Judge Prestwick compressed his lips. He tried again. “There may be pregnant women. If so, then they must be released in the same category as the children. The unborn embryo —”
“We do not know if any are pregnant.”
“I suggest you find out,” Judge Prestwick said firmly. There was an angry response but there was also another consultation. Judge Prestwick caught the chief constable’s eye. “I believe they’ll concede that, Hemingway. And each one released is a step in the right direction.”
“I’d not count on it, Judge.”
“But surely —”
“A pound to a penny they all say they’re pregnant, the young enough ones anyway. I don’t blame them, of course, but the hijackers aren’t fools. They may release any who’re obviously pregnant, I suppose.”
“Well, we can but wait and see,” Judge Prestwick said, still patient. There was a longish delay and then the man from the cab reappeared. There were, he said, two pregnant women who would be allowed to leave the train. The chief constable, it seemed, had been right: many had claimed, but only the two had been chosen. Of the remaining adult passengers, thirty-four old persons of both sexes, plus the man with the wounded arm, would be released in exchange for Judge Prestwick.
The sequence of exchange was discussed.
“You will board the train first,” the armed man said. “Then the releases will be made.”
“No. The releases first.”
“And then you do not come.”
“You have my word as a Justice of the High Court. You have the word of the British government.”
“It is not enough.”
“I cannot offer more. You would be foolish to turn this down.”
“So would you be foolish.”
“Then it would appear we have an impasse,” Judge Prestwick stated. He adjusted his wig and mopped sweat from his face: Durham, a cool place usually, was being unseasonably hot and he believed he could actually smell the train, unless it was just the hijacker spokesman. He turned as someone came up from behind, busily and importantly.
*
“There’s your man whatsisname, Roly.”
“Hedge. Yes, so I see.”
“What is he doing, Roly?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, Prime Minister.” Rowland Mayes could see a conversation in progress with Judge Prestwick but the sound wasn’t being picked up, very properly: one didn’t broadcast secrets, if such was going on between Hedge and the judge. “He’s very possibly lending the weight of the Foreign Office … at perhaps a difficult moment in the bargaining.”
“I really don’t see why we should bargain with bandits. I never have.”
Rowland Mayes coughed. Sometimes the Prime Minister could be a trifle thick; but at least she was British.
*
“Who is the person with you?” the gunman demanded, not looking pleased.
Hedge answered for himself. “I am from Her Majesty’s Foreign Office … representing Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.”
“An important person.”
Hedge didn’t comment on that; it had sounded like a statement, not a question. He called back, “I have come to assist the discussion. Progress could, I believe, be faster.”
“If you agree the order of exchange, it will be. Now you have come to assist, you shall assist.”
“Most certainly.” Hedge drew himself up, the top of his head almost reaching Judge Prestwick’s shoulder. “What do you suggest now?”
The gunman grinned. “We order now, we do not request, we have delayed too long. You will board the train as a temporary person, a temporary hostage. Then the releases will start. When Judge Prestwick boards, you will be released. That is our compromise.”
Hedge felt his bowels loosen. He looked up at Judge Prestwick beseechingly, but the face of justice remained unmoved and formidable. Hedge’s sentence was pronounced: “That seems a fair deal, Mr Hedge.”
“No, I …”
“What?”
“I don’t think it — expedient, Judge. I really don’t. My duty’s on the ground.”
“It’ll not be for long —”
“But those people can’t be trusted!”
“They don’t particularly want you, Mr Hedge. They want me. You’ll only be a stopgap.”
Hedge shook: he felt rooted to the spot. Wild horses would be needed to drag him towards the train, but on the other hand he couldn’t turn tail and run in the presence of Judge Prestwick and all the other brass down at the roundabout, and the television cameras showing him up to all Britain. He made an indistinct sound like a bleat and then the gunman outside the cab became impatient.
“You have two minutes to decide. Then a hostage will die.”
