The Hawk Is Dead

8

Monday 20 November 2023

Inside the royal sitting-room carriage, which was heeled over at an angle, with the lights flickering, the startled and slightly dazed Queen, flung from her desk, lay on the floor. There were wisps of smoke in the carriage, a loud crackling sound of shorting electrics and someone close by was shouting.

Shaken but unhurt, Queen Camilla’s endless training in emergency situations kicked in. She looked around, anxious to see if anyone was injured. For an instant, the lights went out, plunging them into darkness. Then they came back on and she could see what appeared to be the contents of a handbag strewn all over the floor along with a broken teacup and a spreading pool of milk. Lady Elena Trevelyan, a statuesque figure normally unruffled by anything, was also on the floor, looking shocked and missing a shoe. Peregrine Greaves, looking dazed but struggling back onto his feet, had an ugly gash down the right side of his forehead. Tiny, in a rear-facing seat, was one of the few in the carriage who appeared OK.

‘I think we should get off the train,’ The Queen said, her voice shaky. ‘In case it catches fire. Everyone OK to do that? Anyone need help? Where’s Jayne?’

‘I’m here,’ Jayne said firmly from just behind her. ‘Your Majesty, we’re fine, I think we’re all fine!’

The Queen, helped to her feet by her Protection Officer, Jon Gilhall, who seemed unscathed, stood shakily several seconds before Greaves, no longer gliding now but striding like a clockwork toy, reached her.

‘You — Your — Your Majesty,’ he said, looking totally bewildered. ‘I — are you — you?’

He seemed to forget what he wanted to say.

‘Sir,’ Gilhall said, looking around warily, one hand inside his jacket, where he kept his gun, ‘sit down, I’ll get someone to bring the royal doctor.’ His eyes darted to both of The Queen’s Companions. Tiny, on her knees, was helping Lady Trevelyan gather up the contents of her handbag.

Pulling out his phone and stabbing the keypad, Gilhall hurried to the drawer containing the first aid kit. Then he cursed. ‘No signal.’

The Queen reached for her handbag, pulled a handkerchief out and dabbed the Private Secretary’s badly cut face. ‘It’s a nasty gash, Perry,’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’

He gave an uncertain nod. ‘I... I don’t... don’t know — what’s happened?’

‘There’s been an accident, sit down, help will be coming.’

‘I’m OK, Your Majesty, Ma’am. I’m fine.’ He sounded anything but.

She looked at her two Queen’s Companions. ‘I can smell burning. We need to evacuate and check on the other carriages, see if anyone is hurt and get them out. Understand?’

The Queen’s Companions nodded, Elena shaking badly and looking in shock.

‘I’ll call for help.’ The Queen pulled her phone out of her bag with a trembling hand. Then she saw, too, there was no signal.

‘Sorry, Ma’am, I can’t get a signal either,’ Gilhall said.

Suddenly the carriage door opened, and the bespectacled face of a man in his sixties appeared. He had blood running from a cut on the top of his head and one of his glass lenses was cracked. He was holding a small torch in his hand. ‘I’m the train driver, Your Majesty,’ he gasped, ‘we must get out, everyone must get out NOW!’

An instant later, the tall, wiry frame of another of The Queen’s Protection Officers, PC Dambe, appeared in the carriage, holding a large torch. ‘Your Majesty!’ he said, the relief on his face palpable as he saw she was on her feet. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Thank you, Julian, I’m fine. How is everyone else?’

‘I’ll check, Ma’am.’

‘Your Majesty,’ the bespectacled man blurted out, louder and even more urgently. ‘I’m the driver. We’ve been derailed by something on the line. Part of this train is now across the northbound line and there’s an express from Brighton due in fifteen minutes. I’ve got no phone or radio signal in here. You’ve got to get away from the train. God knows what will happen if we can’t stop that train.’

‘Fifteen minutes?’ Dambe said. ‘Are you sure we have fifteen minutes?’

‘Could be less,’ the driver said. ‘Unless the Three Bridges signaller has already stopped it. But I don’t want to take the risk.’

‘I’m a runner. Which is the fastest way out of the tunnel?’ Dambe asked.

Stan jerked a thumb. ‘South, keep going.’

‘What do I do to stop that express?’

