by Robert Rigby
Slowly he scanned the concourse from side to side. A few men loitered by coffee stands or near tobacco kiosks; a couple of gendarmes chatted to each other as they strolled leisurely along a platform; porters pushed heavily loaded trolleys. None appeared to be watching him. Or at least, he didn’t think so.
He glanced up at the clock and frowned; the train should have arrived by now. Before the war, France had boasted one of Europe’s finest railway systems. But the division of the country meant new routes had hastily been drawn up and new timetables implemented on both sides of the Demarcation Line. In some ways it was a miracle any trains were running at all, let alone running on time.
Ten minutes behind schedule, the train drew into the platform and the waiting passengers began to move towards the carriages. Paul hung back; even if the driver wanted to make up lost time, it would be several minutes before departure. He had no intention of making it easy for someone to follow him onto the train.
He bided his time, letting the minutes tick by. Carriage doors slammed shut, platform staff shouted and eventually a whistle sounded from somewhere further down the platform.
Just before the train started to move, Paul sprang forward, running the few metres to one of the last open carriage doors. He leapt up onto the steps and at the same time noticed a movement further along the train to his right. He saw no one but heard a door slam, and knew instinctively that his pursuer had jumped aboard.
There were plenty of empty seats. Paul moved along the corridor, getting closer to the front before choosing a half-full compartment. He placed his case on the rack and settled into his seat, still wondering if he should have stayed in the corridor and waited. But what was the point? He wouldn’t know his pursuer if he saw him. Or her. All he could do was sit tight and stay vigilant.
After a while, with the train ploughing steadily southward, he began to wonder again if perhaps he had imagined it all. A few people passed by in the corridor but no one gave more than a quick glance into the compartment.
An elderly couple sat opposite. Paul watched as the woman lifted a straw basket from the floor onto the man’s lap. She delved inside and brought out most of a baguette, some thick, fatty sausage and something wrapped in white paper. As she unwrapped it the pungent smell of over-ripe cheese filled the compartment.
No one but Paul seemed remotely concerned; a passenger by the door even smiled and nodded his approval as the heavy odour clogged the air. Paul felt like gagging. He forced himself to sit back and gaze out of the window, his thoughts flying immediately back to the station at Lyon and the feeling that someone had been watching him. Perhaps, he reflected, his mind was too full of intrigue and suspicion. It wasn’t surprising; he’d experienced little else for days.
At Valance, the second station stop, the elderly couple departed, leaving behind them the lingering aroma of old cheese. One by one the other passengers left too, and by the time the train began its long haul down to Avignon, the sun was setting and Paul was alone in the compartment.
The travelling, the hours of tense waiting, and a mind crammed with unanswered questions were all taking their toll. And new questions were running through his brain. Had his father been a spy? Were his visits to the German harbours really necessary or were they part of an elaborate plan drawn up in preparation for the war many in Europe had feared long before it actually came? And then there was his mother. Was she a spy too? Paul sighed. All these questions would remain unanswered unless he was reunited with her.
As the train chugged onward and his thoughts tumbled one on top of the other, Paul realized that another emotion, gnawing away deep inside for days, had finally surfaced. He was angry. Angry at what had happened to his parents, certainly, but angry towards his parents too. They had lied and deliberately kept him from the truth, while secretly making plans for the family’s escape to England. Not a word to Paul. Hadn’t he, at very least, deserved to know that his life was about to change so completely? And now his father was dead and his mother quite possibly dead. Somehow – he didn’t yet understand why – he was angry with them for that too. For getting killed, for getting snatched away.
Paul was weary; the hypnotic rhythm of the train’s wheels lulled him towards sleep. His eyelids grew heavy. His head began to nod, his eyes closing.
Suddenly, the compartment’s sliding door crashed back and Paul snapped into consciousness, his eyes wide open. He had to stay awake and alert. Had to. A man wearing a trilby hat and an overcoat stood in the doorway. He was around forty, thin-faced and a little taller than Paul.
Paul knew instantly that his pursuer had arrived.
“Good evening,” the man said, smiling and raising his hat. “I’m sorry if I startled you. The compartment I was in was rather noisy. Do you mind if I join you?”
Paul shrugged. “It’s not my train.”
The man laughed and Paul instantly regretted his flippant comment. He should have said nothing, kept himself to himself, as he’d been instructed.
“If it were yours perhaps you’d get it running on time again, eh?” the man said, sliding the door shut and taking a seat opposite Paul.
This time Paul didn’t reply, but turned instead to look out of the window.
“Where are you travelling to?” the man asked, seemingly determined to start a conversation.
“If you don’t mind,” Paul said, turning back, “I’m very tired. I’ve had a long day.”
“Of course, of course, I shouldn’t have woken you, barging in the way I did. You sleep, I’ll just sit here quietly and I won’t disturb you again.”
Paul nodded and closed his eyes.
But he didn’t sleep; there was no way he could sleep now.
The door slid back again and Paul opened his eyes.
“Papers and tickets, please,” said the train guard, stepping into the compartment.
