Robert Ryan - Signal Red

'What, you think we've stumbled into an Apache raiding party?' Bruce hissed.

They straightened their overalls and strode towards the dark, angular shapes of the parked rolling stock, as if they had every right to be there. Bruce had a torch with him, but he kept it off. It would do to blind anyone if they were confronted.

'Look, Roy,' he whispered as they walked. 'I know you don't think a tickle is complete without a fast motor, but this one is different. I still want you in charge of the transport, goes without saying. Happy if you bring Tony in. But no Jags or Daimlers, OK?' 'OK'

'Fuck's sake, you might even get to drive a train. That should keep you happy. Where is it?'

'Follow me.'

They moved between dark, silent coaches and wagons, crossing over the tracks, Roy looking to left and right, hoping to find the engine he had picked out on his last venture into the yards.

'They've moved it,' he said.

Bruce sighed. 'It's a train, lad. That's what they do. Move.'

'Let's try over here.'

The coaches, trucks and tankers gave Bruce the creeps. They were slumbering behemoths, mechanical dinosaurs parked into dormitories and he felt as if the creatures could wake at any moment. Lights would come on, vacuum pumps throb, steam lines hiss, and one of them would demand to know what they were doing. Could be his gran had read him The Little Engine That Could one too many times as a kid, he reckoned.

'What about that one?' asked Bruce, pointing to a square block of metal on wheels.

'No. That's an O-Eight. I want an O-Three.'

As their eyes adjusted to the half-light and deep shadows, Roy tugged at his sleeve. 'Seen it.'

'That thing?' It was a squat little shunter, sitting alone on an empty section of track. 'It's a bloody great monster that pulls the mail. Not something you wind up.'

'They're like cars. If you can drive a Mini, you can drive a Roller.'

Bruce wasn't convinced, but followed Roy to the engine. He flashed the torch to locate the footholds and they both clambered up the side. Roy unzipped his leather jacket and produced a thick, well-thumbed book. On its cover were the words NOT FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC.

'What's that?'

'The manual.'

'You nicked it?'

'Drivers leave them lying around all the time. They just get another one. Shine the torch on the controls, will you?'

Bruce did as he was told and Roy thumbed through the book.

'Thing is, Bruce, if I am to drive the train, which I am happy to do, what do we do with the other driver? The real one.'

Bruce didn't understand the question. 'We'll take care of him.'

'That's what I'm worried about. I don't… you know. I never like the heavy stuff.'

Bruce stifled a laugh. It was hard to imagine the diminutive driver ever getting tucked into anything physical that didn't involve nuts and bolts. That had been enough. 'Me neither, Roy. That's why we have double acts like Wisbey and Welch. Look, you see those ugly fuckers climbing into your cab, you'll likely shit yourself. There'll be no problem, I'm sure. But you stay out of the way until they need you. OK?'

'OK' Roy located the page he wanted. 'Here we are. There'll be a key.'

'A key?'

'Like a car. But they always leave them lying around.' He began to run a hand over the metal shelves and surfaces. 'Here we are.' He fetched a bunch of keys from the top of the black metal control box, placed one in the ignition slot, then a second, until he had the right one and it turned freely. He pressed the starter button. The diesel coughed twice and rumbled into life.

Bruce felt the vibration through his feet. 'That it?'

'No, we got to wait for the air pressure to hit about sixty pounds.' Roy tapped a dial. 'Or none of the controls work. Release the handbrake, will you?'

Bruce looked around the cab. 'Where?'

'Behind you.'

Bruce turned to find a metal disc with projecting handles on its perimeter that looked like a shrunken steering-wheel from an old sailing ship. Stamped on the wall above it was an arrow with Off in one direction, On in the other. He heaved it towards Off.

'Right, we're at pressure. Track ahead clear?'

Bruce swung his head out of the open-sided cab. There seemed to be a decent length of shiny clear rail, but then darkness shrouded the far end, masking whatever lay farther on. 'For a few hundred yards.'

'All I'll need to show you.' Roy gave a big grin, as if he really was a boy who got to become an engine driver.

Bruce shivered, the heat drained from him by the cold metal surrounding them. 'Get on with it, Stephenson.' Roy looked blank at the reference. 'Stephenson's Rocket? Oh, just fire her up.'

Roy began to fuss with the controls. 'The throttle's not working. Odd.' Then he remembered. 'There's a dead man's pedal somewhere. Here!'

He stomped down on a metal plate and the diesel gave a jerk forward. Roy hooted with pleasure. 'Easy, see?'

They crept down the track, gathering speed on the incline.

'OK, you can stop now.'

The dumpy shunter carried on accelerating, the power unit thumping with urgency. It was moving at faster than walking pace now.

'Roy. You can stop the train now.'

Roy began to look at his book, flicking through the pages with a rising sense of panic. 'This should be the fucking brake.' He waggled a lever back and forward. He remembered there were two brakes, one for the engine and one for the actual wheels, but nothing he pulled or pushed made much difference.

'Step off the dead man's thing.'

'I have,' shouted Roy. They were rolling down a slope, he realised. Gravity was in control now. He squinted ahead into the night, to see if he could spot any obstacle on the track. 'Bruce, put that handbrake on. Bruce?'

He turned. Bruce was nowhere to be seen.

'Oh, Jesus.'

Roy grabbed his manual, stepped out onto the side of the loco, feeling the wind tugging at his hair as the speed increased. Then he closed his eyes and launched himself off.

He hit the gravel awkwardly, felt his ankle go, and rolled down an incline. Behind him the rails were humming as the engine rolled on.

'Come on.' Bruce appeared out of the night, grabbed Roy under the arms and pulled him to his feet. 'You all right?'

Roy put weight on his left ankle. There was a twinge, but it would hold.

'The runaway train came down the track and she blew…' Bruce sang softly.

'Shut up,' Roy snapped, limping away.

As they moved back towards the fence there came the sudden screech of metal on metal, a loud bang, then more tortured groans, followed by silence. Roy could smell burning. A flicker of white flame flared, searing his retina, then died.

They increased their pace, Roy ignoring the pain in his leg. As they reached the fence, he turned to Bruce. 'You know what?'

'What?' Bruce asked.

There was a loud bang behind them as something detonated, and both ducked through the fence. There was smoke in the air, thick and oily. 'I think we'd better give Biggsy a call about that train driver. It's not as easy as it looks.'

'Her name was Eliza Dunwoody. Liz Dunwoody to her friends of which there were very few, by all accounts. She was from Birmingham.'

'Birmingham?' Police Constable Simon Trellick repeated, as if the thought baffled him.

They were in a borrowed office at the police station at Newquay. Hatherill was seated behind the desk, Trellick was standing in front of him, while Billy was positioned near the door, out of the Constable's field of vision. It was a technique designed to disorientate. Whenever Hatherill asked a question of Billy, Trellick wanted to turn but, at attention, could not.

'People do come from Birmingham, you know, Constable. Quite a number, so I hear. Just because she came from a landlocked city doesn't mean she never went near the sea. What else do we know, DC Naughton?'