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Off Track

A Superintendent Mike Yeadings Mystery

St. Martin's Press

Friday, 1st June

Piers Egerton carefully carried the two overfilled glasses of pina colada across, but Professor Clara Foulkes had turned her attention to a small, immaculately dinner-jacketed man with a white goatee beard. More than the force of her argument had crowded him into a corner, where he cowered under the hoisted spinnaker of her formidable bust.

Intervention was not only unwise but physically impossible. Piers retired to find some other recipient for the drink. Turning, he encountered a blonde young woman in black taffeta. 'Hello-o-o-o,' she cooed at him. 'We've not met. I'm Melissa. Tell me about yourself.'

'Piers Egerton. I'm a microbiologist.' He handed her one glass.

'And I'm a brain surgeon, a neuro-whatsit,' she claimed outrageously, half-flirting. She flung her shoulder-length hair and handed him her empty champagne flute. 'No, seriously, what do you do?'

That was the billion-dollar question: what did he do? He considered this. 'You could say I destroy things,' he told her simply.

'What, in a demolition gang?' She sounded incredulous, by now taking him more for a bit of rough scrubbed-up for the evening. Rather, in fact, like her, tagging along as trophy girlfriend to a boring little fart from University College.

He nodded. 'Something like that.'

She struck a pose, weight on one jutting hip balanced by the out-flung arm, cocktail glass rotating between silver fingernails. 'So what? You're the bloke up in the crane cab swinging the big ball?' She looked at him with mock innocent eyes. 'I adore big balls.'

She was more than a little squiffy, he saw. It hardly mattered what he told her. 'I'm not let loose with such heavy stuff. I work on a very small scale.' He heard his own voice tinged with bitterness. So what? If she thought him pathetic, she might let him go. He could pretend he recognised someone over her shoulder, give a little wave, excuse himself and move on.

But no need: she'd beaten him to it, vaguely drifted away, finding him tedious. And that, as it happened, was his opinion of this whole academic social setup. There were more urgent, soul-searing subjects to bedevil his mind. He'd had enough here.

He dumped the untasted drink and the empty flute, went down by the grand staircase, collected his briefcase and went out into the street. It was a balmy evening; a slight coolness stirring the air after another torrid day. It smelt of London summer, something quite different from what he was used to: a blend of old, sun-dried stone and dusty leaves with a lingering hint of spicy food.

Sitting in the car, in comparative darkness, he watched the socialising figures move across the brightly lit, long windows, mingling and regrouping to seek fresh audiences for their competitive brilliance. All those robust egos; preening, everyone talking at high pitch, nobody listening: so much intellectual froth. For him, these academic gatherings had never been more than an embarrassing diversion from his work. It was fitting now to be the outsider looking in, because at this crossroads in his life, he was finished with it.

Professor Clara could stay on, boring and bossing her way round the roomful of colleagues, until the last bottle was empty and the last learned academic equally wrung dry of counters to her proposals.

He would catch her as eventually she left vexed at his disappearance – once she noticed it. He'd do this last escort duty, an ironic courtesy. And once he'd deposited her on her doorstep, that would be the end: the end of his career and of any deserved honours in his chosen field. Even, perhaps, the beginning of persecution.

Martyrdom: his mouth twisted bitterly. He knew he was no hero.

After almost a decade of compromising with his conscience, Piers had been considering alternative paths his studies might have taken him: genetic engineering; organising and developing new saprotrophs and yeasts into fresh areas of food production to save the starving hordes of Africa and Asia. Even the humbler posts of sewage-farm manager or coordinator of the nation's refuse dumps might have been more palatable than his present researches, the culture and proliferation of viruses capable of turning a human's frame and innards into sludge. The academic challenge had once excited him beyond considering the outcome to either humanity or himself, but it no longer excused what he now found himself immersed in.

At the time of the Cold War, when the project was conceived, it had been necessary to build up defences to counter the USSR's enormous outlay on military strength with nuclear and space research. He had assumed that when the Curtain finally came down, the project would be set aside, grind to a halt, and then he could turn his mind to beneficial medicine.

The Curtain fell and the Soviet Empire fragmented, but the project rolled unassailably on. Yearly he expected that the Financial Review would kill it off, but the damn thing had developed a hideous life of its own. Now, with it past the animal-testing stage, visible suffering had a power to move him that he could never have imagined while all was theoretical and at lab-experimental level. And its instigators marched on like zombies, robots manipulated and enslaved by the study itself. Only he seemed aware of the almighty obscenity it was becoming. Never attracted to religion, he now was held transfixed by an image of men's souls themselves turned to slush inside by the evil he had sold himself into.

