The Edge

by Dick Francis

  With a feeling of dreadful foreboding, I struck the third flare forcefully against the rail, almost broke it, felt it whoosh, stood waving it beside the track, beside the other flare stuck in the wood.

  The Canadian came straight on. I couldn’t bear it, couldn’t believe it …. It was almost impossible to throw the flare through the window … the window was too small, too high up, and moving at thirty-five miles an hour. I felt puny on the ground beside the huge roaring advance of the yellow bulk of the inexorable engine with its blinding lights and absence of brain.

  It was there. Then or never. There were no faces looking out from the cab. I yelled in a frenzy, ‘Stop’, and the sound blew away futilely on the bow wave of parting air.

  I threw the flare. Threw it high, threw it too soon, missed the empty black window.

  The flare flew forward of it and hit the outside of the windscreen, and fell onto the part of the engine sticking out in front; and then all sight of it was gone, the whole long heavy silver train rolling past me at a constant speed, making the ground tremble, extinguishing beneath it the second flare I’d planted in its path. It went on its mindless way, swept round the curve, and was gone.

  I felt disintegrated and sick, failure flooding back in the pain I’d disregarded. The trains would fold into each other, would concertina, would heap into killing chaos …. In despair, I picked up the torch and began to jog the way the Canadian had gone. I would have to face what I hadn’t been able to prevent … have to help even though I felt wretchedly guilty … couldn’t bear the thought of the Canadian ploughing into the Lorrimores’ car … someone would have warned the Lorrimores … oh God, oh God … someone must have warned the Lorrimores …. and everyone else. They would all be out of the train, away from the track … Nell … Zak … everybody.

  I ran round the curve. Ahead, lying beside the track, still burning, was the flare I’d thrown. Fallen off the engine. The first flare that I’d planted a hundred yards ahead before the next curve had vanished altogether, swept away by the Canadian.

  There was nothing. No noise, except the sighing wind. I wondered helplessly when I would hear the crash. I had no idea how far away the race train was; how far I’d run.

  Growing cold and with leaden feet, I plodded past the fallen flare and along and round the next bend, and round the long curve following. I hadn’t heard the screech of metal tearing into metal, though it reverberated in my head. They must have warned the Lorrimores, they must …. I shivered among the freezing mountains from far more than frost.

  There were two red lights on the rails far ahead. Not bright and burning like the flares, but small and insignificant, like reflectors. I wondered numbly what they were, and it wasn’t until I’d gone about five more paces that I realised that they weren’t reflectors, they were lights …. stationary lights … and I began running faster again, hardly daring to hope, but then seeing that they were indeed the rear lights of a train … a train … it could be only one train … there had been no night-tearing crash …. The Canadian had stopped. I felt swamped with relief, near to tears, breathless. It had stopped … there was no collision … no tragedy … it had stopped.

  I ran towards the lights, seeing the bulk of the train now in the torch’s beam, unreasonably afraid that the engineers would set off again and accelerate away. I ran until I was panting, until I could touch the train. I ran alongside it, sprinting now, urgent to tell them not to go on.

  There were several people on the ground up by the engine. They could see someone running towards them with a torch, and when I was fairly near to them, one of them shouted out authoritatively, ‘Get back on the train, there’s no need for people to be out here.’

  I slowed to a walk, very out of breath. ‘I … er …’ I called, ‘I came from the train in front.’ I gestured along the rails ahead, which were vacant as far as one could see in the headlights of the Canadian.

  ‘What train?’ one of them said, as I finally reached them.

  ‘The race train.’ I tried to breathe. Air came in gasps. ‘Transcontinental … mystery … race train.’

  There was a silence. One of them said. It’s supposed to be thirty-five minutes ahead of us.’

  It had …’ I said, dragging in oxygen, ‘a hot box.’

  It meant a great deal to them. It explained everything.

  ‘Oh.’ They took note of my uniform. ‘It was you who lit the fusees?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How far ahead is the other train?’

  ‘I don’t know …. Can’t remember … how far I ran.’

