vivid blond that can only come out of a bottle. The other was a man. I guessed he was in charge.
He was around fifty, wearing a dressing gown with wide lapels and a cravat. He had a shock of white hair, so white that it did look as if he’d had a shock. His eyes were almost colorless, too. He was smoking a cigarette in a long black holder and sipping a martini.
“Good evening,” he said. “I’m Big Ed.”
I shrugged. “You don’t look that big to me,” I said.
One of the sisters looked up from his book. He was the one who’d hit me. “You don’t talk to Big Ed like that,” he grunted.
“Why not?” I asked. I rubbed the back of my neck. “He gave me a big ’eadache.”
The punk giggled again. Big Ed flicked ash from his cigarette.
“Nicholas Diamond,” he said. He had a soft, tired voice that was almost a whisper. “It’s very nice to see you. I have to say that I was dying to meet you.”
“Shame you couldn’t do it sooner,” I said.
He ignored me. “I had my boys out looking for Johnny Powers,” he went on. “It was his good luck that they missed him. And your bad luck that they found you.” He put down the cigarette and swirled the olive in his glass. “We’ll catch up with him later. But the question now is, what do we do with his number two?”
“How about a drink and a sandwich?” I suggested.
He shook his head. “Oh no. You see, I had a gun sent in to Strangeday Hall. Three of my boys were going to rub Johnny Powers. It seems you got in the way. One of them was burned—Blondie’s his name. Now his own mother doesn’t recognize him. And the thing is, you see, she’s my sister. Blondie is my nephew.”
That was bad news. Uncle Ed wasn’t smiling anymore and there was a flicker of color in his eyes—a dull red.
“I’d like to know where Powers is,” he said. “I could ask you. But of course you wouldn’t say.”
“I don’t know,” I muttered. “We could come to some sort of arrangement . . .”
“I don’t think so.” His lips curled. “The only arrangements you should be thinking of are the ones for your funeral.”
He stood up. I thought of attacking him, maybe grabbing an antique lamp and going for his head, but I quickly forgot it. The punk was right behind me. And the two charm sisters had already shown how fast they could move.
“I’m going to get Johnny Powers,” Big Ed continued. “South London and East London will be mine. What’s the world coming to when you’ve got kids running the rackets? I don’t like kids. I don’t like you, Diamond. That’s why you’ve got to go.”
He waved a hand and I was gone.
The punk was the first to move, lunging forward to grab me from behind. “Take him out and do it, Spike,” he ordered. “Scarface and Tootsie—you go with him.” The two drag artists stood up. “Good-bye, Diamond,” he said. “Remember Blondie. Remember me. And have a nice death.”
I was dragged out of the carriage. It must have been double glazed because as soon as I was out in the night air I could hear the trains, clanking and rattling through the darkness. It had begun to rain. At first it was a light drizzle, but as I was pulled, kicking and fighting, through the stockyard and onto the rails, it came down more heavily. It was a real cloudburst. In seconds the four of us were drenched.
Because of the rain I saw little of my surroundings. I could just make out the lights of a station—it was Clapham Junction—blinking in the distance.
We crossed about six or seven rails, our feet crunching on the gravel. Once we stopped as an Intercity Express thundered past, the windows a blur of yellow. I thought someone might see us, but in the darkness and the swirling rain that was impossible. Then the punk pushed me between the shoulders. I stumbled and fell. Tootsie and Scarface seized my arms and legs, and before I knew what was happening, they were tying me down across the rails. The practiced way they worked made me think that they must have done it before. It took them less than a minute. But when they straightened up I was fixed as firmly as an oven-ready chicken. My hands were tied to one rail, my legs to the other.
My neck rested on the cold metal. My body slumped in between.
Then Tootsie squatted down beside me. His hair was all over his face and his makeup was running. But he was smiling.
“Only one more train runs on this track tonight,” he said. “It comes in about ten minutes. It doesn’t stop until it gets to Waterloo Station. It won’t stop for you.”
“Wait . . .” I began, but then he stuffed a handkerchief into my mouth. I tried to spit it out. He twisted another loop of rope around my head, gagging me.
“No one will see you,” he hissed. “No one will hear you. Ten minutes. Think about it, pretty boy. In ten minutes you won’t be so pretty no more.”
The punk giggled one last time. Tootsie stood up and adjusted his dress. Then, linking arms with Scarface, he walked away. I was left alone, spread out on the track. The rain was falling harder than ever.
OFF THE RAILS
One day I’m going to write a book. It will be called
As soon as Tootsie, Spike, and Scarface had gone, I tried to move my feet, but I could barely wiggle my toes. I tried to slide my hands under the rope. I had about as much chance of flying. They had tied me down tight. The rope was biting into my flesh, cutting off the circulation. The rain didn’t help either. It was coming down so hard that it was blinding me, making it impossible to see what I was doing. But I suppose that it didn’t matter too much. I was doing precisely nothing. There was nothing I could do.
There was a sudden rumble in the air. I wriggled around just in time to see an enormous train come battering through the rain. At least it looked enormous from where I was lying. I tried to call out but the gag stopped me. Now I could see the driver, smoking, high up in the front of the train. My whole body stiffened, waiting for it to ride over me. I think I muttered a prayer.
The train was almost on top of me. Then there was a loud clattering sound and it jerked away to one side. Someone, somewhere had changed the switches.
The rain sliced down. Somewhere a light blinked from red to green. I heard a click as another switch was changed and a rail slid across to carry the next train to its correct destination. A solitary pigeon flew in a ragged arc above me. The clouds rolled over.
Suddenly I was trembling. That was strange because I thought I’d been trembling all along. But then I realized that it wasn’t just me. It was the rails beneath me. They were vibrating, softly at first but more violently with every second that passed. I couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t see anything. But I knew the train was approaching. And this time it was approaching on my track.
I think I went berserk right then. I struggled furiously, my body heaving, my arms and legs tearing at the ropes. But it was useless. All I managed to do was to bruise my ankles and tear my trousers. I forced myself to go limp. Things weren’t so bad, I told myself. I mean, there are worse things in life than being run over by a train. I tried to think of one of them. I couldn’t. I went berserk again.
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
