by Ed Zenith
“Step away, or I will shoot!” yelled Fitz, desperately trying to regain control of the situation.
“Move Master Ash! He’s a big bugger, I can’t hold him for long!”
Ash wiggled free and went to join Acton and Sandy.
“Turville!” yelled Cannings, in pain. “We had a deal!”
Milbury’s smile suddenly dropped. It had finally occurred to him that the madman with the gun was something to do with Acton. He had been betrayed and no one got away with crossing the Heath brothers.
“Berkley, bring him to me,” he said through gritted teeth. Berkley did not have the intelligence to understand why he had to apprehend Acton, but did so nonetheless. He had total trust in his brother and so strode quickly towards Acton and Sandy. Acton helped Sandy to her feet.
“In the carriage, quickly,” he ordered. Sandy did not argue and started toward the train, with Ash in tow. Berkley was upon Acton and laid his massive hands on his lapels. “Now Berkley mate, let’s not be too hasty…” said Acton. He didn’t want to fight the gangster, mainly because he’d lose, but also because he had begun to formulate a plan for escape. The plan was immediately void when Berkley hoisted him two feet clear from the ground. It was clear that Acton would need to rely on his old prize fighting skills to get out of this alive, but he was damned if he was going to play by the rules. He took advantage of his feet being suspended in midair by delivering a swift and powerful kick into Berkley’s groin. The big man doubled over, dropping Acton to the floor. Acton knew that his kick wouldn’t incapacitate Berkley for long, so as soon as his feet were firmly on the floor, he struck him in the chin with an uppercut. Berkley grunted with pain, but recovered quickly and started swinging his great fists toward Acton. His swipes were slow and predictable, but Acton used his speedy reflexes to dodge them, knowing that if just one punch hit him it would be powerful enough to knock him clean across the room.
Ash and Sandy began to sprint to the train. A quick signal from Fitz sent Hayden Wick after them, sliding down the spiral staircase and landing in front of the pair, sword raised.
“No one leaves until we say so.”
Sandy and Ash froze, the tip of the sword inches from their faces. Sandy looked at the sword, then at Hayden.
“I beg to differ.”
She dived to her right, snatching up the nearest weapon to hand, a rusty-looking metal bar, about three feet long. She turned back to the black-clad swordsman and lunged at him with the weapon. Hayden easily deflected it with his won sword, but the fact that she had retaliated at all came as a shock to him.
“Madam, please. I have no wish to fight a lady.”
“Luckily for you, I’m no lady,” Sandy said through gritted teeth. She attacked again, swinging the bar in front of her, punctuating each swipe with an outburst. “I’M-SICK-AND-TIRED-OF-MEN-TELLING-ME-WHAT-TO-DO!”
Haydon deflected her attack, but Sandy was gaining ground, Hayden stepping back with each swing. He got as far as the Horton, then lost his footing. His hand dropped to steady himself and Sandy saw her moment. She swung at his head. She missed, but Hayden’s reflexes forced him to pull his head back. He hit his head on the Horton’s tank, which rang out like a dinner gong. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious and Sandy snatched up his sword.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, breathless.
Ash, shocked at his friend’s new-found fighting spirit, followed.
Up on the mezzanine floor, Badbury watched the ensuing chaos. It was meant to be a simple mission: get the knife, kill the bishop. Suddenly they were abseiling from steam-copters and six other civilians were in the melee. He looked down the telescopic sight of his steam rifle, which clunked and whirred, building up pressure to fire its first shot. When it became clear that civilians were involved, Fitz had given the sign to switch to rubber bullets, which would stun rather than kill the target. He could train his sights on the Bishop, but he was currently wrestling with the bald fellow from the locomotive, so he had no clear available shot. He moved the sight over to where a large Yorkshire man was sparring with the curly-haired oik that they had bumped into in Swindon just the previous day. He motioned to Meysey on the ground, who went over to break up the fight.
