Jan thought swiftly, frowning into the darkness. “Arrange it then. Also arrange to meet me yourself in Edinburgh in the morning, in your Cynthia Barton role, and bring some money. At least five hundred pounds in cash. Old notes. Can that be done?”
“Of course. I’ll take care of it now. Fryer will be informed of everything. Call to him now, tell him the man with him is to leave with me.”
It seemed foolish, that people risking their lives together could not even see each other’s faces. But it was simple insurance that if one of them were captured he could not identify the others. They stayed in darkness until Fryer and the unknown man returned, then he and Sara left in silence after a quick muttered conversation with Fryer. Fryer waited until they left before he turned the light on.
“Going for a mystery tour are we,” he said. “Nice time of year for a trip.” He rooted in the boxes at the end of the garage and produced an ancient army duffle bag. “This will do fine. Just put your clothes in here and we’ll be off. A brisk walk should get us to King’s Cross just on time.
Once more Fryer showed his superior knowledge of the back streets of London. Only twice were they forced to cross any of the brilliantly lit avenues. Each time Fryer scouted ahead first to make sure they would not be observed, before he led Jan to the security of the darkness on the other side. They reached King’s Cross station with forty-five minutes to spare. The funny thing was that Jan, who had been here countless times before on the way to Scotland, did not recognize it.
They turned off the street into a long tunnel. Despite the fact that it was well illuminated it still had been used as a latrine and the smell of urine was sharp in the air. Their footsteps echoed as they went through it and up the stairs at the other end, into a large waiting room filled with scuffed benches. Most of the occupants seemed to be stretched out and sound asleep, although there were a few sitting up, waiting for their trains. Fryer went to the battered cigarette machine and dug a metal box from his pocket which he put under the dispenser. When the machine was satisfied that he had inserted enough small change, it rattled briefly and disgorged some cigarettes into the box. He handed it to Jan, along with a glow lighter.
“Here. Smoke a bit. Try to look natural. Don’t talk to anyone no matter what they say. I’ll get the tickets.”
The cigarettes were a brand Jan had never heard of before; WOODBINE was printed in blue letters the length of each of them, and they crackled like smoldering straw when lit, and burned his mouth.
There was a slow movement of people in and out of the waiting room, but no one as much as bothered to glance his way. Every few minutes the tannoy speakers would garble out an incomprehensible announcement. Jan grubbed his third cigarette out, feeling slightly bilious, when Fryer came back.
“Right as rain, gov. Off to the land of the Scots, but let’s go to the bog first. Do you have a bandana with you?”
“In my pocket, here in the bag.”
“Well dig it out now, we’re going to need it. People sit close in these trains, nosy parkers, talk like old women. And we don’t want you doing any talking.”
In the washroom Jan recoiled as Fryer snicked out an immense blade from his pocket knife. “Minor surgery, gov, for your own good. Keep you alive it will. Now if you’ll just peel your lip back I’m going to make a little nick in your gum. You won’t feel a thing.”
“It hurts like hell,” Jan said thickly through the white kerchief he pressed to his mouth. He took it away and saw it stained with blood.
“That’s the way. Good and red. If it starts to heal up just open it again with your tongue. And spit a bit of blood once in a while. Be convincing. Now here we go. I’ll bring the bag, you keep that kerchief in front of your mouth.”
There was a separate entrance to the Flying Scotsman platform that Jan had never known existed, admitting them to the rear of the train. Far ahead Jan could see the lights and scurrying porters at the first-class section behind the engine, where he always traveled. A private compartment, a drink from the recessed bar if he wanted it, then a good night’s sleep to wake up in Glasgow. He knew that there was a second-class section because he had seen them boarding, crowding into their multi-tiered sleeping coaches, waiting patiently in the station in Scotland until the first-class passengers had disembarked. He had never even suspected that there was a third-class section.
The coaches were warm, that was all that could be said for them; there was no bar, no buffet, no services of any kind. The seats were built of wood lathes, constructed for durability only and not for style or comfort. Jan managed to find a window seat so he could lean back in the corner, resting his head on his bundle of clothing. Fryer sat down solidly next to him, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke complacently in the direction of the NO SMOKING sign. Others crowded in and were still seating themselves when the train slid gently into motion.
It was a very uncomfortable journey. Jan’s handkerchief was well speckled with blood and he had even managed one carmined expectoration following his companion’s orders. After that he tried to sleep, difficult under the bright lights that remained on all night. Despite Fryer’s fears no one talked to them, or even noticed him after a first interested examination of his bloodstained mouth. The train rumbled on and he did finally fall asleep, waking up with a start at the firm shake on his shoulder.
“Rise and shine, old son,” Fryer said. “Half six of a lovely morning and you can’t spend the whole day in bed. Let s get some breakfast.”
Jan’s mouth tasted terrible and he was sore and stiff from sitting on the slatted bench all night. But the long walk down the platform in the cold air woke him up and the sight of the steamed windows of the buffet made him realize he was hungry, very hungry indeed. Breakfast was simple, but enjoyable and filling. Fryer paid out the coins for their tea and brimming bowls of porridge and Jan wolfed his down. A man, dressed as they were, put a cup of tea on the table and sat down next to Fryer.
“Eat up, lads, and come wi’ me. There’s no’ much time.”
They took the lift out of the station and followed him in silence as he walked briskly through the cold of the dawn fog, into an apartment building not too distant from the station, up endless flights of stairs — were the lifts always in need of repair? — and into a grimy flat that, except for having more rooms, could have been a duplicate of the one they had visited in London. Jan stood at the sink and shaved with an ancient razor, trying not to nick himself too badly, then put his own clothes back on. With a feeling of relief, he had to admit. He tried not to consider the thought that if he had been that uncomfortable in these clothes, in these surroundings, for less than a day — how would a lifetime of it feel? He was tired; it didn’t bear considering now. The other two men watched with solid indifference. Fryer held up the boots that he had been working on with dark polish.
“Not too bad, gov. You wouldn’t want to go to no dances in them, but they’ll do for the street. And I have a message that a certain person will be waiting for you in the lobby of the Caledonian Hotel. If you’ll follow our friend here he’ll lead you right to it.”
“And you?”
“Never ask questions, gov. But I’m for home as soon as I can. Too cold up here in the north.” His smile showed a number of blackened teeth; he took Jan’s hand. “Good luck.”
Jan followed his guide into the street and stayed a good twenty meters behind him as they walked. The sun had burned away the fog and the cold air felt good. As they passed the Caledonian Hotel the man shrugged his shoulder, then hurried on. Jan pushed through the revolving door and saw Sara sitting under a potted palm reading a newspaper. Or appearing to, for before he could walk over she stood and crossed in front of him, apparently without noticing him, and exited through the side entrance. He went after her and found her waiting for him around the corner.