The Train Robbery

Part 1

The Great War was over. All of the treaties had been signed and sealed. All that remained was the debris. The broken angry men, helpless on the street corners; the tired worn-out women hiding their grief from their children. And me.

I was standing in my accustomed position, propping up the bar in the Crown Arms, the nearest pub to my home. It's a standard Glasgow pub, interchangeable with many throughout the city, all carefully designed to separate the working man from his wages in a painless way. Its major feature of note is that is handy for a tram stop to get into the town centre, where the more expensive hostelries are located. There is, of course, the usual stained glass and stained tables; an array of bottles of fancy bottles below the gantry that have never been touched in living memory. On the wall above the gantry, there is a decorated mirror advertising cheap whisky with an imagined Highland scene featuring heather clad mountains and a brace of highland cows. And there is always a lingering aroma of cheap tobacco, stale beer and quiet desperation. The pub has a small clientele except for Friday and Saturday nights when workers rush to empty their pay packets to drown their sorrows. This was mid-week, so the place was dead. I had been nursing the same flat pint for nearly an hour, enjoying the relative comfort and peaceful atmosphere. I was tying to postpone going home to face my widowed mother and her daily lamentations for my brother, who was in a grave in France. Fortunately, the barman had served in the War and with the unspoken camaraderie of those who served in the trenches, knew the circumstances of us veterans. As one of my fellow patients in my ward had observed, "Shot at by the Huns, then shat out by the government." I was back on civvy street with some German iron in my hip, no money in my pocket, and a part-time job as a driver for a local bakery. It was easy to dwell on the past, things I should have done and things I shouldn't have done. Volunteer was top of that list! But the past cannot be altered, no matter how much we try.

I was, as ever, in a sombre mood. I became aware of a new arrival standing beside me at the bar. He spoke to me, "Alan McPhail! The very man!"

I turned. I recognised him. "Billy White!" He was wearing a well-cut suit in a black cloth and looked in tip top condition. From his perfect military hair cut to his polished toe-caps, all was faultless .I felt shoddy in comparison. My jacket had seen better years and my shoes were in need of a good polish. "Life been treating you well, Billy?"

He smiled. "No too bad, no too bad." He looked me in the eye. "How about you? Driving for the bakery?"

"Aye. It pays the bills." Billy was always up to dodges. If he fell in the ocean he'd come out with a salmon in one hand and a pearl in the other. I had no doubt that he had found a good peace-time billet.

"Another couple of pints of heavy," Billy to the barman.

I had no more money so couldn't buy him one back. "Sorry, I need to be off, Billy."

He raised a halting hand. "It's OK, Alan. My treat. I want a word with you." He picked up the two pints and indicated a vacant table with a nod. "Over there, a private word."

We sat at a wobbly table, awash with beer from previous customers.

Billy put on his soft caring voice. I remembered him using that with nervous recruits in the trenches. "I know things are going badly, Alan. I'm no blind. But I can help you. But I need to be honest with you, this isnae a legal business." He smiled. "No violence. One night's work and you will be set up for life. Sounds good, eh?" He offered me a cigarette which I took.

"Not legal though." When I thought life was going badly, suddenly I thought of prison. But I wasn't concerned about the morality. After all, the country had taught and encouraged me to kill – the greatest of all sins. I had no idea how many men I had killed or maimed, while I was in khaki. I tried not to dwell on the whole experience.