“That’s just bluff,” Hedge said to Judge Prestwick.
“Do you propose to put it to the test, Mr Hedge?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know!” Feet and legs like lead held Hedge fast to the platform. “I think we must go to the limit. If that bluffs called, well, then we’ve got them.”
“Got them where, exactly?”
“I have made my decision, Judge. We must have an earnest of their good faith.”
Judge Prestwick threw up his arms but made no verbal comment. Once again the hijackers consulted together. They all waited; the two minutes ticked past. From somewhere in the town a clock struck, booming out three times. Hedge felt the most intense fear. At about half a minute after the clock, there was a loud, terrified shout from inside the cab.
“Jesus, no! You can’t do it, I’m a US citizen, I —”
There was the stutter, short and sharp, of an automatic weapon, then silence. After a few moments a body was thrown from the cab, bleeding profusely, the head lolling after it had hit the rails. The stomach looked as if it had been gutted; the chest was shattered.
“Soon some more,” the gunman called towards the platform.
12
The leaden feet had to be overcome: the wild horses had called now, largely in the form of Judge Prestwick, who was firm and authoritative. The safety of the hostages was now in the hands of Hedge; and he wouldn’t have to be there for long. Hedge, his heart thumping, inched forward, hoping for some last-minute reprieve. What a fool he had been to climb up to the station! He was now in a bath of sweat and was feeling sick, literally sick, with dread.
But he went forward. To retreat now would be as terrible as going on. He would be branded, an object of derision, people would spit at him in the street very likely. His stomach loosened more, turning to water.
He reached the cab, face deathly white with spots of high colour at the cheekbones invisible under the fat. A gun muzzle was pushed into his back and he was ordered to climb.
Down south the Prime Minister’s eyes were moist. It was, she said, gallant. “So very brave. What splendid subordinates you have, Roly.”
*
The releases were made as promised. The two pregnancies were the first to leave, coming down from the cab onto the viaduct’s walkway as though they couldn’t believe their luck. Tearful but smiling; and as it so happened both the women were travelling alone, so there was no anxiety about anyone left behind. The chief constable took them in hand, passed them on to an inspector who had come up behind from the roundabout. Within a couple of minutes the other releases began, the man with the wounded arm, clutching it as if to convince everyone present of a serious condition, being next after the pregnancies. Then the children and the elderly, among them Mr and Mrs Irons looking tottery and totally bewildered, going back to tragedy in Wensleydale, scarcely aware of the bewigged figure standing incongruously at the end of the platform like a character from Gilbert and Sullivan. And the other old persons, some jaunty enough, others in a state of nerves and dither but nevertheless joyful. For them it was all over, though the scars might remain.
They had all heard by now that one of the judges was giving himself up voluntarily. One old man stopped and spoke to him.
“Your honour …”
“Yes?”
“Sent me down for a stretch you did … eight years ago.” The old man sniffed, wiped the back of a seamed hand across his eyes. “Nothing bad enough for yer, old bastard, I said then. Now I reckon you’ve gone and saved me life. You’re a brave gentleman, sir.” He reached out and took Judge Prestwick’s hand in both of his, tears running down his cheeks. “God bless you, sir.”
“Thank you, Wapshott.”
“Eh?” There was a gasp of astonishment from the old man. Like elephants, judges had long memories, it seemed.
One of those not released was Jean Fison. She had tried again but had again been rejected: she was not sick and she was not old, and she was not pregnant. Another was Lady Cross, who in any case would not have gone without her husband. The MacAllister children had gone with the rest, leaving their parents behind. They had gone tearfully, distraught in fact, but their parents had been thankful enough to see them go, assuring them that it would not be long before they were all together again in Scotland and they were not to worry. Only one child remained aboard the train now: the baby to whom Sun Wun Foo had attempted to minister earlier. That baby couldn’t go without her mother, and the hijackers wouldn’t let her go. When an elderly couple offered to take the baby and see that she was looked after in the meantime, they were rejected out-of-hand. Being breast-fed, the mother said.
