With Matching Dior Handbag by B.P.Smythe

Never...never...blackmail a woman holding a hammer...

SOW AND YOU SHALL REAP by Barry Smythe (Kindle Edition - 11 Dec 2011) - Kindle eBook

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12)

By nine-forty it wasn’t busy. Basildon Central was winding down for the day. The diesel with its four carriages was in. Elizabeth made her way past four seated people and sat as near as possible to the carriage door. She eyed them; two gentlemen and an elderly couple. The couple smiled at her as she took her seat. Opening the newspaper quickly she buried her face pretending to read more on the two day old moon landing news with another photo of Neil Armstrong, this time posing with his family.

Elizabeth clutched her bag. Why the s**t did he ask for her new Dior handbag for the drop? Why not an old carrier bag or something? He must have been watching when she bought it in Harrods. She’d spent ages finding one to match the shoes and gloves. It was like rubbing salt into the wound. She felt like deducting it from what he wanted. Then she thought better. She’d managed to scrape four thousand pounds together. Elizabeth had put a letter with the money; hoped to appeal to his good nature. Told him there wasn’t enough time; asked for another couple of weeks to get the extra thousand. Just hoped he’d buy it. Whoever it was had her arse nailed to the barn door, and knew it.

Elizabeth mulled it over as she rocked with the motion of the train. He could have gone to the police when he found the wallet, along with the business card inside it and her phone number on the back; plus the photo of her and the murdered punter. He could have collected the five-hundred pounds reward, then and there. But oh no. This slippery b*****d wanted more. And, the worrying thing? He knew who she was. Where she lived. Had followed her. Made the telephone call, probably in a disguised voice, although she was sure it was a bloke.

She put a hand into her pocket. Felt the handle. It reassured her.

At Laindon station the last of the four passengers got off. The carriage was now empty. Elizabeth got up and slightly swayed with the train as she moved to a seat near the door. She sat down then shifted uncomfortably. Was he going to go through with it? Had he changed his mind? Chickened out? Would he cut his losses? Take it to the police? Tell them he’d found the wallet. Collect the reward?

Suddenly there was a blast on the driver’s horn and Elizabeth lurched sideways as the train braked sharply and then slurred to a halt. She got up tentatively and moved to a window. Elizabeth shielded her eyes from the reflected light and tried to look out. But it was too dark. Before she parted with four-thousand pounds she had to make sure this was the spot. She pushed the carriage door window down and leant out. There was a crossing up ahead all lit up. A man with a torch, probably the driver, was playing the beam around, surveying something at the front of the train. Elizabeth turned as the interconnecting carriage door opened and the ticket collector walked through.

A large fat man wearing a cap and wreaking of stale tobacco, with a waist that could easily have burst his British Rail uniform trousers, looked around and then spoke loudly in a well prepared, off-pat, reassuring little speech. ‘Just to let you know we have an obstruction on the line and the matter is being dealt with. Please do not make any attempt to get off the train, and don’t worry, we will be moving shortly.’ With that he closed the door and was gone.

Elizabeth was convinced. This had to be the drop. She took the bag, leaned out the carriage window and looked into the darkness. She swung the cream coloured bag backwards and forwards in an exaggerated motion. She wanted to stand out, wanted him to see where she was going to throw it. With a heave she let go and it bounced and rolled, then came to rest across the opposite line.

‘S**t!’ Elizabeth muttered. She stared down into the darkness and could make out the cream shape sitting smack on the polished steel strip. She looked up startled. In the faint distance she could see the lights of an opposing train approaching. Elizabeth’s expression turned to horror. Instant thoughts flashed through her mind. The train could be derailed, the money all chewed up under the wheels. She had to do something, get it off the line and quick. Mustn’t let him see me. Don’t want him to think I’m taking the money back.

Elizabeth crouched and made her way to the other side of the carriage. She got to the door, pushed the window down then put her hand through and turned the handle. It swung open. There was a steep embankment directly opposite. Not a lot of space, but enough. In that split second she was grateful she’d worn sensible shoes.

‘Jesus!’ Elizabeth cried out as she hit the steep grass then rolled back under a large steel wheel. She frantically scrambled out from underneath the carriage thinking it might start rolling again at any moment and hauled herself up. Brushing herself down she temporarily examined a grazed knee and torn stocking. She listened out; all quiet apart from the hissing of the diesel up front. Using the carriage as support she carefully trod her way to the back of the train.

Suddenly, crunching noises. Someone nearby walking on the sleeper gravel. Elizabeth crouched, as she peered around the end carriage she could see the cream bag and a figure approaching. The silhouette of what looked like a man appeared, picking his way along the track; stopping, looking around, moving on then stopping again. Now outside away from the glare of the windows it was a clear night.

Elizabeth wasn’t sure, was it a railway worker doing his job? Last minute checks before moving off? If it was, where was his torch? Even so, once he clocked the bag the money would be gone? She knew what she had to do.

 Elizabeth looked behind; she had to be quick, the lights of an oncoming train were getting clearer and brighter. Then a horn sounded. She heard carriage doors closing. Her own train was about to move off. Now she knew for sure.

