Nash, Eva and Bishop crouched in readiness.
The blue and silver train gathered speed.
One of the female black-coats yelled, “Don’t!”
The three leapt off the overpass.
The landing was worse than Nash anticipated; and he’d anticipated it would be bad.
Landing with a thud, Nash lost his footing immediately on top of the moving six-carriage train. Thankfully he sprawled forward instead of sideways, so when he face planted with an “oof” it was on top of the train rather than next to it, or worse, under it. Eva was right behind him and her landing was slightly more elegant, but still she toppled forward and landed on all fours. Bishop, on the other hand, landed with aplomb, remained standing and somehow managed to be debonair at the same time. He tugged his cuffs and raised a smug eyebrow. How does he do that?
Bishop frowned at Nash, impressed. “Not bad for an octogenarian.”
“Don’t make me chase you with my walking frame,” Nash yelled to be heard over the increasing wind. “Also, fuck you.”
Eva tutted. “Such spice from grandpa.”
The train sped through pleasant-looking neighbourhoods on one side and native parklands on the other. The three had to yell to be heard.
“Who the hell where they?” Eva asked.
“I think the most immediate question is, can they follow us? Maybe they can catch up with the train?”
Eva gave Nash an amused shake of her head. “I think you’re seriously overestimating the efficiency of the Melbourne road system.” She hunkered down as the train made a slight turn. “We could get off at the next station, or the one after, but they’re likely thinking the same. The more stations we pass, the more chances they have of losing us. Let’s ride this all the way into the city, where it will be easier to disappear.”
“Might I suggest,” Bishop interrupted, raising a finger, “we ride the remainder of the journey via the interior of this public transport conveyance? It’s playing havoc with my hair.”
Eva’s dress flapped up and she was forced to push it down. “Yeah, let’s worry about your hair, shall we?”
In deference to Bishop’s coiffure concerns, the three hunkered down until the next station. As the train rolled into Macleod Station, the three slid down the side of the carriage and entered through the automatic doors unnoticed. They sat on the multicoloured seats facing one another, eyeing fellow passengers for any sign of threat, but the smattering of commuters were more concerned with their mobile devices than the windswept new arrivals. The doors closed, and as the train left the station the team leaned in close.
“Any idea who our new friends are?” Bishop asked.
“Apart from getting a bulk deal on black coats, no clue.” Nash rubbed his stubble. “But I don’t intend to hang around long enough to find out, either. Sorry Eva, but I’m afraid a tour of your old stomping ground would be unwise at this juncture.”
“Damn it.” Eva crossed her arms. “I was going to drag you guys along to Degraves, Gertrude Street, Queen Vic, Mrs Parmas, the Tote, Cherry, all the laneway bars,” her hands flew outward, “everywhere.”
“I assume all those words mean something?” Nash asked.
Eva growled. “Shame it’s all off the cards. I’d love to give you guys the works. You wouldn’t sleep for days.”
“Perhaps next time, my love?” Bishop patted her knee. “Preferably when people aren’t trying to kill us.”
The train travelled up an incline and Nash looked out the window to see a raised train station, above a nearby road. The stop at Rosanna Station came and went without any black-coated individuals boarding the train. Despite himself, Nash began to relax. Whoever it was would have a hard time catching them now.
His mind turned to how their foes had found them. Who were they? Where did they fit into the whole scheme of things? In fact, what was the whole scheme of things? If Harry’s investigations were anything to go by, they now had a planned terrorist attack to contend with as well as taking down Tartarus and evading every major spy agency on Earth. It was a lot.
Were Tartarus truly evil enough to orchestrate a terrorist attack all in the name of acceptance? Were they that morally bereft as to believe taking thousands of innocent lives was a fair price for their entry onto the world stage? It was a horrifying thought. If Cavendish believed this was a valid course of action, where would he draw the line? Would there ever be a line? Nash suspected he knew the answer.
Doing his best to shake off the encroaching malaise, Nash glanced absentmindedly about the carriage. “This seems safe.” Realising he needed to elaborate, he went on. “Public transport, I mean. The passengers seem relaxed and everything is clean. It fits, I guess. All the Australians I’ve met seem agreeable most of the time.”
