Secret Army (26 page)

Tomaszewski made no attempt to disguise the gun as they moved through the warehouse, but the pair moved as fast as the weight allowed, because the porter dragging the bloody body on his cart was causing a stir amongst the traders. He’d found an open-backed truck and as far as Luc could tell its driver was a decent fellow who was happy to take the Pole to hospital. He even refused the porter’s offer of money.

Once Luc was certain Tomaszewski and Wozniak were heading back towards the bus he raced ahead of them. Sitting inside the bus was risky, but Luc didn’t fancy being stuck in the luggage hold the whole way to London. He rushed towards the main door, at the front of the bus, a metre behind the driver’s seat. The Poles had no keys for the stolen bus, so they’d left it open. Before stepping aboard, Luc raised the flap over the small side compartment from which the Poles had retrieved the toolkit. He didn’t have a clear idea of how to deal with Tomaszewski and Wozniak and hoped he’d find something useful.

The compartment smelled like exhaust fumes. There was a balled-up set of mechanic’s overalls, a tow rope, a breakdown warning sign, a big flashlight, bottles of engine oil, distilled water and two small cans of diesel.

The Poles were now less than thirty metres from the bus. Luc might have used the flashlight to whack someone, but he already had the bike chain and police officer’s truncheon in his satchel. He thought the fuel might be useful if he needed to start a fire, so he grabbed the half-f metal can before diving inside the bus.

Luc saw the Poles crossing the street through the driver’s-side window and crouched down low before they sighted him. He ran to the back of the bus and threw all his stuff on the back seat.

As Tomaszewski and Wozniak struggled aboard with the gun, Luc lay sideways across the rear seats and tucked his knees into his chest so that his boots didn’t protrude into the aisle.

Wozniak sounded distressed as the gun crashed down to the floor. He was upset about losing two members of the team, and although Luc couldn’t understand Polish it seemed that both men were suspicious about what had happened at the base of the pylon.

The only things Luc understood were the words
Walker
and the initials
SOE
. He smiled as he realised that the Poles thought Air Vice Marshal Walker had sent a special squad out to sabotage their operation and wondered what their reaction would be when they found out it was the work of a thirteen-year-old.

*

The little Post Office van was full of noise as it belted through the streets towards the centre of Manchester.

‘Look at the fuel gauge,’ Rosie said anxiously. ‘We’ll never get to London on a quarter tank and we can’t buy more without petrol coupons.’

‘This van is red hot anyway,’ PT said. ‘Even if we had the petrol, every cop within three counties will be on the lookout for a stolen Post Office van with four kids inside before much longer.’

‘And no offence, PT, but your driving’s rubbish,’ Marc said. ‘We’ll end up wrapped around a tree at this rate.’

‘I can’t get used to this thing,’ PT said.

As if to prove his point, PT stopped at a T-junction and stalled as he pulled out. The car behind had to slam on the brakes and the driver blasted his horn.

‘Don’t honk me, you turd,’ PT yelled, waving his fist as he leaned out of the window and gave the driver the finger. ‘Sit on this, you old goat.’

The car shuddered as PT let the clutch up too fast, but this time he kept the engine running and they made the turn.

The only one who wasn’t speaking was Joel. Tears streaked down his face as he sat with his back against the side of the van, tightly gripping his ankle.

‘Can you move your foot at all?’ Marc asked.

‘No,’ Joel said, through gritted teeth. ‘The whole weight of the gun smashed down on my leg. I broke my arm a few years back and this feels the same.’

‘We’ll see if you can put any weight on it when we get out,’ PT said, as the car approached a split in the road. ‘Rosie, have you worked out a route yet?’

Rosie looked at the Manchester street map she’d found under the passenger seat. ‘I’ve worked out where we are. If we’re not going all the way in the car, I guess we want Piccadilly station.’

‘I suppose,’ Marc said, and PT agreed.

‘Right, let’s work this out,’ Rosie said, as she turned the folded map to see a different page. ‘It’s about two miles south. Stay on this road.’

‘What about the gun though?’ Marc asked. ‘We can’t just walk through a main station in morning rush hour carrying a stolen gun. We need some kind of disguise.’

‘When I lived near Chicago I had a case for my fishing rods,’ PT said. ‘That would have covered it.’