The figure stopped. At about thirty feet away it spotted the bag. It began to move quickly, coming towards her. Then the horn of the approaching train sounded. The figure checked himself, looked at the oncoming lights and continued faster. Elizabeth felt in her pocket. She took out the hammer and held it down by her side. Then the figure tripped and half stumbled to one knee. ‘S**t, you mother…’ Elizabeth was near enough to hear his cursing. He got up, brushed himself down. Up front the horn sounded again and her own train started moving off. Her cover was gone. Elizabeth crouched in the dark, but his eyes were only for her cream bag containing all that money.

On the opposite line the chugging of the leading diesel carriage was getting louder. He was now at the bag. The figure stooped to pick it up; then tried to open it. He was having trouble with the clasp. Elizabeth had twenty feet to cover. She looked behind. The diesel was getting nearer; looming out of the dark like a giant angry serpent, all lit up, spewing out its rage. He opened the bag and got the money; standing there totally oblivious, feverishly tearing at the newspaper she’d wrapped it in.

The approaching noise drowned out her footsteps. With the hammer at shoulder height Elizabeth moved in with that fixated and purposeful look. Like a Lioness that had crept behind a wildebeest on its knees at a water hole, she was upon him, swinging the hammer to the back of his head. He half turned as the blow glanced off then she hit him again above the right eye. He swore at her, ‘you f*****g b***h!’ Then grabbed at her arm, pulling her down. Elizabeth was on top trying to hit him but he had her arm. Then, with her left hand she threw gravel in his eyes. Wincing and blinking he let go to rub them then screamed as she smashed the hammer into his face. Sitting astride him she swung again, then froze.

She knew this man, even with the black blood pouring down his face. It was Boris, the owner of the pawn shop. His doorway was part of her patch where the punters cruised by.

‘Boris, what the f**k…?’

‘Get off me, you b***h!’

‘Give me back my money?’ Knowing him had taken the sting out of it. She dropped the hammer. The noise behind her was deafening. Elizabeth could feel the approaching heat, smell the warm sickly oil. They were lit up in the train’s beam. The horn sounded again. He reached inside his jacket and got tangled up trying to pull out a gun. She caught a glimpse of steel and instantly grabbed at it. It went off, and then fired off again with his finger on the trigger and her hand clutching the barrel - she shouted with the pain from the heat of the gun.

Still astride him they wrestled, both her hands now holding his with the gun. She let go with one, feverishly clawing at the gravel until her fingers felt the wooden handle. She grabbed at it and swung the hammer down into his face. Blood from his broken nose sprayed her. He screamed with the pain and it made him drop the gun. Again she tried to get up, but he was pulling her down on top of him. Even with his injuries Boris wrestled with her, screaming at her, ‘You b***h! You f*****g b***h!’
            She rolled with him between the rails, dropping the hammer again, trying to kick him away, break free. Elizabeth could feel the vibration of the giant steel wheels as they bore down on them. He wasn’t going to let go. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the gun, just out of reach. Her fingers clutched at nothing. The train was less than twenty yards away. The ground was shaking like an earthquake.
            Boris began to cough, some blood clogging in his throat. He relaxed. Elizabeth strained and her fingers wrapped around the barrel. She looked behind, the steaming monster was nearly upon them. She wasn’t going to make it. With one last exhausted lunge Elizabeth smashed the handle into his forehead. Blood spurted out his nose and mouth as she pushed him away. She rolled and rolled in the gravel across the sleepers, crying out in pain as her head and knees hit the steel rail passing over it.
            It was as if the devil had invited her in. Hell’s door had opened; the heat, the wind, the roar with the burning stench of diesel thundered past, taking Boris and her money with it.

Elizabeth lay there on her back, not quite believing; breathing in deep snatches as she looked at the stars. All of a sudden she felt cold and started to shiver. She held up her hands, mesmerized by them; they were covered in blood.
            Elizabeth pulled herself up. She swayed a bit, unsteady. Taking in what happened, where she was. She took a step, stopped, hesitated then straightened herself and slowly walked over to the bag and reached down for it. She buffed it up under her arm with her elbow, wanting to get rid of the scuff marks; as if it were the only thing that mattered.
            Holding her cream coloured Dior handbag she walked slowly along the track; it was surreal, as if strolling down Bond Street on a Saturday afternoon. She spotted the hammer. Close by to it was the gun. Picking up the items she wiped them on her sleeve. Elizabeth now recognised the piece; a Smith & Wesson 10 Military .38 revolver. Her late step-daddy owned one; it was his pride and joy. When her mother was working he would sit in his wicker chair, no shirt, just vest and braces, with a tumbler of Johnny Walker at his side, sucking the stub of a wet cigar, polishing the steel then holding it up occasionally to admire.