As he checked the other man’s papers Paul thought he saw the two men exchange a slight glance of recognition. The guard gave both passengers’ documents no more than a fleeting look before handing them back and leaving the carriage. It might have meant nothing, but it increased Paul’s suspicions.
“It seems no one will let you sleep,” the man said with a smile that was somehow menacing.
Paul responded with a nod and a half smile of his own, attempting to cut dead any conversation before it began. But the attempt was in vain.
“My name is Lucien Galtier,” the man continued. “And you are?”
“Paul, Paul Héroux.”
“Very nice to meet you, Paul. May I call you Paul?”
Paul nodded.
“Where are you travelling to, Paul?”
“Montpellier.”
“Ah, me too. Do you live in Montpellier?”
“No.”
“Visiting friends? Relatives?”
“No.”
Galtier stared, head tilted slightly to one side, smile fixed as he waited, wordlessly demanding further explanation.
“I’m hoping to get a job,” Paul said finally. “In a bank. I’m good with figures.” Too much information, he told himself. Far too much.
“How fortunate to be good with figures,” Galtier said. “I’m afraid I never was. And is this bank you’re hoping to work at in Montpellier? I may know it.”
“No, it’s not in Montpellier.”
Once again, Galtier stared and smiled, awaiting more information.
“It’s … it’s in a small town, near Foix.”
“Ah, I know that area. Which town?”
It was one question too many.
“Why are you asking me all these questions?” Paul snapped.
Galtier’s smile did not fade for a moment. “Just making conversation. These train journeys can be so tedious, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think that,” Paul said, trying not to lose his temper. “I enjoy train journeys; they give me time to think. But if you don’t mind, I’m tired, and I’m not in the mood for talking.”
“As you wish,�
�� Galtier said, calmly. He paused for a moment before continuing in the same friendly, persuasive manner. “It’s not too long before we reach Avignon. We stop there for a little while, there’s time to get out and stretch your legs and get some fresh air. It will make you feel better.”
“I don’t need to feel better,” Paul said curtly. “I’m not unwell, just tired, that’s all.”
Galtier nodded, but said no more.
Paul looked away, not knowing what to do but aware that he was being played like a fish on a line.
TWENTY
Paul forced himself not to look in Galtier’s direction for the remainder of the journey to Avignon. It wasn’t easy; he could feel Galtier’s eyes on him, calculating, assessing, plotting his next move.
And all the while Paul was trying to work out his own next move. He considered leaving the train at Avignon and waiting there for the next one to Montpellier. But he had no idea when the next train would be or even if there was another that night.
Besides, the mysterious Renard would be waiting at Montpellier to meet this train; Paul had to stay on board and see the journey through.
He thought about moving to another compartment or another carriage. But that would only increase Galtier’s suspicions and there was nothing to stop him following or observing from a distance. At least when they were in the same compartment Paul knew where Galtier was. In the end he decided to sit tight. Hopefully Renard would have a contingency plan for an emergency situation like this. Hopefully.
The train slowed and then jolted to a standstill. They had reached Avignon.
Galtier got to his feet. “I think I will take a little stroll and get some air. Will you join me, Paul?”
“No, thanks. I’ll stay here.”
Galtier smiled his menacing smile. “As you wish.”
He didn’t go far. Paul could see him on the platform, standing beneath the dim, yellow station lamps, smoking a cigarette. Every so often his eyes would flick back to the compartment, checking that Paul was still in his seat. He smoked one cigarette and then immediately lit another, exchanging a few words with another man who passed by. There was little other movement on the platform; no one seemed in much of a hurry to get the train back on schedule.
Eventually a whistle sounded and carriage doors began to slam. Galtier didn’t move. He took a long drag at his cigarette, turned towards Paul and then smiled and waved, almost as though he were bidding him goodbye.
The train began to move, edging away very slowly. Still Galtier didn’t stir. He disappeared from view and Paul instantly felt as though a huge weight was lifting from his shoulders. He didn’t get back on, he said to himself. He’s given up; decided I’m not worth bothering with after all.
He stared at the deserted corridor, needing to be certain; but there was no one. Finally, with a long sigh of relief, he let his head fall back against the headrest and stared up at the ceiling.
And then the door glided back and Galtier was there.
“Such a terrible habit, smoking, isn’t it? I always have to get the last possible puff. Nearly missed getting back on board. I don’t suppose you smoke, do you?”
Paul shook his head, disappointment surging through his entire body.
“Very sensible,” Galtier said. “Very, very sensible.”
Paul stood up. He had to get away. He felt certain now that if he got off the train with Galtier at Montpellier, he would be taken into custody and interrogated.
“Going somewhere?” Galtier asked as he moved towards the door.
“I have to. If that’s all right with you.”
“Ah, yes, of course. It’s down at the end of the carriage, to your left.”
Without another word, Paul pushed back the door and went into the corridor. He stood for a moment, staring through the window into the dark night. Then he saw Galtier’s face reflected in the glass, watching him, as he had been for hours.
