The Low Road (16 page)

You sure? Because if you are, you'll be in even more strife than now. And with that the guard stepped back. You stay there, sir, right where you are.

He listened as the guard crunched back and forth, poking his torch under the carriage and apparently making notes in a small book. Stay calm, he told himself. Stay calm, stay calm. Already he could feel addiction's great hidden engine kicking into gear; the low anxiety of withdrawal.

He wiggled his toes in his battered shoes to warm them. The guard then stopped behind him and fiddled with something on his belt. Where the
hell
was Lee?

Then the guard took one of Wild's arms, his right arm, swung it up his back, jerked him upright and took the other arm around the wrist. And it was like his body remembered something before his mind because his body clenched even as he was thinking: Why is this action so familiar, this discomfort, this thrashing heart? And it was only upon feeling the shameful cinch and ratchet hiss that he knew. Handcuffs. He struggled and nearly lost his balance on the rocky ground as he swung around to face the fat guard. What the hell are you doing, you fool?

Always got to cuff vagrants, the guard said, noting something in his book before snapping it shut and jamming into a shirt pocket.

What?

Vagrants. Going to have to charge you with trespass. Can't just go around travelling for free, you know. And he produced a padlock and began to close the carriage door.

But what about my stuff? My . . . clothes? You can't lock them in there.

The guard hooked his torch onto his belt, where it jangled against a massive ring of keys, then put his hands on his hips. His nose whistled like a tiny kettle. Well, I
can
, actually. He stared at Wild for a second before reopening the carriage door and reaching in to retrieve the suitcase. A corner of it snagged on something. He had to jerk it loose before hugging it to his chest and securing the carriage with the padlock. He took Wild by the upper arm, the way they do. OK. Let's go.

Do we need the handcuffs? Come on, it's not like I really did anything wrong . . .

But the guard ignored his pleas and led him away, explaining the intricacies of the
Trespass Act
as they passed between other trains huddled in the thinning fog.

Wild walked mostly with his head down. With his hands cuffed behind him, it was difficult to balance and he stumbled on the uneven stones. His feet were like bricks.

After several minutes they arrived at a guardhouse perched amidst the knot of railway tracks and jumble of carriages and signal boxes. It was just a small, wooden cabin with smoke unravelling from its thin flue. A square window glowed.

At least it was warm inside. The guard sat Wild on a wooden chair while he slung the suitcase to the floor, removed his own coat and stamped water from his shoes. He shoved a piece of wood into a potbellied stove.

Is this really necessary? Wild asked.

Yep. We take this pretty serious, even if you don't. Always got to prosecute vagrants.

Oh, come on. Vagrants! What
is
this, the Depression? I'm a
doctor
, not a vagrant.

Yeah. You look like a doctor. Living the high life, riding on freight trains and that. Wearing such nice clothes. You must think I'm stupid or something. My uncle's a doctor, I meet a lot of doctors, I know what a doctor looks like. Not you. Not a bit like you. Now you got some ID? You got a wallet or something?

Wild shook his head and looked around the cabin. The place possessed an earthy smell of coffee and wood smoke and boredom. A narrow iron bed squatted behind the door. Several coy pin-ups were tacked to the wall immediately above, along with a postcard from a seaside resort. Tins of food and packets of rice.

But the fat guard wasn't to be put off and began going through Wild's pockets, despite his squirming, finally holding his wallet aloft like a trophy. OK. Now I'm going to check your identification here so we know who we're dealing with. I presume you got a driver's licence or something?

Wild said nothing as the guard fingered his wallet. He didn't know what he could possibly say. His bones were becoming soft and sagging under the weight of his body.

The guard produced a photograph. This your wife?

Show me.

The guard flipped the small square in his chubby fingers.

It was one they had taken in a photo booth in London, Jane sitting on his lap, bedraggled, all smiles, the romance of foreign cities. He didn't like the idea of her in this idiot's clammy grasp. Yes, he said. That's my wife.

Nice picture. Daughter?

Yes.

How old?

Alice. Fifteen.

The guard clomped about behind him but Wild ceased paying attention. His skin was singing and his nose was beginning to run. He sneezed. His coat was bunched in awkward places about his body; under one arm, at his neck. Behind him, the guard was making a phone call, talking softly and hmming to himself. Wild writhed sideways on the chair. He wondered if he could ram this fat guard, run at him or something and get away from here. Was he capable of that? Had he at last become that kind of man?

But then the guard was back, walking about the tiny cabin with a ridiculously proprietary air. Well. Seems you're a wanted man, but I guess I don't need to tell
you
that, do I?

And it felt to Wild that something clanged shut inside him, almost audible. He sneezed again and wiped his nose on his shoulder, leaving a shiny trail. The guard blinked, slowly, with his girlish lashes. Or is it
blunk
? Wild thought. Why isn't it
blunk
or
blank
? The guard
blunk
.

Anyway. Police'll be here soon and take you back to court or whatever.

Wild stared at the little prick. Fat little prick.

Yeah. They were quite interested, as a matter of fact.

How long?

What?

Until the police get here?

The guard shrugged and set about making coffee, placing a small pot on the cast-iron stove. He fetched two cups, milk and sugar, and cleared a newspaper from the table before sitting opposite. He picked up the bottle of milk and sniffed it. So, he asked with a particular concentration, who'd you kill?

Wild looked away and tried to maintain his composure. The fire crackled beside him. Suddenly hot, he wanted desperately to shed his heavy coat. Like a dead seal over him. Like a freshly killed seal, it was. Sweat ran down his face. The guard was enjoying this, making the most of the situation. Wild writhed and the chair barked on the wooden floor. But he said nothing.

The coffee came to the boil and the guard poured them each a cup and added milk and sugar.