Stepfather Ralph was a Pentecostal preacher; a healer from the Deep South. Back where he came from, a 1950’s trailer park in Louisiana, he would tell a young Elizabeth the gun was kept under his pillow to keep the n*****s in line. Saturday night they’d get drunk and come into town lookin’ for white girls. Then he’d squeeze up his cheeks and spit on the floor.
            She checked the chamber, there were three bullets remaining. Elizabeth carefully wrapped the gun in a bit of old bloodied newspaper she found by her feet. Then put it in her handbag.
            The first part of Boris she came across was his left leg. Elizabeth nudged it with her toe, as if it might be still alive; perhaps start moving of its own accord. She carried on another fifteen yards and then, on the left side of the outside rail, was an arm cut off at the elbow. Elizabeth stepped over to look at it. The left hand little finger twitched nervously, as if beckoning her to come closer. The remains of newspaper still clutched between the thumb and forefinger. Again, she carelessly poked it with her foot, then turned and slowly walked on.
            Elizabeth had gone another twenty yards when she saw the shape. It was the moaning as it dragged itself along over the railway sleepers that attracted her; leaving a glistening trail of smeared blood like an early morning slug. Elizabeth walked ahead and then blocked its way. The pitiful thing in front of her stopped. It stared carefully at the shoes, recognising them, then lifted its head.
            ‘Please help me?’ Boris said weakly with pleading eyes. ’Look…look, take the money.’ He rolled over onto the stump of his left arm and bellowed out with the pain. With the remaining hand he opened his jacket giving Elizabeth access. She knelt down and put her hand inside the pocket. The money felt warm and slick as she withdrew it. At that point she turned and vomited at the side of the track.

Elizabeth leant back and took deep breaths, then spat some phlegm a couple of times. She dabbed her mouth with her sleeve, then wiped the money using the same sleeve and placed the bundle of twenty- pound notes, fastened with an elastic band into her bag.
            Boris could hardly speak, he was losing blood and fast. He managed to whisper, ‘Don’t leave me here, please help me?’
            Elizabeth crouched and asked him, ‘Where’s the goods?’
            She kicked his leg stump and Boris screamed, ‘Ahhh!!!…there in the car - there in the car…please God, don’t, I beg you?’
            ‘You lying, f**k! You never was going to give ’em back to me, was you? Going to milk me another time, wasn’t you?’ She kicked his stump again and he screamed out. ‘Where’s the car keys?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. Elizabeth took a deep breath and fumbled again through his ripped jacket; wincing until her fingers felt the key ring. She pulled them out. Attached to the main bunch was a separate ring with a rover tag and two identical keys.
‘What’s the car, and where is it? And don’t lie, otherwise you’ll know real pain?’ Elizabeth moved to kick his stump again.
            Boris with great effort raised himself up, half sitting. He put up the arm he had left and pleaded. ‘No, please. I’ll tell you anything. It’s a white Rover two-thousand, up ahead.’ He had to pause to get his energy, then said weakly, ‘it’s parked on the left side of the crossing, about fifty feet from the gates.’ He collapsed back exhausted, turning to cough up blood and spitting on the side of the track.
            Elizabeth sighed with relief, pushing her hair back and leaving a bloody scuff on her forehead. Boris in desperation bellowed out again as he rolled onto his stomach. His good hand clutched the bottom of Elizabeth’s coat; he looked up at her, whining, begging her to get help, get an ambulance. But she wasn’t looking. Her eyes were focused on the distant lights. Boris’s eyes followed hers. He saw the approaching train.
            He shuffled and slithered towards her, slipping and slopping in the blood. ‘Don’t leave me here,’ he begged, ‘I’ll give you anything…Pleeeese…?’
            Elizabeth stooped and patted him on the head. ‘Goodbye, Boris. It’s been nice doing business with you.’
            She moved off along the side of the track amidst his last desperate cries. She headed towards the flashing warning lights and the level crossing gates that were now swinging open; as if allowing her a grand entrance. Like some Cleopatra or Boudicca coming home after a great battle.
            His last scream was drowned out as the ten-forty-five to Basildon swept past, and then there was nothing. It was as if Boris had never existed, been swallowed up.
            Elizabeth ducked down out of the beam of headlights as she approached the signal box. The gates were now swinging open to allow cars. Some, quick off the mark, slowly bumped their way along the raised crossing. She crouched until the traffic had gone and then moved into the lane keeping close to the hedges. After a while the white apparition of a Rover two-thousand slowly appeared out of the dark. She fumbled with the two keys and then eased herself back into the posh leather seats.
            With the Dior bag on her lap she unlocked the dashboard flap and found a brown A4 envelope containing the wallet, her photo and the business card. Also tucked away was a small bottle of Napoleon brandy. She unscrewed the cap then wiped the top. Elizabeth took a swig and winced. ’Needed that,’ she mumbled.

She relaxed. Elizabeth gazed through the windscreen, trance like, not really seeing. She took another small swig; the initial sting now dulled into a warm glow. After a few minutes her eyelids grew heavy; they flickered briefly and closed. The brandy bottle slipped slowly from her fingers. She said a few things incomprehensible, then twitched as sleep took over.

 

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© 2011 B.P.Smythe

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