Overnight Express

by Philip McCutchan

  “And all them plastic beasts,” Mrs Irons ended hotly.

  “Nay,” Mr Irons said. “Not now. It doesn’t matter any more now, does it?” He went out of the farmhouse, looked down the fellside into the broad sweep of the dale, the fresh green grass being cropped by the horned sheep, flowers still blowing everywhere though there were no daffodils now, the daffodils that in earlier profusion were Yorkshire’s glory. There was high cloud scudding before a clean wind. Wensleydale was unscarred by the filthy viciousness of the Durham viaduct; in Wensleydale one might in time forget. Forget some things, any road. Others, never in a lifetime, or what was left of it. Mr Irons turned as he heard footsteps: his wife had come out, her session with the daughter-in-law ended more or less amicably. They were all mourners now.

  Mr Irons took her hand and said, “It were a pity we made so much fuss, lass. About the Butlin’s.”

  She forbore to say it was him who’d made the fuss, that she hadn’t been bothered so long as Fred was happy. Her anti-plastic remark to Kath had been no more than a hurt response to the verbal attack on a crushed father. They stood there on the fellside together, looking down into the A684 that ran through Wensleydale. The last of the season’s coaches passed along the road out of Hawes, its occupants scattering the last of the season’s litter, cigarette packets, crisp packets, Coca Cola cans, chocolate wrappers.

  *

  In the house in Ealing, Beth was convinced that the TV cameras had given her a glimpse of Simon through a window of the train. It was not very distinct and she couldn’t be quite sure. She had seen Hedge: she had met Hedge on a couple of occasions, when he had been pompous and patronising to a policeman’s wife and she hadn’t thought much of him. Now he was seen in a different light, doing a dangerous duty in which lay enormous risk.

  Her mother, hat and all, had stayed in the house: nothing, no pleading, could shift her. She too, she said again, had a duty to her little girl, and there had been a bit of a row.

  “Mother, I’m not your little girl. I’m a married woman. I’m Simon’s wife.”

  “Yes, dear. And don’t stress what I know already: Simon never wants me here.”

  “I never said —”

  “No, no more has Simon. But I’m not stupid. Anyway, I’ll say no more. It’s just that you need someone. Beth dear, you look so drawn —”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But it’s not just that. You don’t look well.” Sharp eyes scanned Beth, as they had been doing ever since Mrs Micklem had turned up. “Are you … ?”

  “Am I what?”

  “You know what I mean. Mothers have instincts, dear. As you’ll find out … surely you can tell me if it’s what I think.”

  “It isn’t,” Beth said. She would not tell her mother before she had been able to tell Simon: she just would not.

  “I’m pretty —”

  “Please leave it, will you, mother.”

  There was a displeased shrug. “Oh, very well, if that’s what you want.” Mrs Micklem went out of the room, face sharp and angry, the set of her shoulders showing huff. Beth stood for a moment by the sitting-room window, looking out at the garden. Simon didn’t do much gardening, he seldom had the time, but some of the shrubs were his. A Japanese maple, just coming into full colour a little early this year. It would go on, autumn after autumn. She could see Simon now, planting that blood-red glory a few years earlier, digging, swearing when a hard jab of the spade had hit the root of something else and jarred his arm, but he’d been so pleased with the result, something simple achieved outside police work. He’d watched and waited for it each year thereafter. Yes, it would go on, and Simon’s child would see it. Suddenly Beth broke down. She sank into a chair, her face in her hands, and cried in anguish. It was all so cruel, so unnecessary.

  *

  The incorporated accountant’s wife rang her husband’s office again. She had rung many times and they had been sympathetic, naturally, but had had nothing to offer: they didn’t know any more than she did. How could they? They had advised her just to listen to the news, watch the television and hope for the best. Hijackers, they said, never got away with it. Not in Britain. It would all come right in the end, they assured the harassed woman.

  Well, maybe it would. But other things might not. Ever since that girl had been so horribly murdered, shot to ribbons in the net below the viaduct, those ‘other things’ had nagged away at the wife. The BBC had said on the news broadcasts that she had been secretary to an accountant travelling to Edinburgh and that her name was so-and-so. The accountant’s wife had never heard the name, and the accountant could easily have been another accountant, not her husband at all since the BBC hadn’t given the man’s name, but something said it was in fact her husband.

