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.
WORLD’S END
I was more careful when I left Clapham Junction. I was still soaking wet. I stank of oil. I had to cross London with just about the entire population on the lookout for me. And when I got back to Wapping, I’d probably be shot. But otherwise I didn’t have anything to worry about. I was having a really lovely day.
I stepped into the shadows as a couple of police cars raced past, sirens screaming. Perhaps it was seeing them that made up my mind for me. There was no point in going back to Johnny Powers and his gang quite yet. Even if they did lead me to the Fence, there would be little I could do with the information. Because with Snape and Boyle dead, who would believe my story?
But just suppose somebody had seen the two policemen when they visited me at the school? Chief Inspector Snape and his unsmiling assistant weren’t the sort of people you could forget in a hurry. If I could prove that they’d been there before the Woburn Abbey incident, the rest of my story might be more credible. The only question was—who might have seen them? It had been late on a Tuesday afternoon when they had come. Everyone else had gone home. That’s what they had been waiting for—to catch me there alone.
But there was one person: Peregrine Palis would have been there. It would have been just like him to stay behind in the staff room to make sure I didn’t slip away. And the staff room was directly between the front entrance and my classroom. If anyone had seen the two policemen, it would have been him. And I knew where the French teacher lived. He had a flat just off the King’s Road near the bit known as World’s End. I could go there now. It was less far to walk than Wapping. And I’d almost certainly find him in.
I set off, keeping to the shadows. There were a surprising number of cars about, considering how late it was. Each time one passed me I shivered and tried to hide my face. If a police car had chosen that moment to cross the bridge, you could have kissed good-bye to the next chapter.
In fact, I made it as far as Chelsea before I was spotted. I’d reached the traffic lights on the King’s Road and stopped to get my bearings. There were two policemen standing on the other side of the road, outside a bank. At first they didn’t let on they’d seen me. After all, as far as they knew I was armed and dangerous. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one nudge the other and then talk into the edge of his jacket. He wasn’t having a conversation with his armpit. There would be a radio there. He was calling for help.
Casually, I turned left and began to walk down the King’s Road to World’s End. I didn’t need to look back to know that the two policemen were following me. But I still kept up the pretense. I was just an ordinary, innocent boy out for a night walk. The rags and the smell of oil? Nothing to concern you, Officer. I always dress this way. I turned a corner and for a moment I was out of their sight. I began to run.
It was already too late. I’d seen it the moment I’d set off—a police car, heading toward me at seventy miles an hour. And it had seen me, too.
Suddenly the sirens and blue lights were on and it was swerving across the road to cut me off. With a spurt of energy, I took a sharp left, past a pub and down a narrow street. I heard the screech of wheels as the police car followed me. There was a Dumpster parked outside a development of new flats. I didn’t look to see what was inside it. I just dived in headfirst.
The police car tore around the corner and continued down the road. I knew I had perhaps half a minute before it turned around and came back. I climbed out of the Dumpster and realized where I was. The building behind me was where Palis lived. It was an apartment house, a smart place with smoked-glass windows, private balconies, and sophisticated burglar alarms. But then of course this was Chelsea, where you’d expect sophisticated burglars. I’d often wondered how a French teacher at an ordinary school could afford such a posh address. But this was no time to ask questions.
I pulled myself up onto the low wall that surrounded the building and from there I was able to climb onto the slanting roof of what must have been a boiler room. But that was as far as I got. A headlight swept through the darkness and I knew that the police car had returned. This time it stopped right beneath me. There was a click as the door opened and two men got out.
“Any sign of him?” one asked.
“No. He must have doubled back.”
“You sure it was him?”
“No doubt about it. A right little villain . . .”
Well, I wasn’t going to argue with that, provided they went away and left me alone. But then the worst thing possible happened. A light went on overhead. It slanted down, capturing me in a bright square. A door opened and somebody strutted out, leaning over the balcony to call down to the policemen.
“What’s going on?” a voice demanded. It was a voice that I knew well.
I looked up. Palis had come out onto the balcony, wearing a blue dressing gown and pajamas. He was leaning over, looking down at the policemen. From where he was standing, I was directly in his line of vision. He saw me. He couldn’t miss me. For a moment he frowned and I froze. One word from him and it would all be over. Desperately I raised a finger to my lips and stared at him with pleading eyes.
“We’re looking for someone,” one of the policemen said. “A young boy.”
“Well, do you have to make such an infernal racket about it?” Palis asked, and I breathed again. For the moment I was safe.
“He’s dangerous, sir,” the policeman said.
“And so am I when I’m woken up in the middle of the night,” Palis snapped. “He obviously isn’t here, so I suggest you go and wake up somebody else looking for him.”
There was a bit more muffled chat below, but then the police car moved away and the two policemen passed underneath the building and back into the King’s Road. Palis glanced at me. “Nicholas Simple?” he demanded in a tone of disbelief.
“Yes, sir.” I stood up. “Thank you very much, Mr. Palis—sir.”
“You’d better climb up here before anyone sees you,” he said.
I climbed over the rail and joined him on the terrace. “Thank you,” I said. “For not turning me in . . .”
He smiled. “Well, I had a good reason . . .”
“I’m innocent,” I blurted out. “I didn’t do any of it. In fact, I was working for the police from the very start. I still am. Only . . . it’s difficult to explain.”
“You’d better come in,” he said.