Overnight Express

by Philip McCutchan

  Long-gone days, much mourned in their passing by Mr Irons. Often he thought it was time to go himself; the North Riding — as he still thought of it and no-one would ever shake him out of that — had changed so much. The traffic for one thing and the appalling manners of the drivers. Why, his own road through Wensleydale, once a quiet track where a boy could amble for miles without seeing anything more lethal than the wandering sheep, was now virtually a race track, littered in the early mornings by the corpses of slaughtered animals, anything from badgers downwards. Bloody murderers they were, the modern lunatic drivers.

  Murderers. That brought Mr Irons back to the present with a renewed sense of shock and he reached out a hand to take one of his wife’s. “Day-dreaming,” he said gently.

  “About Fred?”

  “No, not exactly. Just the old times, lass, that’s all. Remember the bandstand at Hawes, behind the Green Dragon, all them brass band contests.”

  “You went to them. I never did. Had too much to do in the house for that.”

  “Aye, that’s reet an’ all, lass, you never did.”

  They sat and dreamed, and wondered if they would ever see any of it again. It was just a case of waiting now, and keeping their heads down, hoping not to be picked on by the gunmen. They were both too old for that lark.

  7

  Elsewhere in the train the Members of Parliament, the Perth stragglers, sat. Precautionwise, their briefcases that had largely been nursed on knees or laps — two of the MPs were women — had for some while now been discreetly shoved out of sight. Altogether there were eleven of them, more than enough to totter Mrs Heffer from the throne if they should die. As in the case of Sir Richard Cross this aspect was much on their minds, and they assumed it could also be on Mrs Heffer’s. In that lay hope. She would, of course, wish to bring this dreadful affair to a speedy and satisfactory conclusion for the sake of all concerned but now she would have that extra spur. And not to put too fine a point upon it, she would be hopping mad. However, she would cope; they all knew that, because they were all strong Tories, nothing wet about any of them. The Leader was magnificent, a latter-day Boadicea, carrying all before her chariot.

  The strongest of them all, and as it happened the one with the biggest Tory majority in the whole House, was Ernest Lorimer the Member for Lancing West. He was a stalwart and looked it: firm, square jaw, square face exuding determination and authority, piercing eyes, gruff manner, loud Tory laugh. He was well known for his constituency work, largely on behalf of the old people who formed the vast majority of his supporters, the residents, along with Worthing, Brighton, Eastbourne and Bexhill, of the Costa Geriatrica, the land of zimmer frames and the wretched shopping trolleys that, dragged behind ancient, knotted legs, tripped up the unwary or barked their shins in Sainsbury’s. Ernest Lorimer, relentlessly campaigning from one election to another because of the inroads being made by the many opposing parties, had frequently been tripped or barked but had never shown annoyance: he had employed his laugh, turning it into a joke but always managing to insinuate that if the Alliance ever gained power the shopping trolleys would be a good deal lighter because of the resulting upsurge in prices. That and, under Labour — God forbid! — shortages, because Labour always produced shortages. The pensioners nodded wisely at that; they had long memories and remembered the dreadful shortages after the war, when Labour was in. The younger people simply didn’t register.

  Ernest Lorimer was a bachelor, which endeared him to the lady workers in the constituency, most of whom were widows. He was very good-looking and about the right age: sixty plus. A catch indeed if he could be caught. This induced some unpleasant rivalry at Heffer House, as the local Tory HQ had been renamed; but they all worked heartily nonetheless and Ernest Lorimer was grateful. When the word spread through Heffer House that the member was actually on that train, there was consternation and sorrow. The local vicar agreed to organise an urgent service of prayer and this was well attended.

  Lorimer himself had no family to worry about as he sat in the train. He was the last of his line, two brothers and a sister having died without progeny, the brothers killed in the war and the sister being a spinster to the end. So his worries were for himself alone, plus the Party: that number eleven rankled. It would be terrible if Mrs Heffer were to be brought down by such strange means. That worried Ernest Lorimer a very great deal even though, if it came about, he would very likely be dead himself. He would much prefer to leave a Tory Britain behind him.

