Chapter Twenty Eight
They caught the bus for Newcastle at the Memorial bus stop. The memorial in question was, of course, the one dedicated to Grace Darling.
They went early, so that Ben could see the Memorial. He was interested as the author of the potential article for the Daily Mail which already he was in the process of writing in longhand. He was impressed, especially in the grandeur of the memorial, usually reserved for people of state power. A carved effigy was on the tomb, with a pair of oars alongside her. A canopy of Portland stone was erected above the tomb. However, as McBride pointed out, she was not buried here, but in a family plot. So that he could spice up the story, McBride told him that Queen Victoria had subscribed money for the building of the monument. He thought it was fifty pounds she donated and immense sum at the time. Ben was still scribbling notes as the bus arrived. A single deck bus, already with a few elderly passengers. Bus journeys were popular with the old. Pensioners got free travel.
“We have to change buses at Belford,” said McBride,” but it will be no hassle.”
But Ben didn’t seem to be listening, as he scribbled away in the notebook resting perilously on his knee. There were three stops before they arrived at Belford. Then they walked a few yards, and caught the X15. Ben asked what the X stood for on the bus. McBride didn’t know but suggested it might stand for express. That kept Ben laughing for the next few minutes.
McBride dozed for a few minutes, and then they were in Alnwick, the County town of Northumberland, a market town dominated by the castle, home of the Earl of Northumberland. It was now two o’clock, and they were thirty four miles from Newcastle.
In the next hour they visited six villages and arrived at Morpeth, another market town. Ben was still writing in his notebook, and when McBride glanced down at the book, realised he was writing in shorthand. But then, he was a reporter. After three stops in Morpeth, the bus fairly raced along, through the suburban villages, such as High Clifton and Gosforth to deposit them in the city centre, in Haymarket. McBride got directions to Central Station from the bus driver.
McBride told Ben that they had to step on it, the train left in half an hour, and they had to get tickets. From Haymarket, they hurried down Northumberland Street, dodging the crowds of shoppers, and to the high monument in the middle of the road, bearing aloft a statue of Earl de Grey.
A left turn here, and it was downhill to the railway station. They got there with twenty minutes to spare, but still they had to get tickets. They were in such a rush that McBride didn’t notice the large man with the black beard who was watching them.
The train came in on time and McBride marvelled that they would cover the last leg of the journey, a distance of over a hundred miles in an hour and eight minutes. That beat the bus, any day. They were travelling standard class, renamed from the old third class, renamed in turn from second class. No surprise that things would change over nearly two centuries, McBride thought. The train was not too full, and they sat opposite each other at a table for four with two empty seats before they sat in them. The inside seats were occupied with what looked like business men. Smartly dressed, using laptops and speaking to each other occasionally. Ben settled down writing in his notebook, smiling now and then.
“What is making you smile, Ben?”
“The story. We had a great time in retrospect, didn’t we? And a few laughs. I do like adventures.”
McBride looked grumpy and shrugged. But secretly he agreed. He too, liked adventure.
In no time, it seemed, the train pulled into Durham. The other two occupants of McBride and Ben’s table, excused themselves. Ben and McBride had to stand in the aisle while the businessmen left. Ben went into the window seat, and at the other side of the table, so did McBride.
The train pulled out of the station, and McBride who was reading one of this morning’s papers from the plastic bag, looked up as someone sat down next to him.
It was black beard, last seen by McBride when he was being bundled into the back of the transit van at gunpoint. The SVR man, who had been adept at picking them up already.
“Ben, look who’s here.” McBride spoke quietly. The seriousness of his tone of voice made Ben look up straight away.
“My God.”
“Good evening, gentlemen. What a surprise to see you back in England. I hear you have been assaulting my friends, too.”
“You can’t do anything about it. The train is too crowded. You wouldn’t get away with it.” McBride was not as confident as he made out.
“In my right hand I have a small pistol with a silencer. I will choose my moment well, when we run over some noisy track. Then I will fire. When you slump over the table dead, I will shout out that you have had a heart attack, and pull the communication cord. In the ensuing hiatus, I will leave the train which will be stationary. Only after I have left will they find out the truth from the boy here.”
There was a minute of silence as McBride and Ben mulled over the death sentence that Black Beard had pronounced. McBride glanced at the seats around them, mentally calculating who could come to his aid. Not the people opposite their seats, a man and a woman, they were too old, possibly in their eighties.
Black Beard spoke again, in a more breathless way, and louder, much louder. People were turning round, looking at him.
“You won’t get away with this I can tell you.” He was screaming now. McBride could see the conductor coming along the aisle examining tickets. He was one table back. He looked up as he heard Black Beard.
