I pulled out some paper towels, loosened my tie and cleaned up my face. Then took
off my jacket, brushed off the worst of the mud and cleaned the elbows.
My trousers and shoes were worse than a tramp’s. Shoes first. I washed them in the washbasin, pausing as the plughole became blocked with mud. Dried them.
Trousers. They were light brown and the mud showed up like chalk on a blackboard. I scraped at it with my comb, then washed off the rest — better to look wet than dirty. Then I plucked off the cotton threads snagged by the brambles, pulled them on and stepped into my shoes.
Mirror again — not too bad. I washed the comb and used it on my hair and beard, better still. Straightened my tie, and the dangling cuff flashed back at me — must do something —
There was a knock and the handle rattled up and down.
Swallowed. ‘All right, I’m coming.’ Last look round, hand in pocket, flick the catch —
A pair of reproachful eyes, female: ‘About time too.’
‘Sorry.’ I slid past her — and into the arms of the ticket-collector.
‘Oh! I beg your pardon.’
‘That’s all right, sir.’
I turned away. Had he heard the girl? The door hissed aside. I could feel him following me. Not too fast now…
‘Tickets, please.’
Not too fast, not too slow, half way, just keep walking…
‘Tickets, please.’
Another hiss and I was through.
Both cubicles engaged. Wait or move on?
A click, one of the doors opened, and a man stepped out, with the sound of flushing.
Flushing! Must remember that next time. I locked the door and sat down.
Must stay long enough to let the inspector get well past.
How long before we reached Bristol? Thirty, forty minutes? Perhaps they’ll think I caught the London train, or will they plan for both?
I took off my jacket and examined the handcuffs again. Found a handkerchief and tore a strip from it, then made two holes in my shirtsleeve with my teeth and tied the free cuff up with the strip. Replaced the jacket. Now at least I didn’t have to have my hand in my pocket all the time.
What when I get to Bristol? Find a train for Taunton, there should be plenty.
Then what?
As soon as I tried to think beyond the next move, the enormity of it hit me and I began to tremble again.
One step at a time. Where was the collector? Give him a bit longer.
Why not stay here? No, someone’ll notice.
How do I look now? Stood up, found the mirror. The scratches on my face showed, otherwise not too bad. Even the eyes seemed better — or was I just getting used to them?
Time to move. Checked myself over again for details, reached for the door —
You’ve forgotten to flush! Press down the pedal, surge of water.
Cautiously open door. Nobody. Peer through glass into carriage — there he was! Looking at the last few tickets, give him a minute or two…
‘Excuse me!’
‘Sorry.’ Someone edged past. The door hissed.
I waited a couple of minutes, then walked easily through and locked myself into the next cubicle. Sat down.
Felt my right hand stealing over my left arm, feeling for the cuff.
How much longer — twenty, thirty minutes?
The compartment swayed to and fro as the wheels sang hollowly below. We were going fast, probably near the eponymous 125.
Found my hand feeling for the cuff again. Stood up, looked in the mirror, at the eyes that would stare out of tomorrow’s papers, the eyes of a killer —
Jerked my head away, sat down.
Should I move again? The thought of the collector made my guts quail — I stood up abruptly, suddenly needing to urinate. It stung as it came out in hot spurts, splashing the seat and the lino floor.
Mopped it up with paper towels and sat down again. The lino was still shining wet and I felt sick.
Can’t leave here, not again. What when we reach Bristol? Think, man, think!
No need to leave the station, just find the timetable and the platform for Taunton. Find the loo again.
When I got to Taunton, was it an open station? No, no — worry about that later, sufficient unto the moment is the evil thereof…
What are they doing at the crash site? For the first time, I thought about the dead driver and felt a surge of pity. Did he have a wife, children?
They’d hate me, blame me for his death. Everyone would hate me tomorrow, if I were still free. If…
Would the dogs have found my scent yet? Irrelevant. The woman in the car, so much depended on her. How near were the police, how long before she got them to listen to her? She’d be questioned, then they’d get on to British Rail to check the trains. I might have gone two — no, three ways — London, Bristol or Oxford. They’d have to arrange three receptions — if they believed her.
They’d believe her. So, would they be waiting in Bristol?
As though in answer, the brakes below squealed softly and the train’s movements checked.
I swallowed, better get ready to go out — no!
No. If I went out now, I’d be forced on to the platform, better wait till nearly everyone has gone.
The brakes bit harder and the acrid smell of burnt lining rose into the cubicle. Noises as people pulled luggage from racks and the space outside the cubicle filled.
The rhythm of the wheels changed as the train lurched over some points, a jerk as the movement was checked further.
We entered the station. A window was pulled down and a door opened, not the one nearest the cubicle. People began moving out.
‘All change!’ blared the loud-speaker. ‘All change!’ The shuffling footsteps seemed to go on forever. How many people can you get on to a train?
I checked myself over, handcuff secure, hair tidy, shoes and trousers nearly dry — not that it matters, if they’re here, they’ll have my description. I stood paralysed for a moment by my heartbeat.
