The train came over him like an explosion. It was as though a gun had gone off in his head. And with the explosion came a tearing, screaming wind that was like a hurricane blowing down his nostrils and into his lungs. The noise was shattering. The wind choked him. He felt as if he were being eaten alive and swallowed up in the belly of a screaming murderous monster.
And then it was over. The train had gone. Peter opened his eyes and saw the blue sky and the big white cloud still drifting overhead. It was all over now and he had done it. He had survived.
‘It missed ’im,’ said a voice.
‘What a pity,’ said another voice.
He glanced sideways and saw the two large louts standing over him.
‘Cut ’im loose,’ Ernie said.
Raymond cut the strings binding him to the rails on either side.
‘Undo ’is feet so ’ee can walk, but keep ’is ’ands tied,’ Ernie said.
Raymond cut the strings around his ankles.
‘Get up,’ Ernie said.
Peter got to his feet.
‘You’re still a prisoner, matey,’ Ernie said.
‘What about them rabbits?’ Raymond asked. ‘I thought we was goin’ to try for a few rabbits?’
‘Plenty of time for that,’ Ernie answered. ‘I just thought we’d push the little bleeder into the lake on the way.’
‘Good,’ Raymond said. ‘Cool ’im down.’
‘You’ve had your fun,’ Peter Watson said. ‘Why don’t you let me go now?’
‘Because you’re a prisoner,’ Ernie said. ‘And you ain’t just no ordinary prisoner neither. You’re a spy. And you know what ’appens to spies when they get caught, don’t you? They get put up against the wall and shot.’
Peter didn’t say any more after that. There was no point at all in provoking those two. The less he said to them and the less he resisted them, the more chance he would have of escaping injury. He had no doubt whatsoever that in their present mood they were capable of doing him quite serious bodily harm. He knew for a fact that Ernie had once broken little Wally Simpson’s arm after school and Wally’s parents had gone to the police. He had also heard Raymond boasting about what he called ‘putting the boot in’ at the football matches they went to. This, he understood, meant kicking someone in the face or body when he was lying on the ground. They were hooligans, these two, and from what Peter read in his father’s newspaper nearly every day, they were not by any means on their own. It seemed the whole country was full of hooligans. They wrecked the interiors of trains, they fought pitched battles in the streets with knives and bicycle chains and metal clubs, they attacked pedestrians, especially other young boys walking alone, and they smashed up roadside cafés. Ernie and Raymond, though perhaps not quite yet fully qualified hooligans, were most definitely on their way.
Therefore, Peter told himself, he must continue to be passive. Do not insult them. Do not aggravate them in any way. And above all, do not try to take them on physically. Then, hopefully, in the end, they might become bored with this nasty little game and go off to shoot rabbits.
The two larger boys had each taken hold of one of Peter’s arms and they were marching him across the next field towards the lake. The prisoner’s wrists were still tied together in front of him. Ernie carried the gun in his spare hand. Raymond carried the binoculars he had taken from Peter. They came to the lake.
The lake was beautiful on this golden May morning. It was a long and fairly narrow lake with tall willow trees growing here and there along its banks. In the middle, the water was clear and clean, but nearer to the land there was a forest of reeds and bulrushes.
Ernie and Raymond marched their prisoner to the edge of the lake and there they stopped.
‘Now then,’ Ernie said. ‘What I suggest is this. You take ’is arms and I take ’is legs and we’ll swing the little perisher one two three as far out as we can into them nice muddy reeds. ’Ow’s that?’