Then Briggs heard a voice he recognized on his radio, sounding very anxious. A signaller from Three Bridges.
‘Stan. The up-line driver’s reported what he thinks is an obstruction on the southbound line in Clayton Tunnel. Halt your train! Halt your train immediately!’
Shit.
For a split second, Briggs was torn between slamming the brakes full on and hurtling The Queen and all other passengers forward, potentially causing injuries, or slowing more gradually.
The signaller’s words flashed through his brain. What he thinks is an obstruction.
Not definitely an obstruction.
He went for a compromise, braking as hard as he dared as they shot into the entrance, the darkness of the railway tunnel instantly enveloping them, along with the din echoing around them. The speed dropped: 60mph... 50mph...
Although just 1.5 miles long, for some reason this feebly lit tunnel always felt longer to Stan. The exit was, at this moment, just the faintest distant pinprick of light. He glanced at the cold grey walls, up at the curved roof, then the faint glint from the rails, seemingly unspooling in front of them.
40mph.
Then he saw something.
Jesus.
Something on the track.
It wasn’t possible.
Oh no, please no.
He dived for the brake, slamming it full on, but it was already too late. The cab rose up, as if it was on a ramp, then down, but it was no longer on the rails. It was jolting, jarring, jolting, shaking across the sleepers, shaking him out of his seat and throwing him across the cab floor. Sparks were shooting like a lightshow in front of him.
Oh Christ. Oh please, God, no. Not this train, not this train, oh please no.
The walls were hurtling past. The cab rocked from side to side and he was fearful it was about to capsize. The train was slithering, snaking, bumping. Slowing. Stan tried to get to his feet but was thrown sideways. Then, just as he tried again, the train abruptly came to a standstill, hurtling him up and forward, cracking his head fiercely at the top of the windscreen. He fell to the floor, dazed, his head in agony.
All he could hear for a moment was silence. Then a hiss, a crackling sound. The acrid stench of burning electrics.
8
Monday 20 November 2023
Inside the royal sitting-room carriage, which was heeled over at an angle, with the lights flickering, the startled and slightly dazed Queen, flung from her desk, lay on the floor. There were wisps of smoke in the carriage, a loud crackling sound of shorting electrics and someone close by was shouting.
Shaken but unhurt, Queen Camilla’s endless training in emergency situations kicked in. She looked around, anxious to see if anyone was injured. For an instant, the lights went out, plunging them into darkness. Then they came back on and she could see what appeared to be the contents of a handbag strewn all over the floor along with a broken teacup and a spreading pool of milk. Lady Elena Trevelyan, a statuesque figure normally unruffled by anything, was also on the floor, looking shocked and missing a shoe. Peregrine Greaves, looking dazed but struggling back onto his feet, had an ugly gash down the right side of his forehead. Tiny, in a rear-facing seat, was one of the few in the carriage who appeared OK.
‘I think we should get off the train,’ The Queen said, her voice shaky. ‘In case it catches fire. Everyone OK to do that? Anyone need help? Where’s Jayne?’
‘I’m here,’ Jayne said firmly from just behind her. ‘Your Majesty, we’re fine, I think we’re all fine!’
The Queen, helped to her feet by her Protection Officer, Jon Gilhall, who seemed unscathed, stood shakily several seconds before Greaves, no longer gliding now but striding like a clockwork toy, reached her.
‘You — Your — Your Majesty,’ he said, looking totally bewildered. ‘I — are you — you?’
He seemed to forget what he wanted to say.
‘Sir,’ Gilhall said, looking around warily, one hand inside his jacket, where he kept his gun, ‘sit down, I’ll get someone to bring the royal doctor.’ His eyes darted to both of The Queen’s Companions. Tiny, on her knees, was helping Lady Trevelyan gather up the contents of her handbag.
Pulling out his phone and stabbing the keypad, Gilhall hurried to the drawer containing the first aid kit. Then he cursed. ‘No signal.’
The Queen reached for her handbag, pulled a handkerchief out and dabbed the Private Secretary’s badly cut face. ‘It’s a nasty gash, Perry,’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’
He gave an uncertain nod. ‘I... I don’t... don’t know — what’s happened?’
‘There’s been an accident, sit down, help will be coming.’
‘I’m OK, Your Majesty, Ma’am. I’m fine.’ He sounded anything but.
She looked at her two Queen’s Companions. ‘I can smell burning. We need to evacuate and check on the other carriages, see if anyone is hurt and get them out. Understand?’
The Queen’s Companions nodded, Elena shaking badly and looking in shock.
‘I’ll call for help.’ The Queen pulled her phone out of her bag with a trembling hand. Then she saw, too, there was no signal.
‘Sorry, Ma’am, I can’t get a signal either,’ Gilhall said.
Suddenly the carriage door opened, and the bespectacled face of a man in his sixties appeared. He had blood running from a cut on the top of his head and one of his glass lenses was cracked. He was holding a small torch in his hand. ‘I’m the train driver, Your Majesty,’ he gasped, ‘we must get out, everyone must get out NOW!’
An instant later, the tall, wiry frame of another of The Queen’s Protection Officers, PC Dambe, appeared in the carriage, holding a large torch. ‘Your Majesty!’ he said, the relief on his face palpable as he saw she was on her feet. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Thank you, Julian, I’m fine. How is everyone else?’
‘I’ll check, Ma’am.’
‘Your Majesty,’ the bespectacled man blurted out, louder and even more urgently. ‘I’m the driver. We’ve been derailed by something on the line. Part of this train is now across the northbound line and there’s an express from Brighton due in fifteen minutes. I’ve got no phone or radio signal in here. You’ve got to get away from the train. God knows what will happen if we can’t stop that train.’
‘Fifteen minutes?’ Dambe said. ‘Are you sure we have fifteen minutes?’
‘Could be less,’ the driver said. ‘Unless the Three Bridges signaller has already stopped it. But I don’t want to take the risk.’
‘I’m a runner. Which is the fastest way out of the tunnel?’ Dambe asked.
Stan jerked a thumb. ‘South, keep going.’
‘What do I do to stop that express?’
‘Dial the nines and ask for British Transport Police,’ Briggs blurted. ‘You might get a signal as you get near the entrance. They’ve got to speak to the signalling centre at Three Bridges, make sure they know exactly what’s happened.’ He offered the RaSP officer his torch. ‘You’re going to need this.’