Acton was getting tired, dodging punches from Berkley, yet his opponent didn’t seem to tire at all. The big man kept swiping at him, but Acton’s reflexes made him dodge and dance around him. He was almost glad when Marston Meysey came and brutally floored Berkley with one well-aimed punch. Almost.
“Turville! Got my money?” Meysey grabbed him by the lapel.
“Alright Marston? Er, not quite. Been busy, you know, getting into trouble and that.”
“So I see. You’ve had enough warnings Turville. I’m sorry to have to do this, but-”
Meysey was interrupted by a screeching from behind him. Acton shifted to gaze over Meysey’s shoulder where Milbury, having seen his brother knocked unconscious, had flown into a rage and ran at Meysey, brandishing the only weapon to hand; the crimson blade itself.
Acton did not have time to think. He grabbed Meysey by his lapel and shoved him hard, forcing him out of the way, a move he would regard seconds later as extremely stupid. Meysey dropped to his left, out of Milbury’s path. Acton did not have time to react, just turn his body slightly to cushion the blow. Milbury ran into him, driving the knife into his chest. Acton felt the hot sharp pain sear through him as he collapsed on the ground. As he fell, he saw that the blade was buried deep in his flesh, but it had missed the heart by a good six inches. Instead of piercing his heart, it was sticking out of his skin just below the shoulder near his collar bone.
Milbury stood over him, his eyes wide, his teeth bared. He watched over Acton, the blood spilling from the fresh wound and Acton knew he was ready to finish the job at any second. Like his brother, Milbury had all but forgotten about Meysey, who leapt on him and wrestled him to the ground.
Acton was sure he should be in shock, but somehow found the strength to raise himself to his hands and knees and crawl slowly towards the Horton.
*****
Fitz looked at the mess. His regiment were being beaten by a bunch of louts. He needed to gain control, fast, but couldn’t risk the lives of the civilians. He looked to Badbury and gave the signal to stun everyone in the vicinity, the only way to stop the stupid scrapping.
Badbury cocked his steam rifle, rubber bullets at the ready. They were large, about the size of a snooker ball and would not pierce the skin when fired. They would however leave an almighty bruise and a well aimed shot would knock the target unconscious. However, even a marksman of his calibre could not hit all the people in the room and knock them cold.
Then he remembered.
Whipping his rifle up, he focused on the one stationary person in the room – Nempnett Thrubwell.
He fired, sending a rubber bullet hurtling at the explosives expert and hitting him square in the chest. Badbury had not aimed at the heart, but rather Thrubwell’s shirt pocket, where he knew that two corked test tubes rested; Thrubwell’s ‘Kiss from and Angel’.
The tubes smashed on impact and the two liquids combined and reacted in a second, sending a wave of gas out over a ten yard radius. The men in the shed fell to the floor like autumn leaves. Fitz and Meysey looked confused for a second, but soon followed suit. It wasn’t quite what Fitz had in mind when he had order the stun, but it had been effective.
By the Horton, Ash and Sandy heard the hiss of the chemicals reacting and a load of grown men fall to the floor like toddlers. Well away from the affected area, they could not see the rest of the men, but they noticed for the first time Acton crawling towards them, unaffected by the gas, but loosing blood rapidly from his shoulder wound.
“Acton!”
Ash and Sandy rushed forward and pulled him up, lifting him to the footplate.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Sandy.
“What about Frampton?” said Ash, starting to stoke the engine.
*****
In the shed, Frampton looked at the bodies around him in confusion. One moment, they had been fighting, the next they had fallen to the floor. A couple had grabbed their noses as they fell, so he could only assume it was some sort of gas or noxious odour that had knocked them out. Luckily, Frampton’s sense of smell hadn’t worked since a boiler accident in 1842. He often joked that it was the only way he could share a carriage with Acton and Studley…
He rose and walked towards the Horton, where the crew were happy to see him.
The engine was steaming nicely, with Ash on the footplate, handling her like a true professional. Frampton smiled. He had taught the boy well. Acton was being helped up into the cab by Sandy and they were all ready to set off.