  She had brooded on this for a long time, unwilling to perhaps compromise her husband with his firm, unwilling to face up to possible nasty facts though she did know that her husband had always had a roving eye and indeed at office parties at Christmas time she had sometimes caught funny looks and quickly-broken-off comments.

  In the end she decided to make certain and so she rang the office again and said she’d heard the girl’s name on the BBC. “Does she work in the firm?” she asked directly.

  It was a girl clerk who had answered. “Well, yes, she does. We’re —”

  “She’s not my husband’s secretary.”

  “No.”

  “They said she was. On the BBC.” The voice had become shrill. The girl at the other end took fright and said she had better put the call through to one of the partners. This, she did. The partner was not forthcoming, very non-committal and wary, but he did say that it was possible that the husband’s actual secretary had been unable to go north at the last minute and the dead girl had been told to make the trip. Possible: he really didn’t know all the details, being a busy man, but in the light of the facts, yes, it did seem that way.

  “Can you find out, please?”

  The voice was disapproving. “Perhaps. But the poor girl’s dead, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know. That’s hardly the point, is it?”

  The response to that had been indistinct and then the partner had rung off. Two and two, however, were never hard to put together. In the house in the London suburbs fists were clenched around a damp handkerchief, and eyes grew hard as diamonds. All a wife’s security lay in her husband.

  *

  “Roly, did you not say that that man Hedge had reported something rather nasty?”

  “Nasty, Prime Minister?” Rowland Mayes lifted his eyebrows. “It’s all nasty.”

  “Yes, I know that.” Mrs Heffer stamped a foot. She was running out of patience, even to the extent that she was becoming forgetful of important points. “Did he not say there were white men in the cab, a driver and whatever it is, mate?”

  “Yes. I told you —”

  “I thought so. White men, British. How deplorable, Roly!”

  “Yes …”

  “Get in touch with Lord Arkwright, Roly. He’s to carry out an immediate investigation —”

  “That’s already in hand, Prime Minister —”

  Mrs Heffer was not listening. She was in a rage. “I will not have disaffection in British Rail or anywhere else for that matter …”

  She went on and on.

  13

  Now they had been there for three days: three days of mounting tension, anxiety and oppressive filth. The body of Mr MacCantley, US citizen, was still there on the track beside the cab. The food and water deliveries had been maintained but the flushing system for the lavatories had not been topped up for some while and the result was horrible. Some of the passengers were by this time far from well, though there was no specific disease. The MacAllisters had let it be known they were both doctors and they had been allowed to circulate freely and see to the sick. A request had gone down for aspirins and suchlike, and this request had been met along with the food and water. More of Durham had been evacuated: Hedge had insi
sted and the chief constable had shrugged and complied, though seeing little point since the nearer houses and shops had been evacuated early on and he didn’t see the explosion, if it came, reaching all that far. The gawpers had been pushed back now as well, kept well clear by beat men and patrol cars. There had been several shifts of deadline and four more of the hostages had been killed, three men and another woman. Shot, and the bodies dropped over the viaduct to end up in the rear-admiral’s useless net.

  The hijackers had broadcast their requirements again: helicopters to winch them up from the viaduct and fly them to an airfield, still as yet unspecified — this would be revealed once the hijackers were airborne in the helicopters. A Boeing 707 was to be prepared for immediate availability and await further orders — an immense aircraft for so comparatively few hijackers but no doubt the fuel capacity was needed to enable somewhere like the Middle East to be reached without the need to refuel.

  In the meantime the demands still stood: two more judges, Justices Orp and Bessell, and the terrorists from the British gaol. That secret had been well kept by the media and the police and military escort.

  Aboard the train Shard spoke to various persons though keeping to himself the information from Hedge about the deaths of the terrorists. He had already told Lady Cross, the MacAllisters and Ian Costermaine that he’d contacted Hedge briefly and some sort of strike-back had been agreed. It might work, it might not; but it gave some hope. “I don’t think it’ll be long now.”

  “The showdown?” Costermaine asked.

  Shard nodded. “The signs are there. The hijackers are getting edgy, feeling pressured. I’ve seen it before — not at quite such close quarters! I believe they’re tiring, and that’s good news.”

  “You said we had to wait for the word from the ground?”