  They consulted. One, from his uniform, was the Conductor. Two, from their lack of it, were the engineers. There was another man there; perhaps the Conductor’s assistant. They decided – the Conductor and the train driver himself decided to go forward slowly. They said I’d better come with them in the cab.

  Gratefully, lungs settling, I climbed up and stood watching as the engineer released the brakes, put on power and set the train going at no more than walking pace, headlights bright on the empty track ahead.

  ‘Did you throw one of the fusees?’ the engineer asked me.

  ‘I didn’t think you were going to stop.’ It sounded prosaic, unemotional.

  ‘We weren’t in the cab,’ he said. ‘The one you threw hit the windscreen and I could see the glare all the way down inside the engine where I was checking a valve. Just as well you threw it … I came racing up here just in time to see the one on the track before we ran over it. Bit of luck, you know.’

  ‘Yes.’ Bit of luck … deliverance from a lifetime’s regret.

  ‘Why didn’t the Conductor radio?’ the Conductor said crossly.

  It’s out of order.’

  He tut-tutted a bit. We rolled forward slowly. There was a bend ahead to the right.

  ‘I think we’re near now,’ I said. ‘Not far.’

  ‘Right.’ The pace slowed further. The engineer inched carefully round the bend and it was as well he did, because when he braked at that point to a halt, we finished with twenty yards between the front of the Canadian’s yellow engine and the shining brass railing along the back platform of the Lorrimores’ car.

  ‘Well,’ the engineer said phlegmatically, ‘I wouldn’t have wanted to come round the corner unawares to see that.’

  It wasn’t until then that I remembered that Johnson was somewhere out on the track. I certainly hadn’t spotted him lying unconscious or dead on the ground on the return journey, and nor obviously had the Canadian’s crew. I wondered briefly where he’d got to, but at that moment I didn’t care. Everyone climbed down from the Canadian’s cab, and the crew walked forward to join their opposite numbers ahead.

  I went with them. The two groups greeted each other without fuss. The race train lot seemed to take it for granted that the Canadian would stop in time. They didn’t discuss flares, but hot boxes.

  The journal-box which held the near side end of the rearmost of the six axles of the horse car had overheated, and it had overheated because, they surmised, the oil inside had somehow leaked away. That’s what was usually wrong, when this happened. They hadn’t yet opened it. It no longer glowed red, but was too hot to touch. They were applying fresh snow all the time. Another ten minutes, perhaps.

  ‘Where’s George Burley?’ I asked.

  The race train baggage handler said no one could find him, but two sleeping car attendants were still searching for him. He told the others that it was a good thing he’d happened to be travelling in the horse car. He had smelled the hot axle, he said. He’d smelled that smell once before. Terrible smell, he said. He’d gone straight forward to tell the engineer to stop at once. ‘Otherwise the axle would have broken and we could have had a derailment.’

  The others nodded. They all knew.

  ‘Did you warn any of the passengers?’ I asked.

  ‘What? No, no, no need to wake them up.’

  ‘But … the Canadian might not have stopped …’

  ‘Of course it woul
d, when it saw the fusees.’

  Their faith amazed and frightened me. The Conductor of the Canadian said that he would radio ahead to Kamloops and both trains would stop there again, where there were multiple tracks, not just the one. Kamloops, he thought, would be getting worried soon that the race train hadn’t arrived, and he went off to inform them.

  I walked back behind the horse car and boarded the race train, and almost immediately met George’s assistant who was walking forwards.

  ‘Where’s George?’ I said urgently.

  He was worried. ‘I can’t find him.’

  ‘There’s one place he might be.’ And please let him be there, I thought. Please don’t let him be lying miles back in some dreadful condition beside the track.

  ‘Where?’ he said.

  ‘In one of the bedrooms. Look up the list. In Johnson’s bedroom.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Johnson.’

  Another sleeping car attendant happened to arrive at that point.

  ‘I still can’t find him,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know where Johnson’s room is?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, nearly next to mine. Roomette, it is.’