“Get a move on yer daft bugger!” shouted Acton, wincing and holding his shoulder tightly to stem the flow of blood. Frampton grinned and walked slowly to his engine.
Ash readied the engine as Frampton had taught him. Cannings and the Heath brothers all seemed to be out cold for the moment, but that was no reason to hang about, so Ash made sure they were ready to move off as soon as the whole crew was on board.
Frampton approached the engine and gave a little smile and a skip. Ash smiled back, but his focus then shifted to the Bishop on the floor behind him. Cannings had come to, his body shrugging off the intoxication, obviously used to the presence of drugs. The man slowly lifted his head and began to crawl across the floor. He reached underneath a packing crate, grasping for something. Ash cried out to Frampton, but half his voice was lost amongst the loud noise of the engine, the other half with fear. Frampton saw his alarm and turned to see the cause of it. Cannings was on the ground, his revolver back in his hand and aimed at Frampton. Ash saw it in slow motion. Frampton didn’t have time to react. Cannings squeezed the trigger and a shot rang out. Frampton’s body rocked with the impact of the bullet and he was dead in an instant. He fell to the ground, just yards from his beloved engine.
Acton saw him fall and screamed an ungodly cry. The next few seconds seemed to pass in a haze and no one could move. Cannings must have found his feet, because he was upright now and staggering yard by yard towards the Horton.
“The knife Keynes!” he bellowed. “That’s all I want!”
Sandy and Acton looked to Ash.
“Let’s go!” urged Sandy. Ash stood silent and shaking. A flurry of thoughts swirled around his mind and he knew now what he must do.
“Ash! Come on!” said Acton, gripping his bleeding wound. Ash shook his head slowly.
“No. He’s not going to win.”
“He’s got a gun!”
“He’s a bully!” Ash cried. “I won’t let him win again!” Ash stepped forward so he was standing in the mouth of the cab.
“Give me the knife boy! That was the agreement. The knife and the belt.”
Ash stood firm.
“You’ll get nothing from us Cannings! You don’t deserve anything. Everything you ever achieved was though crime, dishonesty and murder and it all ends here!”
The Bishop stopped walking. He laughed. A great, long maniacal laugh that echoed throughout the shed. He raised his gun, his arm now quite straight and steady.
“‘It all ends here.’ How very true, Keynes. I can make it so, with just one squeeze of this trigger, but it needn’t be like that. Give me the knife and you can live.”
Ash was struck with fear and for a moment he seriously considered Cannings’s offer. Until-
“You don’t want to end up like your friend here.”
One mention of Frampton was enough to send Ash raging. He stepped back into the cab and without warning pulled the knife from Acton’s shoulder in one swift motion.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaggghhh!” screamed Acton.
“You want it?” Ash yelled. “Go to hell.”
Ash threw the knife into the Horton’s furnace, deep into the flames. The fire was still burning hot from their journey, far hotter than the flames that had first forged the blade itself. It began to smoke and spit and Ash saw the blade begin to melt.
“No!” yelled Cannings. Ash saw the danger now and readied the engine once more. He pulled a lever and the Horton began its slow getaway, sending plumes of smoke up in the air.
Cannings raced toward the engine and managed to place his foot on the first rung of the steps as the train started to move off. As he raised himself to the level of the footplate, he met a sight he was not prepared for.
Studley stood with teeth bared, growling and dripping saliva. At any other time Cannings would never have been scared of an old grey terrier, but there was something in the old dog’s eyes. Cannings had killed his master and now Studley would kill him. Cannings screamed and Studley struck. He leapt forward, teeth gnashing and biting at the Bishop’s face.
Cannings fell and as the engine increased its speed, the last thing that Acton heard as he fell into unconsciousness, were the screams of a doomed old man and the triumphant growls and barks of an old dog.
12.
Acton regained consciousness quickly and suddenly, filled with the panic and adrenalin of his recent battle. He awoke however, to find himself on his tatty old chaise longue with a blanket covering him. All around him was peaceful and quiet with everything neat and tidy. Too neat and tidy.
