The Enginemen, Chapter 17/5

Next morning he woke and as he lay in bed, he avowed that this would be his last. That part of his plan would remain, just that. He got up and put on his best suit and pulled a woollen sweater over his head and underneath his jacket, there was no point in going to his end cold. He emptied his larder, throwing unused items of food into the bin, and ate the remains of a cereal packet with the last of his milk, then ate a bar of dark chocolate and made a cup of coffee.

After breakfast he was going into the bathroom to clean his teeth and shave and thought, why bother, it’s unnecessary. He put the half bottle of brandy remaining in his bag along with the ‘Trains Illustrated’ with the log of his run from Cardiff. He was going to put the numberplate in as well but it was heavy, too heavy and he decided to leave it at home. He had a nearly full bottle of aspirins and he’d stop off at a couple of chemists on the way to the tube station to make sure. At the last moment he took one of his kitchen knives and hid it at the bottom of his bag. Just in case. He was ready.

He emerged from the tube at Willesden Junction and stepped out into a cool crisp morning, one of those rare November cloudless days, the last day of November 1962. He found the towpath beside the canal and passed someone walking a dog who wished him a good morning on this beautiful day. James was so lost in his own thoughts that he failed to acknowledge the greeting. When he became level with the hole in the fence to the shed, he stopped and spied out the land. It would be the last straw for him to be discovered entering his own depot by this illegal back entrance and be frog-marched out by one of the foremen, none of whom had any love lost for this particular driver. He saw a fitter walk past the row of condemned engines and disappear towards the Factory.

He gave him five minutes to get clear, then, as no-one else had appeared, he slipped through the fence and walked down the bank to the cover of the row of locomotives. He slipped between these and a couple of locomotives that were awaiting access to the Factory for minor repairs and mounted the cab of 5008. He checked to see that no-one had spotted him. There was no movement he could perceive, so he made himself comfortable and pulled back the zip of the bag he’d brought with him. He laid out the contents on the shelf above the firehole door - a bar of dark chocolate, two and a half bottles of brandy, two of which he’d purchased in the off-licence on the way, three bottles of aspirin tablets, an envelope containing the letter for the young boys if he saw them, the prized copy of ‘Trains Illustrated’, his favourite photo of 5008, and the 7” bladed kitchen knife he’d put in at the last moment.

He then rehearsed his planned activity for that day. He would savour the daylight hours on the footplate of his locomotive. He would eat the bar of chocolate for his lunch. He would empty the half bottle of brandy to block the cold as the sun began to set and then he would look for the boys if they visited the shed after school. If they appeared he’d invite them into the cab and give them the envelope and tell them what they had to do to claim their inheritance. He wasn’t quite sure in his own mind what he meant by this.

After they had gone and it was dark he’d drink a whole bottle of brandy to give him courage and take his knife and see if he could find any of his intended victims as they left the office to go home, sneaking out from behind one of the engines facing the turntable nearest the booking on point. In that way, he could avoid stabbing Nellie - he didn’t really want to hurt her, she was one of the few who always spoke to him. He could get Doig and Higginson and possibly Campion if he was on trade union business, then he’d just stab other drivers and firemen at random as long as he could get away with it. If his deeds were unseen and no hue and cry alarm was immediately scrambled, he could escape back to 5008 and swallow the aspirin tablets followed by the remaining bottle of brandy.

And that, he thought, would be that. He’d wake no more to the thought of humiliation, of boredom, of anger, of the sheer hopelessness and pointlessness of whatever life lay in front of him. The brandy would send him to sleep and he’d never wake up. It was as easy as that. If they’d seen him and gave chase, he’d have to stab himself before he was caught. He wondered whether he’d just plunge the knife into his heart or whether he’d be able to slash his neck to be certain of death. He wasn’t so sure about this.

The first half of the day went to plan. Once his mind was made up, he relaxed and watched movements around the weighbridge and Factory entrance which he could see if he moved over to the fireman’s side of the cab. At one stage he leaned out that side and the cab swayed momentarily. The engine was alive! Then he realised that they’d never bothered to act on the defect he reported on a repair card just before he’d been on that fateful Swansea trip - the fact that a few rivets securing the cab sides were loose or missing. Perhaps the movement of the cab had been experienced by Don Barnett and that was one of the reasons he’d been so fearful - supposing during the passage of the Severn Tunnel he’d rested on his tip-up seat and felt the cab giving way? He’d have felt he was being thrown into the darkness. James got up, sat on the fireman’s wooden seat and leaned against the cabside. It moved, quite distinctly, two or three inches he was sure. Coupled with the natural swaying of the engine and the pitch darkness other than the glow from the fire, that could seem quite frightening. Perhaps he’d been too hard in criticising the lad.