When the last of the releases had been made, Judge Prestwick gathered up his gown and went imperturbably aboard the train, into the guns of the hijackers.
*
For a start the released persons were given hot drinks from the police mobile canteen and then taken in a succession of assorted vehicles, some of them ambulances, to the Dryburn hospital, the accident and emergency hospital. Check-ups and baths were needed before debriefing, when the authorities hoped to get accurate descriptions of all the hijackers and some assessment of the mood of both the hijackers themselves and the passengers left aboard. To his own surprise and immense relief, Hedge had been allowed to leave the train soon after Judge Prestwick had boarded. Freed, he had scuttled fast along the walkway to the station and into the arms, almost, of the chief constable. Thereafter he had slowed down, descending to the roundabout wrapped in the dignity of a hero, the chief constable deferential at his side.
“It was accommodating of them really, you know. They could have hung onto me.”
“Quite, Mr Hedge. You showed courage if I may say so.”
“Kind of you … but my duty, don’t you know. And I managed to find something out.” Bravery apart, Hedge was bursting with important information yet to be divulged. “That man of mine aboard the train — you’ll remember —”
“Yes. That was good work, Mr Hedge.”
“Well, we have to think ahead, don’t we? The fact is,” Hedge went on as he continued downward, fat cheeks wobbling, sweating again but this time with sheer relief as he looked up now and again at the halted train and its filth, “I had to ask to use the convenience. They didn’t demur, surprisingly enough —”
“Oh, I don’t know. They’d hardly think you were likely to hide yourself away among the passengers, Mr Hedge.”
“Well, no, no. Anyway, outside the lavatory compartment I encountered my man Shard. I told him about the terrorists — that they were all dead. For his part he was able to tell me … it was most fortunate that I was able to have a quick word, most fortunate.” He paused. Chief constables were chief constables, it was true, but in Hedge’s position you didn’t tell them everything, at least not until you had made your report to your own superiors. “I shall need to contact the Foreign Office, Mr Hemingway.”
“Of course —”
“Not from the Sleep Centre. A closed line.”
“We can manage that, Mr Hedge. My own headquarters.”
“Immediately, please.”
*
“Foreign Secretary? This is you-know-who from you-know-where.”
“What?” Rowland Mayes sounded vague: he had just had an ear-battering from the Prime Minister. “Oh — yes. What is it-er —”
“I’ve been released.”
“Yes. We saw you on the television.”
“Oh, good. Now, I have some information, Foreign Secretary.” Hedge paused, gathering his simple facts: he was still somewhat distrait and a shade high on the euphoria of release, and of acclaim yet to come. He mentioned by way of various circumlocutions that the train’s cab had contained Sir Richard Cross and two white railmen, the latter apparently present of their own free wills, then came to the important point. “I was able to contact — er — my man. You understand, Foreign Secretary?”
“Yes, yes, I —”
“He has formed a nucleus. A group of determined persons who’ll fight when the time comes. If it comes, that is. He assures me he’ll be able to wrest some weapons from the terrorists. So they may be able to take — er — the target from within, don’t you see. Of course —”
“There’ll be bloodshed, won’t there?”
“It’s possible, but I believe it has to be accepted — in the last resort, that is. Sh — my man fully agrees about that. When that time comes —”
“If.”
“Yes, if. I —”
“We must not precipitate anything, remember.”
“Quite, Foreign Secretary, I do see that. However. If the time comes, my suggestion to Sh — my man was that we should give a prearranged signal from the roundabout. What I agreed was that a shot should be fired —”
“At whom?”
“At nobody, Foreign Secretary, just a random shot. Not actually from the roundabout —”
“But you said —”
“Yes, Foreign Secretary, I know I did, but I’m making a correction. From the sort of tower thing to the west of the … there are troops there, as you know. That’ll have a double function. One, it’ll alert Sh — my man. Two, it’ll concentrate the minds of the hijackers on the front end of the tr — the target — they’ll believe it’s an attack. That gives Sh — my man his chance, don’t you see —”
“Why do you keep saying Sh?”
