The Edge (36 page)

I stared at him. ‘That’s impossible.’

‘They’ll be there, they’ll see the flares. Go now. Hurry. But that’s what you do if you have to. Throw one through the window.’ He suddenly grabbed a fourth flare from the cupboard. ‘You’d better take another one, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’ What else could there be?

‘In case of bears,’ he said.

With a feeling of complete unreality I set off past the end of the train and along the single railway track in the direction of Toronto.

With one arm I clasped the four flares to my chest, in the other hand I carried George’s bright-beamed torch, to show me the way.

Half a mile. How long was half a mile?

Hurry, George’s assistant had said. Of all unnecessary instructions …

I half walked, half ran along the centre of the track, trying to step on the flat wood of the ties, the sleepers, because the stones in between were rough and speed-inhibiting.

Bears … my God.

It was cold. It had stopped snowing, but some snow was lying … not enough to give me problems. I hadn’t thought to put on a coat. It didn’t matter, movement would keep me warm. Urgency and fierce anxiety would keep me warm.

I began to feel it wasn’t totally impossible. After all, it must have been done often in the old days. Standard procedure still, one might say. The flares had been there, ready. All the same, it was fairly eerie running through the night with snow-dusted rocky tree-dotted hillsides climbing away on each side and the two rails shining silver into the distance in front.

I didn’t see the danger in time, and it didn’t growl; it wasn’t a bear, it had two legs and it was human. He must have been hiding behind rocks or trees in the shadow thrown by my torch. I saw his movement in the very edge of my peripheral vision after I’d passed him. I sensed an upswept arm, a weapon, a blow coming.

There was barely a hundredth of a second for instinctive evasion. All I did as I ran was to lean forward a fraction so that the smash came across my shoulders, not on my head.

It felt as if I had cracked apart, but I hadn’t. Feet, hands, muscles were all working. I staggered forward, dropped the flares and the torch,
went down on one knee, knew another bang was travelling. Thought before action … I didn’t have time. I turned towards him, not away. Turned inside and under the swinging arm, rising, butting upwards with my head to find the aggressive chin, jerking my knee fiercely to contact between the braced legs, punching with clenched fist and the force of fury into the Adam’s apple in his throat. One of the many useful things I’d learned on my travels was how to fight dirty, and never had I needed the knowledge more.

He grunted and wheezed with triple unexpected pain and dropped to his knees on the ground, and I wrenched the long piece of wood from his slackening hand and hit his own head with it, hoping I was doing it hard enough to knock him out, not hard enough to kill him. He fell quietly face down in the snow between the rails, and I rolled him over with my foot, and in the deflected beam of the torch which lay unbroken a few paces away, saw the gaunt features of the man called Johnson.

He had got, I reckoned, a lot more than he was used to, and I felt intense satisfaction which was no doubt reprehensible but couldn’t be helped.

I bent down, lifted one of his wrists and hauled him unceremoniously over the rail and into the shadows away from the track. He was heavy. Also the damage he’d done me, when it came to lugging unconscious persons about, was all too obvious. He might not have broken my back, which was what it had sounded like, but there were some badly squashed muscle fibres somewhere that weren’t in first class working order and were sending stabbing messages of protest besides.

I picked up the torch and looked for the flares, filled with an increased feeling of urgency, of time running out. I found three of the flares, couldn’t see the fourth, decided not to waste time, thought the bears would have to lump it.

Must be lightheaded, I thought. Got to get moving. I hadn’t come anything like half a mile away from the train. I swung the beam back the way I’d come, but the train was out of sight round a corner that I hadn’t noticed taking. For a desperate moment I couldn’t remember which direction I’d come from: too utterly stupid if I ran the wrong way.

Think, for God’s sake.

I swung the torch both ways along the track. Trees, rocks, silver parallel rails, all exactly similar.

Which way?
Think.

I walked one way and it felt wrong. I turned and went back. That was right. It felt right. It was the wind on my face, I thought. I’d been running before into the wind.

The rails, the ties seemed to stretch to infinity. I was going uphill also, I thought. Another bend to the right lay ahead.

