Public Enemy Number Two

by Anthony Horowitz

  He was still chewing gum and giggling. He had a safety pin in his nose and it wasn’t just there for decoration. It was holding the whole thing together. He had the sort of face that looked like it could fall apart at any moment. Chalk white and rotten.

  He produced a bundle of keys, unlocked the door, and slid it open. I got to my feet. “If you’ve come to check my ticket, I haven’t got one,” I said.

  He giggled.

  “Do you speak English?” I asked.

  He jerked his head back the way he had come. He didn’t speak at all.

  I followed him out of the guard’s van and across the coupling to the next carriage. The windows were uncovered here, and looking out, I saw that we were parked in a siding, next to some sort of stockyard. A tall stack of wood obstructed most of the view, but I could also see coils of barbed wire and oil drums. The yard was fenced off. There was nobody in sight.

  We reached the second carriage. It was blocked off by a plain wooden door that looked out of place on a train. The punk knocked and opened it. We went in.

  Classical music. That was the first thing I heard. Bach or Vivaldi played on an expensive stereo system. The whole carriage had been revamped by an interior designer with expensive tastes. Silk wallpaper, silk curtains, two more chandeliers . . . the furniture could have come straight out of Woburn Abbey. A cocktail cabinet stood beside the door. One of the walls was lined with books. There was a fireplace at the far end with one of those artificial fires blazing artificially.

  The two charm sisters from the car were sitting together on a chaise longue. One of them was reading a romance novel. The other was knitting. There were two other people in the room. One was a woman, wearing a satin dress that was tight in all the right places and tighter still in some of the wrong ones. Her hair was the sort of vivid blond that can only come out of a bottle. The other was a man. I guessed he was in charge.

  He was around fifty, wearing a dressing gown with wide lapels and a cravat. He had a shock of white hair, so white that it did look as if he’d had a shock. His eyes were almost colorless, too. He was smoking a cigarette in a long black holder and sipping a martini.

  “Good evening,” he said. “I’m Big Ed.”

  I shrugged. “You don’t look that big to me,” I said.

  One of the sisters looked up from his book. He was the one who’d hit me. “You don’t talk to Big Ed like that,” he grunted.

  “Why not?” I asked. I rubbed the back of my neck. “He gave me a big ’eadache.”

  The punk giggled again. Big Ed flicked ash from his cigarette.

  “Nicholas Diamond,” he said. He had a soft, tired voice that was almost a whisper. “It’s very nice to see you. I have to say that I was dying to meet you.”

  “Shame you couldn’t do it sooner,” I said.

  He ignored me. “I had my boys out looking for Johnny Powers,” he went on. “It was his good luck that they missed him. And your bad luck that they found you.” He put down the cigarette and swirled the olive in his glass. “We’ll catch up with him later. But the question now is, what do we do with his number two?”

  “How about a drink and a sandwich?” I suggested.

  He shook his head. “Oh no. You see, I had a gun sent in to Strangeday Hall. Three of my boys were going to rub Johnny Powers. It seems you got in the way. One of them was burned—Blondie’s his name. Now his own mother doesn’t recognize him. And the thing is, you see, she’s my sister. Blondie is my nephew.”

  That was bad news. Uncle Ed wasn’t smiling anymore and there was a flicker of color in his eyes—a dull red.

  “I’d like to know where Powers is,” he said. “I could ask you. But of course you wouldn’t say.”

  “I don’t know,” I muttered. “We could come to some sort of arrangement . . .”

  “I don’t think so.” His lips curled. “The only arrangements you should be thinking of are the ones for your funeral.”

  He stood up. I thought of attacking him, maybe grabbing an antique lamp and going for his head, but I quickly forgot it. The punk was right behind me. And the two charm sisters had already shown how fast they could move.

  “I’m going to get Johnny Powers,” Big Ed continued. “South London and East London will be mine. What’s the world coming to when you’ve got kids running the rackets? I don’t like kids. I don’t like you, Diamond. That’s why you’ve got to go.”

  He waved a hand and I was gone.