  ‘Then let’s look there.’

  ‘You can’t go into a passenger’s room in the middle of the night,’ he protested.

  ‘If Johnson’s there, we’ll apologise.’

  ‘I can’t think why you think George might be there,’ he grumbled, but he led the way back and pointed to a door. ‘That’s his.’

  I opened it. George was lying on the bed, squirming in ropes, fighting against a gag. Very much alive.

  Relieved beyond measure, I pulled off the gag which was a wide band of adhesive plaster firmly stuck on.

  ‘Dammit, that hurt, eh?’ George said. ‘What took you so long?’

  George sat in his office, grimly drinking hot tea and refusing to lie down. He was concussed, one could see from his eyes, but he would not admit that the blow to his head that had knocked him out had had any effect. As soon as he was free of the ropes and had begun to understand about the hot box, he had insisted that he and the Conductor from the Canadian had a talk together in the forward dome car of the race train, a meeting attended by various other crew members and myself.

  The despatcher in Kamloops, the Canadian’s Conductor reported, had said that as soon as the race train could set off again, it would proceed to Kamloops. The Canadian would follow ten minutes later. They would also alert a following freight train. The race train would remain at Kamloops for an hour. The Canadian would leave Kamloops first so that it fell as little behind its timetable as possible. After all the journal-boxes of the race train had been checked for heat, it would go on its way to Vancouver. There wouldn’t be any enquiry at Kamloops as it would be past three in the morning – Sunday morning – by then. The enquiry would take place at Vancouver.

  Everyone nodded. George looked white, as if he wished he hadn’t moved his head.

  The race train’s engineer came to say that the box had been finally opened, it had been dry and the oily waste had burned away, but all was now well, it was cool and filled again, it was not dripping out underneath, and the train could go on.

  They wasted no time. The Canadian’s crew left and the race train was soon on the move again as if nothing had happened. I went with George to his office and then fetched him the tea, and he groggily demanded I tell him from start to finish what was going on.

  ‘You tell me first how you came to be knocked out,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t remember. I was walking up to see the engineers.’ He looked puzzled. ‘First thing I knew, I was lying there trussed up. I was there for ages. Couldn’t understand it.’ He hadn’t a chuckle left in him. ‘I was in Johnson’s roomette, they said. Johnson did it, I suppose. Jumped me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Heaven knows.’ I told George about Johnson’s attacking me and how I’d left him, and how I hadn’t seen him anywhere on the way back.

  ‘Two possibilities,’ George said. ‘Three, I suppose. Either he buggered off somewhere or he’s getting a ride on the Canadian right now.’

  I stared. Hadn’t thought of that. ‘What’s the third?’ I asked.

  A tired gleam crept into George’s disorientated eyes. ‘The mountain where we stopped,’ he said. ‘That was Squilax Mountain. Squilax is the Indian word for black bear.’

  I swallowed. ‘I didn’t see any bears.’

  ‘Just as well.’

  I didn’t somehow think Johnson had been eaten by a bear. I couldn’t believe in it. I thought I must have been crazy, but I hadn’t believed in bears all the time I’d been out there on black bear mountain.

  ‘Know something?’ George said. ‘The new rolling stock can’t easily get hot boxes, the axles run in ball-bearings, eh?, not oily waste. Only old cars like the horse car will always be vulnerable. Know what? You bet your life Johnson took most of the waste out of that box when we stopped in Revelstoke.’

  ‘Why do you say oily waste?’ I asked.

  ‘Rags. Rags in the oil. Makes a better cushion for the axle than plain oil. I’ve known one sabotaged before, mind. Only that time they didn’t just take the rags out, they put iron filings in, eh? Derailed the train. Another railwayman with a grudge, that was. But hot boxes do happen by accident. They’ve got heat sensors with alarm systems beside the track in some places, because of that. How did that Johnson ever think he’d get away with it?’

  ‘He doesn’t know we have a photo of him.’

  George began to laugh and thought better of it. ‘You kill me, Tommy. But what was my assistant thinking of, sending you off with the fusees? It was his job, eh? He should have gone.’

