The Blackpool Highflyer

Chapter Twelve

I fell in behind the two as they walked past the cab rank outside the Joint. The thin man wore a suit of decent brown tweed. I could picture him in Scotland; I could see him in Dunfermline.

He kept a dozen paces behind Paul, and I thought: they don't want to be seen together. I couldn't go up to him, for I didn't know the fellow, so I ran past him and stopped Paul at the foot of Horton Street.

'Remember me?' I said. 'I stood you a lemonade at the Evening Star,' and even as I spoke, I thought it was a pretty poor beginning.

He put down his portmanteau. The long hair, coming out from under the bowler, made him look old-fashioned, and then it came to me from childhood books: Richard III.

I pointed back down Horton Street, and said, 'Would that fellow be Cowan, because if so…?'

But even as I looked, the man in the brown suit was stepping into the Crown, looking just as though he was after a spot of dinner, and I knew I was wrong.

'Who?' said Paul.

'Sorry,' I said, 'made a bloomer.'

And the nasty smile went crawling across his face.

'Where's Alan Cowan just at present?' I said.

'Piccadilly Circus,' Paul said, instantly. 'Well, that's where he was speaking at midnight last night. Meeting of the unemployed.'

If they're unemployed, I thought, why must they wait until midnight to hold a meeting? 'Keep pretty close tabs on him, don't you?' 'I'm not the only one,' said Paul. 'He's a world-class ideologue, is Alan.' 'Would you take another drink with me?' I said.

Nasty smile as before. 'All right,' he said, and he picked up the portmanteau once again.

In the Evening Star, he left the bag with me at the bar and went off to the Gentlemen's. As the barmaid came up, I was torn between looking into the bag and another plan, and it was the second that won out.

I ordered a Ramsden's for myself, a lemonade for Paul, and a tanner's worth of gin, which I dashed quickly into the lemonade. The concoction was surging up as Paul came back and threatening to overflow the glass, but he didn't seem to pay any mind, and just drunk the stuff down at once as he had done before.

'You've been to York, then?' I said.

'No,' said Paul, and he smiled.

I thought: damn, the drink's taken him the wrong way.

'Why Piccadilly Circus?' I said. 'Why was Alan Cowan speaking at Piccadilly Circus?'

'It's one of the usual propaganda patches,' said Paul. Then: 'You laid hands on your train wrecker yet?'

'No,' I said. 'The whole of the company's on the look-out for the culprits,' I continued, 'and there's a retired army officer leading an investigation.'

Paul gave a snort: 'Let me guess. Stumped, is he? We have plans for his sort, I can tell you…' He looked at his empty glass, maybe with a bit of curiosity. 'We mean to make very short work of that class of gentry, and the coppers, and all the upholders of law without order.'

'But they have the guns,' I said.

The smile once more. 'Oh we have available to us certain chemicals and clever mechanics, certain lead patterns for the manufacture of certain items.'

'Did you pitch the stone through the excursion-office window?'

He turned away from me to look through the door of the pub, which had been propped open on account of the heat.

'We'll make a bonfire of this place' he said, looking out at Halifax; then he picked up his portmanteau. 'Take my advice,' he said, 'and leave the railway slavery. It'll be worse for you if you don't.'

'What's your game exactly, mate?' I said.

'Propaganda,' he said, already turning away. 'Propaganda by deed.'

A tram came clattering past the door of the Evening Star, and the fellow was out and on it with bag in hand, all in a moment.