The Necropolis Railway js-1

by Andrew Martin

  I took a pint of Red Lion and carried it across to a seat marked 'The Comfortable Corner', although there were no corners anywhere, the place being circular, so this was perhaps a joke. The joxies on the next seat were certainly laughing as I sat down. I had never seen such pretty drunks.

  I had bought my pint, thinking my first would also have to be my last, but when I got to the end of it the Citadel seemed quite the place to be, and, sitting there, I began to think once again that progress was being made in my thoughts. But that did not last long, for they all went wrong in the end, like the broken gas pipe: Rose and Hunt were true engine men put to work on a sleepy branch, for which they would have hated the bosses like old boots – and Rowland Smith had been one of the bosses. But then he had also put himself on this balmy branch, and that after having risen to the top of the South Western in what must have been very short order, for he was still a young man.

  As to Vincent, I was out with him, but like as not that was only because he knew I was up to the mark for an engine man and might beat him to the regulator. But why could he not relax even for a minute?

  Then again, as to the murders… were they really anything of the sort? Perhaps Henry Taylor was only lying low, and maybe Mike had fallen on the footplate and hit his head on the handbrake or had some other accident of the sort not unusual around any engine shed.

  I started thinking again of Vincent, and when I looked up I had hocussed him out of the air, for he was standing before me with a pewter in his hand. (He's putting on swank, trying to look like an engine man, I thought.) There was a circular sort of fellow next to him, also carrying a pint, and wearing a crushed and twisted black suit. He was shouting, 'Trousers! I say, trousers!' to someone in another part of the pub. I had seen him somewhere before. 'All right there?' said Vincent, over the noise of the other. So he was talking to me again, and very matey with it.

  'This is Mack,' he said, pointing to his pal. 'Saturday Night Mack, I call him.'

  Saturday Night Mack was still yelling to someone in the middle of the pub, and it struck me that he was the fellow who'd been holding the brush and being scolded at the Necropolis station. 'Mack!' shouted Vincent, 'pay attention, man!'

  He introduced us with words that let me know I was in for more sensation. 'Mack works for the Necropolis. You went into their station on the Red Bastard, didn't you?' Vincent added. 'Thirty-One,' I said, 'yes.'

  Vincent sat down in front of me and put his pewter on the table, while Saturday Night Mack carried on shouting across to a gingery bloke. 'Well, you've been a bit bloody silent on the subject, for Christ's sake,' said Vincent.

  'So have you. You've been a bit silent on all subjects, if you ask me.' 'Well, I'm all ears now. Who was Barney's mate for the trip?' 'Mike.'

  'Oh crumbs. It knocked me for six when I heard. I was on leave, you know.' 'But who would do that to Mike?' I said. 'Search me,' said Vincent. 'He was a good fellow,' I said. 'Top hole,' said Vincent.

  We both took a drink. Talking to this kid?, I thought, was like walking on hot coals.

  'Bit of an over-steamer, though,' I said. 'I noticed when I went on that trip with him.'

  Vincent left a long pause, giving me plenty of time to regret speaking ill of the dead – it was wanting to sound like a true engine man that had done it, that and the beer – before saying, 'You're bang on, there.'

  Just then, Saturday Night Mack stopped shouting about trousers and sat down at our table with three fresh pints of Red Lion on a tray. 'Chatting about that bad business on Monday, are we?' he said, and took a long drink.

  'You're on the Necropolis, aren't you?' I said, because I had to get back to that. Mack nodded. 'What do you do for that lot?'

  'Always asking questions, this boy,' said Vincent, wriggling in his seat. 'Always very keen to learn.'

  But Mack didn't seem to mind; I fancied he preferred my company to Vincent's, and that Vincent would have liked me to think they were better mates than they really were. 'I put my hand to shifting bodies, humping floral sprays, sweeping up, and a bit of parading on occasion,' he replied. 'So you're one of those silent walking-behind-the-coffin fellows?' I said. I knew this to be a silly sort of remark even as it came from my lips, but the queer thing was that Mack again did not mind.

