McNab could feel the sweat on his forehead. Where was he? Ah, now he remembered. Heading for Kings Cross. It had to be force of habit because Heathrow or Gatwick would have made more sense. Get out of the country in double quick time, and put as many miles as possible between himself and the pursuing law.

If it ever happened, the gutter press would have a field day with his capture. He could see the headlines already: 'Murderer McNabbed at last'. He laughed in spite of the pain.

The accompanying article would be trite, something about a falling out of thieves. His memory drifted again. There was one detail that would have really made the story. But what? It came back to him with all the force of the striking bullet. Yeah, if Smith had aimed a couple of inches higher, straight through his heart, the rags would be in heaven. Two murders instead of one, the bodies lying on the cold cement floor of their South London lock-up.

And he would not be laboriously climbing the stairs from the Underground into the echoing cavern of the railway terminus at this moment.

As he squinted at the busy scene in front of him, it was like looking through a heavy gauze curtain, the pain above his eyes now a match for the throbbing in his guts. But at least he was leaking a lot less claret under his heavy coat. Old Marty had done a good job, in spite of looking shit-scared and advising him to get to a hospital as soon as possible. As if. Ten minutes in casualty turning into twenty years in the nick.

He limped cautiously around the perimeter of the giant building, careful not to draw attention to himself, watching for tell-tale signs that the coppers had already found Smith. Some nosy parker alerted by the noise, the sound of gunshots, and calling 999. Their first thought would be to scout the main railway stations. And the airports, he told himself, with a wry chuckle.

But there was no sign of the boys in blue. In spite of hurting everywhere, he could feel his spirits lifting. He'd beat the bastards yet! Same as he'd beaten his cheating partner, guilty of salting away cash from their little enterprise behind his back. To pay off his gambling debts, McNab felt sure. He had wondered why their profits were down – until the penny dropped. He shook his head, amazed even now that Smith thought he could get away with it. Stupid bastard, the sort of thick-head he'd had to deal with all his life.

McNab, on the other hand, was the cleverest man he knew. In fact, he always prided himself on not being a typical villain, with his liking for fine wine and Saville Row suits. And unlike almost every one of his criminal acquaintances, he had never done time, in spite of being a criminal since his teens. Almost thirty years of getting away with it: fraud, extortion, armed robbery. Add murder to that list, he told himself. Even the fug in his head couldn't stop the inward smirk.

The sight and sound of a train pulling out of the station brought him up short. He stared in admiration. McNab had been a train buff from his early days. Not one of those stupid bastards who spent their time hanging around in the cold, ticking off numbers, but someone who just loved being in trains. The longer the journey the better; it didn't matter where, just the ride was enough.

He had been across America, Australia and India by train, first class, with the proceeds from his various enterprises. A trip on the Trans-Siberian Express was next on his list. Champagne and caviar all the way. The cops knew he had expensive tastes, would be expecting him to make for Brazil or some other fleshpot. Somehow he knew it made more sense to hide out closer to home, until the fuss died down.

It had to be a place they'd never think of looking, though. He glanced across at the massive departure board. But where? As his blurred vision ranged across the rows of destinations, one name caught his attention.

Charlie Dinks had been a long-time partner of his, until a particularly close call with the Met had sent him scuttling back to Yorkshire. He was now living with his sister, but still a bad lad, his fingers in a lot of disreputable local pies. When they talked on the phone, Charlie was always asking him to visit. Well, now was as good a time as any. His mate would soon fix him up with a bent doctor. McNab narrowed his eyes to bring the name back into focus on the board. There it was. Even better, a direct service. Hull.

Still looking around cautiously, he made his way to the ticket office. "First class," he demanded of the young girl clerk. Almost everyone else he knew would have chosen to travel with the cattle, hoping to lose themselves in the herd. But that had never been his style.

An attack of nausea, something molten jabbing away inside his skull, drove him to sit down on a bench on his way back to the concourse. No surprise I've got a headache, he told himself with bleak humour, thinking of the events of that afternoon.

He must have been sitting on the bench for a long time because it was dark outside when he convulsed awake. Dragging himself over to the destination board, he forced himself to concentrate. Can't stay in Yorkshire forever, going to have to get further afield at some point. But that was the other advantage of Charlie Dinks. His old mate was a dab hand at forged documents. He'd fly out with a new passport, a new identity, when the dust settled. He fingered the rail ticket in his pocket. One-way, no going back to the Smoke.

The name on the board seemed to be slipping away from his consciousness. Shit, got to keep my wits about me. He tried repeating the word in his mind, but must have drifted off in his exhaustion, coming to with a start just as the station announcer boomed out "Hull". It seemed like a good omen.

He followed the crowd as it rushed towards the waiting train, even the circumstances of his journey unable to prevent the familiar feeling of anticipation. The rush soon became a sort of stampede, with a lot of pushing and shoving, some people getting very agitated. Cattle, McNab thought contemptuously; and sure enough, he could see them cramming themselves into their over-crowded compartments as he limped past on his way to First Class.

A railway employee was standing at the far end of the badly-lit platform. When McNab hesitated, unable to make out his car number, the man came forward and looked at his ticket. Directed to the right carriage, McNab slumped heavily into his seat before looking around. It pleased him to observe the tops of only one or two heads. Nice and exclusive, the way he liked it.

When the train jolted into life, he gave a little grunt of expectation. Not the Orient Express, granted, but still a railway journey. A new life waiting for him at the other end. Good old Charlie.

