The Enginemen, Chapter 17/4

He nurtured his plan for two days without doing anything to action it.

He tried to go one day without brandy so he could think more clearly, hone his plan. He succumbed the second day, went to the off-licence and bought another bottle. He thought the shopkeeper looked at him in an odd way and was even going to refuse, then thought better of it and sold it to him without comment. He drank a glass at tea time to give him courage, then caught the tube to Leicester Square and changed to the eastbound Central Line. He waited until they were past the City and in to the East End proper, then he got out and wondered how he should approach his task. He wandered aimlessly along the dim streets, the street lighting so poor that he could hardly make out where he was going. Twice he stood outside a public house and both times lost his nerve at the last moment and moved on.

He moved south, he thought, towards the Thames and the docks. He came across another public house. He thought it looked seedy enough for his purposes. He entered and bought himself a pint and scrutinised the other occupants. No-one looked particularly shady – he realised that gangster-spotting was not a simple task. At length he plucked up courage and sidled up to the barman and whispered to him, “Do you know anyone reliable who could get me an automatic?”

The barman looked him in the eye. “Get out of my pub. We don’t serve the likes of you here. Clear out before I call the police.” James Peplow fled, shaking.

It took him another quarter of an hour to find another even more disreputable looking pub and a further quarter of an hour to pluck up courage to enter. He bought another pint, sank it, then hastened to the toilet to relieve himself urgently, when another burly unshaven guy entered and James thought to take advantage while the man was urinating. The man appeared to listen, then followed James into the saloon bar. He shouted so everyone in the bar heard. “Hi, everyone, this geyser thinks he wants a gun! Wot yer goin’ to do mate, top yer missus?” A guffaw of laughter followed him as he made his humiliating escape, colliding in the doorway with someone coming in. He stopped in the darkness outside to pull himself together. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

Suddenly he was aware of a shadow slipping in beside him. It spoke out of the side of its mouth. “You serious, mate? You got dough?”

James grunted, nodded.

“You got the wrong pub, mate. You don’t know your way around, do you? First time is it, wanting a shooter?”

James nodded again.

“Follow me, see that posh pub on the corner of Jubilee Road? Ask the barman for Stokesy and tell him what you want and how much dosh you got. Tell him Shortie passed you on and wants his usual commission, right?”

The shadow propelled James in the direction of the brightly lit public house and disappeared as mysteriously as he’d come. He entered the garish building which was dominated by loud music from the jukebox drowning the attempts of the drinkers to do anything but imbibe their beers. James went straight to the barman this time and without ordering a beer – he’d had enough already – asked in a hoarse whisper for Stokesy. The barman’s eyebrows raised as if questioning the request, then disappeared into a back room. A well dressed man appeared and looked at James.

“You wanted me?”

“Shortie sent me to you.” He dropped his voice. “I need a gun, Shortie said he wants his usual commission.”

The man slipped over to James and drew him up to a corner table in the darkest part of the saloon. He beckoned to the barman. “Two whiskeys, Paddy, make mine a double. Our friend here will pay.”

“You want a gun, right? How much will you pay?”

“I can pay. What’s the going rate?”

“You’re new on the block, aren’t you? Personal or re you acting for someone else?”

“It’s personal. My use only.”

“Got a couple of hundred?”

“Pounds?”

“Yeah, pounds, what else?”

“Okay.”

“What sort of gun you want?”

“Can you get an automatic?”

“Yeah, ‘course I can, but an automatic’ll cost you. Five hundred!” He winked at the barman – ‘we’ve got a right sucker here’, the wink implied.

James winced at the sudden mark-up, but realised money meant little to him now. If that was the price of his final revenge, it was worth it.

“Okay. I’ll find five hundred pounds, but that’s my limit.”

“Bring the cash in ones and fives tomorrow night, same time and you’ll have your automatic. You want ammunition too?”

“Of course.”

“No such thing as ‘of course’ in this game, mate. I’ll supply a dozen bullets but that’ll cost you another hundred. That enough?”

James began to panic. He hesitated a few seconds.

“What you going to do, mow down a couple of cop shops? I’ll do you a deal. Another dozen for an extra fifty. Can’t do fairer than that.”

James took a deep breath and agreed.

“Come round the back of this pub, there’s a small car park. Bring the cash at nine o’clock sharp and you’ll get your gun and ammunition, right? No cheating, no word to anyone else or you’ll not last the night.”

