Blood Storm

7

Paula was racing down the motorway, the same one Newman had driven along earlier. Before leaving Park Crescent she had used a map to check the location of Tolhaven, a place she'd never heard of. A souped-up engine, Tweed had said. She was having to concentrate to stop the car carrying her away, and so hard she passed the exit leading to the safe house Newman had used without giving it a thought. Shortly afterwards she turned off the motorway down a road leading more to the south.

The end of March. It was a gloriously sunny afternoon and cold. She had her window open a few inches to keep herself alert. She frequently checked her rear-view mirror but there was no sign of black cars. She had eluded State Security – no, Special Branch as they still were, despite their black uniforms, the long overcoats, the peaked caps.

She was driving through open country with rolling hills on either side. Here and there a field had crusted brown sods of soil. Ploughing was well under way. She sighed with pleasure. Such a relief to be in the country and away from the crammed streets and buildings of London.

The road was straight for long stretches and she risked increasing her speed. Eventually she crossed the Dorset Downs and a panoramic view opened up. The road descended, hedge-lined on both sides, but ahead in the distance the sun glowed off a vast stretch of blue sea. The English Channel. She crawled through the first village she had encountered for ages, saw a signpost bearing the legend Tolhaven.

No traffic. She was thinking of the contact lens she had given Tweed, along with the camera she'd used to photograph the Parrot. She had a twin camera in her pocket. 'I wonder,' Tweed had said and asked Monica to give it to the basement boffins, develop the film, then send it to Joel, the artist. Why? What had occurred to him in his agile brain?

Tolhaven was a dull place, small and with stone buildings, most of which had small shops at ground level. She saw the Monk's Head, turned into a parking area under an arch. Newman's Range Rover was parked in a corner.

In reception a woman in late middle-age, wearing a crumpled grey dress, told her Mr Newman had said he was expecting a lady guest. His room was 25, hers was 24, both on the first floor.

'You made good time,' Newman greeted her when Paula had tapped on his door, and entered his large bedroom, its windows overlooking the main street. 'Are you armed?'

'Yes. Sounds as though you expect trouble.'

'I do. Thanks for coming. I need someone sensitive to weird atmospheres. We ought to get moving. On foot. It will be dark soon.'

'Mind if I dump my emergency bag in my room and change into walking boots? You can come with me…'

She had noticed Newman was exuding energy, but that his expression was grim after his welcoming smile. He was clad in a camouflage jacket and trousers tucked into boots. She worked quickly in her room while Newman peered out of a window looking down on the car park.

'Don't miss a trick, do you?' he said sharply. 'Parked your car like mine facing out for a quick getaway.'

'That's on the cards?'

'I've paid in advance for both rooms for two nights. If we have to we can take off in an emergency.'

'You expect one?'

'State Security have been here for hours in full battledress. I've done a recce, so I can show you.' He looked towards the bathroom. 'We may not be back for a while.'

'I'm OK. What are we waiting for?'

'Have you eaten?' Newman paused on the pavement outside the hotel. 'I should have asked earlier.'

'Yes. Shouldn't we keep moving?'

He led them down a side street near the hotel and over to the far side of the High Street. They emerged into the open and the small town was gone. The road climbed to an ancient bridge. Paula peered over a crumbling stone wall. Below a fast-flowing river headed seaward. On one bank an old wooden dock was gradually collapsing into the water.

'Ages ago, before the Channel decided to recede,' Newman explained briskly, 'Tolhaven was on the edge of the sea. The town has a history of smugglers and savage fights with the equivalent of the coastguard.'

'It's eerily quiet, apart from the water lapping,' she remarked as they walked quickly beyond the bridge.

'It's a riot here compared with where we're going.'

'Can't wait

The road became a lane with forests of fir trees hemming it in on both sides. To their right, in a break in the trees, a path curved away marked with a sign: Ferry.

'Where does that go to, then?' she asked.

'To Black Island,' Newman replied, 'not far off the coast. I've been there for a quick shufti…'

'What was that? Think I've heard it before.'

'Arabic for look-see. Philip Cardon used the word when we had fun down in Marseilles.'

'Fun? We nearly got killed.'