  He was seated next to one of the lady Members, Sheena Tuffin, who he knew fancied him. Lorimer assessed people, however, not by who fancied him or didn’t, but by the size of their majorities. Miss Tuffin’s was minuscule and there was no doubt as to who would succeed her if she died. As tactfully as possible, he broached the subject.

  “Our Leader’s much at risk, I fear.”

  “You mean —?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know.” Miss Tuffin shifted in her seat, a leg touching Ernest Lorimer’s. “I’m awf’lly worried about it as a matter of fact. Awf’lly worried. So underhand a way of bringing it about.” She paused. “D’you think that could be behind all this, Ernest?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, no, no, that’s purely fortuitous I consider.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. People are such rats.” Miss Tuffin’s jaw came out forcefully and she flexed hockey muscles as though making ready for action. “It’s up to us, Ernest. We must fight back the moment we see our chance.”

  “Yes,” he said comfortingly, and left it at that.

  *

  There was a nurse in the coach that contained the badge boy with the gunshot wound to his arm, a rather way-out nurse, an auxiliary not an RGN, with spiked orange-and-green hair on account of which she was not currently employed. She was not part of the tearaway group but didn’t mind them. She attended the arm, stripping away the badge-covered leather jacket, under which the arm was bare except for tattoos, and cleaning it up as best she could with a handkerchief and spittle.

  “What about bloody AIDS?” the victim demanded.

  She said, “I haven’t got it if you have.”

  “I ain’t.”

  “Show a little gratitude, can’t you?”

  The response was a grunt and then a hoot of pain followed by a stream of bad language. The graze — it was little more in spite of an initial flow of blood which had now dried — was very sore. Since there was nothing available for use as a bandage other than possibly an assortment of underwear that was better not investigated, the lack of blood-flow was just as well.

  *

  Sir Richard Cross was, much to his surprise, returned to his seat. Bruised mentally, he was physically unharmed. Shard asked a few discreet questions but Cross was unable to help much: they had merely believed he was ‘intimate’ with the Prime Minister and for their part they had given nothing away and had seemed to give up when he refused to talk but he saw this as no more than a temporary respite. Hester his wife was relieved to see him back but began an interrogation of her own and never mind Shard.

  “What did they want, Dickie?”

  He said it all again.

  “How should you know the inner thoughts of the PM, Dickie? It’s ridiculous! Just because you’re Treasury.”

  “Well, quite. But the others — the Members travelling —”

  “You didn’t give them away, did you?”

  “No, of course not! But, you know, as time goes on, they may — er — apply pressure.”

  “Threats, torture?”

  He nodded. “I believe it’s possible. They’re very desperate men, Hester.”

  “Oh, dear. But if it happens — and I’m sure it won’t — you’ll have to stick it out. Top people, you know.” Lady Cross heaved her bosom up. “Can’t let the side down. Anyway, they’ll hesitate, I’m sure they will, to behave improperly towards anyone from the Treasury.” She seemed to realise the inherent nonsense of her own words and amended them. “To anyone so high in th
e Establishment. It could rebound on them. Our Leader would see to that, without a doubt, Dickie.”

  “She’s not here, Hester. And I have a low pain threshold. I’m a — a backroom boy, not a hero. Suppose they push me too far? Suppose I weakened?”

  “Over my dead body,” Lady Cross said.

  “What about mine?”

  *

  In Ealing there was worry also: Shard’s wife Beth kept handy for the telephone, awaiting news from either the Foreign Office or the Yard. Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine, who had been Shard’s boss when he’d been with the Met, had come on the line early but had nothing to tell her beyond the bare facts of the hijack. Since then she had sat dry-eyed but with her heart beating painfully. She had been unable to eat any breakfast but had made herself some strong coffee, which steadied her a little. She wouldn’t ring her mother, hoping she would keep out of this: her mother wouldn’t know Simon was aboard the train …

  But mothers have instincts on occasions and Mrs Micklem had more than most. The telephone rang, a sound of urgency in the circumstances. Beth was breathless when she answered.

