by Ed Zenith
Acton and Ash stood staring at the gauges, beads of sweat on their brows. Even Studley had stirred from his resting place, obviously sensing the panic in the air.
“Fifty-seven!”
Ash looked at Acton, who was practically breathless with anticipation. He had a lot riding on the pull of that lever. He was as still as a statue, eyes wide with fear.
“Fifty-eight!”
Frampton, for all his uncertainty, was loving the excitement. For him, this was the climax of his life on the rails. The Horton was his life now and the crew were his family. He had everything he wanted around him. He took his eyes briefly from the speed gauge to look at his surroundings; the engine he had built, his master, his apprentice and his faithful mutt. All relying on him to come through with the goods. He was truly happy.
“Fifty-nine!”
Ash suddenly realised that if this worked, they would all be thrown around the cab like peas in a drum. He quickly pushed himself to the back of the cab and grabbed a handrail. He grabbed Studley by the collar and pulled him close, feeling the little dog’s heart racing with excitement. Ash tensed all his muscles as he saw Frampton place his hand on the crudely-welded lever. The speed gauge hit sixty.
“Brace yourselves!” yelled Frampton, as he pushed the welly lever to the floor.
10.
Ash felt like he was at the centre of an explosion. The noise was deafening; a cacophony of gears, wheels, gauges and pistons, all screaming for mercy. Frampton and Acton had been thrown to the back of the cab, as Ash had anticipated, but arose unharmed and struggled to return to their positions at the front of the cab. Ash had done well by bracing himself against the back wall, as he and Studley could have been thrown clear of the engine. He stood and glanced at the countryside flying past them. Acton and Frampton were hastily turning wheels and releasing levers. Ash looked to the speed gauge.
“Ninety-seven miles an hour!” he screamed and saw the toothless grin on Frampton’s face. Acton hugged the old man briefly and let him return to steering the train. They still had a fair way to go, but now at least they would reach the Heath brothers in time.
*****
The Horton sailed through the Peak District with no problems and they crossed the border into Yorkshire just under an hour later. Frampton began to curb her speed and soon they were near York itself. Acton climbed over the coal store and entered the carriage, so he could go over the plan with Cannings one last time.
He entered and found the carriage upside down and back to front. All the furniture had been tipped over and Acton eventually located Cannings underneath the chaise longue. The force of the acceleration had thrown the contents of the carriage around, but had not roused Cannings from his drug-induced slumber.
Acton found the laudanum-soaked glass next to him and shook his head. He had seen the addiction in others and had always suspected it was Cannings’s drink of choice. He found a nearby bottle of water and threw it in Cannings’s face.
“Up!” he yelled. He felt a stirring of pride. He was giving Bishop Cannings an order and not the other way around for the first time in his life. Cannings coughed and spluttered and eventually opened his eyes.
“Did I do that?” he said, surveying the chaos around him.
“We’re nearly in York. I want you up and ready. Let’s go through the plan again.”
Cannings sat up. He was barely able to move his great bulk without groaning. Acton looked him over. He was fat, bald, weak and sluggish. What had he ever feared in this man? He was a bully who delighted in torturing little boys. Acton was strong, both physically and mentally and had proved it time and time again. It was he who was in control now and both of them knew it.
“Your oh-so-brilliant plan runs thus,” said Cannings sarcastically. “You meet with the Heath brothers and exchange the crimson blade for your upper-class tart. When the exchange is done, you will give one pull of the engine’s whistle and I will come out with weapons blazing. Together we will take down the Heaths, five against two and I will claim my prize; the knife and belt and a wonderful retirement as Archbishop.”
“Very good. Get yourself together. We’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Acton, but his mind was already ticking over. He had decided to tweak the terms of their agreement a little. He owed Cannings nothing and so once the exchange was made, he would indeed pull the engine’s whistle, but then he would not fight against the Heaths. He would instruct Frampton to pull out of the yard and leave Cannings to fight for his treasure alone. He felt no guilt at this plan. Cannings deserved to be deserted, to be dumped into the hands of gangsters and murderers. Moreover, the Heaths deserved to be set upon by a drug-addled homicidal Bishop. Here was a chance to redress the balance, thought Acton. He walked to the other side of the carriage and found Cannings’s bag among the mess. He pulled out the knife. Its blade gleamed and Acton was caught momentarily by its beauty.