“And I will kill you, believe me. I can’t stand you!”
The conductor reached their table. “Tickets please.”
Black Beard took no notice. “I am going to shoot you now!” That shook McBride. He glanced down. Black Beard had both hands under the table. He kicked Ben’s leg.
“Quick, kick him in the balls.”
Black Beard looked now at Ben in bewilderment. A moment later, he was moaning, and leaning with his head down on the table. McBride felt under the table, searching for Black Beards hands, and the pistol. He was hardly in a position to be holding anything other than his privates. McBride hadn’t heard the pistol hit the floor, so he assumed it must still be within reach. He felt stealthily on Black Beard’s lap, and then along the seat by the man’s right hand. Nothing. He couldn’t have had a gun. McBride blew a sigh of relief. It was nice to be alive.
Ben was holding out his ticket to the conductor. McBride pulled his ticket out. Black Beard still had his head down and appeared to be weeping.
When the conductor had punched Ben and McBride’s tickets, he shook Black Beard by the shoulder.
“Your ticket please, Sir.”
Black Beard looked up and snarled. “I haven’t got one.”
“You will have to purchase one now. Where is your destination?”
“London.” The conductor told him the price. Black Beard tendered a credit card. The transaction was quickly finished.
McBride said, “This man is behaving badly, he has sexually assaulted me, and you heard him ranting. Can he be moved to another seat?”
The conductor said to Black Beard. “I’ve got a much better seat for you down the train, please come with me. Much to McBride’s astonishment, Black Beard stood up to leave with the conductor. But he muttered.
“I haven’t finished with you yet.” He meekly followed the conductor who was walking back in the direction he had come from.
Almost immediately there was an announcement. In a few minutes we shall be arriving in York. Change here for Manchester, Leeds and Huddersfield, Hull.
Please check that you have all your belongings with you before you leave the train.
People were standing up, and moving into the aisle. There was no sign of Black Beard, hidden by the passengers disembarking.
“Quick,” said McBride, “let’s get moving, while we are not being watched, push your way into the aisle.”
They did so, tolerant passengers letting them into the queue for
the exit.
McBride gave a grateful smile to the pretty woman who let him out of his seat.
Out on the platform, amongst the crowds, McBride glanced back at the train windows. He couldn’t see anybody in the train that was looking out. Ben thankfully had put his notebook away, the first time he had stopped writing since he was at the monument in Seahouses.
Walking along to the platform, McBride said, “Finished the article so soon?”
“Not exactly. The broad outline is there, and a lot of detail. A couple more hours with a laptop, and I can email it to London.”
“Will they pay you a lot of money?”
“Probably in excess of a couple of grand. It is an exclusive.”
“Not bad. Now, where will your sister be?”
“I would think in the front of the station, on the pavement, watching.”
They got outside, and there she was. McBride recognised her, and she was even prettier than he remembered. Too long without women, he thought. She saw Ben and embraced him, pushed herself back, with her hands on his shoulders.
“You’re a lot thinner. You need building up.”
“Yes, Sis.”
“It’s all muscle, he’s had to work hard the last couple of weeks,” said McBride.
She turned to him, put her arms round him,and looked up into his face.
“You promised me, and you brought him back. What ever can I do to thank you?”
“Well, it’s been a bit of fun. So, if you can drop me off in town, that will be thanks enough. I’m staying in York with my mother, go home tomorrow.”
Her car was in the station short stay park, only round the corner. McBride gave directions, and asked to be dropped off at the corner of a street.
“Here will do just fine. Goodbye, Ben. Keep in touch. Goodbye to you both.”
When the car had moved off, McBride watched the traffic for a minute or two. He looked at the pedestrians. No-one seemed interested in him. He didn’t really think he would be followed. He thought the next altercation would be at his house, tomorrow. Nevertheless, he took a winding way to his mother’s house, rather than lead anybody direct.
He arrived at the street where his mother’s house was located, looked in every direction. He was not being followed, he was certain. He was still cautious, and walked past the house to the other end of the street, before turning back again. He rang the doorbell of the large double-fronted Georgian house, one of a terrace, directly on the street, no garden at the front. His mother was at the door almost immediately. When he was in the hall, she gave him a hug.
“You big silly boy,” she said.
She had told him they were dining out, and he knew the restaurant was only a dozen doors down the street. Would it endanger his mother, he asked himself? He couldn’t do anything that would draw her into the firing line.
“Mother, how about having a meal at home? I don’t mind cooking.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. I’ve booked a table, and it’s my treat.”
“Okay, Mother. Do I have time to make an urgent phone call?”
“We’re not going until eight. Nobody dines before that.”
Well maybe in York, but he knew plenty who did.