  ‘He said I’d go faster.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose he was right. But you weren’t really crew.’

  ‘He’d forgotten,’ I said. ‘But I thought he might have warned the Lorrimores …. and everyone else … to get them out of danger.’

  George considered it. ‘I’m not going to say he should. I’m not going to say he shouldn’t.’

  ‘Railwaymen stick together?’

  ‘He’s coming up to his pension. And no one was as much as jolted off their beds, eh?’

  ‘Lucky.’

  ‘Trains always stop for flares,’ he said comfortably.

  I left it. I supposed one couldn’t lose a man his pension for not doing something that had proved unnecessary.

  We ran presently into Kamloops where the axles were all checked, the radio was replaced, and everything else went according to plan. Once we were moving again, George finally agreed to lie down in his clothes and try to sleep; and two doors along from him I tried the same.

  Things always start hurting when one has time to think about them. The dull ache where Johnson’s piece of wood had landed on the back of my left shoulder was intermittently sharply sore: all right when I was standing up, not so good lying down. A bore. It would be stiffer still, I thought, in the morning. A pest for serving breakfast.

  I smiled to myself finally. In spite of Johnson’s and Filmer’s best efforts, the Great Transcontinental Mystery Race Train might yet limp without disaster to Vancouver.

  Complacency, I should have remembered, was never a good idea.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was discomfort as much as anything which had me on my feet again soon after six. Emil wouldn’t have minded if I’d been late, as few of the passengers were early breakfasters, but I thought I’d do better in the dining car. I stripped off the waistcoat and shirt for a wash and a shave, and inspected in the mirror as best I could the fairly horrifying bruise already colouring a fair-sized area across my back. Better than on my head, I thought resignedly. Look on the bright side.

  I put on a clean shirt and the spare clean waistcoat and decided that this was one VIA Rail operative who was not going to polish his shoes that morning, despite the wear and tear on them from the night’s excursions. I bru
shed my hair instead. Tommy looked tidy enough, I thought, for his last appearance.

  It wasn’t yet light. I went forward through the sleeping train to the kitchen where Angus was not only awake but singing Scottish ballads at the top of his voice while filling the air with the fragrant yeasty smell of his baking. The dough, it seemed, had risen satisfactorily during the night.

  Emil, Oliver, Cathy and I laid the tables and set out fresh flowers in the bud vases, and in time, with blue skies appearing outside, poured coffee and ferried sausages and bacon. The train stopped for a quarter of an hour in a place called North Bend, our last stop before Vancouver, and ran on down what the passengers were knowledgeably calling Fraser Canyon. Hell’s Gate, they said with relish, lay ahead.

  The track seemed to me to be clinging to the side of a cliff. Looking out of the window by the kitchen door, one could see right down to a torrent rushing between rocky walls, brownish tumbling water with foam edged waves. The train, I was pleased to note, was negotiating this extraordinary feat of engineering at a suitably circumspect crawl. If it went too fast round these bends, it would fly off into space.

  I took a basket of bread down to the far end just as Mercer Lorrimore came through from the dome car. Although Cathy was down there also, he turned from her to me and asked if I could possibly bring hot tea through to his own car.

  ‘Certainly, sir. Any breads?’

  He looked vaguely at the basket. ‘No. Just tea. For three of us.’ He nodded, turned and went away. Cathy raised her eyebrows and said with tolerance, ‘Chauvinist pig.’

  Emil shook his head a bit over the private order but made sure the tray I took looked right from his point of view, and I swayed through on the mission.

  The lockable door in the Lorrimores’ car was open. I knocked on it, however, and Mercer appeared in the far doorway to the saloon at the rear.

  ‘Along here, please.’

  I went along there. Mercer, dressed in a suit and tie, gestured to me to put the tray on the coffee table. Bambi wasn’t there. Sheridan sprawled in an armchair in jeans, trainers and a big white sweatshirt with the words MAKE WAVES on the front.