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  He had nearly an hour to wait before his next train, so once he’d checked the platform number he bought himself a cup of coffee and a bun in the station cafe, where he spent some time sitting in the warm, steamy fug, surrounded by noisy chatter and entertained by the various comings and goings of the other travellers.

  James liked to watch people, to try to work out everything he could about them from how they looked and the way they walked and talked. He invented whole lives for them. The man over there, huddling in the corner behind a suitcase, was a master criminal plotting a robbery; the woman over there in the fur coat and cheap pearls had murdered her husband and was waiting to meet her lover so that they could run away together; the man over there with all the luggage was a famous explorer off to the Arctic…

  Just after seven o’clock James heard a distorted echoing voice booming out of the tannoy system…

  ‘The seven thirty-nine London and North Eastern Railway Sleeping Car Express to Fort William via Edinburgh is ready for boarding on platform six…’

  James got up and lugged his suitcase out of the cafe and along to where a line of people was filing past the ticket collector at the platform entrance. As he got nearer, he noticed a skinny, red-haired boy of about sixteen hanging around the edges of the crowd, trying hard to act casual and blend in with the other passengers.

  James joined the end of the queue and the boy sidled up to him.

  ‘’Ere,’ he said in an unmistakable cockney accent, scratching his untidy red hair. ‘You couldn’t do us a favour, could you, mate?’

  ‘What sort of a favour?’ asked James.

  ‘Nothing much, it’s just I’ve gone and lost me ticket and I need to get past the bloke. You couldn’t, like, keep him busy for me, couldya?’

  James wasn’t sure he believed the boy, but there was something appealing about him. He was half smiling, as if he knew that James didn’t believe his story for one minute but might think it was a good game anyway. Although a few years older than James, he wasn’t much bigger and he had a scrunched-up, wiry body and quick, clever eyes.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said James.

  ‘Ta,’ said the boy and he winked.

  When it came to James’s turn to hand over his ticket, he pretended that he’d lost it and fumbled for it in all his pockets. When he eventually found it, he began to ask the man at the gate a series of complicated questions about the train. At first the railwayman answered them quite happily, but then he grew more and more impatient as the queue of people built up behind James, who finally dropped his suitcase on to the poor man’s foot. In the confusion the red-haired boy slipped past them and strolled off towards the train, chatting with an elderly couple who obviously had never seen him before in their lives.

  ‘Sorry,’ said James as the ticket collector rubbed his foot and tried not to lose his temper.

  ‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘Run along and get on the bleeding train, or we’ll be here all night.’

  James smiled to himself as he made his way along the platform. Up ahead, the huge steam engine hissed and grumbled, waiting to be off. It panted softly and slowly, sending great clouds of steam wafting back down the platform.

  James soon found his carriage. It was near the front, just behind the dining car that divided the rear part of the train from the first-class carriages at the front. He opened the door and climbed aboard, then made his way along the narrow corridor until he found the right compartment. He turned the handle and went in. Inside was a tiny washbasin and two narrow bunks that were folded away just now so that the lower bed made a bench seat. James sat down and settled himself in for the long journey to Scotland.

  He got his book out of his suitcase; it was the latest Bulldog Drummond adventure story. He read a few lines but found he couldn’t concentrate and fell to staring out of the window and watching the last few passengers hurrying to catch the train. He was amused to see two porters wheeling trolleys loaded with all manner of bags and suitcases, and he wondered to which pampered aristocrat they belonged. But, as it turned out, the bags didn’t belong to any grand duke or duchess; they belonged to a boy – and not just to any boy, but to George Hellebore, who was striding along behind the porters, shouting orders at them.

  James sighed. ‘Oh, no.’ What luck, to have to share a train with his worst enemy. He tried to relax. After all, Hellebore would be in one of the first-class carriages, so there was no reason why the two of them need ever bump into each other on the long journey.

