A song in the morning

* * *

Jack blew the window out that looked down onto the cell.

The charge without the detonator, gone a cream cake. Back on his feet. The cell below him was a dust box, a grey cloud haze, and the ceiling light had been smashed. He peered down, trying to probe the dust and darkness to see the man.

Time running, and time that was his life and Jeez's life. He fell through the window gap. He bounced on the mesh over the cell. He had Cordtex equivalent and safety fuse in his hand. Six feet of Cordtex equivalent and twelve feet of safety fuse. He laid the length of Cordtex equivalent against the angle of the mesh and the vertical wall. It was above the bed.

"Under the bed or the table," Jack shouted.

He jumped for the smashed window. His hands ripped on cut glass and torn metal and broken concrete. He saw the uniformed man beneath him, beneath the catwalk, pleading with the telephone. Hadn't time for the bastard. He lit the safety fuse. Christ only knew what it would be like underneath.

Sirens invading the long seconds, cut off by the blast.

He saw that a length of mesh had been torn from the wall. He saw the plaster battered away from the concrete.

"Get yourself onto the mesh, Jeez. Hurry… "

He saw the man. He saw a small hunched figure crawl out from under the bed. The man's face was pale grey from the plaster dust. The man was dazed. Slow motion movements.

Jack was back on the catwalk, reaching for the shotgun.

Booted feet hammering, running on the catwalk close to him. He knew the catwalk was the causeway that covered the whole gaol. No locked doors on the catwalk, the briefing papers said. He heard the wheeze of the man's breath, he saw the white head of short hair at the hole where the window had been. He saw the face of the man, wide-eyed, staring at him. Jack grabbed the collar of the man's tunic, he pulled him over the glass edges and the torn metal and the broken concrete.

It was one minute and fifty-eight seconds of time since the charge had detonated.

Jack had hold of the man's tunic. Not stopping to look at him. He heard the voices welling through the windows onto the catwalk.

"Amandla, Jeez… "

"Fly on the wind, Jeez…"

"Tell them about us, Jeez, that we were singing… "

The man who was loose in Jack's grip stiffened. The lines cut and broke the grey dust on his face and forehead. Jack tugged at him, couldn't move him. The man broke Jack's grip-Jack watched the man who was his father, who was Jeez.

Jeez picked up the rifle of the guard lying on the catwalk.

He poked the barrel down through the grille of the catwalk.

"Oosthuizen, drop that telephone. Unlock those doors, unlock my door. You have five seconds, Oosthuizen… "

He fired once into the floor below him.

"Four seconds, Oosthuizen, or you're dead. You don't get to retire

… Three… Don't play heroes, Oosthuizen

… Two… I don't give a shit about shooting you…

One…"

Jack couldn't see. He heard the rattle of the keys. He heard a door opening, another door opening.

"Clever, Oosthuizen, that's being clever… " He fired once more and the telephone flew from the wall socket.

The catwalk crowded as the four Blacks came up in fast succession.

Jack saw a shadow figure materialise at the corner where the catwalk over C section 2 joined with the catwalk over the main C section corridor. He fired. He pumped the shotgun, fired, pumped again, fired again. Shrill shouts of surprise. Should have been gone, on their way, and still on the catwalk.

It was two minutes and thirty-five seconds of time. Jeez and four Blacks crouched by the blown window, the route to the sloping roof. Jack motioned them gone. They helped each other, and Jack last, through the narrow window. Children on a fairground slide they tumbled down the roof. Into the night air. Out into the embrace of the unforgiving, perpetual siren. As they scrambled across the grille above the exercise yard, Jack turned and aimed a shot at the window. Keep them back, keep their heads below the window.