The Good Provider (57 page)

Rain pocked the cinders and splintered the lines. Craig lay chest and belly against the ramp and wondered what the devil to do.

The engine loomed out of darkness, straight from the shed at Kelvinhaugh perhaps, a single tank-engine, sturdy pistons beating purposeful rhythm, two lamps like eyes, a streamer of smoke flaring from its flat funnel. Warily Craig watched its approach and then, glancing to his right, glimpsed the man by the plate-layer’s hut just as he stepped from shelter to peer along at the advancing tank-engine.

Craig’s heart skipped a beat. He held his breath and pressed himself against the cinders. It seemed ridiculous that Malone should still sport the tile hat, an obvious mark of identity, all that Craig needed to be certain that he had located the fugitive. He lowered himself down the slope, rolled on to his feet and ran across the mud towards the hut, screened by rising ground. Below, the lights of Greenfield looked like boats moored in a river delta. The cobbled lane that led through the tunnel under the bridge glinted like a flowing stream. Craig felt as if he was engaged in a race with a tank-engine. It chugged along the line above and behind and he darted glances over his shoulder to check on its position. At length he changed angle, scrambled up the ramp and came on to the shoulder thirty yards or so from the hut, crouched low.

Clearly Malone was considering the possibility of hoisting a ride on the engine. He had come to the edge of the down line and stood between the sleepers, poised and intent. He did not see Craig at first and Craig was able to narrow the distance between them. To his left, over the ridge of the railway, he was aware of warehouses, quays and moorings that flanked St John Street, of river traffic nosing through the falling rain. He tugged his truncheon from its holster and held it by his side.

Malone saw him, started, straightened.

For a split second Craig thought that Malone intended to hurl himself across the track in front of the engine but Malone was not so much of a fool as all that. He stood his ground and let the tank-engine thunder past.

‘Is that you, Nicholson?’ Malone said.

‘Aye, it is.’

‘What are you doin’ out here in this weather?’

‘Lookin’ for you.’

‘It seems you’ve found me.’

‘It seems I have.’

‘Now I suppose you’ll want to take me in?’

‘That’s my job, Danny,’ Craig said.

‘A hard job it’ll be.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘The Dumbarton express train will be comin’ through in a minute or two,’ Malone said. ‘Does it still slow at the signal at the bridge?’

‘Usually it does, aye.’

‘I could be on it.’

‘It would be a rough ride, Danny.’

‘How much will the fare cost?’

‘What?’

‘How much will it cost for me to be on it an’ for you to walk away?’

‘No sum o’ money will buy you that ticket.’

‘Forty pounds?’

‘Where did you get—’

‘Oh, I’ve got it,’ said Malone. ‘Right here in my pocket. Fifty pounds?’

Craig said, ‘Did you see my wife, Danny?’

‘Your wife? What way would I see your wife?’

‘You followed her into Walbrook Street.’

‘Not me, Craig. I wouldn’t know your wife from a piece o’ cheese.’

‘Same as you wouldn’t know Joseph McGhee?’ Craig said.

‘Come on, damn it, how much will my last chance cost me?’

‘I told you, Danny,’ Craig said. ‘I’ll not be bought.’

‘You’re goin’ to try to take me in?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Christ, Nicholson, I had you pegged wrong right from the start.’

‘Will you come quietly, Danny?’

Malone laughed. ‘I did see your wife, as it happens. Not only did I see her, I stuck a knife right into her fat belly.’

Craig said, ‘I’m not fallin’ for your lies any more, Danny.’

‘It’s no lie, sonny. It’s the God’s truth.’

The passenger train from Glasgow emitted a shrill whistle as it cleared the tunnel at Stobhill. On the down line Craig saw a fire-smudge of a shunter halted in obedience to the signal at the single-track’s end. In two or three minutes the express and the shunter would pass on to this section.

Craig plucked the silver whistle from his pocket, stuck it into his mouth and blew as hard as he could.