  He picked up his book again just as the guard outside shouted, ‘All aboard!’ and blew his whistle. There was an answering whistle from the mighty engine and the train gave a great lurch forward. He felt the carriages jolt and shunt into each other, and then they were off. The engine puffed and wheezed like a fat man climbing the stairs and then the distinctive di-dum di-dum of the wheels bumping over the joins in the rails began, gradually picking up speed and mingling with the accelerating coughs of the engine.

  The familiar comforting music and gentle rocking movement of the train lulled James and he began to feel pleasantly sleepy. Even though it was still early, he yawned and closed his eyes for a moment, but then a knock at the door made him look up.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, and the door was opened by the red-haired boy who had sneaked on to the train.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, and grinned at James, showing a set of sharp, yellow teeth. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you. I just wanted to say thanks and that.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said James. ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘No, it was a stand-up thing to do, mate.’ The boy stuck out his hand. ‘Me name’s Kelly. “Red” Kelly, on behalf of me hair. And ’cause it sounds a bit like Ned Kelly, the Aussie outlaw with the bucket on his head.’

  James shook his hand. ‘James Bond,’ he said simply.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Jimmy. You don’t mind if I sit here for a minute, do you?’

  ‘No, that’s all right,’ said James.

  ‘You going all the way to Scotland, are you, then?’

  Kelly sat down.

  ‘Yes. Fort William.’

  ‘Never been up that way, myself. You been before?’

  ‘My father was from Scotland. I’ve been a couple of times on holiday.’

  ‘Nice, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said James. ‘I suppose so. It can be quite cold and wet, and in the summer the midges eat you alive, but I like it.’

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ said Kelly, looking out of the window at the houses whizzing by, ‘this is the furthest I’ve ever been from home. I stay pretty much in London. Summertime we go down to Kent for the hop-picking, and I’ve been down Margate a couple of times, but this is all new to me, sleeping on a train and that.’

  ‘Why are you going to Scotland?’ asked James. ‘Have you got family there?’

  ‘I got family everywhere, mate. Irish originally, come over last century to work on the railways. Half this line was probably built by my lot. They went where the work was, spread out all over. I’ve an aunt up in a place called Keithly.’

  ‘Really?’ said James. ‘Me too. Well, an uncle, but my aunt’s up there with him at the moment.’

  ‘Nah, you’re having me on.’

  ‘No. Honestly.’

  ‘Small world.’

  James thought about Hellebore, sitting up at the front of the train somewhere. ‘It certainly is,’ he said.

  ‘Reason I’m going up,’ said Kelly, sniffing, ‘I’ve got a cousin, see? Alfie. I’ve only met him the once, when he come down to London to meet the folks. Nice kid. Only he’s gone missing.’

  ‘Missing?’

  ‘Yeah, nobody knows for sure what’s happened. He was fishing somewhere, they reckon, ’cause his gear was all gone from the house. But he never told his mum where he was going, so they’re not really sure. She’s right upset, she is, and nobody seems to be doing sod-all about it. So I’ve thought I’ll go and have a butcher’s, see what’s
what. We have to look out for ourselves, us Kellys – the coppers don’t like us, the judges don’t like us, the toffee-nosed posh nobs in their big houses don’t like us, sometimes I don’t think nobody likes us.’ Kelly sniffed again.

  ‘So what do you think might have happened to him?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe he fell in a river and drowned hisself, but I aim to find out – just so long as I can get there.’

  ‘Well, anything I can do to help.’

  ‘There is one thing.’ Kelly leant in closer and spoke quietly to James. ‘Do you think you could hide me?’

  ‘Hide you?’

  ‘When the ticket collector comes round.’

  James looked at Kelly. What was he getting himself into? Kelly was a wild card, but James found it hard not to like him – there was so much humour in his face and he had a great fighting spirit about him. James thought that in different circumstances, born into a different family, it could so easily be him sitting there instead of Kelly. But he very much didn’t want to risk being thrown off the train or, worse, getting into trouble with the police.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Kelly, slapping him on the knee. ‘Anything happens, I’ll cover for you, say I made you do it at gunpoint or something.’

  ‘Gunpoint?’