Eva’s index finger sliced the air. “Don’t you believe it, mate. Ask two Aussies if Vegemite goes in the fridge or the cupboard, or if it’s called a potato cake or a potato scallop, or about the date for Australia Day and you’ll soon find out we’re not so agreeable.”
“Fine,” Nash chuckled. “But what I’m saying is you never had a civil war.”
“I don’t know, if you bring up the potato cake thing I reckon you’ll come pretty close.”
For the remainder of the twenty-minute journey the three continued their conversation, mainly focused on the threat of the terrorist attack. While the thought was abhorrent, academically, Nash could see the thinking behind it. Nothing instilled fear in the general populace like the threat of a random attack on home soil. Wars were horrible, yes, but for a large portion of the population war was theoretical, abstract. Terrorism was very real and fear inducing—which was exactly the point. Tartarus becoming the hero of such a catastrophic and notorious event would cement their validity in the minds of the espionage community and the wider world. Cavendish would get what he’d been after all along: legitimacy. Once that happened it would be next to impossible to bring the juggernaut down. Their little band of misfits couldn’t compete with that. Tartarus would have won. With nothing further to add to the topic, the three stared out the windows for a while, the passing scenery doing nothing to lift their spirits.
Nash moved on to the next pressing topic: strategizing about how and when they’d leave the country. The most obvious move would be to get to the airport as soon as possible. But whoever their attackers were, the airport would be the most logical place to search. Instead, the course of action they settled on was to buy an old car, drive it to South Australia and fly out from there. It would add days to their plan but was by far the safest option, and given recent encounters, safer was preferred.
As the train neared the city centre, Nash was afforded a better view of the skyline. It was pretty, a mixture of unique modern skyscrapers and classic architecture. Melbourne was a clean city, apart from the requisite graffiti adorning every flat surface facing the rail line, the same the world over. They passed the famous MCG, and Nash tried to remember the last time he’d seen a cricket match. The train slowed and entered a tunnel as the automated announcement informed them they were heading into Flinders Street Station. Eva stood; Bishop and Nash followed suit. They’d reached their stop.
They alighted the train and headed up an escalator. Nash saw daylight through grand leadlight windows above clocks with different train line names underneath. Outside, cars honked and trams dinged as they passed through the busy intersection. The station was far older than the other more modern stations they’d passed through. This was more an Edwardian Baroque design. Melbourne was a hodgepodge of different styles mangled together to make something unique, Nash concluded. It seemed fitting that this was Eva’s city.
Walking in front of Nash and Bishop, Eva stopped dead, causing the two men to barrel into her.
“Ah, balls.” She screwed her face to one side. “I forgot about this. We have to go through barriers, and without a valid pass we can’t get out.”
Dozens of commuters flooded through the automated barriers, tapping cards to open yellow gates. Uniformed officers watched with eagle eyes as nearby police officers milled about casually.
“We could say we lost our tickets,” Bishop suggested.
“All three of us at the same time?” Eva asked sceptically. “How good are you guys at hurdles?”
“Terrible,” Nash replied, stony-faced. “I presently have the flexibility of the Tin Man after he’s been left out in the rain.” Nash motioned for the others to follow him. “Never mind, I’ve got this.” He approached the friendliest looking uniformed rail officer, a woman in her mid-thirties. He gave her his best toothy grin. “Excuse me,” Nash said in his thickest English accent, “my friends and I seem to have made a grave mistake. We’re new to your lovely city and boarded a train at Jolimont,” Nash recalled the station because of its silly name, “expecting to purchase a ticket from an inspector, but it seems we were misinformed, as there were none. It appears we should have purchased a card of some description beforehand. Could you assist us, please?”
The woman smiled, lighting up her face. “That’s only one stop. Tell you what…” Her bright green eyes swivelled from side to side. “… as long as you buy a myki card before you next get on public transport, I don’t think you’re going to send the state of Victoria broke.” She pressed a button and the gate before her opened. She gave him a wink. “Enjoy your stay.”