“What are you doing with that?” snapped Cannings. He was jealous. Someone else was holding his knife.
“I’m taking it, remember? For the exchange? Don’t worry old man, it’ll be all yours soon enough and you’re welcome to it,” Acton spat.
Cannings eyed him suspiciously as he left the carriage.
*****
The Horton pulled into the Heath’s yard earlier than anyone had expected. Frampton eased her in carefully and applied the brakes fully. Her fire was still burning red hot but Frampton was controlling the steam she was producing, dispersing the power elsewhere.
“How is she?” said Ash, looking concerned at the flames leaping from the firebox.
“Beautiful, that’s what she is!” beamed Frampton and went to turn a wheel that was burning hot. His hand recoiled when he touched it. “She’s a bit over-excited, is all. Can’t seem to get the heat down, but she’s through the worst of it.”
Acton had the knife in his hand. He gripped it, turning it gently in the glow of the fire, a faraway look in his eyes.
“Time to go Acton,” said Ash, eager to collect Sandy and leave. Acton didn’t move. “Acton?”
“Hmm? Yeah, let’s go,” he answered finally, still distracted by the jewelled dagger. “Frampton, you stay in the cab. Try to control the steam, we don’t want her tank blowing. When I give you a nod, pull her whistle. That’ll bring Cannings running. Then, make sure we’re ready to go. I want to be out of here as quick as possible. And you,” he said to Ash, “Try not to get us into anymore trouble.”
It was said with a smile and Ash knew that whatever tension there had been between them was gone. It had disappeared in that cell in the Home. They were friends now – equals – but more important than that, Ash was part of the Horton’s crew.
Ash jumped down from the cab and paused while Acton lowered himself to the ground, careful not to cut himself on the knife’s razor-sharp blade. They both walked forward side by side, into the depths of the shed. It was exactly as Ash remembered it, although it felt to Ash as though it had been two lifetimes ago he had last been there.
The packing crates towered around them on either side, the glass roof above them stained with soot and grime. Green moss grew on the panes, giving a sage tint to the beams of light that managed to work their way through the murk. Ash and Acton turned a corner and found themselves in an open area directly below the Heath’s office which stood proudly on the mezzanine. The Heaths stood on the ground floor, Milbury smiling wide like a fat snake digesting its dinner. Sandy’s jewelled belt was slung over his shoulder like a prize-fighter’s trophy. Ash and Acton faced them, a distance of just ten yards separating them from the brothers.
“Where’s Sandy?” Ash came straight to the point.
“So abrupt! She’s safe, my little man and your concern is heartening, it really is. You have the knife?”
Acton held the crimson blade aloft and the air was still for a second, all eyes on the weapon of splendour. The red blade seemed to glow in the murky light, giving it a supernatural appearance. Milbury and Berkley almost salivated with des
ire.
“Excellent job boys!” And so fast! Your rewards will be plentiful, in this life and the next. Hand it over then.”
“Sandy first!” yelled Ash, his blood boiling at the casualness of his friend’s captivity.
“You want to take a cane to that one Acton, teach him some respect!” Milbury barked back. “But it’s a fair enough request. Place the knife on the box to your left and we’ll see to it.”
Ash looked to Acton, who gave the slightest of nods. Ash reached out and took the knife from him. Maybe it was the heat of the moment, but Ash could have sworn that Acton gripped the knife tightly for a second, as if unwilling to give it up. Ash took the few paces forward and placed the knife down on a packing crate.
“Good. Mr Heath?”
A few second passed before Berkley realised he was being spoken to. He eventually nodded and moved to a packing box to his left. He wrenched the lid off with his bare hands and gave the box a hard shove with his foot, pushing it over.
Wood shavings and dust tumbled out onto the cold stone floor along with the bound and gagged form of Sandy Lane. Acton rushed to her aid at once, untying her.
“Are you alright?”