How long did half a mile take? I stole a glance at my watch, rolling my wrist round which hurt somewhere high up, but with remote pain, not daunting. Couldn’t believe the figures. Ten minutes only … or twelve … since I’d set off.

A mile in ten minutes was ordinarily easy … but not a mile of sleepers and stones.

Johnson had been waiting for me, I thought. Not for me personally, but for whomever would come running from the train with the flares.

Which meant he knew the radio wouldn’t work.

I began actively to worry about George being missing.

Perhaps Johnson had fixed the hot box, to begin with.

Johnson had meant the trains to crash with himself safely away to the rear. Johnson was darned well not going to succeed.

With renewed purpose, with perhaps at last a feeling that all this was really happening and that I could indeed stop the Canadian, I pressed on along the track.

George’s voice floated into my head, telling me about the row between Johnson and Filmer. Filmer told Johnson not to do something, Johnson said, ‘I’ll do what I frigging like.’ Filmer could have told him not to try any more sabotage tricks on the train, realising that trouble was anyway mounting up for him, trouble from which he might not be able to extricate himself if anything disastrous happened.

Johnson, once started, couldn’t be stopped. ‘Easier to start a train running downhill than to stop it, eh?’ Johnson with a chip on his shoulder from way back; the ex-railwayman, the violent frightener.

I had to have gone well over half a mile, I thought. Half a mile hadn’t sounded far enough: the train itself was a quarter mile long. I stopped and looked at my watch. The Canadian would come in a very few minutes. There was another curve just ahead. I mustn’t leave it too late.

I ran faster, round the curve. There was another curve in a further hundred yards, but it would have to do. I put the torch down beside the track, rubbed the end of one of the flares sharply against one of the rails, and begged it, implored it, to ignite.

It lit with a huge red rush for which I was not prepared. Nearly
dropped it. Rammed the spike into the wood of one of the ties.

The flare burned in a brilliant fiery scarlet that would have been visible for a mile, if only the track had been straight.

I picked up the torch and ran on round the next bend, the red fire behind me washing all the snow with pink. Round that bend there was a much longer straight: I ran a good way, then stopped again and lit a second flare, jamming its point into the wood as before.

The Canadian had to be almost there. I’d lost count of the time. The Canadian would come with its bright headlights and see the flare and stop with plenty of margin in hand.

I saw pin-point lights in the distance. I hadn’t known we were anywhere near habitation. Then I realised the lights were moving, coming. The Canadian seemed to be advancing slowly at first … and then faster … and faster … and
it wasn’t stopping ….
There was no screech of brakes urgently applied.

With a feeling of dreadful foreboding, I struck the third flare forcefully against the rail, almost broke it, felt it whoosh, stood waving it beside the track, beside the other flare stuck in the wood.

The Canadian came straight on. I couldn’t bear it, couldn’t
believe
it …. It was almost impossible to throw the flare through the window … the window was too small, too high up, and moving at thirty-five miles an hour. I felt puny on the ground beside the huge roaring advance of the yellow bulk of the inexorable engine with its blinding lights and absence of brain.

It was there. Then or never. There were no faces looking out from the cab. I yelled in a frenzy, ‘Stop’, and the sound blew away futilely on the bow wave of parting air.

I threw the flare. Threw it high, threw it too soon, missed the empty black window.

The flare flew forward of it and hit the outside of the windscreen, and fell onto the part of the engine sticking out in front; and then all sight of it was gone, the whole long heavy silver train rolling past me at a constant speed, making the ground tremble, extinguishing beneath it the second flare I’d planted in its path. It went on its mindless way, swept round the curve, and was gone.

I felt disintegrated and sick, failure flooding back in the pain I’d disregarded. The trains would fold into each other, would concertina, would heap into killing chaos …. In despair, I picked up the torch and began to jog the way the Canadian had gone. I would have to face what I hadn’t been able to prevent … have to help even though I felt wretchedly guilty … couldn’t bear the thought of the Canadian
ploughing into the Lorrimores’ car … someone would have warned the Lorrimores … oh God, oh God … someone
must
have warned the Lorrimores …. and everyone else. They would all be out of the train, away from the track … Nell … Zak … everybody.