The sound seemed puny in the wide wet night.

He blew again, and again.

The shunter moved through the signal, over the bridge and into the section, rolling a host of empty wagons behind it.

Malone did not turn round.

‘Arrest me, then,’ Malone said. ‘Take me in.’

‘Put your hands above your head, Danny. Step away from the track.’

‘Aw, naw. If you want me, sonny, you’ll have to take me where I stand.’

‘The engines—’

‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid o’ the engines?’

Raising his baton Craig rushed forward.

It was a rash move, the wrong move, the move that Malone had been waiting for. Malone carried no knife but had found and concealed a length of rusty chain. He lashed out at Craig with it and caught the young man across the side of the head. Only the brim of his helmet prevented him being knocked insensible. He was, however, thrown off balance. He fell to one knee. Before Craig could rise again he was struck violently across his shoulders. On all fours he straddled the line. Out of the tops of his eyes he could see the shunter as it sped over the bridge. He lifted his baton and thrust it upward into Malone’s groin, bored it in and lifted himself up as if he were sticking a pig. Malone roared and backed away and Craig, still dazed, hurled himself on to the man. They fell together, tangled, on the track. There they struggled, rolling on to the stone-fill between the sleepers, each trying to smother the other’s blows and obtain the upper hand while the Dumbarton express rounded into the straight in a billow of smoke and steam.

Craig buried his fingers in the material of the frock coat, heavy with rain. Malone had lost his hat in the first assault and Craig could find no hold on the bristling scalp. He was not dominated by the larger man. He was strong too now. He wedged his knee under Malone’s belly and drove up. Malone did not release his grasp of Craig’s tunic and the young man was yanked to his feet. Leverage, force, balance were the elements of the struggle. Craig’s fear grew as, over Malone’s shoulder, he saw the shunting engine loom up, heard its piercing whistle.

The fireman, leaning from the cab, had spotted them but Craig doubted if there would be line enough left to brake the engine to a halt. He had a horror of being ground beneath the metal wheels and he shouted his fear into Malone’s face.

He did not, however, let go.

The express reached them first.

Noise enveloped him, flickering lights flayed at his senses and numbed his reason. With effort he kept his eyes open, wide open, as the locomotive and its carriages swayed and thundered only inches from his head. He had secured a good firm grip on Malone’s collar and held fast by it, the baton cocked in his fist.

The wide night, the quays, the river, the Greenfield’s little streets were all blotted out by the roar of the Dumbarton express and the shriek of the braking shunter.

Craig no longer knew who was clinging to whom and felt not shock but consternation when the buffer knocked him down.

The sponge, filled with warm soapy water, soothed her and she lay light and lethargic as it brushed her limbs. She did not know who it was that held the sponge or why she felt so contented in the midst of exhaustion. She had never been bathed before, never been given that close attention, had never been nursed.

Whirling, whirling, her mind roved about the problem without settling upon it. She could not concentrate upon the thing that troubled her, that would rouse her from the soft luxurious state of semi-sleep. Lazily she floated in a moist innocence, like a baby in the warm dark womb.

She opened her eyes.

‘Where is it?’ she demanded.

‘Easy, Kirsty, be easy,’ a man’s voice said. ‘Don’t excite yourself.’

‘Where’s my baby?’

‘He’s here.’

‘I want to see—’

‘Aunt Nessie’s washing him. She’ll only be a moment. Please, Kirsty, lie back.’

‘Is it – is it—’

‘It’s a boy.’

‘A boy. I want to—’

‘In due course, Kirsty. You’ve lost a lot of blood, you know.’

‘Where
is
he?’

She was desperate now but so weak that she could not even pull herself into a sitting position. She could find no purchase on the slippery surface of the bed. She gave a little cry of frustration and shook her head to clear away the clouds and bring her eyes into focus.

‘See, dear, here he is.’

‘Hold him closer, Aunt.’