And so, in revolt, he must finally summon what little was left to him of decency and human dignity: turn his face away, become a traitor to his lifetime's work.

They were expecting him at Beaconsfield, but it wasn't MoD Intelligence he'd be talking to. Instead there would be someone waiting to whisk him away to a safe house while they worked together on an acceptable way to make this available to the gulled British public. He'd left no trail. Long after anyone missed him, they might find his car in the underground garage to Professor Clara's apartment block.

A week earlier

Lee Barber gently pulled the control handle towards him through four power notches to the wide open position. As the engines picked up, the Turbostar accelerated smoothly past the end of the platform ramp at Denham Station. At once the bright pools of sodium lighting were gone, and Lee rubbed his eyes, straining to adjust against the wall of darkness enveloping the cab.

He considered the irony that the headlights weren't for his benefit, but to warn anyone on the track of the train's approach. The beams spread too thinly to light up the route ahead. It might be the twenty-first century but as far as rail progress went, that hadn't changed since the 1850s.

A driver had to know where he was without needing to look. Even in a pea-soup fog, he was expected to run at full line speed, so long as the signals were green. But then, night driving was a skill that Lee enjoyed. There was something primeval about the way that, once you lost vision, your other senses were stimulated and you fell back on instinct – almost became a hunter.

Even though you drove this route every day, you were now 'flying blind'. Once in the country and away from the town lights, although your eyes were of little use, you heard the changing rhythm of the rails, the whoosh of structures that the cab passed by; you felt the jolts and the swaying; you counted the signals and you could smell the different crops in the fields. It took time to pick up on the sensory map, but once cracked, it was a skill that set you apart.

Lee smiled, wondering how long it would take him to forget this local lore once he'd escaped to join the Big Boys. He silently thanked the Misbourne Line for his training, but any debt would be paid after his probation and two years of productive driving. Then he'd be off like a greyhound from the traps to something bigger and better.

It was the European Express he would go for. On the Continent they had fantastic routes and all the latest technology; no more being held up for lost backpackers stowing camping junk and bicycles, and doddery old grandads limping the length of the train for a favourite carriage. No, he'd be carrying the elite – senior government officials and captains of industry. On silky smooth rails he'd whisk them at 180 mph between Europe's capitals. International train cabs were air conditioned, with state-of-the-art electronics and in-cab signalling, more like the Space Shuttle rather than a train.

Beside all this there'd be an enhanced lifestyle with improved status, a higher salary and private health care. As often as they wished, he could take the kids to Euro Disney. They'd be really chuffed with that; and later it would be cool for them to trail their friends round Europe for free. Also, he could sweep Kathy off to candlelit dinners in exotic places where the famous were on show. She wouldn't then say that train-driving had destroyed what little romance her husband ever possessed.

She'd never understood the domestic problem that the shift system played on drivers forever catching up with their body rhythms. You started on a week of the rarer night shifts, and just when your body had settled into them, learning to sleep in the daylight, your roster changed you to Earlies. Then, as you were adjusting to those and going home to sleep afternoons, you were moved over to Lates. And so the cycle went on and on, alternating and wearing you down to a frazzle.

When Lee had passed his entry assessment, his mate Justin, a lifetime train driver, had congratulated him. Then he said, 'So now you've joined the ranks of the Permanently Knackered. You've yet to learn that sleep is for girls, old son. It's a good life, but remember this – strangers will become your family, and your family get to be strangers.'

Justin had raised his tankard and laughed when he said it, but Lee knew him well enough to pick up on the bitterness. He'd been there when Justin's family tore itself apart.

* * *

Lee grunted and turned to look at the track maintenance engineer who had joined him in the cab at West Ruislip. Raising an eyebrow, he said, 'Well, it doesn't feel bumpy to me.'

Frank Morton smiled. 'Yeah, it's pretty smooth. Actually, it was one of your guys who called in the "Rough Ride", but that was at midday when the sun was cooking the ballast. The rail would have been tightening up in the expansion joints. Now that the sun's down everything has cooled off and slackened back to normal. I really wasn't expecting to find it so late in the day, but I was overdue a ride down to GX anyway, and it gets me out of the office.'

Lee nodded. 'Well, it's always good to have company on the Graveyard Run.'

'You been long on the night shift then?'

Lee nodded. 'Three days down; four to go after this one.'

'Do they come round often?'

'No, but never would be enough. It isn't the Nights themselves; the work's really easy: late trains, and then shunting and next-day preparations. The hard part is at the end of the run, when you're struggling to get your body rhythm back on to the early shift – that's the killer.'

