Queen Victoria's Revenge (13 page)

A uniformed attendant opened the door and led his small flock across the rain-swept concrete to the arrival gate. Tony walked as slowly as possible, well aware of the hovering form of Willy by his side, and examined with close attention the physical setup of the airport. The terminal was off to the right, from which there projected an elevated and enclosed walkway. Stairs descended on both sides at regular intervals and they were going toward the nearest now, numbered seven. Presumably the gates were in the walkway above, and at the gate would be waiting Willy's muscular friends. So what he must do now was to avoid this gate and those unwelcome patriots.

By strolling, while the others rushed to be out of the scudding rain, Tony managed to be the last one through the door, climbing the stairs with the gateman right behind him. At the head of the stairs was a waiting room and ticket counter with other uniformed airline employees and a murmuring crowd beyond the barrier. This was far enough.

“Gone,” Tony said, scratching at his hip and turning to the gateman. “My wallet is gone. It must have fallen out of my pocket in the plane.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Positive. I had it out during the flight. Must not have put it away too securely. I'll go look.” He turned back to the stairs and was aware of Willy vibrating back and forth by his side; Tony smiled affectionately. “No point in both of us getting wet, is there, Willy? You just wait here while I go get it.”

The most senior of the uniformed employees had been listening to all this and nodded his permission. “Go with the gentleman, Donald, and see if you can find it.”

Willy opened his mouth to protest—but there was really nothing he could say. He was the man of theory, not practice, and could not think fast enough. Tony waved to him thoughtfully and turned away back down the stairs. Step one.

“Does it always rain here?” he asked as they hurried back to the plane.

“Aye,” Donald said, then thought about it. “That is when the sun is not shining.” Mustn't frighten the tourists. “Do you remember which seat you were in?”

Tony pointed through the open door. “That one, front row on the right by the window.” Donald climbed in, poked around the seat and retrieved the wallet. “Here it is, right as rain.”

As they walked back to the exit Tony casually asked, “Are all these other gates exits as well?”

“Aye.”

“Any particular reason why I could not use the next one down? It's closer to the terminal.”

“Sorry. This is the exit for this flight.”

“I would like to use the other one, no one should mind.”

“Wrong exit, if you please.”

A firm hand on the small of his back moved him politely but positively toward the waiting door. Tony opened his hands and the bag of clothing was caught by the wind and carried off in the direction of the North Pole. He grabbed for it but managed to miss. It rolled along the wet concrete, the paper disintegrating as he took a feeble step after it. His watchdog had better reflexes and ran ahead of him, reaching for the sack. They were under the walkway, out of sight of anyone above. Tony turned and ran toward the next exit.

He was only halfway there when angry shouts and pounding feet came after him. The soundproofing would keep anyone above from hearing this—so all he had to do was stay ahead of his pursuer. Fear winged his heels and he clawed the door open and pounded up the stairs. The counter above was vacant and he slowed to a fast walk as he went through the gate, very cheered to see the crowd at exit seven all had their backs to him.

Within the instant this changed. Irate and bellowing, his pursuer came through the door and all the heads snapped around at once. Taking a deep breath, Tony plunged away down the corridor. There were some passengers coming toward him and he went through them with a neat bit of broken field running, leaping nimbly as a deer over a blockade of suitcases. He risked a single look back over his shoulder as he pushed open the door to the terminal.

The uniformed Donald had given up the chase, perhaps realizing that once inside the building Tony's crime became no crime. Others felt differently. Two solidly built young men were pounding along in his wake, trailed far behind by a panting Willy. Press on!

Across the waiting room, quick glimpses of counters and shops, a wide stairs ahead. Down it two steps at a time to collide with a large dog on a leash. The dog blinked phlegmatically as Tony fell, skidded, rolled and staggered to his feet. “Sorry,” he said to the dog's gaping owner as he thrust himself against the glass doors to the sidewalk outside. Welcome as a lifesaver to a drowning man was the waiting taxi. With his last strength he threw himself inside and slammed the door behind him.