I ran round the curve. Ahead, lying beside the track, still burning, was the flare I’d thrown. Fallen off the engine. The first flare that I’d planted a hundred yards ahead before the next curve had vanished altogether, swept away by the Canadian.

There was nothing. No noise, except the sighing wind. I wondered helplessly when I would hear the crash. I had no idea how far away the race train was; how far I’d run.

Growing cold and with leaden feet, I plodded past the fallen flare and along and round the next bend, and round the long curve following. I hadn’t heard the screech of metal tearing into metal, though it reverberated in my head. They must have warned the Lorrimores, they must …. I shivered among the freezing mountains from far more than frost.

There were two red lights on the rails far ahead. Not bright and burning like the flares, but small and insignificant, like reflectors. I wondered numbly what they were, and it wasn’t until I’d gone about five more paces that I realised that they weren’t reflectors, they were
lights ….
stationary lights … and I began running faster again, hardly daring to hope, but then seeing that they were indeed the rear lights of a train … a train … it could be only one train … there had been no night-tearing crash …. The Canadian had stopped. I felt swamped with relief, near to tears, breathless. It had stopped … there was no collision … no tragedy … it had
stopped.

I ran towards the lights, seeing the bulk of the train now in the torch’s beam, unreasonably afraid that the engineers would set off again and accelerate away. I ran until I was panting, until I could touch the train. I ran alongside it, sprinting now, urgent to tell them not to go on.

There were several people on the ground up by the engine. They could see someone running towards them with a torch, and when I was fairly near to them, one of them shouted out authoritatively, ‘Get back on the train, there’s no need for people to be out here.’

I slowed to a walk, very out of breath. ‘I … er …’ I called, ‘I came from the train in front.’ I gestured along the rails ahead, which were vacant as far as one could see in the headlights of the Canadian.

‘What train?’ one of them said, as I finally reached them.

‘The race train.’ I tried to breathe. Air came in gasps. ‘Transcontinental … mystery … race train.’

There was a silence. One of them said. It’s supposed to be thirty-five minutes ahead of us.’

It had …’ I said, dragging in oxygen, ‘a hot box.’

It meant a great deal to them. It explained everything.

‘Oh.’ They took note of my uniform. ‘It was you who lit the fusees?’

‘Yes.’

‘How far ahead is the other train?’

‘I don’t know …. Can’t remember … how far I ran.’

They consulted. One, from his uniform, was the Conductor. Two, from their lack of it, were the engineers. There was another man there; perhaps the Conductor’s assistant. They decided – the Conductor and the train driver himself decided to go forward slowly. They said I’d better come with them in the cab.

Gratefully, lungs settling, I climbed up and stood watching as the engineer released the brakes, put on power and set the train going at no more than walking pace, headlights bright on the empty track ahead.

‘Did you
throw
one of the fusees?’ the engineer asked me.

‘I didn’t think you were going to stop.’ It sounded prosaic, unemotional.

‘We weren’t in the cab,’ he said. ‘The one you threw hit the windscreen and I could see the glare all the way down inside the engine where I was checking a valve. Just as well you threw it … I came racing up here just in time to see the one on the track before we ran over it. Bit of luck, you know.’

‘Yes.’ Bit of luck … deliverance from a lifetime’s regret.

‘Why didn’t the Conductor radio?’ the Conductor said crossly.

It’s out of order.’

He tut-tutted a bit. We rolled forward slowly. There was a bend ahead to the right.

‘I think we’re near now,’ I said. ‘Not far.’

‘Right.’ The pace slowed further. The engineer inched carefully round the bend and it was as well he did, because when he braked at that point to a halt, we finished with twenty yards between the front of the Canadian’s yellow engine and the shining brass railing along the back platform of the Lorrimores’ car.

‘Well,’ the engineer said phlegmatically, ‘I wouldn’t have wanted to come round the corner unawares to see
that
.’

It wasn’t until then that I remembered that Johnson was somewhere out on the track. I certainly hadn’t spotted him lying unconscious or dead on the ground on the return journey, and nor obviously had the
Canadian’s crew. I wondered briefly where he’d got to, but at that moment I didn’t care. Everyone climbed down from the Canadian’s cab, and the crew walked forward to join their opposite numbers ahead.