Signal Red (29 page)

He didn't catch the muffled reply, but it certainly wasn't friendly. As the man began to haul himself up, Mills could see the cosh in his hand. Now he felt a tremor of fear pass through his body.

He aimed a kick and felt the satisfaction of it landing home. Someone was pushing the man from behind, though, and he carried on coming. Mills swung at his face, turned round and flicked the exhauster off, killing the train's vacuum. Let them try and take his train now.

'Hit him!' the intruder yelled. Only then was he aware of other men, climbing from the opposite side. Too many coming in for him to take on. He kicked again at the first one, but the man was inside the cab now, and rising to his feet.

'Bloody hit him!' someone yelled again. 'What you waiting for?'

'Get off my train—'

A spark of white light exploded in front of Jack Mills's eyes. He felt something warm trickling over his left eye. There was another blow, this time to the back of his head and his legs buckled.

'Out the way, he's going down!' were the last words he heard as the rough steel of the footplate rushed towards him.

Charlie, still spooked by nearly being sucked into oblivion by a passing express, helped pull Stan up onto the footplate.

He saw he still had his pipe in his mouth, albeit unlit, and he snatched it away, jamming it in the top pocket of his boilersuit. The footplate was getting crowded now, and Buster and Tiny Dave struggled to get the comatose Jack Mills out of the way. Eventually, they dragged him into the corridor that connected the twin cabs of the loco.

'What happened to him?' asked Stan, looking down at the blood on the floor, his voice high and tremulous.

'Must have slipped,' said Charlie, not sure himself what had occurred while he had been clinging onto the grab handles for dear life.

'Hit his head on the floor,' said Buster unconvincingly.

'Come on, Stan, time to earn that drink,' said Ronnie Biggs, whispering gently into his ear.

The solid wall of men parted, and Stan took his place at the controls.

'Take your time,' said Ronnie to the visibly shaking replacement driver.

'But not too much of it.' The unmistakable form of Gordon Goody loomed over him.

Yet more people pressed into the cab.

'All aboard,' someone said.

'Shut up,' snapped Charlie.

'He means everyone is here,' said Buster grimly. 'We can go.'

Stan's hand hovered uncertainly over the dials and switches. The diesel was still running at idle, but the controls were unresponsive. He pressed on the dead-man's plate at his feet. Still nothing. He tapped one of the dials, its needle way to the left. 'I can't get a vacuum.'

Roy groaned.

'What?' Charlie asked. 'You can't get a what?'

'You said you'd driven one before,' said Gordy, his voice like pressed steel.

'I have. Well, sort of.' Ronnie thought Stan was going to cry. 'Not this big, but similar. I think they've changed something, though. I just have to get the brake vacuum before the controls respond, but it's not—'

Gordy growled, low and threatening. 'Can you drive this fucking thing or not?'

'Give me a minute.'

Charlie put a hand on Stan's shoulder. It wasn't a friendly gesture. 'We haven't got a fuckin' minute.'

Ronnie, too, was beginning to brim with anger and not a little shame. Stan was his man, his entree to the firm, his bargaining chip, his guarantee of a whack. And he was fucking up. 'Stan, come on, mate. Release the brakes and let's get out of here.'

There followed thirty seconds of tense silence, broken by the passage of another train. Charlie realised how exposed they were, crowded onto the footplate. Any passing driver or fireman might wonder why there appeared to be a fancy-dress party going on in the cab of an English Electric D class. 'Come on, Stan. We are sitting here with our dicks hanging out.'

'Still no vacuum.' The number of men behind him and the threats had shot his nerves. Every control looked unfamiliar to Stan now as the panic overwhelmed him.

Roy prayed he had connected the pipe to the dummy properly, otherwise this was all his fault. If that leaked, the vacuum could not form.

Gordy shouted over his shoulder, 'Get the other driver. Now.'

Stan began to protest, but shovel-like hands slid under his arms and he was lifted from the seat like a baby from its cot.

A cacophony of urgent voices filled the cab.

'Get him here.'

'What's wrong with him?'

'He'll be OK. You'll be OK, Pops. It's worse than it looks.'

'Someone give him a handkerchief.'

'What dopey cunt hit him?'

'He fell.'