  'Walking behind? Yes. Silence? No,' he said. 'I do talk on the job, you see, otherwise I could never do the words of comfort.' He waved to somebody near the bar, and called out a word I couldn't understand. It was something like 'Norbs!' It could have been that little gingery fellow who hadn't shaved that he was calling to. 'What are the words of comfort?' I asked.

  'Bloody hell,' said Vincent, 'we're trying to have a bit of a beano here.' 'It depends if I do a long comfort or a short one,' said Saturday Night Mack, putting the ice on Vincent once again. 'What would be a long one?'

  He took a deep breath, and then he was off: 'For no man liveth to himself and no man dieth to himself, for whether we live, we live unto the Lord, and whether we die, we die unto the Lord. Whether we live, therefore, or die, we are the Lord's.' 'I see,' I said. 'And if it's a short one?'

  'Chin up,' said Mack, and he caught up his beer and finished it off. 'I mainly do short ones,' he said, standing up, 'and sometimes not even that.' He whacked down his glass and dashed off into a crowd of his friends. A few seconds later he came running back to us. 'Anybody fancy another?' I tried to give him a tanner but he wasn't having it.

  After a bit more shouting and prancing about he came back to us, dragging half his crowd with him, who carried on drinking in the crowd around our table.

  'Idiots,' he said, pointing to the crowd. 'Sensible fellows,' he said, pointing to us. The idiots seemed to be more fun, though, so I thought it good of him to stick with us. 'You've got a pretty big set up down at Brookwood,' I said. 'Pretty big,' he said. 'What's the cemetery like?'

  'I'll tell you what: steer clear if you believe in spirits.' He took a big belt of his beer, and I could see that he was saturated but it suited him to be like that.

  'Mack believes in ghosts,' said Vincent. 'He has these table-top, spirit-talking goes.' 'What happens at these things?' I asked Mack. "The veil is lifted and I see through to the other side.' 'What's it like?'

  'What's it like?' he said, and he puffed out his cheeks and made his eyes go big. 'Going back to Brookwood,' he went on, 'you've got four thousand acres, best part of fifty thousand trees. It's the biggest cemetery going, nothing to touch it in the whole Empire, but I'll tell you what,' and here he just grinned. 'What?' I said. 'Business ain't so good at present.' I liked Mack; despite being a semi-drunk and maybe a rogue, he was a pleasant fellow to chat with. 'Why is business bad?' I asked him.

  'When they set it all up, all the graveyards in London were full to bursting, and nobody was allowed to start any new ones. But that was all changed just before our show was started.' 'How did that come about?' 'Act of Parliament.' 'What act?'

  'Bloody hell, leave off,' said Vincent. 'Mack's brain is working under two hundred and twenty pounds of pressure as it is.'

  'Date of the Act…' said Mack, 'can't remember. Name of it… that's gone too. Ask me when I'm not DRUNK.' He said that last word very loud. 'So the Necropolis is in a bad state?' I said.

  'Well, now,' said Saturday Night Mack, sitting back, picking up his glass and seeing it was empty, 'there's a fellow does talks on it, a fellow called Stanley, and you can tell what's what in our line by his audiences.' 'I looked in on one of those,' I said. 'Crowded, was it?' said Mack.

  'Hardly… Listen,' I said – and the questions were coming like winking, thanks to the Red Lion – 'do you know a johnny called Rowland Smith?' This one had Vincent all ablaze, though saying nothing.

  Mack nodded, and it was a job for me to tell whether that meant he knew of my connection with Smith or not. I couldn't believe Vincent wouldn't have told him if they were any sorts of mates at all.

  'Really, he's the true Governor,' said Mack. 'He's come over from the South Western to sort us out. Erskine Long's
the chairman, and he don't seem to like it, but there it is.' 'So Rowland Smith's all right, is he?' Mack shrugged. 'His notion is to sell off the land,' he said. Somebody darted over to Mack and gave him a beer.

  'Tell you what,' he said. 'We used to have a Sunday run, and you could pick up the big penny working that turn. Smith's put a stop to it. Nowadays the trip only happens three or four times a week, and that's his decree as well.' 'What's happened to wages?'

  'I'm a fifteen-bob-a-week bloke now; it's barely enough to cover my slate in this place.'

