted that he could put off his intervention no longer. "Well?" he asked quietly.
"I don't want to talk about it," said Oliver curtly.
"I know, you keep telling us that." A sharp gust of wind sent a flurry of snowflakes into the shed and Duck watched them settle on his buffers. "But not talking about whatever this is hasn't made the situation any better, has it?"
Oliver sighed. "You can't do anything to fix this, Duck. No one can."
"Rather dramatic," observed Duck, raising an eyebrow. "So, who exactly do you think has got it in for you?"
This utter lack of subtlety took Oliver off guard and he looked at Duck, his terrified expression replaced with one of shock. "Who told you that?"
"Dulcie," replied Duck calmly. "And I'm glad she did. I'd rather know if we have any potential murderers hanging about on my branch line."
"It's not funny!" Oliver's voice was almost a sob and Duck instantly regretted attempting the light-hearted approach. The other engine was genuinely distressed and he would have to find another strategy if he was to have any chance of getting through to him.
"Look, Oliver," he said quietly, deciding that straightforward honesty was probably his best bet, "I don't like to see you so unhappy."
"Close your eyes then."
"Well, this has been going on for long enough," Duck said reluctantly. "If you won't talk to me, there isn't an awful lot I can do to help. I really don't want to, but I suppose I'll have to speak to the Fat Controller tomorrow." He didn't want to admit defeat but what option was there? Clearly things were worse than he had thought if Oliver was prepared to bash his coaches off the rails.
"You wouldn't!" Oliver gasped in horror.
"You haven't left me with much choice, you know. You bumped Isabel off the line. The stationmaster at Haltraugh is bound to report it."
"But you can't! I-I..." Oliver gulped and closed his eyes. "I've done something awful," he whispered. "You don't understand. Please, Duck! Let me explain."
A chill drifted through Duck's firebox, one which had nothing to do with the freezing wind blowing into the shed. He knew that Oliver wasn't referring to his treatment of Isabel and a couple of horrible possibilities sprang to mind; a fatal collision, maybe, or perhaps his escape from the scrap yard had lined up another engine to take his place. In that moment he couldn't bring himself to inquire further.
But Oliver, after a couple of minutes spent composing himself, had clearly decided to heed Duck's earlier advice. "Have you... Have you heard of the Bargain?" he murmured.
Duck frowned. "What bargain?"
"Then you must have left the Mainland before things got really bad," Oliver told him.
"'55," he replied, sticking to blunt facts in the hope that the conversation wouldn't take a darker turn.
"That explains it, I suppose. You weren't saved; you were transferred. It was talked about more as more engines were condemned." Oliver hesitated and Duck knew he wasn't going like what the newer engine was going to say next. "Word got around that there was a way of... avoiding the worst once you were withdrawn from service. To tell you the truth, I always thought it was just a silly story. It seemed so ridiculous that it was hard to imagine any engine taking it seriously. Even when my time came and I was slated for the scrap yard I didn't see it as an option. My crew were going to save me and who needs mad superstitions when you have an actual plan?"
"What kind of superstition?" Duck asked, trying not to sound disapproving. He didn't set much store by such things as a rule and had little tolerance for those who did.
"They said that there are things which exist half in and half out of our world. Supernatural beings that don't work the same way as we machines do – or people, for that matter. These things... well, if you've reached the end of the line and there is no hope left, you can make them an offer and in return you will be saved."
Duck raised a cynical eyebrow; he honestly couldn't help himself. "And what exactly does any engine have to offer these supernatural thingummies?"
Oliver cast his eyes down to the snow-covered rails. "Their soul," he mumbled.
Duck stared at him, incredulously. "Their soul," he repeated flatly. "Well, that's possibly the most ridiculous load of tosh I've heard in all my years. Whoever came up with such nonsense?"
"I don't know whether it's true or not, but rumour had it that the War Engines started it to guarantee they would return safely from France."
Duck's frown grew deeper. He had met some of those War Engines during his time at Paddington as they waited to be shipped out to the continent; Aberdares and Dean Goods engines, some of whom had already seen action during the Great War. They were generally remarkably stoical about the horrors they would have to face and didn't strike Duck as the sort to indulge in silly beliefs of this kind.