  The punk was the first to move, lunging forward to grab me from behind. “Take him out and do it, Spike,” he ordered. “Scarface and Tootsie—you go with him.” The two drag artists stood up. “Good-bye, Diamond,” he said. “Remember Blondie. Remember me. And have a nice death.”

  I was dragged out of the carriage. It must have been double glazed because as soon as I was out in the night air I could hear the trains, clanking and rattling through the darkness. It had begun to rain. At first it was a light drizzle, but as I was pulled, kicking and fighting, through the stockyard and onto the rails, it came down more heavily. It was a real cloudburst. In seconds the four of us were drenched.

  Because of the rain I saw little of my surroundings. I could just make out the lights of a station—it was Clapham Junction—blinking in the distance.

  We crossed about six or seven rails, our feet crunching on the gravel. Once we stopped as an Intercity Express thundered past, the windows a blur of yellow. I thought someone might see us, but in the darkness and the swirling rain that was impossible. Then the punk pushed me between the shoulders. I stumbled and fell. Tootsie and Scarface seized my arms and legs, and before I knew what was happening, they were tying me down across the rails. The practiced way they worked made me think that they must have done it before. It took them less than a minute. But when they straightened up I was fixed as firmly as an oven-ready chicken. My hands were tied to one rail, my legs to the other.

  My neck rested on the cold metal. My body slumped in between.

  Then Tootsie squatted down beside me. His hair was all over his face and his makeup was running. But he was smiling.

  “Only one more train runs on this track tonight,” he said. “It comes in about ten minutes. It doesn’t stop until it gets to Waterloo Station. It won’t stop for you.”

  “Wait . . .” I began, but then he stuffed a handkerchief into my mouth. I tried to spit it out. He twisted another loop of rope around my head, gagging me.

  “No one will see you,” he hissed. “No one will hear you. Ten minutes. Think about it, pretty boy. In ten minutes you won’t be so pretty no more.”

  The punk giggled one last time. Tootsie stood up and adjusted his dress. Then, linking arms with Scarface, he walked away. I was left alone, spread out on the track. The rain was falling harder than ever.

  OFF THE RAILS

  One day I’m going to write a book. It will be called Sticky Situations by N. Diamond. But don’t look for a chapter called “How to Untie Yourself from Rails in the Pouring Rain with an Intercity 125 Thundering Toward You at 90 mph.” You won’t find it. Because I tell you now, it can’t be done.

  As soon as Tootsie, Spike, and Scarface had gone, I tried to move my feet, but I could barely wiggle my toes. I tried to slide my hands under the rope. I had about as much chance of flying. They had tied me down tight. The rope was biting into my flesh, cutting off the circulation. The rain didn’t help either. It was coming down so hard that it was blinding me, making it impossible to see what I was doing. But I suppose that it didn’t matter too much. I was doing precisely nothing. There was nothing I could do.

  There was a sudden rumble in the air. I wriggled around just in time to see an enormous train come battering through the rain. At least it looked enormous from where I was lying. I tried to call out but the gag stopped me. Now I could see the driver, smoking, high up in the front of the train. My whole body stiffened, waiting for it to ride over me. I think I muttered a prayer.

  The train was almost on top of me. Then there was a loud clatt
ering sound and it jerked away to one side. Someone, somewhere had changed the switches.

  The rain sliced down. Somewhere a light blinked from red to green. I heard a click as another switch was changed and a rail slid across to carry the next train to its correct destination. A solitary pigeon flew in a ragged arc above me. The clouds rolled over.

  Suddenly I was trembling. That was strange because I thought I’d been trembling all along. But then I realized that it wasn’t just me. It was the rails beneath me. They were vibrating, softly at first but more violently with every second that passed. I couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t see anything. But I knew the train was approaching. And this time it was approaching on my track.

  I think I went berserk right then. I struggled furiously, my body heaving, my arms and legs tearing at the ropes. But it was useless. All I managed to do was to bruise my ankles and tear my trousers. I forced myself to go limp. Things weren’t so bad, I told myself. I mean, there are worse things in life than being run over by a train. I tried to think of one of them. I couldn’t. I went berserk again.

