Read Chapter 10: Cold Feet

The rain had begun again by the time Arthur left the house, a thin, miserable drizzle that clung to his coat and darkened the shoulders of his work jacket. He stood on the pavement outside his flat, staring at the glowing sign of the police station three streets away. He could see it from where he stood, a faint blue lamp haloed in the wet air, promising safety, order, truth.

He took a step. Then another.

His feet carried him past the corner shop, past the pub where the old men drank their lunchtime pints, past the row of terraced houses with their lace curtains twitching at his passing. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He rehearsed the words as he walked.

*My name is Arthur Phelps. I'm a signalman at Aldermaston. There's a robbery planned for tonight. The Night Mail. They're going to take the diamonds.*

He stopped at the corner of Marsh Lane and looked at the police station. It was a squat, red-brick building with a heavy wooden door and a brass plaque that read *CITY OF LONDON POLICE – BISHOPSGATE DIVISION*. A constable stood outside, smoking a cigarette under the awning, his helmet gleaming with rain.

Arthur watched him for a long moment.

What would he say, truly? That a man named Victor had recruited him to stop a train? That he'd been forced through practice runs at gunpoint? That his name had been crossed out on a crew list in pencil?

The constable flicked his cigarette into the gutter and glanced at Arthur. Their eyes met. The constable nodded, a small, friendly gesture, and Arthur felt his mouth go dry.

He could do it. He could walk over there, open that door, and end all of it. Victor would be arrested. Scar would be arrested. The reserve crew, whoever they were, would scatter. Lila would be saved from her own recklessness.

But then what?

Arthur thought of the gaming house on Greek Street, the men in dark suits who had paid his debt and smiled with their teeth. They had been clear: if he did not deliver Victor and the crew to them—if he did not play his part as their eyes inside the operation—they would come for his daughter. Margaret was nineteen, living in a flat in Camden, working as a typist, and she had no idea her father had mortgaged her safety to pay for his own weakness.

The constable was still looking at him.

Arthur turned and walked away.

His feet felt like lead. Each step back toward his flat was heavier than the last, the rain soaking through his thin jacket, the cold seeping into his bones. He kept his head down, watching the wet pavement slide beneath him, trying to silence the voice in his head that called him a coward.

He was halfway down the High Street when he saw the car.

A black Vauxhall, parked on the opposite side of the road, its engine idling. The windows were fogged with condensation, but through the smear of rain on the glass he caught the faint shape of a man in the driver's seat. The horn gave a single, short bleat—not aggressive, not warning, almost friendly.

Arthur's blood turned to ice.

He didn't stop walking. He didn't react. He kept his pace steady, his eyes forward, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He crossed the road at the zebra crossing, passed the newsagent, turned onto his street. He didn't look back until he reached his front door.

The Vauxhall was parked at the end of the street, still idling.

Arthur fumbled with his keys, slipped inside, and pressed his back against the door. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. He listened for the sound of a car door opening, footsteps on the pavement, a knock.

Nothing came.

He moved to the window, parting the curtain a single inch. The Vauxhall was still there. The driver's window had rolled down now, and in the glow of the streetlamp he could see the silhouette of a man, his face in shadow, a cigarette glowing orange between his fingers.

The man raised his hand in a small salute.

Arthur let the curtain fall. He stood in the dim hallway, his heart pounding, his mind racing. He had been watched. Perhaps since the moment Victor had first approached him in that pub three weeks ago. Perhaps longer.

He went into his kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, drinking it in slow, deliberate sips. His hands shook, but he forced them steady.

There was no way out.

If he went to the police, Victor's men were still watching. They would see him enter the station, and Margaret would pay for it tonight. If he went to the gaming house men and told them the plan was falling apart, they would take their payment in blood—his blood, or hers.

If he ran, they'd catch him. He was a middle-aged signalman with a bad back and a worse heart. He had no car, no money, no passport, no friends who would hide him from men like Victor.

He had two options: go through with the job and hope to talk his way out when Victor moved to kill him, or die trying to run.

Arthur set the glass down and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Two in the afternoon. Eight hours until his shift began. Eight hours until the Night Mail would come screaming down the track toward his signal box.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the screwdriver. It was small, cheap, barely six inches long, but the weight of it was comforting. He turned it over in his hand, feeling the cold metal against his palm, thinking of Scar's gun.

He pocketed it again and walked to the bedroom. He opened his wardrobe and pulled out his signalman's coat, checking the pockets. His whistle was there, his schedule book, his railway-issue torch.

At the bottom of the pocket, his fingers brushed against the folded piece of paper he'd forgotten. He pulled it out, frowning. It was a receipt from a café on Finchley Road. He'd never been to a café on Finchley Road.

He unfolded it, reading the scrawl on the back:

*Victor expects to be betrayed. Death is the only way out that doesn't end in yours.*

Arthur stared at the words. The handwriting was hurried, angular. Someone had slipped this into his coat when he wasn't looking. When? The safe house? The practice run? His own flat, while he slept?

He turned the receipt over. The front was printed with a price list and a phone number, and at the bottom, in the same handwriting: *Ask for Mr. Bell.*

Arthur sat down on the edge of his bed, the receipt trembling in his hand. Mr. Bell. A name. A thread. A way out, perhaps—or another trap.

He folded the receipt carefully and tucked it into his wallet.

Through the window, he saw the black Vauxhall still parked at the end of his street, its engine running, a sentry waiting for his next move.

Arthur checked the time. Seven hours and forty-two minutes until the job.

He had never felt more alone in his life.