None of those engines he had met had ever returned to Paddington. He'd often wondered what became of them.
"I know how stupid it sounds," Oliver went on, looking over at Duck with an earnest expression. "It seemed like some sort of really cruel prank, giving false hope to desperate engines. Anyway, as I said, I didn't need supernatural help. My crew made plans, they contacted other railwaymen who would help – oh, Duck, you can't imagine how wonderful it was to know that so many people cared and wanted me to get to safety! When I was in Shropshire some people from a heritage railway came to bring me coal. They'd driven all the way from North Wales in a van."
Duck remained silent. He had heard the story more than once during Oliver's earliest days on the NWR.
"But resource and sagacity can only get you so far, it seems. We made it to Barrow and there was no one left to help us. I had no coal left and we were so close, so close to Sodor! Toad suggested that my crew could pull up some of his planks to use as fuel but they couldn't bring themselves to do it. We had taken him all that way to keep him from being broken up. It would have felt dreadful to start pulling him apart."
"And the workers in the yard would have noticed," put in Duck, ever the practical.
"That too." Oliver sighed. "It was the middle of the night. My crew had taken refuge in Isabel. She and Toad were asleep. I was alone in Barrow yard and I didn't know what to. All those plans, all that help and we'd hit the buffers. There was nowhere else we could turn. And then I remembered the Bargain. Have you ever been really frightened, Duck? So scared that you would have done anything to make the fear go away?"
Of course he had. "Yes. During the war," he whispered, his words almost carried away entirely by the wind. He still occasionally had nightmares about bombs falling on the depot at Old Oak Common, dreams haunted by the memory of coaches screaming as the carriage sheds burned.
Oliver smiled grimly. "The same as most, then."
"I doubt that. I was in London during the Blitz and it was horrible. It was safer out on the rural branch lines. That's why so many children from the cities were sent there." He had always found something oddly gratifying in the thought that he might have shunted the same coaches which took those evacuees all the way to Oliver's branch, that there was a connection between them which predated the newcomer's arrival on Sodor.
Oliver scowled, jolted into indignation at this dismissal of his wartime experiences. "The war was horrible for us too. What do you know about it, anyway? You were a station pilot. Did you even see a branch line before you came here?"
"Of course I did!" Duck returned, glad to have moved onto a less controversial topic of conversation. "Us station pilots used to help out on the coastal routes from time to time during the summer months – after the war, of course. The 'Sunshine Line', they called it."
"Ah, yes. I remember." A shadow crossed Oliver's face once more. "That used to happen a lot in the summer. Holidaymakers preferred steam engines, so the regular diesels would be sent elsewhere to shunt. Tank engines from all over the Great Western would come and help out with the passenger services on the tourist routes for a couple of months. We thought that would save us, you know, being a draw for the tourists. It's odd to think we were ever that naïve."
Duck sometimes wondered if Oliver had been sent to Sodor by British Rail with the specific aim of tarnishing his fond memories of the Great Western.
"That night at Barrow, I felt the most dreadful fear I've ever known," Oliver continued. "I knew that the end had to be near and all I could think of was how badly I had let Toad and Isabel down. It was too cruel." He looked at Duck and the pannier tank was alarmed by the intensity in his eyes. "I made the Bargain for them. It was only glimmer of hope left and I took it. I took a chance and whispered into the night that I would gladly give my soul to any being who wanted it so long as we could all get safely across the bridge. And then Douglas arrived."
"Coincidence!" said Duck unsympathetically. "And anyway, I don't think Douglas will take too kindly to the suggestion that he is some sort of agent of the uncanny."
"I thought that too." Oliver's intense expression had taken on another element; he seemed almost frenzied. "I thought that for months! I laughed at how silly I had been to believe such nonsense. If it hadn't been for Scruffey I might still be in blissful ignorance."