  ‘Well, all right, say I threatened to smack you about the head… Don’t worry, I’m not going to.’

  James laughed. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There must be somewhere we can hide you.’

  So it was that, twenty minutes later, when the collector stuck his head round the door and asked to see his ticket, James found himself sitting on the bench seat with Kelly folded into the bunk above him, his scrawny body squashed flat against the wall.

  ‘Is it just me in here tonight?’ James asked the man, who checked his list.

  ‘Aye, you’re all right, son,’ he said in a broad Glasgow accent. ‘It’s a quiet night. You’ve got the place to yourself.’

  James smiled innocently – little did the man know.

  When the coast was clear, James rescued Kelly from his hiding place. He was red-faced, sweating and gasping for air, but they’d got away with it.

  Later on, using the money his Aunt Charmian had sent him, James ate in the dining car, all the while keeping an eye open for George Hellebore. There was no sign of him, but James wolfed his food down as quickly as he could and stuffed his pockets with bread rolls, fruit and a couple of sausages wrapped in a napkin for the stowaway in his compartment.

  When he got back, Kelly was very grateful for the provisions and greedily stuffed his face.

  ‘Where d’you think we are now?’ he said, his mouth full of bread.

  ‘We’ve been through Grantham,’ said James. ‘The next stop is York…’ How dull those names sounded. James pictured all those grey English towns whizzing past with their rows of little houses. How much more exciting it would be to be travelling through Europe, how much more romantic those names would sound: Paris, Venice, Budapest, Istanbul…

  He stood up. ‘I’m going to go to the lav before I turn in,’ he said.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Kelly. ‘I’ll need the bog myself in a minute.’

  James left the compartment and wobbled down the corridor, swaying with the movement of the train, but when he got to the toilet he found that it was engaged. He slid the corridor window down for a blast of cold, fresh air and gazed out into the darkness, trying to picture the scenery.

  He heard the toilet flush and turned as the door clicked open.

  George Hellebore came out. He must have been having a late supper in the dining car. James almost laughed at the expression on the boy’s face, as if he’d just seen the Loch Ness monster.

  ‘Hello,’ said James. ‘Fancy us both being on the same train.’

  Hellebore grabbed him and slammed him back against the door.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said.

  James laughed. ‘What do you think I’m doing?’ he said. ‘I’m going to Scotland. Same as you.’

  ‘I ought to open this door and throw you off the train,’ said Hellebore.

  ‘Sorry,’ said James. ‘I didn’t realise there was a law against sharing a train with you.’

  ‘I’ve been dreaming about ways to kill you ever since that damned race.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re overdoing it?’ said James. ‘It was only a running race. You tried to cheat, and it didn’t work.’

  Without warning, Hellebore suddenly punched James in the stomach, forcing all the air out of his lungs and making him double up in pain. Then, as he was bent over, Hellebore slapped him viciously across the back of the head with both hands. James lost his temper at this and lashed out with his shoe, catching Hellebore on the shin.

  Hellebore yelled and staggered back.

  ‘Just for that,’ he snarled, ‘I am going to kill you.’

  Hellebore grabbed hold of him and wrestled him back over to the door and, before James could stop him, he had stuck his head and shoulders out through the open window.

  James was battered by a freezing blast of wind in his face. It stung his eyes and blinded him with tears. There was a deafening roar and the swish-swish-swish of trackside posts just inches from his head. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and steam and coal and the engine whistle let out a long scream as it warned of an approaching tunnel.

  ‘Stop it, Hellebore,’ James yelled, his voice barely audible. ‘Stop it, you idiot!’

  At last George pulled him back in. He was laughing crazily.

  ‘Scared, huh?’

  ‘Of course I was scared. You could have knocked my head off. That was a bloody stupid thing to do.’

  ‘But I told you, Bond, I’m going to kill you.’

  A familiar voice broke in. ‘No you’re not.’

  James looked round to see Kelly standing there. He stared at Hellebore with such a look of scorn that James was glad he was on his side.

