by an army of blackguards. 'Want a lady?' she said again. 'What for?' I said.
'What for!' said Vincent, and he gave out a sound that was the next best thing to laughing.
'For… a while,' said the joxie, who then went off, saying something not very friendly.
'Man,' said Vincent, 'we're down in Waterloo,' and he started shaking his head. I had heard of these girls, who sold what you could not believe would ever be for sale; there were commonly supposed to be some in Scarborough, but I never thought I would see one, leave alone actually be kissed by one.
Vincent lifted his pewter and drank. 'They'll fuck you for a consideration, sir!' he said in a funny voice.
For some reason, thoughts of my landlady were in my head, and I did not like the complication of them. 'Why do you call me sir when you're drunk?' I said to Vincent.
'I have a lot more respect for people when I'm sloshed,' said Vincent, 'and you can make of that what you like.'
I tried to look him straight in the eye but the Citadel had now started to move; it was increasing in speed by the second, until the velocity was something remarkable, but, unlike the Atlantics of Mr Ivatt, it did not go in a straight line.
Chapter Fifteen
Tuesday 8 December
Three days later I was in the shed early, stabbing with the handle of a brush at a mass of ash and mud on the brake block of Thirty-One, when the Governor walked up. He was smiling as usual – well, it was usual when he talked to me.
'Fancy a trip to Brookwood?' he said, and he almost bowed, like a magician about to demonstrate some marvellous phenomenon.
'I'll bloody say,' I said, and I chucked down the brush and rubbed my hands on my trousers, because you're supposed to be clean at all times on the footplate. I then realised I'd made a bloomer with that 'bloody', but the Governor didn't take exception. He was walking down the shed between two lines of Atlantics, galvanising the whole place as he went, sending blokes off wheeling barrows, or scrambling into the pits or doing whatever they should have been doing in the first place. He led me to Twenty-Nine, which was just off-shed, standing in a light rain. 'Hop up,' said the Governor.
I climbed onto the cab, and there was the man with the black beard who fired for the half when he was on spare, and who I now knew to be Clive Castle. There was a good fire in the hole, steam pressure was climbing nicely and the cab was pretty clean, but really only half done, so I decided to finish the job. I reached into the locker for the wire brush, then glanced across at Castle. He looked at me, but gave no friendly nod, of course. But I was becoming bolder with the Nine Elms fellows; I would not eat dog. So I said, very business-like: 'I'm coming out with you on the run.'
No answer. His face was very white, or maybe it was just the blackness of his hair and beard that made me think so. He had something on his mind, all right, something bad, but then they all did all the time. It would have been funny – if I didn't believe that evil was at the back of it.
'Where's Rose?' I said, because I had the idea that only he would let me on for a ride. 'Barney Rose?' said Castle. 'Search me.'
I heard a clatter, and an oil can was placed on the footplate behind me. I could tell by the sound that it was empty. Turning about, I saw Arthur Hunt flashing past on his way to going under the engine with a new oil can. The trip was to be with the big man.
Well, I resolved immediately that he would have no reason to find fault. I climbed down from the cab and scurried off to stores, where I meant to pick up a tin of Brasso, although in fact I came upon one on a workbench halfway there, together with a good clean rag which I also caught up. Returning to the footplate of Twenty-Nine, I began hastily polishing the injector wheels, engine brake, regulator. This was laying on luxury as far as cleaning duties went, but I was determined that Arthur Hunt would think me up to the mark.
Of course, it would happen that I was taking a bit of a breather when Hunt flew up onto the footplate with the new oil can in his hand. He'd been filling the pots underneath, but there wasn't a mark on him – which was the mark of a true engine man. Whether this man was a killer, or a friend of killers, he was always perfect about his business, so that I couldn't help but be keen to show him my paces. He wore his usual suit and a tie, and there was a rag folded as neatly as any silk handkerchief in his enormous hands.
I screwed up my courage to a 'Good morning, Mr Hunt' but of course I needn't have bothered.
The first thing he did was take my Brasso and stow it in the locker, cursing in an under-breath. Then without a word he flung my rag onto the fire, which ate it with a great whump. As he did this I noticed – and I saw to my horror that he had noticed too – that the firehole door ground against coal dust a little as it slid along its runners. Seeing that, while I'd got the handbrake looking like the crown jewels, I'd neglected one of the first footplate tasks, I tried to make amends by reaching once again into the locker for the wire brush, but in doing so I clashed arms with Hunt. I was trying to help, but it looked as though I was attempting to come to blows. He turned and gave me such a look that I shrank down onto the sandbox, where Clive Castle immediately told me I could not sit.
Hunt called over my head to Castle, 'We're ready for off, Clive.' He yanked the whistle, and as he did so a terrified blackbird crouched down in a black puddle next to one of the rails alongside us. Birds, as I supposed, could go anywhere they wanted, so why would they come to this hellish spot?
We pulled away from the shed into a black, wet world. We picked up the funeral set, which looked more than ever like cripples from a bygone age, yet Hunt gave them the kid-glove treatment, buffering up with the lightest kiss of metal on metal. Without a word, Castle climbed down to couple on, and I was alone on the footplate with Hunt. I wondered what secrets those two shared besides the arts of running an engine, and in doing so I glanced across at him. He was staring at his hands, pressing them over and over into his folded cloth as if he was trying to get himself the hands of a pen pusher or a parson. I would not suffer in silence, though. I would uncover all, but by degrees.
'You don't want me on this trip,' I said. 'I've been sent up by the Governor against your wishes.' No answer to that.
Clive Castle came back up. I asked if there was anything I could do, and he said, 'Keep out of the fucking way.' We crossed out of the yard and started rolling across the viaducts up to Waterloo. The rows of houses were at right angles to the line, with leaning walls of smoke rising above them. Suddenly there was a great eruption at the fire door, and I spun about in terror, thinking a gauge glass had exploded in Clive Castle's face, but all that had happened was that he had vomited. No wonder he'd been so white. The stuff was swirling all over the cab floor, and Castle was sitting on the sandbox watching it as we backed into the Necropolis station with a funeral party waiting. Hunt didn't say anything until he'd done Castle's job of putting on the handbrake, then he handed Castle a billy. As Castle wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve and took a drink, Hunt picked up the cab hose that used the water pipes of the injector and sprayed the stuff off the cab, looking like the most enormous skivvy I'd ever seen.
Behind us, the funeral parties – three of them – were waiting to get into the carriages, all solemn and silent but with no tears anywhere. As to their clothes, there was not so much blackness as I expected, and most of the men had made do with black armbands and their ordinary suits. The caskets must have been loaded in double- quick time – they seemed pretty light. A woman -1 could not see which one – cried out, 'Oh, I can't believe we shall never see her again!'
Hunt and Castle jumped down from the cab. I leant out and watched them walk along the platform towards the funeral lot, but before they got there they went through one of the doors on the platform, and that was the last I was to see of fireman Castle that day.
Hunt came back a few minutes later alone, with hat off and head bowed as he walked past the mourners. It did not suit him to bow his head, and the effort of doing it helped put him in an even fouler mood than before when he came back to me.
'Get back up there,' he said, for I had climbed down so as to get a better view along the platform.
I went back into the cab as the doors slammed shut along the line of carriages, and Hunt leapt up after me with his coat flying out behind, making him look like a great bat. 'What's up?' I asked. He didn't answer, but threw