'That was a honeymoon compared with what this could be. I want you to keep quiet, crouch down after me.'

Newman's whole attitude, his remarks, made Paula check the Browning in the shoulder holster. They had turned off into another gap in the forest. The grass and dead bracken were squashed down with what looked to Paula like wheel-tracks. He held up a hand to halt her as they arrived at an opening. Three large cars were parked facing the track. Newman checked each one with small powerful field glasses. He had laid the golfer's bag which he'd carried casually slung over his shoulder down on the grass. He completed his survey, tucked away the glasses.

'Empty,' he announced in a whisper.

'What's in the golf bag? Not irons, I suspect.'

'A powerful automatic weapon with plenty of ammo,' he told her casually. 'I think we'll risk crossing over to Black Island by ferry. The thugs had overhead lights fixed up where they were working, so maybe they carry on at night.'

'What work?'

'That's what I want you to see. If I tell you to do something like "drop flat" you do it damned fast.'

They had returned along the track to the road, went back to where the signpost pointed to the ferry.

'I thought I always did when you said something. I was with you down at the training mansion in Surrey. I seem to recall I scored more bulls than you on the firing range.'

'You did,' Newman agreed. 'I said that because my impression is the thugs in State Security gear are also well trained. And they're armed…'

Walking along the other path Newman stopped frequently to listen, then resumed his long strides. She had to hurry to keep up with his pace. The forest ended, they were in the open, the smell of the sea even stronger. The ferry was like a large barge with a small ladder at its stern, a short distance from a large engine. One weather-beaten rustic wearing oilskins stood on the shore, smoking a curved pipe.

'Going across?' he called out in a West Country accent.

'It's calm today so don't bother with oilskins. I'm Abe,' he introduced himself as Newman handed him the fare for two people.

'Had any other passengers?' Newman enquired with a smile.

'Only six of those bastards… excuse me, miss… in their black fancy-dress uniform. Came over early this morning, asked if the old tub, as they called my ferry, crossed at night. I told them the last crossing is at 8.30 p.m. I bring her back through the channel marked with lights. You mention us to anyone and you're in hospital one of'em said. So I won't be sayin' another word to people like that. ..'

They climbed the small ladder and Paula saw there were long continuous seats on either side of the barge. Newman led her to the front and as they settled themselves Abe started the engine. The barge slid out along a channel between long reeds, then they were in open sea.

'Black Island is shaped like a triangle,' Newman explained, 'with the apex pointing south into the Channel. We land at a small village called Lydford. Has a pub and not much else.'

'No holidaymakers?'

'A lot at the eastern end, which has small hotels and good beaches. There's another ferry – one that takes cars. At this end there are locals in places like Lydford. That's it. Nothing on the western side, where the fancy-dress lot are building like mad. It's sinister. Which is why I want photos.'

He stopped talking as Abe fixed the tiller, walked down to them. There was hardly any motion as Lydford's church spire hove into clear view.

'Don't know what they can be buildin' over on the west side,' Abe began, talking with his pipe in his mouth. 'I've seen cargo ships comin' in, unloadin' steel bars and Gawd knows 'ow many breezeblocks.'

'Probably another holiday centre,' Newman suggested.

'Don't look like it. We'll be landin' soon. I comes over to collect any passengers on the hour. You'll be comin' back?'

'I hope so,' Paula said under her breath.

There was a bump as the barge gently hit the wooden dock. Slinging his golf bag over his shoulder, Newman helped Paula up on to the dock. He grinned as he tapped the bag with one hand while they walked off the dock into the tiny village.

'Good job there are golf courses on the eastern cost. So this won't look odd.'

'No one about to notice,' Paula observed.

The village was very small. On either side of the road were old one-storey thatched cottages. The postage-stamp-size garden in front of each was neatly tended. The church was also small and constructed years before of black stone.

'Not very welcoming,' Paula commented as they walked down the street. 'Black stone. Why?'

'Because this island has the only granite quarries I know of in the south. Black granite, hence its name.'

'There are some nice expensive-looking houses over there,' Paula commented. 'You can just see them in gaps between the fir trees. Some oaks too.'

