Robert Ryan - Signal Red

He looked back up the train at the cab, wondering if he should tell Millsy that the phone was useless before wandering off. The light was still red, but he should go and consult with his driver. He gave the phone one last go, but there was still not so much as a crackle on the line. He replaced the receiver and began the walk back to the front of the train, when he saw someone ahead. No doubt an engineer come to fix the phone.

'What's up, mate?' he asked the dark figure. He could see others behind the worker, although they appeared to be ducking under one of the coaches. 'Something wrong?'

The man stepped forward and Whitby could see he was wearing a woollen balaclava. Just his eyes and mouth were visible. He looked like a Black and White Minstrel. Why would he have that on? It was summer now. Those nights were past.

There was, however, no mistaking the purpose of the implement waved in front of his face as the man – shorter than Whitby, but a lot bulkier – grabbed his arm. It was a powerful grip.

Then he felt other hands on him, pinning his arms, and sour breath washed over his face.

'Say a word and you are fucking dead,' hissed the little man with the evil-looking cosh.

Whitby 's mouth went dry and his brain tried to make sense of the fragmented thoughts crowding into it. 'Yeah, all right mate,' he managed to say. 'I'm with you.'

'Go with him, then, and keep quiet.'

Buster watched Bobby Welch lead the cowering boy away and headed for the cab. Let's hope the driver rolls over that easily, he thought.

Thomas Kett accepted the mug of steaming tea from Les, grateful at that moment that they had halted. It would make a change to have a drink without all that rolling about. Although you got used to it – old GPO hands rarely spilled a drop – it was nice to sit down and not have to make all those compensatory muscle movements.

Just then, he heard the hiss of escaping air from the rear of the HVP and cocked an ear. The coach was connected to the rest of the train by a fat umbilical that carried the vacuum. 'What's that?'

Leslie listened as he drank his own tea. There was the faintest of metallic sounds.

'It's Chelveston.'

The other two looked at Frank who was leaning against the cage that held the red High Value sacks. He was holding up the envelope with the disputed destination.

'Chelveston?' Thomas asked. 'You sure?'

'Chelveston, Northamptonshire,' Frank said with certainty in his voice. He scribbled the county onto the envelope with a chinagraph pencil and tossed it into the appropriate bin.

Thomas listened once more but the hissing, whatever it was, had stopped. He drained his tea. 'Come on, Millsy, let's get a move on.'

The uncoupling of the buckeye link and vacuum tube complete, Roy straightened and stepped back from the train. As he did so, an unexpected roar suddenly engulfed him and the punch of compressed air threw him back against one of the coaches. The train on the other track blasted by like a roaring fireball, all wild noise and lights. Winded, he looked up at the locomotive. He could see someone hanging from

the cab's grab rails, pulling himself in. Jesus, it must nearly have snatched him off, the way the GPO trains plucked mailbags from waiting arms. The lucky bastard disappeared inside.

Roy ducked under the train and ran back to the embankment at a crouch. From the road that ran parallel to the track came the urgent, rising note of the Land Rover's engine, racing to get Bruce back to Bridego Bridge. He just hoped the Colonel had remembered to lay out the explosive charges as Roger had instructed him, to make sure no train, coming through the genuine green signal outside Lechslade, rammed into the back of their one. That would put the cat among the pigeons.

He found the young fireman huddled on the grass, shaking, Bobby standing over him. Roger was sitting next to them, rolling up his trouser leg. He uncovered a bad gash, visible in the light bleeding from the HVP coach. 'Caught it on the gantry,' he whispered.

'Be fine,' said Roy. He grabbed the fireman and hauled him to his feet. Bobby gave him a last shove. 'Where you from?' Roy asked him.

'Crewe.'

'Name?'

'Dave.'

'Stay calm, Dave, and there's a drink in it for you,' said Bobby.

'Stay calm,' repeated Roy, as he looked at Bobby, 'and do as you are told, because there are some right hard bastards here.'

Then he took the fireman's arm and led him towards the

front of the train, towards the worst of the right hard bastards.

Jack Mills thought it was David Whitby climbing up onto the footplate.

'What did they say, lad?'

He looked down onto a black, wool-clad face.

'Who the fuck are you?' He wasn't frightened by the sight, more angry at the intrusion.

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-'