‘And where are we going to buy one of those at twenty to nine in the morning?’ Marc asked.

‘Is the trolley still back there with you, Marc?’ Rosie asked.

‘Yeah,’ Marc replied.

‘OK, here’s what we do,’ Rosie began. ‘When we get to the station, one of us goes inside, checks the train times and buys five tickets to London.’

‘Why five?’ Marc asked.

‘Because they might be looking for four kids,’ Rosie explained.

‘Buy three,’ Joel said. ‘I’m not gonna make it out of this van.’

‘It might feel different when you try to walk,’ Rosie said.

‘It won’t,’ Joel said, irritated that nobody seemed to believe the seriousness of his injury. ‘Even if I could limp on I’ll only slow you down. I’ll wait until your train leaves, then I’ll surrender. Walker said it doesn’t matter how many of us get to London, only that the gun does.’

‘If you’re sure,’ PT said. ‘But that still doesn’t explain how we get through the station.’

‘That’s what I was saying before you all interrupted,’ Rosie said. ‘While I go in to buy our tickets and check the train times, you boys need to tie the gun to the trolley and then disguise it as best you can. You can tie my coat or a couple of the mailbags over it, then hang our satchels off the side. If anyone asks we say it’s curtain poles. We got bombed out and we’re heading to our aunt’s house on the edge of London.’

‘It’s still gonna look like a gun if people know what they’re looking for,’ Marc noted. ‘What if we hide out for a couple of hours? We could try finding an old rug in a junk shop and roll it up in that.’

‘No way,’ PT said. ‘That’s going to take an hour at least.’

‘Next right, then left,’ Rosie interrupted urgently, before PT continued.

‘All that time we’re four kids standing around with a big heavy gun and a stolen Post Office van.’

PT seemed to be getting the hang of the van as they made a brief stop before crossing the traffic coming in the other direction and taking an easy left turn.

After three-quarters of a mile through city streets, the little van rattled down a steep slope and splashed through a puddle as it passed under a railway arch. As they reached the brow of the ramp on the way out Rosie saw eight railway tracks stretching out to their left and a dark-green steam engine belching soot as it accelerated away from the station.

It was the morning rush hour and bodies were pouring out of Piccadilly station, joining bus queues or heading into the city on foot. PT parked up on the kerb, level with the far end of the station platforms, and reached inside his coat for the wallet he’d stolen from the young farmer.

‘Two pounds should be more than enough for tickets,’ he said, as he passed Rosie the money. ‘We’ll follow you in and meet you by the ticket office.’

‘No,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘Disguise the gun as best you can and I’ll see you back here. We don’t want to be standing around inside the station with that gun for one second longer than we have to.’

Rosie stepped out of the van and took off her coat, passing it to Marc who was already on the pavement dragging the trolley out of the back. She was drier than she’d been when she arrived at the parachute factory, but her clothes were still damp and even in wartime a girl in muddy trousers and boots was an odd sight. Still, the commuters all seemed too worried about getting to work to bother looking at her.

While Rosie stood in a long ticket queue, Marc and PT tied the gun to the trolley and did their best to disguise it by wrapping it in mailbags and using Rosie’s coat and a couple of satchels to disguise its shape.

Joel dragged himself to the edge of the van. After unlacing his boot, he used the morning light to make a proper inspection of his leg. There was a huge swelling under his sock at the join between his ankle and foot.

‘Looks completely buggered, mate,’ Marc said sympathetically, as he reached into Joel’s satchel and grabbed his surrender letter. ‘You’d better keep that handy in case the cops turn up.’

By the time the boys had the trolley ready Rosie was coming back out of the station, waving crazily to get them to hurry up.

‘We’re being summoned,’ Marc said, as he looked at Joel sitting in the back of the van. ‘Are you gonna be OK?’

‘I’ll be great if you get the job done,’ Joel said, as he pulled himself back inside the van. ‘Close the doors. This hurts like hell, but I’ll take the pain for as long as I can, to give you a chance to get away.’

‘In six minutes, platform three,’ Rosie shouted, as Marc closed the doors of the van. ‘We can make it if we hurry.’

PT’s face strained as he started pushing the trolley. It was even heavier with the satchels hanging off and a lot less stable. Marc picked up his own satchel and the sack containing the other pieces of the gun before running after him.