  “Oh … it’s you, mother.”

  There was a pause. “You sound — disappointed, dear. Is there anything the matter?”

  “No …”

  “That awful business up north. The train. I heard it on the news. That’s why I’m ringing. I hope it’s not going to involve Simon, dear.” Honey wasn’t in it, but Beth knew the basic falsity. “These wretched foreigners! Simon always seems to get involved now he’s with the Foreign Office — I suppose that’s natural. Is he?”

  “Is he what?”

  An irritated breath. “Involved, dear. Is he?”

  There was nothing for it. Beth couldn’t hold back the tears and instinct acted fast. “You mean he’s actually on that train? I’m coming straight round the moment I find my hat —”

  “No, mother, please, I —”

  “Don’t you say no to me, Beth dear, I’m your mother and I know my duty to my little girl.” The call was cut; Beth gave way to a flood of tears. For many years now a policeman’s wife she had never got used to the strains and stresses of Simon’s job, the sudden departures, often for lengthy and unspecified periods, the watching of the TV news when there had been riots or demos or football hooliganism in his days with the Met, the listening for the telephone’s ring, always traumatic when he was absent. And now there was another aspect: after years of not having a baby, a miracle seemed at last to have happened. She wasn’t sure, hadn’t yet been to see the doctor and thus had said nothing to anyone, not even Simon. Certainly not to her mother, who would be an immediately possessive grandmother-to-be. Beth was just on thirty years of age: she would be what she understood the medics called an ‘elderly presenter’. Ridiculous of course; but the very words held apprehension. There might be dangers in delivery, she supposed. And now Simon’s life was at risk.

  She took a grip, dried her eyes, put on some make-up and then busied herself about the house. When her mother arrived, out of breath from hurrying from the bus stop, she was in control.

  “My poor child,” Mrs Micklem said, and pressed her to her bosom, stiflingly. Mrs Micklem looked around the hall with a proprietorial air, as if ready to move in as soon as Simon was reported dead. She pressed harder.

  “Don’t, please, mother.” Beth extricated herself with determination.

  “Well, I must say!” Mrs Micklem said indignantly.

  *

  “… These appalling people must and will be brought to book. You have my promise, the whole of Great Britain has my promise, that these monsters will never be allowed to get away with their abominable villainy. They shall learn that the British lion will not permit his tail to be tweaked. Colonel —” Thunderous applause drowned out the Prime Minister’s next words and by her side on the platform the Foreign Secretary dabbed the sweat of relief from his forehead. Certain persons who might or might not be involved were better not mentioned too specifically, the world being what it was. Mrs Heffer continued when the din had died away, her breasts heaving with the emotion of the moment, tear-ducts swelling with the approval she was being given by the loyal Scots. “And now I’m quite sure you’ll all understand when I say that I simply must cut short my visit to Scotland, to Perth in particular, where the Tory heart beats strong.” More applause. “Duty takes me away from you. It is vital that I return to London —”

  “Always bloody London!” a voice shouted, and there was a dead silence for a moment. A heckler, a Scottish Nationalist.

  “How did he get in?” snapped Mrs Heffer, reddening. “Get him out, please.”

  Amid semi-pandemonium, the heckler was pounced upon by the stewards and ejected. The conference rallied to their Leader; there were cheers and claps and then, as Mrs Heffer began to gather up her bits and pieces, the Foreign Secretary included, song burst out, loud, spontaneous and very heart-warming.

  “Will ye no come back again,

  Will ye no come back again,

  Better lo’ed ye canna be,

  Will ye no come back again …”

  In the car that took her to the aircraft that was to hurtle her to London and duty, Mrs Heffer said, “What splendid people the Scots are, Roly.” She kicked off her shoes abstractedly. “All except for a handful. That wretched SNP!”