'We turn down this lane,' Newman said, not interested in her observations as he kept turning his head to scan for any sign of life. 'This is where it could get hairy…'

They walked some distance west along the curving lane. Fir trees arched above their heads, as if they were walking inside a tunnel. Rounding a corner they saw a track leading away to their left, its broken surface carrying the wheel marks of wide heavy trucks. A sentry was posted there, wearing a long black coat, peaked cap, an armlet with the legend State Security, an automatic weapon slung over his left shoulder.

'Get back the way you came,' he ordered. Beneath the peaked cap his face was coarse and ugly. He barked as Newman came up to him, Paula by his side, 'Back to the friggin' mainland. Restricted area here. You can always lay her in the grass and do it other side of the channel.'

'Manners…' Newman began.

The sentry was starting to slip his weapon off his shoulder, watching Newman. Paula had her gun in her hand, holding it by the muzzle. She slammed it down on the sentry's nose, aiming for the bridge. The sentry opened both eyes wide, then closed them as he slumped backwards on to the verge.

Newman crouched over him, checked his pulse. He grinned at Paula as he looked up at her.

'Nice work.'

'He was watching you, not bothering about a woman.'

'He'll be out for quite a while. Now we have to hide him and I know just the place. Found it when I came over here this morning.' With ease he lifted the body of the six-foot thug, called over his shoulder as he began walking quickly along the track, 'You bring his weapon.'

At a turning Newman walked a few paces off the track. Paula caught him up, to find him staring down into an abandoned quarry. The slope was fairly gradual. Newman bent down, lowered the unconscious man to the edge, pushed. He slithered down a long way, lay still at the bottom. Without being asked Paula tossed the weapon down so it lay a few feet away from the inert body.

'Now it gets dangerous,' Newman commented as they returned to the track. Paula caught him up.

'What do you call what's just happened?'

'Just an opening shot.'

The enclosing trees ended and they were in open rolling country. A distance to the south she could see a green down with the blue horizon of the sea on either side. No sign of anyone.

'What's that hill?' she asked.

'Hog's Nose Down. Well named, considering the sort of people who have taken over the western end.'

Newman was carrying his automatic weapon which he'd hauled out from the golf bag. Noting this, Paula kept hold of her Browning, close to her bag so that she could slip it inside if it seemed wiser. They arrived at a long low ridge. Newman stopped, dropped down behind it, poked his weapon over its crest. Paula dropped down beside him.

'Why are we doing this?'

'I'm a student of the Duke of Wellington's campaigns in Iberia. At Vimeiro he placed his troops behind a ridge to save them from the enemy's initial heavy artillery bombardment. When their infantry followed they couldn't see them and were shot down in their hundreds. Time to keep moving…'

They crossed the ridge, went down the other side and walked over a grassy plain until they reached another ridge. The sky was a clear blue; a bitter wind blew, almost freezing, so Paula buttoned her windcheater at the neck.

Newman climbed it, went over the crest, dropped flat on the far side, poking his automatic rifle over the top. Paula did not follow his example. Her tone had an edge to it when she spoke.

'Can we stop playing soldiers and get moving? It's perishingly cold.'

'Nearly there,' Newman said with a smile as he jumped up. 'You brought your camera? Good. Lots to photograph if it's quiet. The beginning of the prison state…'

Only half-built, it was located in a vast hollow. Newman used his field glasses. Swivelling them everywhere, he grunted with satisfaction.

'No one about. All gone to get lunch at the pub. We go in now. Prepare for a shock. This is a new idea for a prison. Take plenty of pics.'

There were frameworks for more buildings everywhere, a series of tall steel posts with breeze block walls behind them. Newman led Paula into a large completed building. The entry door was solid steel but no lock had been attached yet.

Paula shuddered inwardly as they went inside. The floor was solid concrete. She thanked Heaven she was wearing her boots. The straight corridor which ran into the distance was surprisingly narrow. She was expecting cells with bars separating them from the corridor. No bars. Newman opened the steel door of a cell. She peered inside.

Hardly room for a big dog. A hole in the floor which Newman explained would be the only toilet facility. Along one side of the cell was a steel slab fixed to the wall. Newman pointed to it as she worked her camera.

'That's the bed. Imagine trying to sleep on it. No sign of mattresses. Not quite like the British police accommodation.'