“To Glasgow,” he gasped. “The Central Station.” It was the only place he knew.

The driver slowly started the engine and pushed it into gear as the two pursuers rushed up. Tony fumbled with the door and managed-to press the locking button as they tore at the handle.

“My brother-in-law,” he shouted with manic inspiration. “He thinks I have not done right by his little sister.”

The cab pulled slowly away, the driver nodding his head, some common chord of humanity struck. “You should meet my bloody in-laws,” he said, grimly.

The scene through the rear window was most satisfying. The two men ran a few feet, then stopped, shaking their fists after the cab. They were joined by a staggering Willy and one of them supported him while they conferred. The last glimpse Tony had was of them waving down the next taxi in line. “They're after us in a taxi,” Tony said. “Is there anything you can do? I have an extra five pounds here that might give you some ideas.” The cab shot forward as the driver stepped on the accelerator.

“In-laws,” he said, voice rich with loathing, uniting all in-laws in the world into a common band of evil. “I'll just turn here where they can't see me and go right around and in the entrance again. That way we'll be behind instead of ahead of them and they won't have a clue.”

It was a simple and masterful plan and Tony slowly regained his breath as, at a safe distance, they followed the other cab from the terminal. It shot ahead on the M8 motorway toward Glasgow and they followed at a more leisurely pace until it finally left them behind in the traffic. The driver, chuckling to himself with the sweetness of some secret revenge, left the motorway before they reached the city and they never saw the other taxi again.

As his fatigue faded so did Tony's elation. So he had given them the slip. So what? He was still here in Scotland, plunging toward a strange city with every man's hand turned against him. A fugitive from the law, sought by Cuban torturers and Scottish murderers, unshaven and tired. What to do? Go back to the airport and take a plane? No, that would mean facing the irate Donald and the law, who would surely take a dim view of his galloping flight through the terminal. Lie low in Glasgow in a hotel or something? Unwise; that would just be putting off the moment when he had to get out, permitting them to draw the net tighter. He was moving now and he had to keep moving, stay ahead if possible. The station it would have to be. Get a train and get out.

Firm in his resolution, he tried to relax in his seat as they worked their way through the early evening traffic. His stomach, unstoked for a good twelve hours now, sent up frantic messages that he was on the verge of starving to death. He beat it back forcefully and ignored the siren attractions of all the restaurants they passed. Flight first, eat later. The familiar bulk of Central Station loomed ahead and he counted out pound notes, paid handsomely even before the meter was turned off, bounding into the station the instant they had stopped. There was a call board that announced the trains and he was working it out to himself, take twelve away from the numbers bigger than twelve and you have
P.M
., when a paunchy man stopped next to him, also examining the board.

“You would be much wiser to come with me, Mr. Hawkin,” the man said in a low voice. Tony resisted strongly the impulse to leap straight into the air or to start running again. Instead he hurried toward the gate where the London train was boarding; it would not leave for another ten minutes. Of course they would have alerted lookouts at all the stations, not thugs but true believers. The thugs would be here soon.

“Ticket,” the trainman at the gate said, raising his clipper and snapping it hopefully in Tony's direction.

“I can get it on the train.” Hope raised, firmly dashed. “Ticket window there, sir. Next.” He nipped little pieces from the slips of pasteboard as the passengers hurried past.

What to do? Numbly he stumbled off, feeling the forces of the enemy drawing close. As he passed a woman selling, flowers from a basket she leaned forward and hissed around her solitary front tooth, “They're coomin' for you, Hawkin.” It was too much! He rushed to the ticket window.

“Give me a ticket to London.”

“Single or return?” He saw Tony's vacant expression so, no stranger to soft foreigners, he proceeded to translate. “One way or round trip?” A glance at Tony's unshaven jaw and clothes. “Second class.” No question of that.

“One way, single, yes.”