The sudden deep blast of a whistle alerted them to the arrival of another engine and after a few minutes Douglas rolled slowly into view, the beam of his headlamp just about visible through the incessant snow.
"The Fat Controller's given it up as a bad job," he declared. "Main Line's closed and Ah've been sent back early."
Silence greeted his announcement and he frowned at his shedmates throughout the end of day procedures which followed. Duck hoped the matter could be closed before Donald put in an appearance. The thought of a third awkward pause while waiting for railwaymen to depart was definitely not appealing.
Finally Douglas's crew left and the Caledonian glared at the tank engines. "Well? What's going on wi' ye two?"
Duck opened his mouth to reply but Oliver got there first. "Duck hadn't heard about the Bargain."
"And why would he need tae?" Douglas's eyes widened as he saw the expression on his friend's face. "Ye dinnae mean...? No, Oliver!"
"You saw the state I was in that night, Douglas. I was responsible for Toad and Isabel. Didn't it cross your mind what I might have had to resort to?"
"No it didnae! Ah came along and helped ye, ye didnae need to do that!"
"You might not have come along if I hadn't done it," said Oliver stubbornly, frowning at the snow-covered ground before him.
"But yer soul, Oliver!" lamented Douglas. "How could ye?"
Oliver gave a short burst of laughter and Duck thought he sounded on the verge of hysteria. "Do we even have souls, Douglas? And if we do, can we really claim that we own them? We're just possessions, when it comes down to it, machines to be used and disposed of as our creators see fit. We both know that better than anyone. Who do you think your soul might belong to? The Fat Controller? McIntosh? The builders at the works in Glasgow?" Oliver looked up again, his gaze meeting Duck's once more. "Don't you think people would see us as being worth more if that were the case?" he asked, his eyes bright and his voice unsteady. "All I know is that I was built by humans and humans eventually decided that the scrap value of my physical body was worth more than any soul that I might have."
"That disnae mean ye dinnae have one," returned Douglas gravely.
"Wouldn't have had you down as the spiritual type, Douglas," Duck remarked absently. The revelations about his colleagues were coming thick and fast this evening.
Douglas glared defensively. "Ah'm sticking on the side of caution. There's a lot aboot the world we dinnae ken, that's all Ah'm saying."
"I know that making yourself miserable over a silly story doesn't benefit anyone," said Duck firmly. "Buck up, Oliver! You said you had done something awful. From where I'm standing, you don't appear to have done anything at all, especially if the existence of your soul is a matter for debate."
Oliver looked at him and once again there was an odd fervour to his expression. "You don't understand, Duck. I regret my decision, goodness knows I do, but that wasn't the awful thing I did. I killed Scruffey!"
"I know," Duck said, making a real effort not to roll his eyes. "I was there."
"Scruffey knew," Oliver told him dismally. "Why do you think he tormented me the way he did? The trucks chatter away to each other all the time and I suppose one of them must have overheard something and passed the word on. He made comments about me being a terrible engine; he said he knew all about what I had done and that my fate would catch up with me in the end. You don't know the half of it."
Duck considered this carefully. "While I can well believe that Scruffey might have been in league with the devil, it doesn't sound very specific. Beg pardon, but I rather think he just wanted to rile you by referring to your escape from being scrapped."
"No' the devil," put in Douglas. "Oliver offered up his soul fer Toad and Isabel. The devil wouldnae take it if it were done to save another."
The confidence in his tone sent shivers through Duck's boiler. What had happened on the Mainland since his departure that meant sensible, rational engines could believe such horror stories to be true? The enormity of the task ahead was suddenly clear: not only would he have to convince Oliver that there was no truth in the tale, he would have to persuade the Scottish Twins of it too.
For the first time since the Little Western opened, Duck wished he had never left Tidmouth. The big engines were all idiots but their delusions were very much rooted in the real world and they could generally be brought down a peg or two without too much difficulty. This was another matter entirely and prospect of having to address it was wearying.