James Peplow went home, experiencing a mixture of excitement and horror at what he’d committed himself to. When he got in, he put on his Shostakovich record and poured a brandy to steady his nerves, and began to feel more relaxed. There was no post, no word from the police, his solicitor or the depot. It was as if he’d ceased to exist. They’d soon find out how wrong they were. Then, suddenly, he felt sick and staggered up the stairs only just making the bathroom in time before emptying his entrails into the toilet bowl. He crept back to his bedroom, lay on the bed fully clothed and passed out.

Next morning was bright. The light through the curtains stung his eyes. As he lunged out of bed, his head swam and a pain surged through his brain behind his eyes. He pulled the curtains back, blinking, and saw the frost covering the roofs of houses in the next street. He ran a bath and stripped off his smelly clothes stained with drink and vomit and wallowed in the water until it began to cool too much, dressed and shaved, then made himself a proper cooked breakfast for once. He needed that, he thought, and followed it with a strong black coffee. It tasted foul but cleared his head a little. He’d need to concentrate now.

After breakfast he consulted his plan. He reckoned he’d need four bullets for the office and two for Doig and Nellie – make that eight, he thought, allowing for couple of misses. He’d no idea how accurate he’d be, he’d never tried, he assumed at close range he’d not miss too many times. Then he’d go to the booking on point and late notice case, there’d be a couple of drivers there plus the timekeeper, say another four gone, leaving exactly twelve still for the drivers’ lobby and mess room. That might even leave him a couple to go chasing Barnett and Ashcroft if they weren’t already accounted for – he could get someone at gun-point to check their rosters. Perhaps he as being too ambitious, perhaps it would be harder than he was allowing for. Perhaps luck would play a part.

In the late morning he went to his bank and tried to draw out £650 from his account. The clerk looked surprised and told him to wait, he’d need to check with the Bank Manager. James hadn’t thought of this snag and looked worried when the Manager asked him into his office and queried why he needed such a large sum in one payment. James queried why, as the cash was there, the Manager needed to know; it was his own private business. “Just a precaution,” the Manager answered, “such a large sum in cash is very unusual.”

James thought hard. “I’m taking early retirement,” he said, “I’m going abroad for a few weeks to sort myself out.”

“Don’t you want travellers’ cheques? They’d be more secure.”

“No, I’ve got to pay cash for what I need this week.”

The bank manager looked unconvinced, but it was the man’s money, he couldn’t really question how he wanted to use it. But he would remember this interview. The manager sent for a clerk and told him to count out the £650 in £5 and £1 notes and after a further quarter of an hour’s wait, James was handed a canvas bag containing the cash. When he got it home, he transferred the money to a small suitcase for greater security.

He shopped and cooked himself a proper lunch for once and managed to block the temptation to drink heavily during the afternoon. He wanted to have his wits about him that night. However, without the balm of alcohol, the afternoon dragged. He tried several of his records, but none of them satisfied his restless mood. He looked through his railway magazines and record books, he spent time at the shrine of 5008, he went back and refined his ultimate plan once more. He rang the office and disguised his voice and said he was Don Barnett’s brother and could he be told what shift he was on the next day? There was a long pause and eventually the voice replied, he’s booked on at 10.40 for the Plymouth Parcels. It was easy, thought Peplow, congratulating himself on his sudden brainwave. He left it a while and tried the same again, this time asking about Pete Ashcroft.

“Who the hell are you? You rang me a few minutes ago asking about Don Barnett saying you were his brother. I’ve just seen him, he says he hasn’t got a brother. Anyway, Pete Ashcroft is on leave. Who are you and why do you want to know?”

James put the receiver down hurriedly cutting the line.

He kept looking at his watch, but the time dragged. He counted the money not once, not twice but three times to make sure he wouldn’t be accused of tricking the man. It was strange looking at so much cash - he’d never seen that much in one place before. And it was all his and there was at least that much left in the bank. He suddenly wondered what would happen to it when he was gone. Some would pay for his funeral, but he thought he ought to write down what should happen to the remainder. He got out a piece of his best writing paper and his fountain pan, and stared at the blank sheet of paper. To whom should he leave his remaining money? He pondered this for some time and couldn’t think of anyone. Then suddenly it came to him.

He wrote: “I leave everything I own to the three boys I see trainspotting at Old Oak Common some evenings after school. I don’t know their names but I will give them this request in an envelope and ask for my wishes to be carried out. He signed it: James Peplow”

Then he had a second thought. Supposing he couldn’t find them? What would happen then? He wrote a second ‘last request’ in case the first couldn’t be carried out: “Please use my remaining possessions and money to retain as much of engine number 5008 ‘Raglan Castle’ as possible and put it on display at Old Oak Common in my memory.” That’ll remind them of the wrong they’ve done me, he thought grimly. He was so pleased with this idea that he almost tore up his first request. Then he thought he’d put it to the test. He’d use the rest of the afternoon to go to the canal and try to see the boys. If they came, he’d give them the first envelope. If not, he’d leave the second on the table in his study under 5008’s numberplate.