Less noise now… Try and look casual… I opened the door a crack and watched an old lady move slowly past. Slid out and peered down the gangway of the empty carriage, through the darkened windows —
The platform was crawling with police. One was looking intently through as he moved along the carriage — I ducked back. They’d be aboard any second!
Glanced back at the other door, there was another train alongside this one. I would be invisible from the other platform…
Without thinking, I pulled down the window, pushed the handle and slid the window back before gently lowering myself on to the oil-stained grit of the rail-bed between the trains. Pushed the door shut. Looked around. No faces, no one had seen me.
Which end would the driver of the other train be? No way of telling. I worked my way cautiously up the train I’d left. The police would be concentrating on the rear now.
Hot smell of oil and diesel fumes as I passed the idling motor, it was one of the three carriage units. I could see the end of it now, still no one in sight. Hovered behind the cab, still no one, got to risk it, plunged out in front of the cab, looked up to see a small boy staring solemnly down at me from the platform.
I raised a finger to my lips. ‘I’m doing it for a bet. Come on, give us a hand up.’
I put elbows on the rough surface and pushed myself up, the boy pulling at my collar. The platform was littered with trolleys. Still no one had seen me.
I was nearly there when my sleeve slipped back and the handcuff glinted in the sunlight. I scrambled up, pulling the sleeve over it. Had he seen?
I ruffled his hair. ‘Thanks. Our secret, eh?’
He gave a reluctant half-smile and ran off.
Hell! I looked round feverishly — better get lost in the crowd, look for a waiting-room. I moved between the trolleys, making for the stairs.
‘Avonmouth…’
I stopped short, listening intently to the loudspeaker as it went through
the list of stations again. ‘Avonmouth, St Andrew’s and Severn Beach — Platform Six.’
Alan, sailing tomorrow. Would he help? He’d bloody have to. Where the hell was platform six?
It seemed an age before I realized I was standing on it, that the train I’d crept around was the one I wanted.
A whistle blew. I turned, three strides, yanked open the door and jumped inside as it began to move. The springs in the seat pinged and groaned as I sank into them. The carriage was almost empty, just two old ladies with their backs to me, about ten yards away, gossiping.
I lowered my head as the platform slid past, wishing I had a newspaper to hide behind, then the train was pitching and swaying through an open space of sidings and weed-strewn ballast.
Ticket-collector, there was bound to be one, probably on his way now. Hard luck story? Even if it worked, I’d be remembered.
Hide under the seat? No, they were too open. Another loo? Too late now.
I looked behind me, at the empty seats — and the empty driver’s cab.
Ahead again, still just the two old ladies, oblivious of me. Slowly rose to my feet — more pings from the springs — and tiptoed back, five, six paces, through the sliding door and on to the driver’s seat. A blind had been pulled down behind, presumably to stop people staring over his shoulder. I made sure it was secure and that I couldn’t be seen through a crack.
The brakes squealed and the train lost speed. A station — I crouched down to avoid being seen by any passengers.
A door slammed, then another, and with a groan we were moving again, the train changing gear like a car.
‘Fares, please!’
I jumped. Mumbled voices and the clink of change. Silence. Footsteps approaching. I squeezed behind the seat, no good, bound to be seen…
Closer…hard luck story…wallet pinched… Then, with a thump, the sliding door was drawn to and the footsteps receded. With closed eyes, I leaned back against the vibrating carriage wall.
The train slowed again and stopped. No passengers. I cautiously lifted my head as we pulled away, but couldn’t see the name of the station.
The train lurched as we pulled off the main track on to a single line. A cutting. A station. A bridge over a main road. Another station, doors slamming, the boom and roar of a tunnel… How would I know when we reached Avonmouth?
Then sunlight flashed from a winding estuary, and with it, I felt a flash of hope.
More stations, estate houses, the. estuary widening beneath the Avon bridge, and ahead a mess of factories, chimneys belching coloured smoke. Cranes — this must be it.
This time I waited a few seconds after the last slam, then stood up and fumbled with the door catch. It opened and I tumbled on to the platform. The train was moving —
‘Hey!’ The collector, leaning out of a window. I smiled and waved back as a couple of passengers looked round… The train didn’t stop.
No one paid any more attention to me as I turned left into a street with shops. Just ahead was a small grassed area with some young trees and a bench. I walked over to it and sat down.
A faint breeze stirred the leaves overhead and cooled my face. I leaned back and closed my eyes, and slowly, very slowly, some of my nerve-endings began folding themselves back into place.
CHAPTER 11
Nearly an hour later I asked an old lady for the docks and she pointed to a gateway a couple of hundred yards down the road. I started walking.
I was nearly there, in fact I could see the bow of a ship, when a car swept past me. A policeman appeared from nowhere and flagged it down. The driver showed some sort of pass and was waved on.
Bloody hell! They must be dock police, but I daren’t stop walking or suddenly turn round. Another car, the same thing happened, then I saw a turning on the right, just before the gate, and crossed the road to take it. Passed a huge Customs and Excise building, then a terrace of houses and offices.
At the end of the road was a children’s playground overlooked by a housing estate. The docks lay behind a high wooden fence. I walked up to it. It was about eight feet high, made of stout posts sharpened at the top. Through it, I could see more ships.