“Oh no,” he muttered. “She cleaned.”
“Yes, I cleaned,” said Sandy’s voice, from behind the curtain. She emerged dressed in her usual bohemian garb, with a towel around her head. “It needed a good tidy around here and don’t argue.”
She sat down beside Acton and took the towel off her head, spraying him with droplets of water. He looked around at his surroundings. Everything was in its rightful place; his desk, his truck, all of his personal belongings. It was as if the whole of the last week had never happened. But it had and now Frampton was gone. The carriage felt empty now, as though it didn’t need furniture to fill it, just laughter and life. Frampton had plenty of both and dished it out liberally. That’s what made it the Horton – life and motion.
Which was another odd thing. They weren’t moving.
“Why are we stopped? Where are we?” said Acton, trying to lift himself up. He felt the pain shoot through his shoulder and dropped back down.
“Stay still! My bandaging isn’t what it used to be. We’re safe, at least for now. Ash has taken care of everything.”
“Ash?”
“Of course. He’s a very capable boy you know. All he needed was a bit of confidence and freedom. He’s been running the whole train. He can get quite bossy actually, a bit like someone else I know,” she smiled. “He told me everything that happened. Thank you.”
“S’alright,” Acton shrugged and then winced with pain. They smiled at each other.
“Finally! You’re awake!” shouted Ash, making them both jump. “Have a nice snooze did we?” He marched in and sat down on the desk chair, which he wheeled over to them. He put his foot up on the end of the chaise longue and wiped his brow with a cloth. He was still in his old dungarees, which were now filthy with soot and grease. His face was almost black, only his white teeth showing as he grinned from ear to ear. “When will you be back on your feet? There’s work to be done y’know.”
Acton stared agog at the boy who had appeared in his life less than a week before.
“What happened? Can I get the old Ash back please?”
They laughed. Sandy got up to brew some tea for them all.
“Where are we?” said Acton, immediately wanting to get up to speed with the situation.
“Lynton, North Devon,” said Ash. “We needed to refuel and this seemed a nice quiet town.”
“Devon? Why so far?”
Ash explained. When they escaped from York, Ash had driven the train to Leeds, where they decided to take stock. Sandy was worried about the Heath brothers. They had only been knocked out in the skirmish and when they came to they’d want to know where their knife was. Sandy went to the local tavern to ask around, to see if anyone had heard if they we
re wanted by the gangsters. Sure enough, the criminal telegraph was faster than ever and she overheard the description of herself, Acton, Ash and the Horton circulating around the darker corners of the pub. They fled, their plan being to get to the Republic of Cornwall, where Sandy knew a diplomat who could let them over the border and provide shelter.
“What about those soldiers in black? Who the scrag were they?
“KRUM,” said Sandy. “The Queen’s private regiment. Top secret. I wasn’t even sure they existed, thought they were a myth that circulated around the government. My father used to tell me about them, about the amazing and terrible missions they’d go on to protect the monarch. They seemed like stories though, not something you’d meet in a dark alley in Old Town.”
“And something tells me they won’t be happy that we escaped with the loot,” said Acton. “Sooner we’re in Cornwall the better.”
“We can be there tomorrow,” said Ash. “Just wanted to top up on fuel.”
“How did you learn to drive my train?” laughed Acton. Ash shrugged.
“I had a good teacher.”
They all went quiet at the mention of Frampton.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” said Acton solemnly.
“He’s not,” said Ash. “He’s here now, all around us. He’s part of this train. He spent the last years of his life driving her, rebuilding her and loving her. He’s the spirit of the Horton.”
Acton choked back a few tears and they sat in silence for a few more minutes.
“What happened to Cannings?” said Acton finally. Sandy and Ash exchanged a worried glance.
“We’re also wanted for questioning in connection with his death,” said Sandy.
“Just questioning mind. They think he died of a heart attack, but having a dog attack you would do that to anyone, let alone someone in as bad a state of health as Cannings.”
Acton was shocked, but at the same time relieved.