  I could see very well that it wouldn't be. Saturday Night Mack was a drinking machine, always with a glass in his hand, and he seemed to know everybody in the Citadel. For the next half hour he kept coming and going, whereas I seemed to be trapped at our table with Vincent, hemmed in by the crowd. Some of them were joxies, and they kept lolling right across our table.

  'Nice fresh greens,' said Vincent, as one of them rolled against me. 'Want a lady?' she said.

  I couldn't believe the softness of her, but I was scared of saying yes, for I had never gone down the road with any girl before, let alone this sort, and I didn't know where she would take me. I thought she might be backed up by an army of blackguards. 'Want a lady?' she said again. 'What for?' I said.

  'What for!' said Vincent, and he gave out a sound that was the next best thing to laughing.

  'For… a while,' said the joxie, who then went off, saying something not very friendly.

  'Man,' said Vincent, 'we're down in Waterloo,' and he started shaking his head. I had heard of these girls, who sold what you could not believe would ever be for sale; there were commonly supposed to be some in Scarborough, but I never thought I would see one, leave alone actually be kissed by one.

  Vincent lifted his pewter and drank. "They'll fuck you for a consideration, sir!' he said in a funny voice.

  For some reason, thoughts of my landlady were in my head, and I did not like the complication of them. 'Why do you call me sir when you're drunk?' I said to Vincent.

  'I have a lot more respect for people when I'm sloshed,' said Vincent, 'and you can make of that what you like.'

  I tried to look him straight in the eye but the Citadel had now started to move; it was increasing in speed by the second, until the velocity was something remarkable, but, unlike the Atlantics of Mr Ivatt, it did not go in a straight line.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tuesday 8 December

  Three days later I was in the shed early, stabbing with the handle of a brush at a mass of ash and mud on the brake block of Thirty-One, when the Governor walked up. He was smiling as usual – well, it was usual when he talked to me.

  'Fancy a trip to Brookwood?' he said, and he almost bowed, like a magician about to demonstrate some marvellous phenomenon.

  'I'll bloody say,' I said, and I chucked down the brush and rubbed my hands on my trousers, because you're supposed to be clean at all times on the footplate. I then realised I'd made a bloomer with that 'bloody', but the Governor didn't take exception. He was walking down the shed between two lines of Atlantics, galvanising the whole place as he went, sending blokes off wheeling barrows, or scrambling into the pits or doing whatever they should have been doing in the first place. He led me to Twenty-Nine, which was just off-shed, standing in a light rain. 'Hop up,' said the Governor.

  I climbed onto the cab, and there was the man with the black beard who fired for the half when he was on spare, and who I now knew to be Clive Castle. There was a good fire in the hole, steam pressure was climbing nicely and the cab was pretty clean, but really only half done, so I decided to finish the job. I reached into the locker for the wire brush, then glanced across at Castle. He looked at me, but gave no friendly nod, of course. But I was becoming bolder with the Nine Elms fellows; I would not eat dog. So I said, very business-like: 'I'm coming out with you on the run.'

  No answer. His face was very white, or maybe it was just the blackness of his hair and beard that made me think so. He had something on his mind, all right, something bad, but then they all did all the time. It would have been funny – if I didn't believe that evil was at the back of it.

  'Where's Rose?' I said, because I had the idea that only he would let me on for a ride. 'Barney Rose?' said Castle. 'Search me.'

  I heard a clatter, and an oil can was placed on the footplate behind me. I could tell by the sound that it was empty. Turning about, I saw Arthur Hunt flashing past on his way to going under the engine with a new oil can. The trip was to be with the big man.

  Well, I resolved immediately that he would have no reason to find fault. I climbed down from the cab and scurried off to stores, where I meant to pick up a tin of Brasso, although in fact I came upon one on a workbench halfway there, together with a good clean rag which I also caught up. Returning to the footplate of Twenty-Nine, I began hastily polishing the injector wheels, engine brake, regulator. This was laying on luxury as far as cleaning duties went, but I was determined that Arthur Hunt would think me up to the mark.