Wild rattled his handcuffs behind him. How am I going to drink it?

Guess you'll have to improvise.

He slumped in the chair. Then he had an idea and leaned forward. He focused. I tell you what, he said, blinking moisture from one eye. Maybe we can do some sort of deal? A pause. What's your name?

Suspicious, the guard slurped his coffee. Carson's my name, not that it's any business of yours. What you getting at, Mr. Wild?

Well, Carson. I can get my hands on a large amount of money and you can let me go before the police get here. That kind of deal.

You can't even get your hands on that cup of coffee at the minute, so—

I'm serious.

Carson licked his lips and ran a hand over his bristly hair. That's called bribery, sir.

Call it whatever you want, but please, think about it. Wild took a breath. Manslaughter is not what it sounds like. I can't go to jail, I can't. Let me go and you can have . . . five thousand dollars. Cash. Let me go. Now. And he stood and turned his cuffed hands towards the guard called Carson. I won't say a word, he went on. I'll just be gone and you didn't know a thing.
Completely gone.
Please.

But Carson didn't move, just sat there drinking his coffee. Five grand, he said at last. If you had that much money, I don't think you'd be jumping freight trains to get around, Mr. Wild, I really don't. You're bullshitting. Just sit down and wait.

Wild turned around again. He had nothing to lose. Lee had evidently vanished or had himself been arrested. No, he said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. You're making a big mistake. And he nodded at the suitcase on the floor behind the door. The money's right—

And then there was a thump, the sharp splinter of wood. The door was open and suddenly Lee was there, inside the tiny cabin. In one fluid movement he stepped across and put the gun to the back of Carson's head. Don't fucking move.

Carson whimpered and shrank in his chair, his eyes screwed up and his mouth askew. He looked ready to cry. Wild couldn't help himself. He leaped up, sending the chair clattering to the floor, and hopped from one foot to another. His cup of coffee tumbled to the floor. Lee, he said. The cavalry! Jesus Christ, this is great. Where were you? This is great. And he turned around to display his handcuffed hands. Let's get out of here. The key must be on his belt. Let's
go
.

It was just as well Carson couldn't actually see Lee, Wild thought, because if he could he might take his chances, gun notwithstanding.

Lee looked like he barely had the strength to even hold the gun. His face was drained of expression, as if his body were shutting off unnecessary functions to conserve resources. Even his eyes were a lighter brown. He was fading, and when he finally spoke, his words were shapeless and worn. You were going to give away my money?

Wild stopped dancing around. I thought you'd gone, been arrested. What choice did I have? Lee. Come on. I would have paid you back. Really.

I would have paid you back.
The junkie's lament, Wild thought. It was hard to tell if Lee was even comprehending anything he was saying. His pale face registered no change. He stayed perfectly still, the gun still pressed to Carson's head. The guard continued to whimper and sniffle.

Wild persisted. The police are coming, Lee. This bastard called the police.

The police?

Yes.

Lee appeared to think about this. An expression skimmed across his face, like a breeze over water. His skinny throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Wild imagined police cars, sirens, journalists with their notebooks. He held his breath.

OK, Lee said at last.

Moving quickly now, Lee released Wild and they handcuffed the snivelling guard to the bed's metal frame. Wild took the circle of keys. Lee checked his money before yanking out the telephone cord and they stepped into a soft drizzle, their coats clutched tight about them. Wild drew in a lengthy breath. Cold air, beautiful in his lungs.

They stumbled through the empty railway yard, Wild half dragging Lee by one arm and congratulating him on his timely appearance. The kid was listless, barely able to walk.

I was almost a goner, Wild was saying. I thought it was all over for me. For us. That was magnificent. What an entrance. Like a bloody movie. Now we have to stop by the carriage before we get out of here. I think it's this one. Careful on the ground there. Watch that bit of train. No. Here. This one. Here, rest against this. Just there. Don't move.

Wild. We have to keep moving. The jacks. You said he called the jacks.

Wild picked through the keys and tried them one by one in the padlock. His hands were cold and unwieldy, like steaks. He breathed heavily, awkwardly, and his eyes were running. I know. I know, but I need to get something.

We don't have time.

I know. I don't like it as much as you don't like it. I'll be as quick as I can. Damn. Which
key
is this? How many do I have to try?
Damn
. Ah ha! Here we go.

And he slid the carriage door open and scrambled inside on his knees. With trembling hands and sudden focus, he prepared and administered a hit. He breathed. Then he collected the boxes of ampoules and syringes, several of which were sodden and falling to pieces, and clambered back down next to Lee. A box tumbled from his grasp and ampoules spilled onto the ground. Damn. He kneeled to pick them up, only to lose another box from his grasp, then another. He shovelled handfuls of ampoules into his coat pockets. The rocky ground was littered with them.

Lee offered him the suitcase. Here. Put them in here.

You sure?

Lee nodded. He seemed not to have the energy for anything more, propped as he was against the carriage. There was blood again all over his hands, fresh blood, presumably from where he had been clutching at himself.

Again Wild wondered about leaving him. He could give him some more morphine and leave him in one of these carriages. He flung open the suitcase and emptied ampoules and syringes into it. The bloodspattered money fluttered in the cold wind. Then he slammed the suitcase shut, took it in one hand and in the other grasped Lee, who was like a child in his grip, floppy and accommodating. Come on. Are you OK? Let's go. There's not far to go. Not far now.

They crossed the railway tracks and vanished into the fog. Morning spread out overhead, its light staining the low clouds. The contents of the suitcase clinked with every stride, as they stumbled over tracks, through a gate in the fence and out across a scrappy field dotted here and there with rubbish and clumps of grass.

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