The Thousand Faces of Night - Jack Higgins [7]
He came awake slowly and lay in the straw for a moment trying to decide where he was. After a while he remembered and struggled to his feet. He was cold and there was a dull, aching pain in his side where Butcher had kicked him. The train was moving fast, rocking slightly on the curves, and when he pulled the door open a gust of wind dashed violently into his face.
A curtain of fog shrouded the fields, cutting visibility down to thirty or forty yards. The cold air made him feel better and he sat down again, leaving the door open, and considered his next move.
Birmingham was out. There was always the chance that Faulkner might have discovered the train's destination. There could easily be a reception committee waiting. Faulkner had friends everywhere. It would be best to leave the train at some small town farther along the line. The sort of place that had a name no one had ever heard of.
He emptied his pockets and checked on his available assets. There was an insurance card, his driving licence which he had renewed each year he had been in prison, and fifteen shillings in silver. He still had ten cigarettes left in the packet he had bought in the snack bar. He smiled ruefully and decided it was a good job he had the licence. With luck he might be able to get some sort of a driving job. Something that would keep him going until he was ready to return to London.
The train began to slow down and he got up quickly and closed the door leaving a narrow gap through which he could stare out into the fog. A signal box loomed out of the gloom and a moment later, the train moved past a small station platform. Marlowe just had time to make out the name Litton before the station was swallowed up by the fog.
He shrugged and a half-smile appeared on his face. This place sounded as good as any. He pushed open the door and as the train slowed even more, he dropped down into the ditch at the side of the track. Before him there was a thorn hedge. He moved along it for a few yards until he found a suitable gap through which he forced his way into a quiet road beyond. The rain was hammering down through the fog unmercifully and he pulled up his coat collar and began to walk briskly along the road.
When he came to the station he paused and examined the railway map that hung on the wall in a glass case. He had little difficulty in finding Litton. It was on the main line, about eighty miles from Birmingham. The nearest place of any size was a town called Barford, twelve or fifteen miles away.
The hands of the clock above the station entrance pointed to three and he frowned and started down the hill towards the village, dimly seen through the fog. He had obviously slept on the train for longer than he had imagined.
The main street seemed to be deserted and the fog was much thicker than it had been on the hill. He saw no one as he walked along the wet pavement. When he paused for a moment outside a draper's shop his reflection stared out at him from a mirror in the back of the window. With his cap pulled down over his eyes and his great shoulders straining out of the sodden raincoat, he presented a formidable and menacing figure.
He lifted his left hand to wipe away the rain from his face and cursed softly. Blood was trickling down his arm, soaking the sleeve of his raincoat. He thrust his hand deep into his pocket and hurried on. He had to find somewhere quiet where he could fix that slash before he ran into anyone.
The street seemed to be endless. He had been walking for a good ten minutes before he came to a low stone wall topped by spiked railings. A little farther along there was an open iron gate and a sign which read Church of the Immaculate Heart, with the times of Mass and Confession in faded gold letters beneath it.
He walked along the flagged path and mounted the four or five steps that led to the porch. For a moment he hesitated and then he pulled off his cap and went inside.
It was warm in there and very quiet.