  I was still heaving and twisting when I heard the blast of the whistle in the distance. It scoured through the night like a red-hot poker. The train couldn’t have been more than a mile away. That gave me perhaps a couple of minutes of life. Here lies Nick Diamond, aged thirteen years, seven months, and a couple of minutes. Rest in pieces.

  Then the man appeared.

  I think it was a man. He had come out of nowhere. He was standing over me, his head about a mile away from his feet. He was wearing a parka with the hood drawn over his head and in the slanting rain I couldn’t make out his face.

  “Ngg,” I said. “Mmn, ngg, nyun . . .” It wasn’t easy making polite conversation with the gag.

  The man leaned down and suddenly I saw there was a knife in his hand. Before I could react he reached out and cut through the ropes holding my wrists. I sat up, tearing at the gag. The rails were shaking like crazy now. It felt like a long electric shock.

  The man dropped the knife and walked away. He hadn’t said a word. I had no idea who he was—and yet somewhere in the back of my mind I thought I knew him. Thickset, wide shoulders. Perhaps a wisp of fair hair showing under the hood. That was all I saw. He had already gone.

  “Come back!” I shouted.

  He ignored me and I didn’t shout again. The last thing I wanted to do was to let Big Ed know I was free, and anyway there was no time for a chat. I could see the train now. The window at the front glowed like a Cyclops’ eye. I snatched up the knife and hacked at the ropes holding my ankles. My arms wouldn’t obey me. The knife slipped out and I winced as I managed to stab myself in the foot. The train was only yards away now. The bellow of the engine filled my ears. I cut one rope—then the other. The train crashed forward. But I was free. I threw myself off the rails. Another second and it would have been too late.

  Ker-thud, ker-thud, ker-thud, ker-thud . . .

  It might have been the wheels of the train. It might have been the sound of my own heart. But that was all I heard as I lay there, clutching the ground. The train went past, traveling between me and my mysterious rescuer. By the time it had gone, he had vanished.

  I stood up and staggered to keep my balance. I’d torn my trousers, gashed my leg. I was soaking wet and bruised all over. But I had to admit, I’d have been in worse shape if I hadn’t been cut free. Who had it been? And how had he found me?

  I didn’t intend to stand around in the middle of Clapham Junction working out the answers. That could come later. Right now I had to get away—but even as I moved I realized that my problems were far from over. If I went back to Wapping, I’d have to explain my absence to Johnny and his mother. Worse still, Tim had been alone with them for the best part of twelve hours. Twelve hours with him and they’d be sure to smell a rat—a dirty rat, it went without saying.

  Somehow I had to win back their trust. And the best way to do that was sitting only a hundred yards away in a disused railway siding. I had a score to settle with Big Ed anyway. I was cold, bruised, soaked, and exhausted. And I was angry. There was nothing Johnny wouldn’t do for me if I took Big Ed out of the picture.

  I even had an idea how to go about it. I went back to the siding. The oil drums. I’d noticed them when they’d taken me out to the rails . . . ten barrels with two words stenciled in red on each of them. HIGHLY FLAMMABLE. Just then the same two words applied to my temper. These weren’t nice people. It was high time something horrible happened to them.

  There were no lights on behind the windows as I approached Big Ed’s carriage. I was afraid he might have posted guards, but there was nobody around. The rain was beginning to slacken off. Fortunately the moon was still hidden behind thick cloud. Careful not to make a sound, I limped away from the carriage and over to the oil drums. I tapped one with a finger. It was full. Each drum was secured with a metal cap set in the top near the rim. I tried turning one. At first it resisted and I thought it had rusted firm. But by using the knife, cutting into the groove, I was able to free it. I opened four of the cans. The rich, chemical smell filled my nostrils.

  I rolled the first of the drums across the yard until it came to rest against the wheels of the front carriage—the one with the chandeliers and cocktail cabinet. The oil or whatever it was slopped out, forming a sticky pool on the ground. I was careful not to get any of it on me, but by the time I’d finished I still smelled like a garage on a busy day. I rolled three of the cans across, one for each carriage. Apart from the crunch of gravel and the gurgle of escaping oil, I made no sound. Five minutes later, a miniature lake had formed around Ed’s hideout. And still the oil spluttered out of the open drums.