Kirsty felt pillows being drawn behind her and leaned on them gratefully. Somebody pulled a sheet over her breast. She sought to free her arms. A towel stroked her brow. She blinked and at last saw that it was David by her side and that Mrs Frew was stooping over her, smiling.

In the widow’s arms was a cocoon of towels, fresh and white. In the towels was a tiny red creature, so scarlet and angry that Kirsty felt, for a moment only, an unexpected twinge of revulsion.

‘Is that—?

‘Yes, that’s him, Kirsty; that’s your son.’

‘What’s wrong wi’ him?’

‘Nothing. He’s perfectly sound,’ David said.

She could not take her astonished gaze from the tiny red thing.

David went on, ‘He’s exceedingly small, however, and will need to be nurtured with great care for a month or two.’

‘I want to hold—’

‘Oh, isn’t he lovely,’ said Mrs Frew.

Upside-down her friend’s features seemed predatory. She was beginning to recall all kinds of ugly things. She could see Mrs Frew’s teeth, tongue, nostrils, and a wickedly-pointed brooch at the throat of her dress. The dress itself was stained.

Struggling again, Kirsty stretched out her arms.

‘He’s mine.’

David put a hand upon her arm. ‘Kirsty, listen to me—’

‘
Mine.
’

‘Kirsty, you’re in no fit condition to nurse him yet. I’ve sent a messenger, a neighbour, to fetch an ambulance to take you to the Samaritan Hospital where you’ll receive expert care.’

‘He’s not sick, is he?’

‘Not exactly,’ said David. ‘Just – early.’

Mrs Frew put the cocoon against Kirsty’s breast. Instinctively Kirsty folded her elbow to receive it. She let her head sink and touch the folds of the towel and looked at the tiny red face with its imperfect features and dusting of dark hair. His eyes were closed but, when she touched him, he pursed his lips and uttered a thin sound, a long
eeeeeeeee
, and she knew that he was alive and breathing; and she began to cry. David put an arm about her.

‘You’ve had a dreadful time, Kirsty. But it’s all over now.’

‘Did you—?’

‘I had to,’ he said. ‘There was nobody else and the wee chap was reluctant to wait. I hope you don’t mind.’

David was in shirt-sleeves, had no tie, no collar. He looked weary, dishevelled and flushed. Now that she had her baby close to her she felt quite lucid.

She said, ‘I’m grateful to you, David. I would have died, perhaps, and him with me if it hadn’t been for you.’

‘Nothing to it,’ David said, flustered. ‘Nothing to it at all.’

Kirsty said, ‘The baby will be all right, won’t he?’

‘Of course he will.’

‘Why are you sendin’ us to hospital?’

‘As a precautionary measure,’ David told her. ‘It’s absolutely normal in premature births.’

‘Was he hurt?’

‘Don’t you remember what happened?’ Mrs Frew asked.

‘I remember Malone. What happened to Malone?’

‘He’s gone,’ David told her. ‘He’ll be caught and brought to book, never fear.’

‘He tried to kill me, didn’t he?’ Kirsty glanced at the neatly bound padding that protected her arm. ‘I see. I see.’

‘Yes, he got you with a knife,’ said David. ‘It’s a clean wound but a deep one. That’s why you’ve lost so much blood.’

‘I thought—’

‘The baby will go with you,’ David told her. ‘You’ll both ride in state in a nice comfortable ambulance. It isn’t far.’

For a minute Kirsty was quiet, her eyes on her child, then she said, ‘Could I not stay here?’

‘You can come back here,’ said Mrs Frew. ‘To convalesce, to regain your strength.’

The baby whimpered. Kirsty hugged him and said, ‘I’ll need to see him fed.’

‘In a while,’ said David. ‘You really must rest until the ambulance arrives.’

‘I am tired, aye, but I want to keep him by me.’

David said, ‘I’ll hold him, if you like.’

‘Don’t take him away.’

‘I’d never do that. See, I’ll sit right here.’ He leaned carefully over her. ‘May I?’