Paul yanked the door shut. Galtier simply smiled and nodded, and Paul had the sudden urge to punch his smug, leering face. Instead, he walked quickly down the corridor, past the lavatory compartment and through the door at the end of the carriage.
Outside, he stood on the metal walkway, where just a thin handrail on either side separated him from the rails below.
The noise of the wheels thundering over the track and the night air rushing by gave an indication of the train’s breakneck speed. But the cold air did little to cool Paul’s temper; the anger that had been fermenting for days was ready to boil over. He sucked in several deep breaths, knowing he had to channel that rage, keep it under control and think clearly.
The walkway was no place to linger – he had to do something. So he went through the door into the next carriage and continued all the way along the corridor, passing mainly empty compartments, to the next outside walkway.
He stopped again and stared down into the darkness, wondering for a moment if he might risk jumping. Then he would somehow find his way to Montpellier. But rocking from side to side on the narrow walkway was enough to convince Paul that a leap into the unknown would almost certainly be suicidal.
“Not thinking of leaving the train early, are you, Paul?”
Paul hadn’t even heard Galtier approach. He turned and met his stare.
The smile had finally disappeared and in his right hand, pointed at Paul’s chest, was a small pistol.
“Please don’t consider jumping, Paul, it would be most unwise. I doubt very much if you’d survive and I do want to talk to you seriously when we reach Montpellier.” He gestured with the pistol. “Let’s go back to our compartment. You lead the way.”
Paul didn’t panic now that Galtier had finally made his move. He felt stronger, despite the pistol. “Who are you?” he asked.
“You know who I am. Lucien Galtier. It’s you who’s of interest. Somehow I don’t think your name really is Paul Héroux.”
“Are you the police?”
“No, I’m not police.”
“Then why should I do as you say?”
Galtier’s malevolent smile returned. “Because, firstly, I work for our government, hunting down escapees like you and, secondly, I have a loaded pistol pointed at your heart.”
“But you won’t shoot me,” Paul replied coolly.
Standing in the darkness, facing each other on the narrow walkway as the train rocked from side to side, Paul thought that, for the first time, he glimpsed a trace of uncertainty flicker across his pursuer’s face.
“Let’s not waste any more time,” Galtier murmured. “Move, now.”
The train was steaming around a long bend, causing the walkway to rock more violently. As it gave a sudden shudder, Paul quickly gripped the side rails with both hands. Galtier could only snatch at one rail because of the pistol.
The walkway jolted with force and Galtier staggered, toppling forwards. He crashed into Paul and grabbed his jacket in an attempt to recover his balance.
In that instant the pistol went spinning from his hand and disappeared into the night.
Galtier clung on tightly, and Paul knew that he had a chance. He drew back his right arm and punched Galtier in the gut, making him gasp and almost double up. They were close in height and build, but Paul was strong for his age and had seized the initiative with the first blow.
And he was angry. Furious.
Instinctively he followed up his first punch with a swinging left, which smashed into Galtier’s ear. Galtier’s yell was full of rage. He clawed at Paul’s throat, managing to get both hands around his neck.
Paul reached up and grabbed Galtier’s fingers, attempting to rip his hands away. But Galtier gripped tighter, pressing his fingers deep into Paul’s flesh, throttling, squeezing his windpipe, making his eyes bulge as he struggled for air.
Paul felt his lungs burning as Galtier’s hold tightened. His smile had returned, malevolent once more, and his eyes were darkening in triumph.
Paul was weakening with every second, close to losing consciousness. A despe
rate thought flashed across his mind. He instantly let go of the hands at his throat and grasped both side rails. Then, with a final effort, he drew back a leg and drove his knee fiercely into Galtier’s groin.
Galtier’s yell was pure agony as he released his two-handed grip on Paul’s throat. Paul swung his right arm. There was little power in the punch this time, but his fist connected perfectly with Galtier’s face, sending him reeling.
A single scream – pain mixed with terror – pierced the air as Galtier crashed over the rail and plunged downwards through the gap between the carriages.
And then there was nothing but the roar of the train as it hurtled on through the darkness.
TWENTY-ONE
The face that stared back at Paul in the compartment window seemed like the face of a total stranger. But the haunted eyes and haggard features were his own, almost unrecognizable from those of the sixteen-year-old boy of a week earlier. This boy was older, changed for ever.
Every few minutes Paul glanced towards the corridor, expecting the sliding door to open and for Galtier to be standing there, grinning that evil grin, having miraculously survived the fall from the train.
But Paul knew no miracle had happened. There was no chance that Galtier could have recovered from the plunge onto the track and the vicious, turning wheels. His end would have been swift and terrible.
Paul’s body ached – his fists hurt, his neck throbbed and his throat was raw, as if he had been swallowing glass. But beyond the physical pain there was something else, something he was struggling to understand. He felt better, deep inside. He wasn’t proud at being responsible for the death of another person, but finally, after days of obediently following orders, having every moment of his life organized by others, he had stood up for himself. He had fought his own battle. He had fought for his life. And survived.