Ken Follett - The Key to Rebecca

Suddenly he heard a distant hoot. Looking ahead and to his left he saw, at least a mile away, a rising plume of white smoke which was unmistakably that of a steam engine. Billy! he thought. Elene! He went faster.

Paradoxically, the engine smoke made him think of England, of gentle slopes, endless green fields, a square church tower peeping over the tops of a cluster of oak trees, and a railway line through the valley with a puffing engine disappearing into the distance. For a moment he was in that English valley, tasting the damp air of morning; then the vision passed, and he saw again the steel-blue African sky, the paddy fields, the palm trees and the far brown cliffs.

The train was coming into a town. Vandam did not know the names of the places anymore: his geography was not that good, and he had rather lost track of the distance he had traveled. It was a small town. It would have three or four brick buildings and a market.

The train was going to get there before him. He had made his plans, he knew what he was going to do: but he needed time, it was impossible for him to rush into the station and jump on the train without making preparations. He reached the town and slowed right down. The street was blocked by a small flock of sheep. From a doorway an old man smoking a hookah watched Vandam: a European on a motorcycle would be a rare, but not unknown, sight. An ass tied to a tree snarled at the bike. A water buffalo drinking from a bucket did not even look up. Two filthy children in rags ran alongside, holding imaginary handlebars and saying “Brrrm, brrrm,” in imitation. Vandam saw the station. From the square he could not see the platform, for that was obscured by a long, low station building; but he could observe the exit and see anyone who came out. He would wait outside until the train left, just in case Wolff got off; then he would go ahead, and reach the next stop in plenty of time. He brought the motorcycle to a halt and killed the engine.

The train rolled slowly over a level crossing. Elene saw the patient faces of the people behind the gate, waiting for the train to pass so that they could cross the line: a fat man on a donkey, a very small boy leading a camel, a horse-drawn cab, a group of silent old women. The camel couched, the boy began to beat it about the face with a stick and then the scene slid sideways out of view. In a moment the train would be in the station. Elene’s courage deserted her. Not this time, she thought. I haven’t had time to think of a plan. The next station, let me leave it until the next station. But she had told Billy they would try to get away at this station. If she did nothing he would not trust her any longer. It had to be this time.

She tried to devise a plan. What was her priority? To get Billy away from Wolff. That was the only thing that counted. Give Billy a chance to run, then try to prevent Wolff from giving chase. She had a sudden, vivid memory of a childhood fight in a filthy slum street in Alexandria: a big boy, a bully, hitting her, and another boy intervening and struggling with the bully, the smaller boy shouting to her “Run, run!” while she stood watching the fight, horrified but fascinated. She could not remember how it had ended.

She looked around. Think quickly! They were in an open carriage, with fifteen or twenty rows of seats. She and Billy sat side by side, facing forward. Wolff was opposite them. Beside him was an empty seat. Behind him was the exit door to the platform. The other passengers were a mixture of Europeans and wealthy Egyptians, all of them in Western clothing. Everyone was hot, weary and enervated. Several people were asleep. The trainmaster was serving tea in glasses to a group of Egyptian Army officers at the far end of the carriage.

Through the window she saw a small mosque, then a French courthouse, then the station. A few trees grew in the dusty soil beside the concrete platform. An old man sat cross-legged beneath a tree, smoking a cigarette. Six boyish-looking Arab soldiers were crowded onto one small bench. A pregnant woman carried a baby in her arms. The train stopped.

Not yet, Elene thought; not yet. The time to move would be when the train was about to pull out again—that would give Wolff less time to catch them. She sat feverishly still. There was a clock on the platform with roman numerals. It had stopped at five to five. A man came to the window offering fruit drinks, and Wolff waved him away.

A priest in Coptic robes boarded the train and took the seat next to Wolff, saying politely: “Vous permettez, m’sieur?”

Wolff smiled charmingly and replied: “Je vous en prie.”

Elene murmured to Billy: “When the whistle blows, run for the door and get off the train.” Her heart beat faster: now she was committed.

Billy said nothing. Wolff said: “What was that?” Elene looked away. The whistle blew.

Billy looked at Elene, hesitating.

Wolff frowned.

Elene threw herself at Wolff, reaching for his face with her hands. She was suddenly possessed by rage and hatred toward him for the humiliation, anxiety and pain he had inflicted on her. He put up his arms protectively, but they did not stop her rush. Her strength astonished her. She raked his face with her fingernails, and saw blood spurt.

The priest gave a shout of surprise.

Over the back of Wolff’s seat she saw Billy run to the door and struggle to open it.

She collapsed on Wolff, banging her face against his forehead. She lifted herself again and tried to scratch his eyes.

At last he found his voice, and roared with anger. He pushed himself out of his seat, driving Elene backward. She grabbed at him and caught hold of his shirtfront with both hands. Then he hit her. His hand came up from below his waist, bunched into a fist, then struck the side of her jaw. She had not known a punch could hurt so much. For an instant she could not see: She lost her grip on Wolff’s shirt, and fell back into her seat. Her vision returned and she saw him heading for the door. She stood up.

Billy had got the door open. She saw him fling it wide and jump onto the platform. Wolff leaped after him. Elene ran to the door.

Billy was racing along the platform, running like the wind. Wolff was charging after him. The few Egyptians standing around were looking on, mildly astonished, and doing nothing. Elene stepped down from the train and ran after Wolff. The train shuddered, about to move. Wolff put on a burst of speed. Elene yelled: “Run, Billy, run!” Billy looked over his shoulder. He was almost at the exit now. A ticket collector in a raincoat stood there, looking on openmouthed. Elene thought: They won’t let him out, he has no ticket. It did not matter, she realized, for the train was now inching forward, and Wolff had to get back on it. Wolff looked at the train, but did not slow his pace. Elene saw that Wolff was not going to catch Billy, and she thought: We did it! Then Billy fell.

He had slipped on something, a patch of sand or a leaf. He lost his balance completely, and went flying through the air, carried by the momentum of his running, to hit the ground hard. Wolff was on him in a flash, bending to lift him. Elene caught up with them and jumped on Wolff’s back. Wolff stumbled, losing his grip on Billy. Elene clung to Wolff. The train was moving slowly but steadily. Wolff grabbed Elene’s arms, broke her grip, and shook his wide shoulders, throwing her to the ground.

For a moment she lay stunned. Looking up, she saw that Wolff had thrown Billy across his shoulder. The boy was yelling and hammering on Wolff’s back, without effect. Wolff ran alongside the moving train for a few paces, then jumped in through an open door. Elene wanted to stay where she was, never to see Wolff again; but she could not leave Billy. She struggled to her feet.

She ran, stumbling, alongside the train. Someone reached out a hand to her. She took it, and jumped. She was aboard.