When he felt hungry he broke the chocolate bar into several pieces and took a gulp of brandy after each mouthful. He felt even better. The sun had moved round further so that he was now shaded from its rays by the treacherous cab side, and he began to harbour doubts about what he’d set his hand to. These doubts essaying his mind began to make him fidgety, agitated, he started walking around the cab, fiddling with the controls. He opened the regulator wide - he’d go down with all flags flying he thought to himself winding up the now stiff and rusting reversing lever to 25%. To calm himself he opened one of the brandy bottles and took a swig, then another until he felt the warm glow relaxing him once more.

The sun began to sink, dropping below the shed roof to the south west of him, and the air became very cold, deprived of any sunlight to impart any feeling of warmth. He looked at his watch. It was half past three. He should soon be looking for the boys. He took another swig of brandy and began to feel a little dizzy. He began to feel desperate for their company, he wanted their human contact just once more before oblivion, he’d tell them what was in the envelope and they’d be amazed and let him give them a final hug before they’d go rejoicing and he’d slink down into the depths of roundhouse No.1 to become the spirit of revenge. Then he thought, why should they come today? Surely they don’t come engine spotting every day, they must have the numbers of all the Old Oak engines by now.

They came. Just after a quarter to four as dusk was beginning to envelope the footpath the kids had made from the canal into the depot, they came. There were three of them, the older boy and the two young friends. He wondered about the role of the older boy - was he the brother of one of the others? Why had he befriended them? The three turned alongside the row of engines and James was getting ready to call to them, clutching the envelope in his hand to draw attention to it, when he saw them stop at the engine stored behind his, 5011, and he watched them clamber up into the cab. He could hear them moving about the footplate, the clink of the shovel and other tools, then silence, then occasional giggling.

He wondered what mischief they were up to. He thought he heard the younger boy call out at one stage, he seemed to be protesting, then there was silence again. Perhaps they were tormenting him, perhaps the older boy was a bully and had bribed the older of the two friends to become his accomplice. Then he heard laughter and more silence. There was a sudden shout and something was thrown from the cab. He couldn’t see easily what it was, it seemed dark in colour, grey or black perhaps, and it landed on the ash path beside the locomotive. Something else followed, obviously white, and he realised that it was a pair of underpants. Bloody hell, the monsters were raping the younger lad. What should he do? Should he shout at them? Should he get down and accost them in the cab where they were? Could he rescue the lad?

Before he’d made his mind up, there was a peel of laughter and the little boy climbed down the steps from 5011 clutching his shirt with one hand, his bare legs and thighs seeming pale in the ghostly light. The others followed him and caught him on the ground and began to wrestle with him pulling up his shirt, laughing at his efforts to preserve his modesty. Then the older boy dropped his trousers and pants and appeared to be showing off his prowess to both the younger boys, then he began to piss against the tender wheels of his own engine. James was horrified at the defilement of 5008 and wanted to shout at him to stop, but was aware that if he called at that moment, they’d most likely run.

He waited until the boy had stopped urinating, had shaken himself in full view of the younger boys, while the smallest lad had put his pants and short trousers back on and they looked as though their dalliance was finished and they’d now get down to the serious business of trainspotting. This was the moment. James leant from the cab window.

“Boys,“ he called, “I’ve got something for you. Come up here and let me show you!”

They all looked up alarmed, and turned as one to make their get-away. James called after them, “Stop, I’ll not harm you. I’ve something for you.”

They didn’t even turn round but were gone the way they’d come. James tried to climb down from the footplate and give them chase, but his legs were wobbly, they wouldn’t go where he tried to place them and by the time he managed to reach the ground, the boys were already through the wire fence and running along the canal towpath. It was hopeless. They didn’t realise what opportunity they’d given up, he thought to himself, and took the envelope he still carried in his hands and ripped it to shreds, scattering the pieces along the ash pathway to let the wind dispose of it. He climbed back into the cab with some difficulty and drank some more brandy to still his nerves. He found he’d nearly finished the bottle and thought that he’d better swallow some of the aspirin tablets while he still had the liquid to make them go down his throat. He had another half hour to wait before he’d reach the time when he should take his knife and hide behind one of the engines in the roundhouse.

So he drank the dregs and opened his last bottle. He swallowed some more tablets and found he’d emptied that bottle so he opened another and swallowed, then chewed some more. They tasted horrible, so he drank another swig, then another, and he felt so sleepy. He picked up the knife and felt the blade, then he dropped it and it clattered from the cab and bounced over the side onto the ground. He went to get up to find it but his legs gave under him and he slithered to the floor and pushed himself nearer the firehole door where he could reach up to the bottles of aspirin and brandy. He swallowed some more and took another mouthful and the liquid dribbled from his lips. The bottle slipped from his hands and crashed to the footplate and the contents ran out and seeped between the engine and the tender plate.

He was so sleepy, he couldn’t be bothered to try to stop the flow and he forgot about the knife, he reached up and just managed to grasp the magazine, but he dropped it into the sticky mess left by the trail of brandy and crawled back into a ball under the driver’s seat and his head dropped and he couldn’t be bothered any more and...