  “Right, we have. The authorities have to go through the routines. I can’t pre-empt what my bosses do. At least …”

  “At least what, Mr Shard?”

  “If the hijackers look like losing patience —”

  “If they give up and decide to blow the train, d’you mean?”

  “Yes. I have to judge that moment. If and when it comes, we move fast.”

  Costermaine rubbed at his stubbly jaw. “Hard to know just when, isn’t it?”

  “They’ll give signs that I’ll be able to read, don’t worry.”

  “And the judges, and the terrorists? When it looks like the crunch is coming, d’you think they’ll be handed over?”

  Shard said, “No, I don’t, not for one moment. That’s not the way we do things.”

  “So that Judge Whatsit, he’s being dropped right in it?”

  “Along with all of us,” Shard said. “But it’s not going to happen. Just keep it in mind that we’re in the heart of England, with plenty of strength on the ground.”

  Costermaine made a jeering comment; Shard didn’t believe his own words but had to do what he could to keep up the morale even if he talked boloney. All the forces available, police, army, commandos, navy, RAF — it was no more than a row of beans when it came to salvation for a train stuck on a viaduct and in the hands of a suicide squad. If anyone moved against the train, they would all have had it before a single bullet was fired. Logically, you couldn’t win against hijackers if they were prepared to go to the limit. Yet in Britain they had so far never succeeded. That was the thing to be remembered throughout.

  Shard moved about the train: he wasn’t stopped any more than were the MacAllisters. He was able to speak to the badge boys, to Jean Fison, to Sun Wun Foo and others. The Chinese girl was philosophic.

  “I not fear death. Death sometimes better than bad life. In death all is calm and quiet.”

  “You’re a Buddhist?” Shard asked.

  “Yes. Buddha spoke of the coming brotherhood of man, and equality, and of Nirvana, the state of not being, attained by self-sacrifice, contemplation, and suppression of passion.”

  Shard moved on; he saw little part for Buddha to play aboard the train, but if belief in him led to a calm acceptance of death, then that belief could be no bad thing.

  *

  Certain preparations were being made to meet all possible eventualities. Helicopters were standing by, the requested aircraft had been fuelled and provisioned and was ready for take-off for any destination, waiting currently at Leeds and Bradford airport. Concessions were not in the air, but the Prime Minister had insisted that everything should be seen to be done and that the doing thereof should be freely announced on the news broadcasts as well as made known to the hijackers by communication from the roundabout in Durham. There had still been no success in the hunt for the HQ, the apparently mobile HQ used by the Friends of Hira, and there had been no further communication from them, all contact concerning deadlines and movement out of the country having been made directly from the train itself.

  Rowland Mayes, and other VIPs, had been disapproving of any notion being given to the hijackers that their requests were being met.

  “I think we should not in any way go along with them, Prime Minister.” This was the Chief of Staff from Defence Ministry.

  “I totally disagree, General. Totally. The people, our people I mean, must be shown that we’re not inhuman, that if the worst came to the worst I might make certain concessions. Might. Not that I shall, I hope that’s understood.” Mrs Heffer looked around the assembly of brass. “But they must be shown that I have compassion for the unfortunate hostages. I —”

  “But Prime Minister … when we don’t concede, won’t they see that too? See that you —”

  “I shall cross that bridge when I come to it, Roly.” Mrs Heffer seemed momentarily, but only momentarily, disconcerted. “We shouldn’t make the mistake of crediting these people with too much intelligence. I’m quite confident they can be outwitted, outmanoeuvred. Now: Roly, I understand that Mr Spard aboard the train —”

  “Shard, Prime Minister. Shard.”

  “Thank you, Roly, Mr Shard. One must get names right, mustn’t one?” A brilliant smile shone. “It always impresses the — er — the people. I understand your man Hedge reported this Mr Shard ready to act aboard the train?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister, that is so.”

  “I have a feeling that may well do the trick. A rush on the armed men — something of that sort. It’s going to be a question of timing.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister. That’s what we have to decide. The timing — from our end.”

  The Chief of Staff came in on that. “I fancy it’s the hijackers who decide the timing, not us —”

  “Then you are quite wrong, General.” Mrs Heffer’s voice was strident. “I call that sheer defeatism. The British government never dances to the tunes of hijackers. We shall decide the moment. That is, I shall. And it’s not yet.”

