in my thoughts. But that did not last long, for they all went wrong in the end, like the broken gas pipe: Rose and Hunt were true engine men put to work on a sleepy branch, for which they would have hated the bosses like old boots – and Rowland Smith had been one of the bosses. But then he had also put himself on this balmy branch, and that after having risen to the top of the South Western in what must have been very short order, for he was still a young man.
As to Vincent, I was out with him, but like as not that was only because he knew I was up to the mark for an engine man and might beat him to the regulator. But why could he not relax even for a minute?
Then again, as to the murders… were they really anything of the sort? Perhaps Henry Taylor was only lying low, and maybe Mike had fallen on the footplate and hit his head on the handbrake or had some other accident of the sort not unusual around any engine shed.
I started thinking again of Vincent, and when I looked up I had hocussed him out of the air, for he was standing before me with a pewter in his hand. (He's putting on swank, trying to look like an engine man, I thought.) There was a circular sort of fellow next to him, also carrying a pint, and wearing a crushed and twisted black suit. He was shouting, 'Trousers! I say, trousers!' to someone in another part of the pub. I had seen him somewhere before. 'All right there?' said Vincent, over the noise of the other. So he was talking to me again, and very matey with it.
'This is Mack,' he said, pointing to his pal. 'Saturday Night Mack, I call him.'
Saturday Night Mack was still yelling to someone in the middle of the pub, and it struck me that he was the fellow who'd been holding the brush and being scolded at the Necropolis station. 'Mack!' shouted Vincent, 'pay attention, man!'
He introduced us with words that let me know I was in for more sensation. 'Mack works for the Necropolis. You went into their station on the Red Bastard, didn't you?' Vincent added. 'Thirty-One,' I said, 'yes.'
Vincent sat down in front of me and put his pewter on the table, while Saturday Night Mack carried on shouting across to a gingery bloke. 'Well, you've been a bit bloody silent on the subject, for Christ's sake,' said Vincent.
'So have you. You've been a bit silent on all subjects, if you ask me.' 'Well, I'm all ears now. Who was Barney's mate for the trip?' 'Mike.'
'Oh crumbs. It knocked me for six when I heard. I was on leave, you know.' 'But who would do that to Mike?' I said. 'Search me,' said Vincent. 'He was a good fellow,' I said. 'Top hole,' said Vincent.
We both took a drink. Talking to this kid?, I thought, was like walking on hot coals.
'Bit of an over-steamer, though,' I said. 'I noticed when I went on that trip with him.'
Vincent left a long pause, giving me plenty of time to regret speaking ill of the dead – it was wanting to sound like a true engine man that had done it, that and the beer – before saying, 'You're bang on, there.'
Just then, Saturday Night Mack stopped shouting about trousers and sat down at our table with three fresh pints of Red Lion on a tray. 'Chatting about that bad business on Monday, are we?' he said, and took a long drink.
'You're on the Necropolis, aren't you?' I said, because I had to get back to that. Mack nodded. 'What do you do for that lot?'
'Always asking questions, this boy,' said Vincent, wriggling in his seat. 'Always very keen to learn.'
But Mack didn't seem to mind; I fancied he preferred my company to Vincent's, and that Vincent would have liked me to think they were better mates than they really were. 'I put my hand to shifting bodies, humping floral sprays, sweeping up, and a bit of parading on occasion,' he replied. 'So you're one of those silent walking-behind- the-coffin fellows?' I said. I knew this to be a silly sort of remark even as it came from my lips, but the queer thing was that Mack again did not mind.
'Walking behind? Yes. Silence? No,' he said. 'I do talk on the job, you see, otherwise I could never do the words of comfort.' He waved to somebody near the bar, and called out a word I couldn't understand. It was something like 'Norbs!' It could have been that little gingery fellow who hadn't shaved that he was calling to. 'What are the words of comfort?' I asked.
'Bloody hell,' said Vincent, 'we're trying to have a bit of a beano here.' 'It depends if I do a long comfort or a short one,' said Saturday Night Mack, putting the ice on Vincent once again. 'What would be a long one?'