'Yeah. Like fuck. There you go.' A crude bandage was tied around the driver's head. He was manhandled into his newly-vacant seat.

'Let's go. Now!'

'Bruce'll be having kittens.'

'I can't see.' Mills managed to get himself heard over the racket. 'I can't see.'

'Wipe his eyes.'

'No, I think I've gone blind.'

Charlie leaned in close, so that the rough balaclava touched the driver's cheek. 'Nice try, old man.'

Then Gordy spoke: 'If you don't want some more then you'll drive this fuckin' train.' He showed him the pickaxe handle he was carrying. 'Do you understand?'

Mills looked around at all the masked faces and the eyes, some pleading, many threatening, staring down at him. 'All right, I'll do it. Throw that switch there,' he said.

'Where?'

'On the bulkhead. The exhauster.'

It was Roy who found the device and depressed the lever. Immediately a whining began as a compressor kicked in. 'Be a second,' said Mills. 'We just got to get the vacuum.'

'Fuck!'

'Told you.' It was Stan, bleating. 'I told you it was the air.'

'Shut him up, Ronnie,' said Buster. 'Or I will.'

The train gave one small, tentative movement, more spasm than forward progress. Then it began to move, slowly but smoothly, the huge engine merely purring at a tenth of its power. Roy, pressed against one of the steel walls, held his breath, hoping once more he had disconnected everything correctly. He leaned out of the open door as Mills accelerated slightly and saw the gap opening up between the HVP and the rest of the GPO carriages. 'We're clear,' he said with relief.

'Where we going?' asked Mills.

'Cuba!' someone shouted.

'There'll be a white marker head. About half a mile, give or take. Keep your speed down,' said Charlie.

Gordy took Roy's place at the door, looking ahead now, although glancing back to see if there was any sign of an alarm being raised. All was quiet.

Mills wiped a hand over his face, trying to clear the mix of blood and sweat still trickling into his eyes. He stretched forward and wiped the cab windows. They were steaming up from all the hot bodies and warm breath. 'What kind of marker?'

'White sheet,' Charlie said.

'I see it,' announced Gordy. 'Get ready.'

Mills began to slow.

'Keep going. Keep going. Here.' The train pulled up sharp. 'Bit further.'

'Make your mind up,' Mills said, a flash of his old anger surfacing.

'Shut it, Pops.' Charlie poked him with the pickaxe handle and the driver shunted the loco forward a few more yards.

'Perfect!' yelled Gordy.

The cab quickly emptied of the men. The difficult technical

part had been completed successfully. Now it was time for brute strength.

The five sorters in the HVP groaned and cursed as the train stopped again with a succession of fits and starts and one final jerk. Thomas suspected Jack Mills was messing about, trying to make them spill their tea.

'I'll have his bloody guts—' he swore.

The clang of metal on metal was so loud that Thomas thought they had crashed. But there was no feeling of any impact. Then came the sound of glass breaking, and shards of it shot across the interior of the carriage.

Joe Ware dropped the bundle of letters he had been holding. His voice was high-pitched, loaded with terror. 'Someone is trying to get in.'

A tortured creaking came from one of the doors as a crowbar found a gap.

John O'Connor, the second junior sorter, strode over and began heaving the mail sacks in front of the entrance. Joe immediately came to his aid. 'They're barricading the doors!' came a muffled voice from the outside. 'Get the guns.'

John stepped back in shock and looked at Thomas Kett. 'Did he say guns?'

Thomas had heard 'get the cunts' but either way it wasn't good. He looked around for something to defend himself with. Frank had picked up one of the tin mugs and weighed it in his hand. Thomas found himself gripping the carriage broom like a short-staff.

Part of the structure splintered with a loud crack, almost like a gunshot. More glass shattered, the noise inside the carriage deafening. One of the doors popped back with a defeated screech, and hooded figures crowded in through it.

A second swung back, and more masked men piled in. There seemed to be dozens, and as they entered they emitted a collective roar, like a pride of lions closing in for the kill.

Thomas dropped the broom he had been holding. Frank stepped in front of him.

'Look here—' he began, but a pickaxe on his arm silenced him. The tin mug fell from numb fingers. Then there was a masked face in his, spittle spraying him. 'Get over there. Now. Fuckin' move it or you're dead.'