He looked at his watch with some urgency now. He’d just about get to the canal hole in the fence in time for school finishing time if he hurried and the underground trains were not delayed. He nearly forgot to take the correct envelope with him, he was in such a hurry, but luck was with him. He was at the canalside by the opening to the shed at a quarter to four on the raw afternoon, the skies clear but dusk already falling, and frost in the air. He wondered whether to wait at the gap in the fence or go through and watch from the footplate of 5008. He decided to go through as he feared that if the boys saw him on the canal path, they might turn back.

He climbed into the cab of his engine and - hawk-eyed – waited. He saw movement suddenly and his heart skipped a beat, then he saw a group of youths, perhaps 14 or 15 years old, half a dozen of them. ‘His’ boys were not among them. The youths scattered as soon as they were in the shed. He waited. It got dark. By half past four he decided that they weren’t coming. He gave it another half an hour and then gave up. The youths had long since returned and bent through the gap. No-one seemed bothered about them. He’d thought of scaring them, shouting out, but then refrained – they were older, perhaps they’d sense his powerlessness and mock him.

He went home, the envelope still in his overall pocket. He changed out of his driver’s clothes and wondered what he should wear that evening. He wanted to remain anonymous, not look conspicuous. He put on an old sweater and some corduroys. He needed to be warm if he had to wait outside the pub for any length of time. Although he forced himself to stay at home until nearly half past seven, he arrived at the appointed site much too early of course. He walked up the road and back again seeking to use up more time before slipping round the back of the public house about ten minutes before the meeting time. His heart was thumping. He wondered whether he really would be possessor of an automatic pistol in just ten minutes’ time or whether it had been a hoax, whether they were joking at his expense. He heard a couple of doors bang, another creaked but he saw no-one.

Then, just as he was beginning to fear that he had been led on a wild goose chase, the man called
Stokesy appeared beside him and said, “Have you got the money?”

James held up the suitcase. “Have you got the automatic?”

The man drew the pistol from his pocket, poking from a dirty white handkerchief, and slipped it back again. Three men suddenly appeared from the shadows.

Stokesy said, “We’d better count the money first.”

They took the case from James Peplow’s hands and began to count the money. Eventually they seemed satisfied.

“Okay,” said Stokesy. We’ll take it now.” He and the other men began to walk away.

“Hey, wait a minute, what about my gun?”

“What gun?”

“The pistol you just showed me. The one you promised. The one I’ve just paid you £650 for.”

“I don’t know anything about a gun or promise. What money are you talking about?”

James began to panic. He rushed up to Stokesy and tried to grab him. The other three men now surrounded James and one of them pushed his face into his. “Get lost! Call the cops if you want. What are you going to tell them? You’ve just tried to buy a gun for £650? You naïve bastard!”

James started to lash out at one of the men and was immediately punched in the stomach, floored and kicked in the ribs. While he lay on the frozen ground, doubled up in pain, the four disappeared into the night. He lay still hearing the running footsteps getting further and further away. He felt angry and hurt and furious with himself for being such a fool. How could he have been stupid enough to trust anyone in such a transaction? But most of all, he felt thwarted. He knew now that his efforts to avenge himself would be in vain. He knew that after this he would not dare to try again.

He tried to get up, still feeling winded, and knelt awhile. He didn’t want to be discovered in such a position or have to explain what had occurred. He knew the man was right. He could not ask for any help out of this predicament. Eventually he dragged himself to his feet and checked his body. He didn’t think he’d broken any bones despite the searing pain afflicting his ribs. He pulled up his trouser leg and saw a dark gash in his shin where he’d been kicked. He checked his trouser pocket. His wallet was still there. They had not robbed him of anything other than the money for the gun and bullets. He thought ruefully that he hadn’t needed the money. They’d not stolen that. They’d robbed him of the gun and his ability to wreak revenge. That hurt him.

When he eventually limped home well after ten o’clock, he undressed and examined the bruises on his ribs, his arms and legs, while his bath was running. After a soothing soak, he dried himself slowly, stood naked in front of the gas fire and drank a full glass of brandy. Then he went into his study, picked up his plan and the list of his intended victims and tore them into shreds. He realised that it was never going to be easy and he had no more energy to think of another way. They’d won again. He went to bed and tried to pretend that today had never happened.