  Rowland Mayes gave a discreet cough. “A lesser problem, Prime Minister, than Labour —”

  “Please don’t mention Labour, Roly, I’m very tired.”

  “Yes, of course, I’m sorry.”

  “That wonderful song. It was almost as if …” Mrs Heffer didn’t go on with what she had been about to say but Rowland Mayes hazarded a guess that she’d wanted to say the Scots Tories had sung it out of compliment for her name, Charlotte, being so close to their Jacobite hero — Bonny Princess Charlotte … it was quite a thought. Then Mrs Heffer regained her vigour as she had a way of doing. Tired one moment, raring to go the next, there was no holding her, wonderful woman. “A plan of campaign, Roly. I’m all for attack, of course, but I do realise that can’t be done. I have to think of those poor people on the train. We must try to rally world opinion, Roly.”

  “That would take time.”

  “Oh, rubbish. We’ll start now, or rather, Roly, you will. Contact the embassies, the United Nations, and above all, of course, the United States. Tell them —”

  “There are certain considerations, Prime Minister. Trade, treaties —”

  “Rubbish.”

  “It’s an axiom these days that we must avoid upsetting Syria —”

  “I don’t give a fig for Syria, Roly.”

  “And Saudi Arabia, and —”

  “Oh, go through your wretched Arab rigmarole if you must, Roly, but I shall not be deterred.”

  “The Soviet Union —”

  “It’s your job, Foreign Secretary, to keep the Soviet Union happy.”

  Rowland Mayes bit his lip. When she called him by his official title it meant she’d had enough of him and he was to shut up. In a traffic block during which she manifested impatience with the Scottish police Mrs Heffer started up again. “Such a bother, the Queen being out of the country just at this particular moment. I wanted to brief her on what she should say if anyone asked her questions about who she thought was responsible for the hijack.”

  “Her Majesty customarily says nothing controversial, Prime Minister, as —”

  “Yes, but there are ways and ways of saying nothing, Roly.” The Foreign Secretary heaved another sigh of relief: he was back in favour. The Leader was a volatile personality.

  8

  The time was 4 p.m.: the Prime Minister was now airborne for the capital. In Durham, until more shooting came, nothing had been happening, no contacts from the train or the still unfound hijack HQ, even now no deadline announced. Hedge said it was uncanny, and jumped a mile when the burst of gunfire came and bullets zipped past him.

  As he scuttled for safety behind the supports of the footbridge over t
he road, he saw a policeman lying huddled. There was a good deal of blood. Other policemen ran towards the injured man, so did a couple of ambulancemen. There was no more firing but there was another body, evidently, Hedge thought, the prime cause of the gunfire: something lying in the net rigged by the sailors. Someone had attempted an escape; an open door could now be seen. Close to Hedge, the rear-admiral lifted binoculars and as the train door was slammed shut reported.

  “A woman, I’m sorry to say. A girl. Funny-coloured hair, a hippie, I suppose.”

  “Is she dead, d’you think?”

  “She looks it. No movement.”

  For a moment or two no-one else moved in the vicinity of the viaduct, then the chief constable himself went forward, slowly, calling out to the train via a loud-hailer.

  “Up there! We propose to rescue that young woman. I take it you’ll show some decency, and not fire.”

  The answer came from an automatic rifle, just missing the chief constable. He did the sensible thing, and moved back. He, like the rear-admiral, believed the girl to be dead in any case. He would not risk his men. The body hung there in the net, bleeding profusely, the hair-colours overlaid, the spikes drooping, limp stalactites to act as channels for the blood.

  *

  “A particularly vicious hijack, Foreign Secretary.” Hedge had been called to police HQ to take a call from the Cabinet Office in Downing Street. “Very vicious shooting.” He gave a full account. The soft tones of Rowland Mayes came along the line, urging cool.

  “Of course, Foreign Secretary —”

  “We’ve just had a contact. By telephone.”