  Of course, it would happen that I was taking a bit of a breather when Hunt flew up onto the footplate with the new oil can in his hand. He'd been filling the pots underneath, but there wasn't a mark on him – which was the mark of a true engine man. Whether this man was a killer, or a friend of killers, he was always perfect about his business, so that I couldn't help but be keen to show him my paces. He wore his usual suit and a tie, and there was a rag folded as neatly as any silk handkerchief in his enormous hands.

  I screwed up my courage to a 'Good morning, Mr Hunt' but of course I needn't have bothered.

  The first thing he did was take my Brasso and stow it in the locker, cursing in an under-breath. Then without a word he flung my rag onto the fire, which ate it with a great whump. As he did this I noticed – and I saw to my horror that he had noticed too – that the firehole door ground against coal dust a little as it slid along its runners. Seeing that, while I'd got the handbrake looking like the crown jewels, I'd neglected one of the first footplate tasks, I tried to make amends by reaching once again into the locker for the wire brush, but in doing so I clashed arms with Hunt. I was trying to help, but it looked as though I was attempting to come to blows. He turned and gave me such a look that I shrank down onto the sandbox, where Clive Castle immediately told me I could not sit.

  Hunt called over my head to Castle, 'We're ready for off, Clive.' He yanked the whistle, and as he did so a terrified blackbird crouched down in a black puddle next to one of the rails alongside us. Birds, as I supposed, could go anywhere they wanted, so why would they come to this hellish spot?

  We pulled away from the shed into a black, wet world. We picked up the funeral set, which looked more than ever like cripples from a bygone age, yet Hunt gave them the kid-glove treatment, buffering up with the lightest kiss of metal on metal. Without a word, Castle climbed down to couple on, and I was alone on the footplate with Hunt. I wondered what secrets those two shared besides the arts of running an engine, and in doing so I glanced across at him. He was staring at his hands, pressing them over and over into his folded cloth as if he was trying to get himself the hands of a pen pusher or a parson. I would not suffer in silence, though. I would uncover all, but by degrees.

  'You don't want me on this trip,' I said. 'I've been sent up by the Governor against your wishes.' No answer to that.

  Clive Castle came back up. I asked if there was anything I could do, and he said, 'Keep out of the fucking way.' We crossed out of the yard and started rolling across the viaducts up to Waterloo. The rows of houses were at right angles to the line, with leaning walls of smoke rising above them. Suddenly there was a great eruption at the fire door, and I spun about in terror, thinking a gauge glass had exploded in Clive Castle's face, but all that had happened was that he had vomited. No wonder he'd been so white. The stuff was swirling all over the cab floor, and Castle was sitting on the sandbox watching it as we backed into the Necropolis station with a funeral party waiting. Hunt didn't say anything
until he'd done Castle's job of putting on the handbrake, then he handed Castle a billy. As Castle wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve and took a drink, Hunt picked up the cab hose that used the water pipes of the injector and sprayed the stuff off the cab, looking like the most enormous skivvy I'd ever seen.

  Behind us, the funeral parties – three of them – were waiting to get into the carriages, all solemn and silent but with no tears anywhere. As to their clothes, there was not so much blackness as I expected, and most of the men had made do with black armbands and their ordinary suits. The caskets must have been loaded in double-quick time – they seemed pretty light. A woman -1 could not see which one – cried out, 'Oh, I can't believe we shall never see her again!'

  Hunt and Castle jumped down from the cab. I leant out and watched them walk along the platform towards the funeral lot, but before they got there they went through one of the doors on the platform, and that was the last I was to see of fireman Castle that day.

  Hunt came back a few minutes later alone, with hat off and head bowed as he walked past the mourners. It did not suit him to bow his head, and the effort of doing it helped put him in an even fouler mood than before when he came back to me.

  'Get back up there,' he said, for I had climbed down so as to get a better view along the platform.

  I went back into the cab as the doors slammed shut along the line of carriages, and Hunt leapt up after me with his coat flying out behind, making him look like a great bat. 'What's up?' I asked. He didn't answer, but threw open the firehole doors. 'It needs three more on the right side and six at the front' he said, 'and a dozen in each back corner.' 'Mr Castle's not been taken too badly, I hope?' I said.

  'Never you mind' said Hunt, and he picked the shovel out of the coal bunker and threw it at me.