“I must leave you to guess that, Foreign Secretary.” Not for the first time Hedge suspected Rowland Mayes of being not quite up to the mark, but you didn’t say that to Foreign Secretaries. “The next thing to be discussed is, of course, when this signal should be given.”
“Certainly not yet.”
“No, no. All avenues must be exhausted first, I quite agree. But when?”
“That’s yet to be promulgated, Hedge —”
“Foreign Secretary!”
“Oh, dear. I’m sorry … but I do think you’re being just a little over-conscientious security-wise. This is a closed line, after all.”
“There’s many a slip,” Hedge said warningly. “One can’t be too careful.”
“Better safe than sorry?”
“Exactly, Foreign Secretary.”
“Never count your chickens, h’m?” Rowland Mayes, sensing that Hedge would soon realise he was being laughed at, followed up fast with something nice. “What you did — the PM’s sent her congratulations. Gallant, she said. I second that, of course. Very selfless, fine sense of noblesse oblige and all that.”
“Thank you, Foreign Secretary.” Taking the mickey was forgiven now: Hedge blossomed, flower-like in the spring. “The train —”
“Yes. What was it like?”
“A most terrible smell.”
*
It wasn’t just the smell, though that presumably was bad enough. Hedge had reported the obvious: a lot of tension, a lot of sheer terror for the next few hours or days, many people likely to crack, even disease could break out according to Hedge. All this, Rowland Mayes reported immediately to the Prime Minister.
“Yes, Roly, it must be simply terrible. I do so sympathise, you know that.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“Very much so in fact.” Number Ten was of course fresh and clean b
ut Mrs Heffer had her vivid memories. “Once when I was in France … you know those appalling conveniences in small provincial cafés — but after all one has to admit they’re French in France and we won’t go into that. Thank you so much.” Mrs Heffer broke off to accept coffee from a secretary, who also poured for Rowland Mayes. When the secretary had gone the PM leaned forward, fluffed at her hair, and said, “You were saying, Roly?”
“The question of when, Prime Minister.”
“When what?”
“When we put Hedge’s plan into operation. His man Shard. I told you.”
“Yes, I know you did, Roly. The answer is not yet.”
“Well, of course, I agree basically, Prime Minister. But —”
“Not yet, Roly.”
“The conditions —”
“Not yet, Roly. Of course I know what it’s like for all those poor people, so unfortunate, but there you are. We simply must go through with this without any bloodshed. I consider that vital. Mind you, I’ll say this between you and me, Roly — I’d love to go up there myself with a machine-gun and show them the British can’t be treated this way, but as it is we simply have to turn the other cheek for some time yet. The Queen sees that, too — I told her, on the phone. She needs stiffening sometimes — too soft hearted — but I left her in no doubt whatsoever that that wasn’t how I was going to play it.” Suddenly Mrs Heffer shifted tack. “What has been found out from the embassies, Roly? The Middle East?”
“Nothing of any help, Prime Minister.”
“Of any help, Roly?”
Rowland Mayes looked unhappy. “Nothing at all, I’m afraid, Prime Minister.”
Mrs Heffer snorted. “So typical, isn’t it, Roly?”
*
Mr and Mrs Irons were driven in a police car down into Wensleydale and the farm near Hawes. Fred’s wife Kath received them tearfully and with blame.
“You should never have called out like that, Dad.”
Miserably Mr Irons shook his head. “I know, lass, I know.”
“If you hadn’t, Fred’d have —” She didn’t go on. Mrs Irons was at her, battling for her husband whose grief and self-blame should have been all too obvious, but Kath had always been like that and Fred hadn’t had an easy time, Mrs Irons believed, though he’d never said anything.
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