  ‘It’s two against one,’ Kelly went on, ‘and I think I’d better warn you, I fight dirty.’

  Hellebore looked confused. He obviously didn’t know what to make of Kelly. There was something in the way the flame-haired boy stood and held his stare that warned him not to push it any further. Hellebore huffed and then barged past Kelly, returning to the dining car.

  Kelly raised an eyebrow. ‘Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I, Jimmy-boy?’

  Later on, lying in their bunks in the half-light of the sleeping compartment, Kelly asked James what was going on.

  ‘Nothing,’ said James. ‘He was just a boy from school. We don’t exactly get on.’

  ‘I can see that. Where’d you go to school, anyway?’

  ‘Eton,’ said James.

  ‘Ooh, lah-di-dah,’ said Kelly, leaning over the edge of the bunk and pushing his nose up with one finger to make a snooty face. ‘I wouldn’t have had you down as one of them toffs. But you’re all right, mate. I like you. Come on.’ He grinned. ‘Let’s get some shut-eye, I’ll see you in Scotland.’

  James lay there, rocked gently from side to side, and tried to sleep, but he found that he was too wide awake. A procession of confused thoughts marched through his brain: thoughts about Eton, about the strange boy in the bunk above, about Hellebore and Scotland, and thoughts about his mother and father.

  He never talked about his parents to anyone. He kept himself to himself and he liked it that way. But there was a lot going on in his life, and he wished his parents were there to help make sense of it all.

  He missed them. He missed them terribly.

  8

  Daddy’s Gone a-Hunting

  Every child thinks that their own life is normal, as it is all they have ever known and they have nothing to compare it to. James Bond was no exception, even though his childhood had been far from normal.

  His father, Andrew Bond, was originally from Glencoe in the west of Scotland but, after leaving home at the age of twelve to go to boarding school, he had never returned. From school he had
gone straight on to study chemistry at St Andrew’s University, but his education was interrupted by the Great War of 1914, when the whole of Europe, and eventually the world, was thrown into bloody turmoil.

  Andrew hadn’t thought twice about it, he had joined the Royal Navy at the first opportunity and, having survived numerous sea-battles, a sinking and a last-minute rescue from the icy waters of the north Atlantic, he ended the war as Captain of his own battleship, HMS Faithful. He lost many friends in the war, and it hardened him and left him with a restless spirit and a will to experience all that life had to offer.

  After the war he was offered a job at Vickers, a firm that made and sold weapons. He travelled around Europe, talking to governments, generals and politicians, trying to convince them that they should buy arms made by his company. For two years he lived in hotels, but on one trip he met a beautiful young woman, Monique Delacroix, the daughter of a wealthy Swiss industrialist, and soon afterwards asked her to marry him. They tried to settle down and lead an ordinary life, but Andrew was constantly on the move. James was born in Zurich, and by the age of six had lived in Switzerland, Italy, France and London. But as James got older, Monique put her foot down. She would live the life of a gypsy no longer. Andrew could travel as much as he liked, but Monique wanted a permanent home for herself and her young son.

  For the next few years James and his mother lived half of the time in a flat in Chelsea, and the other half in a large house in the countryside outside Basle, Switzerland. James went to school in Basle and became fluent in English, French and German, although at the time he didn’t think that there was anything unusual in this.

  James was an only child and, because the family was constantly on the move, he had to make friends quickly and be prepared to lose them equally fast. Although he was a popular boy and found the business of forming friendships easy, he quickly learnt to entertain himself, and for much of the time was content with his own company.

  His father still worked hard, which meant that he was often away from home for long periods, and when he wasn’t working he liked to lose himself in tough physical activity. Andrew’s idea of a holiday was to go skiing, climbing, horse riding or sailing. Although James would occasionally be allowed to go with his parents, most of the time it was considered too dangerous for a young boy; but he had had one memorable holiday in Jamaica, where he had learnt to swim, and there was that happy summer in northern Italy when he had been taught to ride a horse and fire a gun. For the most part, however, he was left behind.