Chapter 15 Will the Canadian Stop in Time?

The pain in my back was increasing. I hoped that nothing was broken, but it felt awful. The effort of fighting had scarcely helped the pain.

I looked for the flares, but could find only three of them. I decided not to waste time hunting for thefourth, and just hoped any wild animals would stay well away.

It was very difficult to concentrate on anything. I had to get moving - acting rather than thinking. I certainly hadn't yet done half a mile. But how far had I come? I couldn't see the rear of the train, which was round a bend I hadn't noticed taking. And now, because of all the fighting and the walking around hunting for flares, I didn't know which way to go; the rocks and the trees looked the same in both directions. For a moment, I was afraid I would set out in the wrong direction. I forced myself to think -which was not easy because of all the pain. Yes, the wind had been in my face . . . and there were my footprints in the snow.

I set off again. How long did it take to walk half a mile in the snow on railway tracks? How much further should I go to be safe? In my mind, the rails seemed to go on and on for ever.

Johnson had been waiting for me — or for whoever would come from the train. That meant he knew that the radio couldn't be used, so he was the one who had sabotaged it. I began to feel even more worried about George being missing; and I began to think that the overheated axle had also been caused by Johnson -more sabotage. He wanted revenge on the railways; Filmer had used him, but had now lost control of him. Johnson had wanted to sit in the forest and watch one train crash into another. This is the typical behaviour of that kind of criminal: they like to watch the death and destruction their actions cause. I was determined that his plan would not succeed: there would be no crash.

By now I must have gone over half a mile, surely. I stopped and looked at my watch. The Canadian was due very soon. There was another curve ahead: if I just went around that, the driver would have more time to see the flares.

I must succeed. I ran around the final curve, put the torch down beside the track, and tried to light one of the flares on the rail. I scratched it again and again on the rail, begging it out loud to light. At last it lit, with a huge red rush which took me by surprise. I nearly dropped the flare. I pushed its sharp end into the ground by the track. It burned so brightly that the driver of the Canadian couldn't fail to see it — or so I hoped.

I ran further back up the track, around the next bend. Past this bend the track ran straight for a good long way: this was an even better place to plant a flare. I lit another one and stuck it in the ground.

Then I saw pin-sized lights in the distance. At first I thought they were the lights of houses, but then I saw that they were growing all the time. It was the Canadian, advancing fast. . . and it wasn't stopping! There was no urgent scream of brakes. But he must have seen the flare.

In slow motion, it seemed, I lit the last flare and got ready to throw it through the driver's window. As the train approached, it appeared huge and I appeared tiny. The window was so small and so high off the ground. I could see no faces in it — the driver and his assistant must be elsewhere.

'Stop!' I shouted, or perhaps prayed. I threw the flare — threw it high, threw it too soon, missed the empty black window. It rolled off the engine and away down the other side. The Canadian went on its mindless way around the curve and out of sight.

I felt sick; I had failed. People would die because I had failed. The pain of my back, which I had forgotten for a short time, suddenly returned. I picked up the torch and started to walk back the way I had come - and the way the Canadian had gone.

I imagined the scene, the Canadian driving at full speed into the Race Train, the broken wood and twisted metal, the bodies. Surely someone must have warned the Lorrimores and got them out of the rear car. I prayed that Nell would be safe. The thought of Nell made me speed up into a run. There, beside the track, was the useless flare I had thrown at the window, still .burning red as if to blame me for failing, for betraying my job and my Nell.

I ran as fast as I could around the bend, listening for any sounds. My feet felt heavy, so that I seemed not to be moving, like in a dream.

There was nothing — no noise except the wind and my feet on the snow. I wondered when I would hear the crash of metal tearing into metal. It wasn't just the mountain air that was making me feel cold.

There were two red lights on the rails far ahead. They weren't bright and burning, like the flares; they were small and dim. I wondered what they were; my frozen mind wasn't working. Then I realized that they were the rear lights of a train ... a train ... it could only be one train . . . there had been no crash ... no tragedy . . . The Canadian had stopped! Relief washed over me and I felt near to tears. The Canadian had stopped.

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 542