Sandy nodded, but was visibly shaken.
“She’s feisty, this one,” said Milbury. “Needed her spirit breaking a little.”
Acton expected Sandy to shrink and cry, but instead she turned and growled at the brothers.
“You’re going to pay for this, I swear! I’ll-”
Acton pulled her away from the brothers, who merely chuckled at her fury. He whispered to her as he pulled her back to Ash.
“I’m sorry I left you here. It was the only way.”
Sandy simply nodded. She knew now that the Heaths were not people to challenge and that they were capable of committing awful, terrifying acts. She’d learnt the hard way.
Milbury stepped forward and grabbed the knife.
“Is that it? Is it the one?” said Berkley.
“Of course it is! How many of these do you think there are?”
Ash looked at the two gangsters with renewed hatred. He was disgusted even to be in their presence and glad that he could now leave and never see them again. He turned to Acton and Sandy.
“Let’s go.”
As Acton helped Sandy to her feet, a shot rang out around the shed. Confused, everyone spun around to see Bishop Cannings standing behind them, his arm raised high, a smoking revolver in his hand. A chink of light showed in the roof where his warning shot had gone.
He hadn’t waited for the signal. He’d ruined everything. They couldn’t fight the Heaths, nor did they want to. If they fled, Cannings would realise they intended to desert him and shoot them all. Why had he come early? Then Ash saw it. His eyes were glazed, his movements fluid, his blood swimming with laudanum. He was crazed, the same way he had been at the Home, on the nights that he would beat Ash to within an inch of his life. The Bishop’s mind was not his own and for a moment Ash almost felt sorry for him. He wouldn’t stand a chance against the Heaths, two clear-thinking ruthless killers. Ash now realised that the Heaths didn’t know that the Bishop had arrived with them. If they found out they were being betrayed, they would not hesitate in killing them all. Whichever way Ash looked at it, they were all in serious trouble.
Cannings staggered forward, waving the gun indiscriminately, as if his eyes couldn’t focus on their target and his brain hadn’t yet decided who that target should be.
“Who the bloody hell’s he?” yelled Milbury. Acton replied with a shrug, as if trying to distance himself from the sudden appearance of a gun-toting madman.
“I want the knife and the belt,” demanded Cannings. Milbury laughed.
Cannings was staggering forward and it became clear to all that although he wasn’t entirely in his right mind, he still posed a very real danger with a loaded gun. Ash looked around for somewhere to run, but found he was closed in by boxes. His only route out was past the Heath brothers. While he dithered about, Cannings had covered a surprising amount of ground and grabbed Ash, pulling his body towards him and placing his revolver at his temple.
“The knife, or the boy dies!”
“Hur hur hur hur hur!” Now Berkley was laughing.
“My dear old man,” said Milbury, his face red from laughing. “It appears you have misjudged our situation. I couldn’t give a fig for the bag of bones you have there. As for the knife, you can whistle for it.”
The Bishop was now confused and embarrassed. The drugs swimming around his body didn’t make things any clearer. Why were the two portly gentlemen laughing at him? He had never been laughed at by anyone before. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. It made him angry and when he got angry, he liked to hurt people.
“By all means, do away with the little tyke. He’s served his purpose and we have no further need of him,” said Milbury. This infuriated the Bishop, whose grip on the trigger tightened.
“Very well.”
Ash panicked and tried to struggle. The Bishop contained him but still found it hard to aim even at point blank range. Ash could hear the tiny cogs of the revolver clicking, the chamber slowly locking into place as Cannings’s finger pulled back into a fist.
11.
Ash’s certain death was interrupted by the high pitched screech of train brakes filling the shed. All turned to see the Black Viper, KRUM’s advanced steam engine, come to a halt on a second set of tracks leading into the Heath’s shed. As it pulled to a stop it crashed through a pile of wooded crates, sending splinters flying.
From the footplate leapt a tall, wiry man wearing all black. He landed on the ground without falling and immediately took cover behind a small steel tank, training a hastily-drawn revolver on them all.
“Nobody move!” shouted Captain Stanton Fitzwarren.