As they made their way through the shabby inner suburbs of London, he could feel some of the tension draining out of him. He'd beaten them, the bastard boys in blue! Gingerly touching the wound under the shirt he'd borrowed from Marty, he was surprised to find the discomfort much reduced, no more claret spilling out of him. Even the fire in his head had died down. But, fuck, he was tired! In spite of his resolve to stay alert, he could feel his eyes closing.

What could have been hours later, he jerked awake with a moan. He shivered for a moment, the last tendrils of the dreams still writhing in his brain, vivid snatches of violence and madness. Smith's head exploding in great gobbets of blood and bone. His own face gibbering back at him. The world turned red.

He shook himself violently, in an effort to send the nightmares tumbling into the blackness rushing alongside the train. Shit, how much longer? His watch had stopped. Cost him a fortune, too, fucking thing. Someone dressed in a uniform brushed against him at that moment. As the figure passed along the aisle, McNab attempted to attract the man's attention, but the only thing to emerge from his mouth was some sticky dribble.

Even half-standing was an effort. The tops of many more heads now; he knew there were several stops on the way. For almost the first time he could remember, he wanted a train journey to end. Please God, let Hull be the next one. A stab of agony in his skull. "Jesus!"

After the worst of the pain subsided, he squinted out of the window. The dark swirled around them, looking thick and oleaginous, and they could have been passing through the depths of some strange ocean. The only sign of life was a glow in the distance. A big city ahead. Please Christ ... "Ow!" The red-hot poker again, as if his overloaded brain couldn't take any hope.

An unexpected comfort was that the lights in the carriage had been turned right down. It gave the impression they were on an airplane rather than a train. At any other time he would be raging against the railway company for its inefficiency, but now he was thankful for the small mercy.

Also welcome at first was the quiet among his fellow passengers. Normally there would be at least one person shouting into a piece of plastic, but the dimming of the lights had apparently sent everyone to sleep. No, not quite. Up ahead, the sound of muttering.

He must have dropped off again because the glow was much nearer when he next looked out of the window. Still no-one stirring among his fellow passengers. Dead silence. Even the muttering had stopped. But at least his head had cleared. He felt a lot better all over, in fact, the pain in his guts reduced to little more than a dull ache.

Still feeling too weak to stand, he began to grow annoyed. What the fuck was the matter with everyone? No-one passing along the aisle, no-one to ask where they were. He wanted to attract attention to himself by calling out, but sensed the only thing to emerge from his parched throat would be a harsh croak.

The silence was getting to him. He could see they were approaching a heavily built-up area, bound to be a station stop. McNab allowed himself only a brief moment of optimism. Almost there. But shouldn't people be getting ready to leave the train? The muttering from the seat ahead had started up again, still too low to understand, but now McNab thought he could detect a feverish rhythm to the words. He wondered if the guy was praying. You and me both, he wanted to say.

They were passing through the outskirts of a major city. What a dump, McNab thought as he stared out of the window. Half the street lights couldn't have been working, and those that remained cast sinister-looking shadows against what seemed to be endless rows of identical buildings. It must have been late because no-one was on the streets.

Someone must have been up and about, though, because he could make out flames shooting into the night sky. A steelworks or something like that. He remembered how Charlie was always boasting about the tough, hard north. Proper factories that made things, not like poncey London.

McNab soon became aware of another problem, an unpleasant reek in the compartment, a rankness that could only have been oozing in from outside. The taste of chemicals on his tongue; not bad enough to choke on, but irritating the back of his throat. Bleeding place, looks and smells like shit, he thought.

As they travelled on for what seemed an age through a landscape that never lost its bleakness, a doubt as insidious as the stink began to seep into McNab's mind. What was going on? Was he delirious from his wound? How else to explain why an already fraught journey was turning into this never-ending nightmare? He could feel bile rising in his throat, the onset of panic.

It was just then that the train slowed down and the compartment became intensely bright. It was as if a similar switch had been thrown on the passengers, the frantic muttering lost in a general hum of activity. McNab could see people ahead of him rise to their feet. Relaxing, he cursed himself for losing his bottle.

A figure in a uniform was moving along the aisle. The man's face was lost in the dazzle from the lights, but his voice had a ring of bruising authority.

"Everyone out," he rasped.

No-one seemed very eager to move, even when the train jerked to a halt. Silence had again settled over the carriage. The voice came again, filling the vacuum, sounding angry. "Everyone out!"

People began to drift towards the exits. After a moment's hesitation, McNab found himself joining them. He was surprised by how little trouble his battered body was giving him.

His mind was a different matter, the idea back in his head that something was very wrong.

People exchanged looks that seemed to say they had lost the power of speech. A young girl glanced around at McNab. She was desperate to talk, he could tell, but was clearly afraid even to try. Funny thing, but he felt the same way. The strong suspicion that the only noise to emerge from his mouth would be a loud scream. And so they dragged themselves onto the platform. The smell was much stronger out in the open, acrid fumes that made the eyes water. Ashes were swirling in the oily air. A nearby shriek, sounding like an animal in pain, made everyone jump.

The lighting was as bad as everywhere else in the city, but eventually McNab made out a group of figures at the far end of the platform. One of the shapes seemed to be gesturing to them, and a voice came out of the dark, with all the resonance and finality of a tolling bell.

"Forward, the dead."

The passengers found a collective voice, a huge groan that died away as they shuffled reluctantly towards the waiting figures. Individual cries rose and fell as they moved along. McNab saw someone familiar in the crowd ahead. Shocked, looking desperately around, yet knowing he was powerless to do anything but join in with the herd, he saw a big sign giving their destination.

Not Hull. But close.