It took two minutes to reach the station entrance. The cavernous interior was a series of vaults, blackened by years of soot.

‘Stand clear,’ Rosie shouted, as she made a path through the crowds for PT and the trolley.

The train on platform three was an inter-city express, with blackout curtains covering every window of its maroon carriages. The engine was being stoked ready for departure and the last few passengers were running through the ticket barriers as a man walked along from the far end of the platform slamming the doors and ordering passengers to get in the nearest carriage because the train was about to leave.

‘We’ll just make it,’ Rosie gasped, as she looked up at the station clock. But as she looked down she saw two police officers approaching the barriers and stopped dead. The heavy trolley had momentum and PT couldn’t stop it from running into Rosie’s ankles. She stifled a yelp as she stumbled forwards.

‘Sorry,’ PT said.

‘You OK?’ Marc asked.

The trolley had skinned the back of Rosie’s ankle and it was a couple of seconds before she could speak. ‘Two police,’ she said. ‘One’s stopped by the barrier, the other one is running for the train.’

‘Maybe they’re not looking for us,’ Marc said.

‘They are,’ Rosie said ferociously, as she spun around and started walking. ‘Turn around before they spot us.’

Her tone made the two boys snap into line and she explained why she was so certain as she took them back the way they came. ‘There was a guy standing behind the ticket counter and he gave me a weird look while I was paying. He must have thought something was up because the same man was with the two police officers.’

‘You’re sure it was him?’

‘Completely,’ Rosie said. ‘Why else would he be there with two police, three minutes before the train leaves?’

‘Now what the hell do we do?’ PT said, looking around for any sign of more cops as they headed back towards the exit. ‘They must have put out an alert.’

‘Why would they look for us here, though?’ Marc asked.

Rosie put her hands up to her face. ‘I think I know,’ she gasped. ‘When I took the bags in off the factory roof, I said to Marc
we’ll have a job getting this lot back to London
. That doorman must have heard me.’

‘Dammit,’ PT cursed. ‘Why did you say that?’

‘I just didn’t think,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m
so
tired.’

‘It’s not her fault,’ Marc said. ‘We should have knocked that doorman out as soon as he started giving us trouble. Henderson wouldn’t have put up with his mucking about for five seconds.’

‘So what now?’ PT asked. ‘Do we go back to the van?’

‘The police will be looking for it, but we could drive a few miles just to get out of here,’ Rosie suggested.

‘Exactly,’ Marc agreed.

But as PT wheeled the trolley through the station’s side entrance they saw a police car parked at an angle directly in front of the Post Office van. Despite his broken ankle, Joel was being held against the van by a burly officer while his colleague threatened him with a bunched fist.

Rosie’s mouth dropped open. ‘They’re making him stand on that ankle. He must be in agony.’

PT felt just as bad, but his attention was turned by a woman in a fur coat getting out of an aged London-style taxi thirty metres in the other direction. He couldn’t move fast with the trolley, so he gave Marc a shove.

‘Go get that cab.’

Marc raced off, then waited anxiously while the posh lady paid her fare.

‘Sorry, son,’ the driver said, as he pointed around to the front of the train station. ‘We can’t pick up here. Station passengers have to queue at the rank around the front.’

By this time Rosie had arrived. ‘We need to get to Stockport station
urgently
,’ she said, remembering the next stop on the route to London from the timetable she’d looked at a few minutes earlier and waving a pound note. ‘This is your tip if you get us there fast.’

The driver looked warily towards the police car parked a couple of hundred metres away before responding with a reluctant, ‘Get yourselves in, then.’

Rosie opened the door of the open-air rear compartment. PT and Marc laid the trolley sideways across the rear seats, and then all three kids squeezed on to a wooden bench which faced the other way.

Joel was being dragged towards the police car as the taxi swung around and drove past. He recognised the distinctive shape of the gun and trolley, but was mystified as to why they hadn’t made it on to the train.

Neither of the police officers saw a thing.

*

Like all the trainees Lieutenant Tomaszewski had missed a night’s sleep and settled in the bus’s third row of seats. As Wozniak drove through the heavy dockyard traffic and broke out on to the main road towards London, Tomaszewski took off his damp shirt, spread himself over the seats and drifted off to sleep.