“For what purpose?” This was the Commissioner, a man with a keenly intelligent face. “Push and pull? They’d probably blow the moment we did anything like that.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Lord Arkwright said apologetically. “I meant simply that they — the hijackers — could be, er, sealed in …” His voice tailed off vaguely. He was a vague sort of man, a stop-gap appointment, and his interjection was meeting with no success. The conference went on to consider on-the-spot precautions and the Minister of State, Home Office, assured them that the authorities in Durham were absolutely on the ball so far as that was concerned. He had been kept informed: they had moved ambulances in, clear of the area right below the viaduct itself, but handy. Intending passengers, if any turned up, would be advised that the northbound line was closed.
“What about the southbound?” Hedge asked.
Lord Arkwright said he didn’t know for sure but assumed this would also be closed to traffic. There would be possible danger to trains travelling past the scene of the hijack. There was some discussion about how rail passengers from Newcastle and Edinburgh were to travel south and Lord Arkwright said he was sure diversions could be arranged. Ditto northbound, the hijack being by-passed like a roadwork. Then the Home Office, side-tracked for a while in its dissertations on what was being done in Durham, put in that police frogmen were standing by to submerge in the Wear, though when pressed the Minister was unable to say why.
The cosiness of the urgent conference was shattered when a telephone burred and the Permanent Under-Secretary from the FO came on the line. Hedge sat up straighter, as though telephones had eyes. The call was being taken by the Minister of State, whose lips, as he listened, pursed as if for a whistle. He conveyed the news: there had been another contact made by the Friends of Hira. The train was in danger of being blown up: there was no less than five hundred pounds of high explosive dispersed among the coaches on the viaduct. The British had been warned: they must now consider their position and be ready to meet the demands which would be put to them shortly. Then the Minister listened again to the telephone. The Permanent Under-Secretary said, “My man Hedge is to go up to Durham right away.”
*
Near the market town of Hawes in Wensleydale the elderly farmer’s son Fred Irons heard the BBC over the crying of the soon-to-be-christened baby and at once rang through to his parents’ bungalow in West Witton. They would have got safely off at York of course, but they might have seen something suspicious and been able to elaborate on the sparse statements of the BBC. Being very close to drama had its own excitement … but the phone in West Witton rang on and on, and was not answered.
“That was the train they were catching, Kath?” Fred asked his wife.
“Yes,” she said. “But they’d have got off in York. Unless they went to sleep.”
“Or unless the train didn’t stop at York — you know what Dad’s like, never bothers to check anything and he’s not used to trains. I’ll find out.” He rang through to York: no, the 2335 from King’s Cross wouldn’t have stopped at York.
“So they’re part of the hijack, Fred? Oh, dear, what are we going to do?”
“Nothing we can do, lass. It’s a reet muck-up is this. I reckon we could put off the christening, explain to parson —”
“I wouldn’t want to do that, Fred. You never know.”
“No.” Fred Irons scratched his head worriedly. Kath was funny like that: she had religion and had been full of terrors about what might happen before the baby had been baptised. It might take ill, it might suffer a cot death, a thunderbolt might fall on the farmhouse. Unbaptised babies didn’t go to heaven — as if it was their fault, Fred thought scathingly. But you couldn’t go against Kath because if you did life was hell. One thing he was sure of: she wasn’t too worried about his mother and father, the latter especially. The plastic pigs and cows, the swings and slides, the crêches and hot-dog stalls had been her idea in the first place and she knew very well that Mr Irons senior would be thrusting his nose in with old mates who carried weight in the National Parks, doing his best to get permission refused. Fred Irons saw the way her mind was working, just from the looks she was giving the sheep, poor bloody inoffensive creatures, as they climbed the fellside in a search for food, their excreta-encrusted rumps turned disdainfully towards the woman who detested them. Fred shook his head in wonder, as he had shaken it many times, a plain Yorkshireman who couldn’t see how disliking sheep and liking plastic cows and that could tally with religion. But one of the troubles with Kath was that she came from Leeds, which wasn’t the dales. Now she was making a cup of tea and after he had drunk this and eaten two thick slices of ham with some bread-and-butter, because Kath said it was no use his going into a decline with worry, Fred got the car out and drove over to West Witton, not far through Bainbridge and Aysgarth to the spanking new bungalow a little way along the road from the Wensleydale Heifer. He had to make sure all was well with his parents’ home and also he wanted to get away from Kath until things clarified a little. There were times when she jarred and he felt this would be one of them. His first instinct after getting into the car had been to drive up to Durham and be there if anything happened, but he didn’t do this because he knew he would be in the way of the police and troops and such and anyway it would all be very harrowing. Just the same he felt, as he let himself into the bungalow, that he was chickening out, letting the old folks down by not being near when he could have been.