I turned away and walked quickly through the playground — better not be seen loitering here — and found a path parallel to the fence. Followed it.
Then came another terrace, wide, with ugly red brick houses and people leaning in doorways. At the end was another road, and another gate, marked Royal Edward Dock. A lorry was pounced on by the inevitable policeman.
How many docks were there? I walked a bit further, to some waste ground, but the wooden fence stretched as far as I could see.
My hair seemed to trap the sun’s heat on to my head while the white pavement threw it up into my face. It was no good, I’d have to wait until dark and try and climb the fence. My tongue stuck to my mouth.
Where could I wait? There was nowhere, I hadn’t the money even to sit in a cafe. Back to the bench under the trees, it was all there was. Perhaps find a loo with a tap.
I’d nearly reached the Customs and Excise house when a police car swept down the road from the station and stopped at the gate. A policeman got out and started showing something to the one at the gate.
I felt faint with sickness. Couldn’t stop. Looked round in blind panic…
Steps beside me led up to a door. Beside it was pinned a brass plate: ‘Cairns and Pocock, Insurance Brokers’.
I turned without stopping and climbed the steps. Into a cool hall. Up a flight of stairs. On the landing, a door with a notice: ‘Cairns and Pocock, next floor.’ And underneath: ‘Toilet.’ I went in and locked the door.
It was narrow and dark. Pan at the end, under the window. Washbasin in front of me.
I turned on the cold tap and drank. And drank. Felt the cold water filling my belly like a balloon.
Then I started shaking again.
So near.
But was I?
Alan might turn me over to the police, they might be talking to him even now.
My head began to prickle. I sat on the edge of the seat and put it between my knees. Felt slightly better after a few minutes, but not much.
The water in my belly felt like mercury and my guts rumbled. Then, a warning, pricking sensation; I jumped up and got my trousers and pants down just in time.
After I’d cleaned myself up, I really did begin to feel better. If only I could stay here until dark…unfortunately, lavatories aren’t put into buildings for nothing, and sooner or later someone would want to use it.
The window immediately behind the pan was frosted, so I stood on the seat to get my bearings — and found myself looking into the docks.
I looked down. The ground was about fifteen feet below. Slowly raised my gaze. Sheds. Piles of pallets. Packing cases, cargoes, and beyond, cranes and ships.
I had to try it, even if it meant jumping.
Right, get the bottom window open. I got down and examined it. Probably hadn’t been opened for years, but at least it wasn’t sealed with paint.
I pushed back the catch, put my palms under the woodwork, and heaved.
It wouldn’t budge. I straddled the pan and crouched, so as to use my legs. Heaved again.
Nothing. Then the door handle rattled.
I’d never have done it otherwise, but the shock somehow gave me strength, and with a crack, the window moved.
Trembling, I stopped and listened. Footsteps receding. Had they heard anything?
I turned back to the window. It moved reluctantly, groaning inch by inch. I pushed my head through.
A drainpipe! About a foot away, running down to ground level. I stuck out an arm and tried to shake it. It was solid.
I forced the window up another six inches, then took a breath and climbed on to the seat.
The locked door — if they break it in and find the window open, they’ll inform the police.
Have to unlock it. But what if someone…?
Got to risk it.
; I climbed down, listened, then unlocked it as gently as I could before darting back to the window.
No one in sight. He who hesitates…
I scrambled over the cistern, reached out, one hand on the pipe, then the other…my backside scraped over the ledge, drooped — then my legs fell into space. The pipe held and, hand over hand, I lowered myself until my feet hit the concrete below.
I walked away. No one in sight. I made for the high pile of pallets beside a corrugated iron shed and squeezed between them.
I looked back. No face at any window, although the one I’d come through grinned back at me like a broken tooth. Just someone letting some air in.
What now? Look for the ship?
Too risky, police might still be there. Leave it till tomorrow morning.
My head began to prickle again and I knelt down. Could I stay here? No, it was too exposed. I forced myself to my feet and edged along the gap to the other side. It was all clear.
The shed had large double doors with a smaller door set in one of them. I tried it and to my relief, it opened.
Inside, it was hot and dirty and dimly lit by pencil beams of sunlight.
It was filled with builders’ equipment, bricks, ladders, a cement mixer. I worked my way to the back. In one corner was a large heap of sacks. I looked at them for a moment, then gathered some up and made a bed behind a pile of breeze blocks.
I knew I wouldn’t sleep, but just to lie down out of the glare of daylight, of eyes, that was enough. The sacks had an acrid smell and the air was warm and dusty.
Silence.
I pillowed my head on my arm and gradually, my heartbeat became slower.
CHAPTER 12
Bluebells dusted the floor of the wood and sunlight through the leaves lit Jill’s coppery hair. We were following a path and I was telling her, quite naturally, all the things I’d ever felt about her.
‘I know,’ she said, and her smile embraced us both. She was there. She was real.
The wood changed into conifers and became dark and forbidding.
Bad Medicine- A Life for a Life; Bed of Nails; Going Viral Page 30