"Toad said we needed to do something about Scruffey," said Oliver quietly. "He... well, as it turns out, he hadn't been asleep that night at Barrow after all. He knew what I had done and he thought Scruffey did too. He wanted to save me." Oliver closed his eyes. "Unpowered vehicles have their own beliefs about these things. Toad said that I had offered a soul but perhaps it didn't have to be my own. Scruffey's planks were rotten and his end would come soon anyway, so a substitution could be made..."
"You deliberately destroyed Scruffey!" gasped Duck, interrupting Oliver as the full realisation of what was being hinted at hit him. "You actually intended to pull him apart! And I supported you! I wouldn't have done so if I'd realised it was a-a sacrifice!" Words failed him and he stared in horror out into the yard, unsure whether the dizziness he felt was down to shock or the whirling fall of the snowflakes. Douglas muttered curses under his breath.
"You see, I told you I deserved to be punished," Oliver said, his voice tremulous. "And it didn't work anyway. Ever since Toad and I pulled Scruffey apart, I keep finding myself in danger. The horse, the tree, the points at Knapford..."
"Coincidence!" repeated Duck forcefully.
"It isn't. It can't be. Don't you see, Duck?" Oliver opened his eyes and looked directly at him, pleading. "I tried to go back on my side of the deal and now it's angry with me. It wants my soul and it isn't prepared to wait for it any more. It's following me, I keep seeing things just on the edge of sight-"
Exasperation got the better of the pannier tank at this stage and he reacted more angrily than he would have liked. "Don't you realise how barmy all this sounds? Come off it, Oliver! Life is difficult enough at times without making things worse by believing in crazy stories. Do you want the Fat Controller to think you've gone crackers?"
"I'm not mad, but it doesn't matter what he thinks, does it?" said Oliver desperately. "I'm done for anyway."
"Of course it matters!" Duck glanced at Douglas for support. "You went through so much to get here. Don't throw it all away because of a... a rumour. You're better than this!"
"Am I? The evidence would suggest otherwise."
In the absence of any better ideas, Duck resorted to the old familiar standpoint. "I never thought I'd see the day when Great Western engines would get carried away with fairy stories-"
Oliver cut him off sharply, sudden anger flashing in his eyes. "Don't you dare! The 'Great Western way' is to close down branch lines and send hard-working, loyal engines like me to the scrap yard without a second thought. But you wouldn't know that, you were one of the lucky ones who got out before the full force of modernisation hit. You have no right to lecture me about my decisions."
Duck stared at him, taken aback. This was a side to Oliver that he hadn't encountered before. He had previously dismissed the possibility that the new arrival might resent his own good fortune and he was rather hurt to discover that wasn't the case. "That wasn't the Great Western," he said quietly, feeling duty-bound to defend his heritage. "It was British Rail."
"It's all the same now!" snapped Oliver. He glared at Duck, who met his eyes uncertainly.
And Duck felt frightened. Genuinely deeply frightened, not of imaginary soul-stealing demons with a desire for revenge but of an engine he come to care deeply about over the last few months, the closest thing to a brother he had on Sodor. It was a fear completely different to the pervasive dread of the '40s. The war had been a human problem and he had for the most part had faith that they would sort everything out eventually. If humans got involved in this problem, the consequences didn't bear thinking about.
How on earth could he prove that something didn't actually exist?
Oliver had spent months pursued by people and engines intent on dragging him back to Caerphilly to his death. Duck could only conclude that his mind had been addled by this experience, leaving him unable to adjust to a life of safety. The diesels and police officers who had hunted him were gone and instead he had imagined a monster to continue where they had left off. It was a truly upsetting thought.
What happened to mad engines? Could they be repaired or were they summarily sent to the scrap yard?
Perhaps Oliver had always been like this and that was why he had been withdrawn from service.
This was a particularly nasty thought, one which felt disloyal as much as anything else, and Duck dragged his gaze away, towards the blizzard outside. For horrible moment, he wondered if the snow would continue for so long that they might be stranded in the sheds. He would rather be absolutely anywhere else.
He didn't deserve the responsibility of running the Little Western. He should have intervened earlier and now he knew the truth, he was abjectly failing to manage the situation effectively. Oliver was right; what did a station pilot understand about branch lines?