There was pathos in the bungalow. All so neat and clean, just waiting for them to get home. His mother had been so house proud, and glad too to have something smaller than the farm, something manageable. Not so his father; Dad had hated leaving the farm and it wouldn’t be long before the new garden held chickens and even a pig sty, that was if ever they got home again and the neighbours didn’t object.
Fred looked at photographs in silver frames on the mantelpiece, the sideboard, the modern shelving. Him and Kath as bride and groom, his sister Mabel and her weedy husband who worked in artificial insemination — cows and sheep. (Mabel and Harold Haythornthwaite were currently on holiday in Greece; Fred wondered if, hearing the news on telly, if the Greeks had telly, they would come back.) Those photos … reaching into the past years, him and his sister, all ages from a few months up till about sixteen, after which they grew a little thinner on the ground.
It had been a good childhood and his father had taken him around a fair amount whenever he could spare the time and often he’d taken him along on market days and such, or when going farther afield on business. Feyburn, Masham, Thirsk, York itself — the young Fred had been keen on the old York Railway Museum now superseded by the new National Railway Museum, and on train-spotting in York station. Up to Middleton in Teesdale by way of Barnard Castle, a look at the great waterfall of High Force and a picnic on the way. Back across a reservoir, a very narrow track, and down a mountainous road to the Moorcock Inn at Garsdale Head. Across from Hawes to Clapham and the cave systems of Ingleborough and Gaping Gill. Brimham Rocks closer to Ripon … the Buttertubs Pass into Swaledale and on towards Grinton and the precipitous climb up to Bellerby Moor and past the army firing ranges to Leyburn and home through Wensleydale alongside the Ure.
A lifetime’s, or anyway a childhood’s, landmarks that had given the young Fred an abiding love of the dales. Plastic cows … well, you had to make a living and it was true wool wasn’t up to much, not these days. Mr Irons senior blamed the Common Market but Fred wasn’t so sure. It was just that times had changed and people with them, manmade fibres and all that, more convenient, easier to wash, creases stayed in permanently, and never mind there was no warmth in them.
Poor old mum and dad. All those years of work and now this. Somehow Fred was convinced he’d never see them again and the urge to drive up to Durham grew again. Just a face through a window, perhaps, a last wave. Sighing, he locked up the bungalow again and drove home. Maybe everything would turn out all right. Hijackers didn’t always have it their o
wn way, they could be worn down, and the British authorities had, in the past, always brought things to a successful end. Or almost always.
When he reached the farm the baby was crying again. Kath said, “Been a long while.”
He apologised. “The past caught up, Kath. The photos.”
“Sentiment doesn’t help. There’s been some news on the BBC. They said Mrs Heffer personally wanted everyone to know the facts … they’ve come through with their demands, Fred.”
The kitchen seemed to spin in circles. “What?”