He was shoved and found himself at one end of the carriage, heaped on the floor with his colleagues. Another of the masked men came over, his voice low and full of menace. 'We don't want to hurt you. Let us get what we came for and we'll be gone. All we want is the money. Mess us about and it'll be a fuckin' nightmare. Understand?' This was backed up with a wave of an iron bar. 'Do you understand? Right. Stay there and don't move a fucking muscle.'

'This is it!' someone cried.

An axe swung through the air, there was a sharp snap, and the lock on the HV careered across the floor. Frank heard the rip of a sack being cut and pulled open, then a collective silence.

'Fucking hell.' It was a sound of relief and amazement.

'The Colonel says form a human chain. Move it!'

Colonel? Was it the Army? thought Frank. Some deserters, a rogue unit perhaps? He raised his head to get a look at them. There was indeed, a man in a military uniform.

'Frank. Don't be bloody stupid,' whispered Thomas. 'They're out of our league.'

'Shut the fuck up or we'll gag you!'

Frank let his head drop and risked putting a hand on Les,

who was shaking. Like the man said, all they wanted was the money, he reassured himself.

Bruce Reynolds peered at his watch as the men formed up into a line. There were more than a hundred bags and, as the first came down the slope towards the waiting Land Rovers and the Austin lorry, he could see that they were not lightweight sacks, either. As one dropped from the open door of the carriage into Roy's arms, the little man grunted as he took the strain - and Roy was fit. Within five minutes men were panting and wiping sweaty brows. Several pulled off their balaclavas. Bruce didn't mind. There were few people to see their faces. Gordy, Jimmy and Bobby were the ones still actually inside the HVP. They knew enough to keep their faces covered.

As Bruce checked the human chain doing the unloading, Roger dropped one bag and struggled to retrieve it. Bruce took his place in line. 'Get in the lorry, and stack them,' he said.

'Right-oh, Bruce.'

'Where's Ronnie?'

'In the Land Rover with Stan.'

Bruce, not yet aware of the full story of what had gone on in the cab, said: 'Tell Ronnie to get out and help. Stan's done his bit.'

'Like fuck,' someone said, but Bruce ignored him. Whatever happened, the train was in place, the moneybags being unloaded, and there were no casualties on his side.

He carried on with the rhythm of grabbing the sack from Buster, turning and passing it to Tiny Dave Thompson. One-two-three-four, hup, one-two-three-four. Mindless repetition. It was just like being in the real Army. Except, judging by the number of sacks that kept coming in an apparently endless

stream, he was going to walk away from this richer than he ever dreamed possible.

Guard Thomas Millner sat at the rear of the train, bored. He had read his copy of the Daily Express from cover to cover and had flicked through Tit-Bits. He had enjoyed the article on Diana Dors and UFOs. He had seen a few strange things himself during his years going up and down the line, although nothing as spectacular as Miss Dors's cleavage. Now, though, all reading matter exhausted, he was keen to get home. There had been more stopping and starting than usual on the trip. There must be trouble, too, because the dials told him the vacuum had bled out of the system.

He waited a few more minutes, then climbed down and began to walk towards the front of the carriages. It wasn't until he was halfway along that he realised something was wrong and broke into a trot. There were only ten carriages. Somehow, the engine and the front two had gone on without them. He sprinted back, suddenly aware that he would have to put explosive warning charges on the line, as they were likely to be stuck for some time and he didn't want to be tail-ended.

As he ran, banging on the carriages to alert the sorters, he tried to think how it could have happened. He had never heard of a loco breaking free from its load before, not without the driver sensing something wrong. There was only one other explanation and that was just as ridiculous: someone had stolen the front of his train.

Frank heard a voice barking orders from the doorway.

'Pack it in! Time to go!'

'There's only a few left,' one of the breathless robbers inside the carriage protested.

'Leave them! We're pulling out.'

Frank sneaked a glance at his watch. Forty minutes they had been lying there, at least. It must be almost dawn. Probably why they were pulling out.

A few more minutes passed and two new bodies joined them. Jack Mills and his fireman. Whitby looked scared but unharmed; Jack was clearly in a bad way.

'Bastards.' It was Thomas.

One of the robbers strode over purposefully and Frank braced himself for blows. 'We're going to close the doors. Don't move for at least thirty minutes.'