  The Chief of Staff shook his head doubtfully; Rowland Mayes gave a sigh, not a loud one. There would be more deaths aboard the train, more hostages sacrificed, and the country wouldn’t like it. Rowland Mayes knew beyond doubt that the fate of the hostages was much in Mrs Heffer’s mind because she had said so; she would be suffering now. Such a noble woman … After the Prime Minister’s last utterance the meeting broke up and Rowland Mayes exited from the police-guarded door of Number Ten into Downing Street, where there was a crowd. A mostly silent crowd, a morose one in fact. Just a faint stir, a murmur, as the Foreign Secretary entered his car to be driven off for luncheon. Not, he fancied, a friendly murmur. Of course, you couldn’t read too much into it, but Rowland Mayes was a shrewd man and in his political career had had to interpret many things; a finger on the nation’s pulse was a prerequisite for success in politics and this time Rowland Mayes detected, or believed he detected, something rather nasty, rather un-British in fact: the public wanted this hijack brought to a swift end and never mind how so long as the passengers were released unharmed. Nobody gave a hoot either way about the terrorists that had been demanded, and what were three judges? The bench was very easily topped up again. All this
ran like a shaft of searing light through Rowland Mayes’ imaginative mind as the car swished him past the faces, the accusing faces. There was no hope of putting it across to Mrs Heffer, of course …

  Upon arrival at the Foreign Office — luncheon was to be a working sandwich and a glass of dry white wine — the Foreign Secretary was informed that Albert Wakeford had been on the phone. Again: there had been many calls from Albert Wakeford, who was the secretary general of the TUC. The TUC had points to put and decisions to make. This whole thing was nasty and in the view of certain trade union leaders it was being handled exclusively with a view to electoral advantage to the Tory party. Rowland Mayes had already said this was nonsense, since dead hostages won no-one any votes, but the TUC was a very big blunderbuss with very set and dogged views and Albert Wakeford had simply reiterated his statement which, he said, brooked no bloody argument.

  “What is it this time?” Rowland Mayes asked the Permanent Under-Secretary.

  “Just a repeat performance, Foreign Secretary.”

  “Has he threatened strikes?”

  “Any moment now, I expect.”

  True words: the telephone rang again, and again it was Albert Wakeford. “Foreign Secretary speaking.”

  “Now look, Rowland.” Rowland Mayes frowned: he disliked being called Rowland by Albert Wakeford but these were democratic days and you had to be friendly with everyone. “Apropos our previous conversation, right? We’re being pushed too far, I reckon. I can’t go on holding the situation. The NUR’s getting restive. They may call a strike.”

  “I really can’t see that a railway strike’s going to affect a halted train one way or the other … Albert.”

  “Then you’d best get your head read. Won’t be just the railwaymen either. Solidarity, see?”

  “But what exactly would a strike be for? Or should I say against?”

  “You won’t get nowhere by semantics, Rowland. Just a warning, that’s all. I suggest you have a chat with Heffer.” Mr Wakeford rang off. Rowland Mayes’ chubby round face looked unusually savage. Really! What a world! Strikes … once in history they used to be called to support pay claims or to show solidarity, wretched word, with dismissed workers. In their way, fair enough. But now! Protest strikes, utterly unproductive of anything at all — strikes against there being no jobs, strikes against the shutting of shipyards that had no ships to build or any prospect of ever getting orders ever again, strikes against foremen or supervisors who dared to give orders — and now a threat of a strike about a halted train, a strike designed to force the PM’s hand at a very delicate moment. It was monstrous; so monstrous that Rowland Mayes tended to dismiss it as a mere try-on … the workers wouldn’t co-operate by striking, they were basically loyal as indeed was the TUC itself. Perhaps Wakeford too was simply after electoral advantage. Rowland Mayes’ sandwiches came just at that moment: fresh Scotch salmon, with lettuce and cucumber and cress. Rowland Mayes munched at them angrily while the Permanent Undersecretary filled him in on what had been happening whilst he had been in Downing Street; and Rowland Mayes himself reflected upon a disloyal thought of his own, an unintentional one actually: that thought that perhaps Albert Wakeford too was after electoral advantage. The word too suggested that Mrs Heffer was guilty of the same which of course was most certainly not the case. Rowland Mayes erased it from his thoughts, retrospectively.