The Heaths, Bishop Cannings, Ash, Acton and Sandy all stared at the soldier, agog.
“And who the bloody hell’s he?” said Milbury. Acton shrugged again, this time genuinely without a clue.
From the cab of the Black Viper, Nempnett Thrubwell idly climbed down, carrying a small box, marked ‘TNT’.
“Cannings! Put the boy down. You with the knife! Throw it down here!”
Cannings could not mobilise his thoughts, he was too dizzy with confusion and opiates. Milbury thankfully voiced his query for them both.
“You and whose army sunshine?”
Fitz gave a rare smile.
The shed rumbled. Ash, still in the grip of Bishop Cannings, heard a noise unlike any he had heard before. It was like a steam engine, but different. Less ‘chug-chug-chug’, more ‘whup-whup-whup’. The entire gathered crowd looked around them, desperate to trace the unusual noise. Gradually, all their faces began to look up.
The glass roof began to shake and crack, the girders that supported it creaking and groaning. Suddenly the whole roof came free, exposing the grey Yorkshire sky and an apparatus the like of which had never been seen. Marston Meysey sat in a steam powered helicopter, its engine coughing smoke and steam which was immediately chopped to bits by the whirring rotor blades above him. He sat with the control lever in front of him, the wind whipping his wavy blond hair around, which was only tamed by the rubber strap of a pair of brass-rimmed goggles. Below the steam-copter hung the remains of the Heath’s roof, attached to the aircraft by a grappling hook and some rope. Meysey expertly swung the rusty girders to one side and, spraying the collected people below with shards of glass.
Two black figures clung to the open cockpit and on Meysey’s signal, they unfurled tow lengths of rope which tumbled to the ground. Hayden and Badbury Wick gave each other a nod and leapt from the aircraft in unison. They abseiled to the mezzanine office and unhooked themselves from the ropes, drew their weapons, ready for battle.
“Captain Fitzwarren’s rules of combat,” said Badbury, cocking his semi-automatic steam rifle.
“Number one: always attack on two fronts,” said Haydon, unsheathing his rapier sword.
Acton t
ook a second to look around himself at the mayhem. Surrounded by black-clad mercenaries, his junior crewmate held hostage by an insane senior member of the church, the knife and belt in the hands of two criminals. To top it all, he thought he recognised the pilot of the impossible aircraft which hovered noisily above them. Sure enough, Marston Meysey had recognised Acton and was pointing angrily at him. Acton couldn’t hear a word he was saying, but the internationally-recognised sign of rubbing his thumb and forefinger together seemed to suggest that Marston wanted his gambling money back. Acton just shrugged back at him, unable to oblige.
Fitz signalled to Meysey, who brought the chopper down in the centre of the vast shed, blowing dust and litter everywhere. As the rotor blades slowed and the aircraft's steam engines cooled, the noise dissipated and Fitz shouted again.
“Now, release the boy and drop the knife.”
Cannings, irritable and confused, snapped back.
“Who the devil are you?” he yelled.
Fitz kept his revolver trained on Cannings, but straightened, breaking his cover.
“Captain Stanton Fitzwarren of the King’s Regiment of Uncontrollable Mercenaries. You’ll have realised by my lieutenant’s somewhat showy entrance that we do, in fact, mean business. We want the knife and the belt. No one needs to get hurt.”
Cannings looked for a moment as if he were about to co-operate.
“’Cept the Bishop,” said Thrubwell, all but forgotten, lurking in the shadows. “We’s supposed to kill the Bishop.”
“What?” Cannings boomed, tightening his grip on the trigger once more, the gun still pressed against Ash’s head. Fitz swore under his breath. Ash tensed again, waiting to hear the shot ring out.
Just when he was expecting the hammer to strike down on the bullet, he felt himself tumble and fall, Cannings falling on top of him, his great weight crushing him as they both toppled to the floor. The gun fell from the Bishop’s hand and span across the floor. It skidded to a halt underneath a pile of packing crates. Ash turned to see that Frampton had jumped Cannings from behind, which had sent them sprawling. He was now sat on top of the giant clergyman, his knee in his spine, with a hand pulling Canning’s head back.