Douglas cleared his throat pointedly. "It's no' Duck's fault, Oliver."
There was a slight pause before Oliver responded. "I know," he said quietly. "I just wish you'd believe me."
Duck wasn't easily rendered speechless but he could think of nothing to say in reply.
"If what ye say is true, it's yer friends ye'll being wanting aroond ye," remarked Douglas. His level, calm tone prompted Duck to recall that the Scottish Twins were among the older engines on the Fat Controller's railway, something that often slipped his mind due to their preference for action rather than dispensing wisdom.
"And I've put my friends in danger, haven't I?" Oliver said miserably. "What if I had run into Gordon? What if that tree had fallen on one of you, or the horse appeared when you were on the line?"
Douglas snorted. "Och laddie, it'd take mair than a horse to get tha better o' me!"
Duck hadn't intended to rejoin the conversation but he couldn't help but point out: "Beg pardon, Oliver, but by your logic this 'being' would have no interest in the rest of us. We haven't promised our souls to anyone so it stands to reason that it would gain nothing by damaging us."
Oliver's eyes widened at this, his expression clearing, and Duck felt a real sense of achievement at having got through to him – only on this point, admittedly, but it was a start. Perhaps there was hope after all.
"Here's Donnie," remarked Douglas and sure enough a shape could be made out advancing across the yard through the relentless snow.
"So here ye are then, Douggie!" he hollered across the yard. "If Ah'd known ye were snug in yer ain berth, Ah'd have stopped at Tidmouth!"
Duck's fear that Donald's appearance would prompt another awkward interval was quickly dismissed. The tender engine's bad mood from earlier hadn't abated at all and he wasted no time telling the others at great length and volume all about his grievances. After rerailing Isabel, he had been dispatched to Ballahoo to retrieve James from a snowdrift. The red engine had been insufficiently grateful to Donald's mind and by the sounds of it they had squabbled for most of the journey back to Tidmouth ("Ah said, 'Paintwork? Ah gi' ye paintwork, ye wait 'til Ah've finished wi' ye, let's see the state of yon paintwork then!'") Upon reaching their destination, Donald had nobly turned down the offer of a warm, dry berth ("wi' a door!") in order to search for his brother. Recounting this tale lasted precisely the same amount of time it took his crew to conclude their day's work and Duck found something comforting in the normality of his indignation and the warmth spreading out from his boiler. No engine likes the cold, heat being a crucial element of a fulfilling life. Tuning out Donald's words, Duck wondered if he would feel better able to deal with Oliver's delusions if he had a decent blaze in his firebox.
At last Donald's crew departed and the final member of the Little Western quartet turned his attention to the autotank on the other side of the shed. "Well, Oliver? What d'ye hae to say fer yerself?"
Seeing that Oliver didn't have a ready answer, Douglas took it upon himself to reply. "He made the Bargain, Donnie," he said quietly.
Donald's gaze flicked briefly towards his brother, then back to the smaller engine. "Has he noo?" he remarked coolly. "Well, that disnae gi' him to right to batter poor wee coaches aff the line and leave us to clear up his fankle."
"It's coming for me!" Oliver wailed back at him, by this stage visibly exhausted and clearly in no mind to even attempt to stay calm. "I've seen it, it wants my soul and it's coming after me to take it-"
"Och, haud yer wheesht!" snapped Donald, giving him a fierce look. Oliver, surprised into silence, stared dumbly back at him with his mouth open.
"Yer time comes when it comes," Donald said, matter-of-factly. "Ye cannae outrun it. Dinnae fash yersel'."
"How can you say that?" gasped Oliver, shocked. Even to Duck's pragmatic mind, this seemed like a cold thing to say.
Donald sighed. "Oliver, ye escaped from British Rail. It disnae matter how ye did it, but ye're still alive and ye've got tae make it count. What's the point of living longer if ye're aff tae be miserable fur the rest o' yer days?"
"But how can I be happy with something like that hanging over me?" demanded Oliver, partly mollified. "I can't just forget about it!"
