Public Enemy Number Two

OFF THE RAILS

One day I’m going to write a book. It will be called Sticky Situations by N. Diamond. But don’t look for a chapter called “How to Untie Yourself from Rails in the Pouring Rain with an Intercity 125 Thundering Toward You at 90 mph.” You won’t find it. Because I tell you now, it can’t be done.

As soon as Tootsie, Spike, and Scarface had gone, I tried to move my feet, but I could barely wiggle my toes. I tried to slide my hands under the rope. I had about as much chance of flying. They had tied me down tight. The rope was biting into my flesh, cutting off the circulation. The rain didn’t help either. It was coming down so hard that it was blinding me, making it impossible to see what I was doing. But I suppose that it didn’t matter too much. I was doing precisely nothing. There was nothing I could do.

There was a sudden rumble in the air. I wriggled around just in time to see an enormous train come battering through the rain. At least it looked enormous from where I was lying. I tried to call out but the gag stopped me. Now I could see the driver, smoking, high up in the front of the train. My whole body stiffened, waiting for it to ride over me. I think I muttered a prayer.

The train was almost on top of me. Then there was a loud clattering sound and it jerked away to one side. Someone, somewhere had changed the switches.

The rain sliced down. Somewhere a light blinked from red to green. I heard a click as another switch was changed and a rail slid across to carry the next train to its correct destination. A solitary pigeon flew in a ragged arc above me. The clouds rolled over.

Suddenly I was trembling. That was strange because I thought I’d been trembling all along. But then I realized that it wasn’t just me. It was the rails beneath me. They were vibrating, softly at first but more violently with every second that passed. I couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t see anything. But I knew the train was approaching. And this time it was approaching on my track.

I think I went berserk right then. I struggled furiously, my body heaving, my arms and legs tearing at the ropes. But it was useless. All I managed to do was to bruise my ankles and tear my trousers. I forced myself to go limp. Things weren’t so bad, I told myself. I mean, there are worse things in life than being run over by a train. I tried to think of one of them. I couldn’t. I went berserk again.

I was still heaving and twisting when I heard the blast of the whistle in the distance. It scoured through the night like a red-hot poker. The train couldn’t have been more than a mile away. That gave me perhaps a couple of minutes of life. Here lies Nick Diamond, aged thirteen years, seven months, and a couple of minutes. Rest in pieces.

Then the man appeared.

I think it was a man. He had come out of nowhere. He was standing over me, his head about a mile away from his feet. He was wearing a parka with the hood drawn over his head and in the slanting rain I couldn’t make out his face.

“Ngg,” I said. “Mmn, ngg, nyun . . .” It wasn’t easy making polite conversation with the gag.

The man leaned down and suddenly I saw there was a knife in his hand. Before I could react he reached out and cut through the ropes holding my wrists. I sat up, tearing at the gag. The rails were shaking like crazy now. It felt like a long electric shock.

The man dropped the knife and walked away. He hadn’t said a word. I had no idea who he was—and yet somewhere in the back of my mind I thought I knew him. Thickset, wide shoulders. Perhaps a wisp of fair hair showing under the hood. That was all I saw. He had already gone.

“Come back!” I shouted.

He ignored me and I didn’t shout again. The last thing I wanted to do was to let Big Ed know I was free, and anyway there was no time for a chat. I could see the train now. The window at the front glowed like a Cyclops’ eye. I snatched up the knife and hacked at the ropes holding my ankles. My arms wouldn’t obey me. The knife slipped out and I winced as I managed to stab myself in the foot. The train was only yards away now. The bellow of the engine filled my ears. I cut one rope—then the other. The train crashed forward. But I was free. I threw myself off the rails. Another second and it would have been too late.

Ker-thud, ker-thud, ker-thud, ker-thud . . .

It might have been the wheels of the train. It might have been the sound of my own heart. But that was all I heard as I lay there, clutching the ground. The train went past, traveling between me and my mysterious rescuer. By the time it had gone, he had vanished.

I stood up and staggered to keep my balance. I’d torn my trousers, gashed my leg. I was soaking wet and bruised all over. But I had to admit, I’d have been in worse shape if I hadn’t been cut free. Who had it been? And how had he found me?