He took a deep breath, and then he was off: 'For no man liveth to himself and no man dieth to himself, for whether we live, we live unto the Lord, and whether we die, we die unto the Lord. Whether we live, therefore, or die, we are the Lord's.' 'I see,' I said. 'And if it's a short one?'
'Chin up,' said Mack, and he caught up his beer and finished it off. 'I mainly do short ones,' he said, standing up, 'and sometimes not even that.' He whacked down his glass and dashed off into a crowd of his friends. A few seconds later he came running back to us. 'Anybody fancy another?' I tried to give him a tanner but he wasn't having it.
After a bit more shouting and prancing about he came back to us, dragging half his crowd with him, who carried on drinking in the crowd around our table.
'Idiots,' he said, pointing to the crowd. 'Sensible fellows,' he said, pointing to us. The idiots seemed to be more fun, though, so I thought it good of him to stick with us. 'You've got a pretty big set up down at Brookwood,' I said. 'Pretty big,' he said. 'What's the cemetery like?'
'I'll tell you what: steer clear if you believe in spirits.' He took a big belt of his beer, and I could see that he was saturated but it suited him to be like that.
'Mack believes in ghosts,' said Vincent. 'He has these table-top, spirit-talking goes.' 'What happens at these things?' I asked Mack. 'The veil is lifted and I see through to the other side.' 'What's it like?'
'What's it like?' he said, and he puffed out his cheeks and made his eyes go big. 'Going back to Brookwood,' he went on, 'you've got four thousand acres, best part of fifty thousand trees. It's the biggest cemetery going, nothing to touch it in the whole Empire, but I'll tell you what,' and here he just grinned. 'What?' I said. 'Business ain't so good at present.' I liked Mack; despite being a semi-drunk and maybe a rogue, he was a pleasant fellow to chat with. 'Why is business bad?' I asked him.
'When they set it all up, all the graveyards in London were full to bursting, and nobody was allowed to start any new ones. But that was all changed just before our show was started.' 'How did that come about?' 'Act of Parliament.' 'What act?'
'Bloody hell, leave off,' said Vincent. 'Mack's brain is working under two hundred and twenty pounds of pressure as it is.'
'Date of the Act…' said Mack, 'can't remember. Name of it… that's gone too. Ask me when I'm not DRUNK.' He said that last word very loud. 'So the Necropolis is in a bad state?' I said.
'Well, now,' said Saturday Night Mack, sitting back, picking up his glass and seeing it was empty, 'there's a fellow does talks on it, a fellow called Stanley, and you can tell what's what in our line by his audiences.' 'I looked in on one of those,' I said. 'Crowded, was it?' said Mack.
'Hardly… Listen,' I said – and the questions were coming like winking, thanks to the Red Lion – 'do you know a johnny called Rowland Smith?' This one had Vincent all ablaze, though saying nothing.
Mack nodded, and it was a job for me to tell whether that meant he knew of my connection with Smith or not. I couldn't believe Vincent wouldn't have told him if they were any sorts of mates at all.
'Really, he's the true Governor,' said Mack. 'He's come over from the South Western to sort us out. Erskine Long's the chairman, and he don't seem to like it, but there it is.' 'So Rowland Smith's all right, is he?' Mack shrugged. 'His notion is to sell off the land,' he said. Somebody darted over to Mack and gave him a beer.
'Tell you what,' he said. 'We used to have a Sunday run, and you could pick up the big penny working that turn. Smith's put a stop to it. Nowadays the trip only happens three or four times a week, and that's his decree as well.' 'What's happened to wages?'
'I'm a fifteen-bob-a-week bloke now; it's barely enough to cover my slate in this place.'
I could see very well that it wouldn't be. Saturday Night Mack was a drinking machine, always with a glass in his hand, and he seemed to know everybody in the Citadel. For the next half hour he kept coming and going, whereas I seemed to be trapped at our table with Vincent, hemmed in by the crowd. Some of them were joxies, and they kept lolling right across our table.
'Nice fresh greens,' said Vincent, as one of them rolled against me. 'Want a lady?' she said.
I couldn't believe the softness of her, but I was scared of saying yes, for I had never gone down the road with any girl before, let alone this sort, and I didn't know where she would take me. I thought she might be backed up