“I didn’t get it all … the washing-up machine was on.” Kath swept back dank hair and there was a sharp smell of sweat. “It was something about some judges …”
*
Mrs Heffer was angry, and was laying about herself with sharp claws. It was such impertinence. “Sheer cheek, Roly.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“I can’t possibly concede. Can’t possibly.” Mrs Heffer, who had been pacing her hotel sitting-room, a private one, stopped in front of a full-length mirror, patted her hair, frowning slightly, and did something to the sit of her skirt: the kimono-like garment laid aside, she was now sensibly dressed in tweeds, which the Scots would appreciate. A dour people it was true, and undemonstrative — in Perth anyway; it was different with Clydeside’s unemployed — but you could always sense approval. She had noticed that often with the Queen: Her Majesty was mostly silent in her company, only a word here and there politely, but Mrs Heffer could always read between the unuttered lines as it were. She turned back to her Foreign Secretary. “Tell me again, which judges are they, Roly?”
“Hargood Prestwick, Bertram Bessell and Jardine Orp. Central Criminal Court —”
“Yes, I know that. What are things coming to, Roly?” Mrs Heffer frowned and looked at her watch: time was passing and soon she would be due at Dewar’s distillery. She would go; she must not appear rattled by a bunch of terrorists. Rowland Mayes murmured some response to her last question, more a sympathetic clicking of the tongue than actual speech, and wondered himself what things were coming to when the handing over of three esteemed and knightly pillars of the judiciary could be demanded as safe conduct for a trainful of innocent travellers; the only crime of those three judges being that recently they had sentenced other terrorists to long terms of imprisonment — very long terms indeed, it had to be admitted, but that was scarcely the point.
Before entering her car for the fumes of the distillery, Mrs Heffer issued orders. There was to be parleying, the public was to be kept fully informed so that everyone would know what beasts the government had to deal with, and there was to be no giving in. On that she was adamant and said so. Outside the hotel there were brilliant smiles for the assembled press and all questions were expertly parried. “You won’t expect me to say anything that might make matters worse for all those brave people in Durham,” Mrs Heffer said firmly.
“Would you consider any compromise, Mrs Heffer?”
“Roly.” Mrs Heffer pushed at the Foreign Secretary and got briskly into the car. Her detective banged the door.
5
Permission had now been given for the passengers aboard the train to use the lavatories and long queues had formed, well guarded. Because there were not enough guards to go round, only three lavatories were in use and the queues were thus very long indeed. Sue MacAllister had tried to thrust Fenella to the front on medical grounds but this had led to trouble. Among others the badge boys had objected to anyone queue-jumping, though they were pretty expert at it themselves.
“Bloody kid!”
“I’m a doctor and she’s —”
“Get stuffed.”
Sue was in tears by now and Fenella was squirming like a hooked eel. Peter MacAllister came to their rescue but was not only howled down but was forcibly shunted to the rear. Fenella couldn’t wait any longer and didn’t, splattering the feet of one of the skinheads. There was nearly a riot until the armed guard and old Mr Irons put a stop to it. Irons was shaking with indignation.
“Just a little lass! Ought to be ashamed of yourselves you ought. Need a bloody good ’iding you do.”
“Piss off, grandad.” A fist was raised, knuckleduster-clad. Mr Irons gave no ground but grabbed hold of the wrist, and that was when the guard took over, flourishing his gun.
“You will all keep still and quiet. You are very easy to shoot, and no-one outside will interfere.”