I didn’t intend to stand around in the middle of Clapham Junction working out the answers. That could come later. Right now I had to get away—but even as I moved I realized that my problems were far from over. If I went back to Wapping, I’d have to explain my absence to Johnny and his mother. Worse still, Tim had been alone with them for the best part of twelve hours. Twelve hours with him and they’d be sure to smell a rat—a dirty rat, it went without saying.

Somehow I had to win back their trust. And the best way to do that was sitting only a hundred yards away in a disused railway siding. I had a score to settle with Big Ed anyway. I was cold, bruised, soaked, and exhausted. And I was angry. There was nothing Johnny wouldn’t do for me if I took Big Ed out of the picture.

I even had an idea how to go about it. I went back to the siding. The oil drums. I’d noticed them when they’d taken me out to the rails . . . ten barrels with two words stenciled in red on each of them. HIGHLY FLAMMABLE. Just then the same two words applied to my temper. These weren’t nice people. It was high time something horrible happened to them.

There were no lights on behind the windows as I approached Big Ed’s carriage. I was afraid he might have posted guards, but there was nobody around. The rain was beginning to slacken off. Fortunately the moon was still hidden behind thick cloud. Careful not to make a sound, I limped away from the carriage and over to the oil drums. I tapped one with a finger. It was full. Each drum was secured with a metal cap set in the top near the rim. I tried turning one. At first it resisted and I thought it had rusted firm. But by using the knife, cutting into the groove, I was able to free it. I opened four of the cans. The rich, chemical smell filled my nostrils.

I rolled the first of the drums across the yard until it came to rest against the wheels of the front carriage—the one with the chandeliers and cocktail cabinet. The oil or whatever it was slopped out, forming a sticky pool on the ground. I was careful not to get any of it on me, but by the time I’d finished I still smelled like a garage on a busy day. I rolled three of the cans across, one for each carriage. Apart from the crunch of gravel and the gurgle of escaping oil, I made no sound. Five minutes later, a miniature lake had formed around Ed’s hideout. And still the oil spluttered out of the open drums.

Wiping my hands on my trousers—it made them dirtier rather than cleaner—I went back to the fourth can. This one I rolled in the opposite direction, away from the carriages and back onto the rails. Hoisting it up onto the rails themselves was the difficult part. It weighed a ton. But after that it was easy. The rims fitted neatly onto the rails and with no friction it rolled effortlessly. There was a slight gradient down to Clapham Junction Station and I had no trouble with the switches. Using only one hand I was able to roll it all the way, leaving a trail of glimmering oil behind me.

By now you should have gotten the picture: a pool of highly flammable liquid underneath Big Ed’s hideout; a long trail of the same stuff leading down to the station. Light the blue wick and retire quickly, as it says on your average fire-work. I had fireworks in mind—and Big Ed was about to put in for permanent retirement.

Clapham Junction Station had shut down for the night by the time I got there. Now what I needed was a match. It took me a while but in the end I was lucky. Someone had left a pack in the waiting room with one match inside.

I found a phone booth and dialed 0. The operator came on and asked me which service I wanted. I told her police. There was a click, a pause, then a voice. “This is the police. What number are you calling from?”

“Listen,” I said. “Are you interested in finding Big Ed?”

My words were met by a long silence. I could imagine the confusion at the other end. There was another click. Perhaps they were trying to trace the call. That didn’t bother me. I’d be gone long before they arrived.

“Hello, caller?” another voice asked. Or maybe it was the same voice. I didn’t care.

“I know where you can find Big Ed,” I said. “If you want him.”

“Who is this speaking?”

“Never mind that.” I shivered. It had gotten colder. “Do you want him or don’t you?”

“We want him.” This was the second voice. They must have transferred the call even as I was speaking. “Where is he?”

“He has two railway carriages in a siding just outside Clapham Junction Station,” I said. “Next to the stockyard.”

“There are lots of stockyards around there,” the voice said. “How do we know which one is his?”

I didn’t answer. Propping the telephone under my chin, I struck the match. It glared up in the confined space of the phone booth. With the fumes of the oil all around me, I was surprised we didn’t blow up then and there. I threw the match onto the platform. The oil caught fire.

I watched the flames scurry across the platform, over the edge, and onto the rails. Like some sort of mythical animal, with feathers of fire, it sped into the night, heading for Big Ed’s carriage.

“How do we find him, caller?” the voice insisted.

“It won’t be difficult,” I said. And hung up.