He paid, came away with the ticket in his hand, looked at the trains and had his first glimmer of hope. If he attempted to take the London train, he knew, without a doubt, that he would not be aboard it when it reached its destination. So what else? On the very next track stood a train, going to Edinburgh said the sign, leaving in one minute announced the clock. Whistles were already blowing on the platform, doors slamming, the trainman's hand ready on the entrance gate. A late arrival supplied the clue. He rushed up, brandishing his ticket—and was waved through. No time for the old clip-clip.

Don't all waved tickets look the same?

Walking with a slow rocking gait that he hoped radiated an aura of relaxation and ease, Tony strolled over toward the London train. Other passengers pushed past him since he was in no hurry; out of the corners of his eyes he watched the next gate with fierce intensity. More whistles blew and the trainman looked over his shoulder, then began to close the barrier.

“My train!” Tony called out, pushing through, ticket a-wave.

“Too late,” the trainman said dourly, but allowed him to proceed. The train was beginning to move. He ran. Catching up with the last car, he wondered what to do next. How did the door open? He was beginning to tire and the train was going faster now.

The door popped open and a great black face looked down at him, an equally black hand took his and drew him forcefully in and the door slammed behind him. A whistle screamed as they gathered up speed and rushed out of the station.

“Thanks,” Tony gasped at his savior.

“Nothing, mon, nothing.”

He collapsed into the seat across from the man, who smiled benevolently upon him. His coat was shabby and his shoes were scuffed; a crumpled paper bundle rested comfortably in his lap. A generous smile lit his face, stretching his face below his wide broken nose, wide to begin with and now covering a good part of the center of his face. With conspiratory discretion he looked around to be sure the compartment was empty, it was, then produced with a display of pride a long-necked amber bottle from his package.

“True Jamaica rum, straight from home. You drink that and you'll be feeling better.”

“I would,” Tony gasped and took the bottle and drank deep; it seared a track of joy down his parched gullet. His newfound companion nodded compassionately and had a deep draught himself, smacking his lips with relish afterward. There was a rattle of the compartment door as the conductor slid it open and the bottle instantly vanished.

“Tickets.”

The clipper snicked once, then he turned to Tony and took the proffered ticket and looked at it appraisingly.

“This is a ticket for London and you're on the Edinburgh train.”

“I must have made a mistake.”

“No good on this train, but you can change in Edinburgh. But you'll need a ticket to get there.”

“I can buy one can't I?”

The answer was obviously yes for the conductor produced forms and tickets from his pockets and did laborious calculations, accepting money and returning a receipt. Tony pocketed this, paid the required sum and watched the door close with relief.

“I can tell that you are American,” his traveling companion said. “And that is my part of the world too, we drink to that.” They did. “Teddy Buchanan,” he added, smiling, like a benediction.

“What? Oh, yes, I'm … George Wash.” He managed to swallow the
ington.
Yes, that was American enough; what could he have been thinking of?

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, George. I like to talk, have a drink with a mon, makes the trip much faster. People here aren't like in Jamaica, don't like to do that. Here.”

Here was another slug of liquid fire. Tony's head was beginning to buzz with the impact of the decidedly raw spirits on his empty stomach. Food would take care of that, yes food, long forgotten. Was there anything to eat on this train? Teddy nodded at the question.

“A nice buffet car, come I'll show you. Every Saturday I make this trip, see my friend's wife, who is in hospital in Glasgow. I talk to her, cheer her up, sometimes give her a little rum when sister is out of the way. It's a good life if you keep happy, isn't it?”

Tony nodded and fought back a hiccup as they trod the corridor. Life certainly was happier when beamed upon by that smiling face; he felt better already. Edinburgh was hovering in the future and he would arrive there soon enough. But that problem would be faced when it arrived, along with the problem of the unwelcome welcoming committee that he had no doubt would be waiting for him in the station. Food first and problems later! In this he was in luck for the buffet car proved to be a highly civilized arrangement, with tables between the facing seats and a sort of compact ship's galley in the center where good things of all kinds were dispersed. Coffee and freshly brewed tea, packages of cakes and pies, sandwiches and potato chips. Ranked rows of strong drink, an infinite variety of alcoholic and teetotal beverages in cans. “Sandwiches?” Tony asked hopefully.