"Ye have tae try," asserted Donald. "Ye need to make the most of however much time ye have left."
"That's all very well for you to say," Oliver returned, his voice wavering again. "What would you know about it, anyway?"
Donald's expression was grave and his voice dropped to a whisper. "How d'ye think Ah got Dougie oot o' Scotland?"
Duck suppressed an annoyed groan but any sound he might have made was drowned out by Douglas who let out a brief involuntary choking sound. The sight of his face, an odd mixture of grief and rage, triggered an unexpected spark of anger deep within Duck's boiler. This was getting completely out of hand. Some advertisement for the Great Western you are, Montague. Letting a Caledonian take the lead on your branch line while the others mope about over something which can't possibly exist? Don't stand for it!
The Little Western was his territory and he was going to set the tone, regardless of what nonsense the others might fill their smokeboxes with.
"Well then," he said firmly. "Donald makes a decent point. We're the lucky ones, aren't we? We've got a more understanding owner than most, good friends around us and the most splendid branch line in all of the British Isles. I vote that we all make sure to do our best to enjoy our good fortune. Let's make every day matter, eh? Let show the rest of the Fat Controller's engines the Little Western way of doing things."
Donald hummed in agreement. After a few moments, Oliver murmured, "All right then. I'll try."
All eyes turned to Douglas, whose attention remained firmly fixed on his twin. "If that's what ye want," he whispered, clearly exercising a great deal of self-control.
"Starting tomorrow," said Duck, determined to drive the point home. "If this wretched snow ever stops, of course."
He had done as much as he could at this stage. Duck settled down to mull over his next actions, undisturbed by the others who were presumably also reflecting on the evening's events. After a while he became aware of Oliver snoring gently beside him. Despite the early hour – he couldn't recall hearing the church bells strike seven – it was quite understandable given the overwrought state the autotank had been in.
Douglas had obviously caught the sound as well and he unleashed a low growl at his brother. "Donald! Ye promised!"
This was Duck's chance. Resolving the situation altogether was going to be long process but in the short term, Duck had realised that he could give Donald a way out and possibly ease Douglas's fears.
"You know, Donald," he said brightly, ignoring Douglas and cutting into the conversation before his brother could react, "that was a really clever thing you did."
"Clever?" Donald continued to stare across the yard. "That's nae how Ah would describe it."
"Oh, but it was," Duck told him, making sure to look as innocent as he possibly could. "Oliver needed to hear sense from someone who believed him. I don't generally approve of dishonesty, but telling him that you had made the Bargain too was the only way to get to him to listen to any of us. I would never have thought of that."
Donald looked across at him, his brow furrowed. "Dishonesty?"
"A white lie for a good cause," clarified Duck, looking pointedly at Douglas.
Donald's gaze drifted towards his twin and his expression eased. "Och aye," he said quietly. "We cannae have the wee laddie working himself intae a state o'er sich things."
Duck wasn't sure if he imagined it but Douglas's face seemed to lose some of its tension. Time would tell whether he believed – or chose to believe – Duck's intervention, but the pannier tank allowed himself a small sigh of relief. I can do this. I'll root out these silly notions and make them see sense in time. This is my branch line and we will do things my way.
But as the three settled down for the long, cold night ahead he couldn't help peering out into the yard, his eyes drawn to those areas which the electric lights failed to reach.
There was nothing out there, nothing otherworldly or otherwise which might cause concern.
Nothing at all.
But he found himself checking the shadows anyway.
Author's Note:
Apologies to the entire nation of Scotland for going there and attempting the Scottish Twins' accents.
Duck's wartime experiences were originally referred to very briefly in passing but at one stage during the process of writing this story, I happened to mention it to mean-scarlet-deceiver, whose enthusiasm for the idea of WWII Duck fic prompted me to do A LOT of research so there is a spin-off in the works.
For those who have been following Impossible Things: don't worry, it's still in progress. Real life has been relentless and I haven't had as much time for fic writing as I would have liked. I began writing this story in the summer of 2020 with the intention that it would be ready by Halloween of that year but here we are...