They all knew this to be true. There were some muffled sobs from the women and a pressing of bodies away from the gun’s mouth. Mr Irons, keeping a protective arm around his wife, sweated profusely. The sun was up now. It was a kind of Indian summer and the train was very hot, very stuffy — the air conditioning didn’t seem to be working properly. It was really stifling. Mr Irons loosened his collar and tie and longed for the wide open spaces of the dales, then fell to wondering about Fred and Kath in Hawes, what they would be thinking, what they would be doing. Not that they could do anything constructive, of course. Waiting his turn for the lavatory, Mr Irons looked down into Durham. It was a long way and he felt perched on a pinnacle. Some sort of local evacuation seemed to be taking place, the nearer buildings. There were crowds in the streets beyond the roundabout but no-one close, the police were seeing to that. Police vehicles, ambulances — one of which had cleared away the body of the train guard — an army truck covered with what looked like aerials, and fire-fighting appliances with long ladders. Naturally they were doing all they could: Mrs Heffer for one would never let the hostages down and would at the same time, Mr Irons was well aware, never give in to threats, so what the heck was the answer going to be in the end? He himself was old, no use not looking facts in the face, and back in the war against Hitler, a volunteer from a reserved occupation, he’d fought in the Western Desert under Monty, a corporal in the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. He’d faced death then and he could face it again and he would rather die if he had to than give in to the buggers from the Middle East. But he didn’t want to have to see Edith die. Or have Fred grieve, though he’d have to one day, naturally. Kath wouldn’t grieve much, she’d have a nice clear run for the plasticised, phoney farm. Amusement arcades like the seaside — that’d be the next thing most like — in Wensleydale, it was beyond belief!
But any road: if he and Edith came through this little lot, he’d do his best to start his own show again in a small way to take his mind off Butlin’s. His thoughts, determinedly cheerful so as not to give way to any despair, followed along the lines of Fred’s at the bungalow in West Witton. Chickens certainly, perhaps geese except that geese, like guinea fowl, made a heck of a noise at times and there might be objections. But so what? It was country, wasn’t it, with country people? Or was it? No, it wasn’t any more. A number of townsfolk dwelt in the other bungalows in the village, city workers in Leeds offices and so on. Not only West Witton; Mr Irons recalled being in Aldborough near Boroughbridge not long ago, where some modern, executive-type houses, whatever that might mean, had been built near a farm. He’d overheard an executive-type woman complaining about the early-morning noises from the cows when they assembled for milking, and he’d grown red with suppressed anger at sheer damn cheek when she’d gone on to say people didn’t ought to have to put up with it and the council ought to do something about it, have it stopped. Why, the farm had been there for donkey’s years! If Mr Irons had been a cow, he’d have had more right to complain about the woman’s shrill voice. If you moved to the country, you put up with country things.
The line moved on, slowly closing on the target of the toilet. Durham would suffer a deluge when the flushing operations seeped down from the viaduct. Mr Irons, looking down once again to the streets, saw a stir as an important-looking car drove up to the roundabout to be halted by the police. A fattish man got out, and advanced importantly to shake another important hand.
“Looks like the nobs are starting to arrive,” Mr Irons said to his wife.
*
Hedge had indeed ar
rived. Because there was clear urgency he had been helicoptered up, finishing his journey to the viaduct by limousine. He was met by the mayor and by the chief constable who had now come down from the station itself.
“A bad business,” Hedge said, looking up at the train on its high perch. “Anything further to report?”
There wasn’t. Hedge had had the word about the three judges before leaving London, so that wasn’t new. He said, “No doubt they’ll also ask for the release of the sentenced terrorists, but I gather they’ve not done so yet. What’s the fight-back?”
The chief constable shrugged. “A waiting game, Mr Hedge.”
“Yes, quite, very wise. But for how long?”
“As long as it takes. That’s the way it goes.”
“Yes. Of course, it’ll be out of your hands once the Yard people arrive, the anti-terrorist people, don’t you know. But I expect they’ll say the same as you.”
“I expect so too,” the chief constable said with a touch of frigidity. Hedge could have been more tactful, but they were mostly the same in London, thought the sun shone out of their backsides. “When we start to talk, to parley —”
“Yes, quite. Then we may make progress. Who’s going to start it, us or them?”
“I propose to leave it to them, Mr Hedge.”
Hedge grunted and wiped a handkerchief across his face. It was an unseasonably hot day. The castle and cathedral, Hedge noticed, had a sort of shimmer. “Have you, er, uttered any what one might call threats?”
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