‘Dial the nines and ask for British Transport Police,’ Briggs blurted. ‘You might get a signal as you get near the entrance. They’ve got to speak to the signalling centre at Three Bridges, make sure they know exactly what’s happened.’ He offered the RaSP officer his torch. ‘You’re going to need this.’

Dambe shook it away, pulling a small one from his inside pocket and switching on its powerful beam. ‘I’m good.’

The two Royal Protection Officers conferred briefly. Then, as Dambe jumped down, the driver said, ‘Be really careful, it’s dark, don’t trip, and just walk on the ballast — don’t walk on any wood, it will be slippery, and don’t walk on anything metal or go to the centre of the track — the electric rails on both sides are live.’

As if to emphasize this, there was a sudden flurry of loud crackles, and more white sparks visible through the carriage window.

As the RaSP officer squeezed past members of the royal entourage who were climbing down from the carriages and ran off into the darkness, the driver turned to The Queen. ‘Your Majesty, you must get away from the train, we need to get everyone away, but you are the priority.’

‘I want to know everyone’s safe first,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Stan — Stanley — Briggs, Your Majesty.’

‘All right, Stanley, I understand what you’re saying, but I’m not leaving until I know all of my team are off the train and heading to safety with me. My life isn’t any more important than anyone else’s.’

‘Beg pardon, Ma’am, but you are the priority.’

Jon Gilhall returned with an open first aid box and went up to the Private Secretary. But Greaves, who seemed to be recovering fast, despite the blood running down his face, brushed him away. ‘I’m fine. Go and check on everyone, we’ve got to get everybody out of this damned tunnel. But our priority is The Queen’s safety. Take care of her and I’ll sort everyone else out.’

The train driver climbed back down onto the ground, into the narrow space between the carriage and the tunnel, aiming the torch so that Jon Gilhall could see. The officer jumped down onto the uneven ground, then held up a hand to The Queen, as Stanley Briggs illuminated the two steps with his torch. There was minimal natural light emanating from the tunnel’s southern opening.

Moments later The Queen, surprising Stanley with her agility, was standing beside him on the large chunks of loose gravel between the train and the tunnel wall.

Briggs was blinking hard, a cold shiver worming through him. If this wasn’t the worst nightmare? The Queen of England, with a rip in her dress, her hair dishevelled, standing beside him in a dark, dank tunnel, with electrics fizzing and crackling, a hazardous walk to safety, and an oncoming express train.

‘Follow me, Your Majesty, please,’ he said. Then he looked at his watch. The express was now due in eleven minutes. If that officer didn’t make it in time, if no one was able to stop that express from the Three Bridges signal box, the consequences were unthinkable.

The Protection Officer, with the aid of his torch and a colleague, helped the two Queen’s Companions and her Private Secretary, Jayne, down. Then Queen Camilla asked, ‘Jon, can you check everyone is safely off the train or if anyone is badly injured?’ She could see a growing number of figures standing by the train a little further along.

‘Your Majesty,’ the driver implored, ‘please follow me.’

‘We should go, Ma’am,’ Peregrine Greaves said, ‘you’re in danger being here.’

‘As I have said, I’m not leaving until I know everyone is safe.’ She made her point emphatically. ‘I want a head count.’

She could hear voices along the tunnel, as more people clambered down from the train.

‘Understood, Your Majesty,’ Briggs said. ‘But — we are in real danger — I cannot emphasize that enough. Not just from other trains, but also from fire and explosion.’

‘Fine, you go,’ she said. ‘Go!’

He stared at her for a moment as if not understanding. ‘I’m not going without you, Ma’am.’

Briggs looked at his watch again. Ten minutes.

Moments later, a bright beam of light fleetingly blinded them, and a distraught Royal Train Manager appeared, holding two torches. ‘Your Majesty, oh my God, thank God, you are safe. Are you hurt, Ma’am?’ Quentin Haig asked.

‘I’m fine, Quentin, everyone in my carriage is fine. Is anyone badly injured?’

He shook his head. ‘No, everyone is OK and off the train. We’ve got to get away from here — there’s a northbound express due.’

‘We know,’ Greaves said tersely.

Haig handed The Queen a torch. ‘We’re going to have to walk, I’m afraid, Ma’am.’

‘Really, Quentin? You mean they can’t fly the helicopter in here to get us?’

‘No, Ma’am,’ he said, totally missing her humour. ‘It’s too low.’