Drizzle misted the windscreen. Lee turned the wiper control to 'intermittent' and squirted a couple of jets of screenwash. After early June's torrid heat this was the first rain in several weeks. By now the rails were contaminated with oil and brake dust. Not a problem while the weather stayed dry, but with a few drops of rain a fine greasy film would form on the railhead. This would be as slippery as a buttered frying pan.

Stopping at Denham Golf Club could prove a little tricky. He usually started his braking sequence as the train rattled over the Home Farm foot crossing but, with the drizzle, that would be too late tonight. He might need as much as thirty per cent extra braking distance.

He considered how much earlier he should start. His eyes had now adjusted to the dark and he made out the silhouette of Fletchers' Wood to his right, like a pile of cumulus cloud.

Yes, putting the brake in Step One when passing the field of pig pens would bleed the speed off gently, giving control space if she started to slide.

He drove on in silence. The engineer, thumbing through a bunch of papers under his clipboard light, raised his head to complain. 'You know, this job's gone to shit. We spend half our time filling in forms to explain why we're only half as productive as we should be. If we threw away all the bureaucracy we could be fully productive. Then the nit-pickers and accountants would have to find proper, honest jobs – which has to be good.' He grinned wryly. 'Would you believe that I started out reading for a Law degree?'

'No kidding?' said Lee. 'Just think of the money you gave up on!'

'Stuff that. Actually, I get all the courtroom contention I can handle in this job. Besides, I sometimes like to get my hands dirty and feel the rain on my face.'

'Rain! Oh God,' shouted Lee. By now they were past the pig-pen field. He'd missed the early braking. Already the foot crossing rattled underneath. Lee knew he had no choice. He must go for the usual full brake pressure; not the light application he'd planned.

He pushed the control handle forward into Step Two and checked the brake pressure gauge. The needle rose boldly to display the expected two bars, but began to quiver, and then dance crazily between zero and two bars. The speedometer, which seconds earlier had shown a steady 70 mph, was now also performing a drunken wobble.

'No, no!' he growled.

'She's sliding!' The engineer braced himself in his seat as the bogie below him shimmied between the rails with the wheels fighting for a grip.

The train had Wheel Slide Protection, like ABS on a car. Whenever the wheels started to lock, it released the brakes, and then once the wheels were turning again, reapplied them. There was hissing as the air brakes released.

'Nothing you can do? I can't feel we're slowing.'

'I've pressed Emergency Sanding, so we're laying a trail of grit to give more friction. All we can do now is hope.'

The bright lights of Denham Golf Club station flashed into distant view. OK, there was an optical illusion, Lee told himself. Stations always look closer at night, brilliant against the dark.

But DGC was coming up fast. He knew the train couldn't stop within the length of the platform.

'Nothing for it, but to go into Emergency,' Lee groaned. He slapped the plunger by his left elbow and the whole train juddered as the braking force dramatically increased.

'Won't hard braking make the slide worse?' Morton protested.

Lee grunted. 'Sure, but it's required company procedure for a station overrun. Either way, I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't.'

The hissing rose in intensity, but now both of them could feel the train lurching each time the brakes were applied. Carriages were slamming into each other and bouncing around as each of them braked.

The train was slowing, but not enough. A lump grew in Lee's throat as the platform rolled past his window. It was like a cliffhanging nightmare where you felt your grip slipping helplessly away. The far ramp of the platform slid past, leaving the cab once more in darkness, and then mercifully the train ground to a halt.

Lee opened his cab door and leant out to see by how much he'd overshot the station. 'Thank God,' he said, squinting back. 'With luck, I reckon I've got the last set of doors against the platform.'

He reached in his bag for his orange hi-viz jacket and Bardic lamp. Then, lifting the public address handset, he counted to three to steady his voice and keyed up the mike.

'Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this is your driver speaking. We've just arrived at Denham Golf Club station. Due to a temporary technical fault on this train, I can only release the doors on the rear coach, so would any passengers wishing to alight at Denham Golf Club please go to the rear end of the train where I will release the doors manually. Thank you.'

Lee passed through into the carriage behind him and hurried down the train. The few passengers were either asleep, listening to personal stereos or chatting quietly among themselves. Nobody looked up to enquire what the problem was. In the last carriage only a middle-aged lady was waiting for him, smiling as he inserted his carriage key into the release on the doors.

He followed her outside and glanced the length of the platform. At the far end, a single figure waved uncertainly and began to walk down to meet the passenger.

Nobody was waiting to get on. Lee boarded the train and closed the doors.

'Everything OK?' Frank Morton asked as he returned.

'Yeah, a piece of cake. Nobody's the wiser.'

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Excerpted from Off Track by Clare Curzon. Copyright © 2008 Clare Curzon. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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