  Wiping my hands on my trousers—it made them dirtier rather than cleaner—I went back to the fourth can. This one I rolled in the opposite direction, away from the carriages and back onto the rails. Hoisting it up onto the rails themselves was the difficult part. It weighed a ton. But after that it was easy. The rims fitted neatly onto the rails and with no friction it rolled effortlessly. There was a slight gradient down to Clapham Junction Station and I had no trouble with the switches. Using only one hand I was able to roll it all the way, leaving a trail of glimmering oil behind me.

  By now you should have gotten the picture: a pool of highly flammable liquid underneath Big Ed’s hideout; a long trail of the same stuff leading down to the station. Light the blue wick and retire quickly, as it says on your average fire-work. I had fireworks in mind—and Big Ed was about to put in for permanent retirement.

  Clapham Junction Station had shut down for the night by the time I got there. Now what I needed was a match. It took me a while but in the end I was lucky. Someone had left a pack in the waiting room with one match inside.

  I found a phone booth and dialed 0. The operator came on and asked me which service I wanted. I told her police. There was a click, a pause, then a voice. “This is the police. What number are you calling from?”

  “Listen,” I said. “Are you interested in finding Big Ed?”

  My words were met by a long silence. I could imagine the confusion at the other end. There was another click. Perhaps they were trying to trace the call. That didn’t bother me. I’d be gone long before they arrived.

  “Hello, caller?” another voice asked. Or maybe it was the same voice. I didn’t care.

  “I know where you can find Big Ed,” I said. “If you want him.”

  “Who is this speaking?”

  “Never mind that.” I shivered. It had gotten colder. “Do you want him or don’t you?”

  “We want him.” This was the second voice. They must have transferred the call even as I was speaking. “Where is he?”

  “He has two railway carriages in a siding just outside Clapham Junction Station,” I said. “Next to the stockyard.”

  “There are lots of stockyards around there,” the voice said. “How do we know which one is his?”

  I didn’t answer. Propping the telephone under
my chin, I struck the match. It glared up in the confined space of the phone booth. With the fumes of the oil all around me, I was surprised we didn’t blow up then and there. I threw the match onto the platform. The oil caught fire.

  I watched the flames scurry across the platform, over the edge, and onto the rails. Like some sort of mythical animal, with feathers of fire, it sped into the night, heading for Big Ed’s carriage.

  “How do we find him, caller?” the voice insisted.

  “It won’t be difficult,” I said. And hung up.

  WORLD’S END

  I was more careful when I left Clapham Junction. I was still soaking wet. I stank of oil. I had to cross London with just about the entire population on the lookout for me. And when I got back to Wapping, I’d probably be shot. But otherwise I didn’t have anything to worry about. I was having a really lovely day.

  I stepped into the shadows as a couple of police cars raced past, sirens screaming. Perhaps it was seeing them that made up my mind for me. There was no point in going back to Johnny Powers and his gang quite yet. Even if they did lead me to the Fence, there would be little I could do with the information. Because with Snape and Boyle dead, who would believe my story?

  But just suppose somebody had seen the two policemen when they visited me at the school? Chief Inspector Snape and his unsmiling assistant weren’t the sort of people you could forget in a hurry. If I could prove that they’d been there before the Woburn Abbey incident, the rest of my story might be more credible. The only question was—who might have seen them? It had been late on a Tuesday afternoon when they had come. Everyone else had gone home. That’s what they had been waiting for—to catch me there alone.

  But there was one person: Peregrine Palis would have been there. It would have been just like him to stay behind in the staff room to make sure I didn’t slip away. And the staff room was directly between the front entrance and my classroom. If anyone had seen the two policemen, it would have been him. And I knew where the French teacher lived. He had a flat just off the King’s Road near the bit known as World’s End. I could go there now. It was less far to walk than Wapping. And I’d almost certainly find him in.