'What are those shower-like objects in the roof?' Paula asked as she continued photographing.

'If they don't like the prisoner they turn on the water and you're soaked. I checked the system. First cold water, then very hot, scalding probably.'

'It's inhuman.'

'Wait till you see the punishment chamber.'

She counted fifty cells on one side as Newman led her towards the end. So fifty on the other side. This cramped hell accommodated one hundred prisoners. Near the end Newman opened a larger steel door. She peered into a much bigger cell. Newman beckoned to her to come inside.

A steel floor sloped on all four sides towards a central drain. She gazed at hooks let into the walls about seven feet above the floor. Hanging from one wall were six cat-o'-nine tail whips, a sharp needle at the tip of each tail. She spoke as she used the camera.

'What are those for?'

'To whip aggressive prisoners into submission. Their bodies will be slashed and dripping blood. Hence the drain to take it away. Nice people, the hoped-for State Security mob.' Newman walked to the far end, bent down, took hold of a handle attached to a round lid about five feet in diameter. When he heaved it open Paula looked down into a deep circular area. High up in the walls were radio speakers and showerheads.

'What are the speakers for?' Paula wondered.

'I'd say when they have a prisoner down there they turn on the showers and the speakers play ghastly music at top pitch – enough to burst their eardrums.'

Newman shone a powerful torch down inside the tube-like cell. Paula used the illumination to take a number of photos. When she had finished Newman replaced the lid in the position he had found it.

'Time to get out,' he said, 'after I've checked that giant American-style fridge outside.'

'I wonder why those hooks are there, high up in the walls?' Paula enquired, pointing up.

Newman opened the metal drawer of a steel cabinet built into a side wall. They peered inside. It was full of metal handcuffs. Newman closed the drawer quietly, his expression grim.

'They plan to handcuff prisoners, then lift them up so they can hang the chain between the cuffs from the hooks. Being so high up, no matter how tall the prisoner is he'll find himself with his legs dangling in space, the whole weight of his body hanging from his wrists. Now, that fridge.'

As they re-entered the corridor, Newman closed the punishment-cell door quietly behind them. He opened the huge fridge that stood at the end of the corridor. The electric power was working, and it was crammed with ice.

'Got it,' Newman explained. 'Before they drop a prisoner into that tube cell they empty a load of ice down inside. My guess is they half-freeze the poor devil first, then turn on the showers emitting scalding water. Let's get out of here while we can…'

They traversed the entire length of the corridor. Newman cautiously opened the door a few inches, nodded, stepped out as Paula hurried after him. A damp cloying mist had drifted in off the sea while they were inside. They were walking swiftly alongside the prison wall when Newman grabbed Paula, pushed her against the wall and flattened himself.

'Keep very still,' he whispered. 'Movement attracts attention.'

Some distance away, blurred in the mist, four men in uniform were walking towards a distant half-erected building like the one they had explored. Two carried steel bars while the couple behind them pushed a trolley laden with breeze blocks.

When they had arrived Paula and Newman had seen the whole area was surrounded with high coils of barbed wire. They had entered through a gap with a huge roll of barbed wire pushed to one side.

'Let's hope they haven't closed our exit,' Paula whispered.

'If they have I can shift it,' Newman assured her, taking out of his pocket a pair of thick gardening gloves.

They reached the exit point to find it still open. Once they had climbed out of the vast hollow, they crossed the flat grassy plain. They had reached the first ridge when Paula grabbed Newman's arm.

'We've been seen. Three men with automatic weapons are running up behind us.' Newman glanced back, saw three figures blurred in the mist coming after them. He took Paula's arm, hustled her over the first ridge, then moved at the double towards the second ridge. They had just reached the far side when Paula pointed ahead. Three more uniformed men with weapons were walking towards them.

'Caught in a cross-fire,' she hissed.

'Drop flat behind the ridge.'

He did so, facing the way they had come, and she flattened herself behind him. He gave the order fiercely.

'Whatever happens, you stay still. You do not fire.'

He glanced over his shoulder, saw the three men as blurred figures, like ghosts, weapons at the ready. He looked in front over the crest, aimed his rifle. He timed it carefully. As the three in front stood on top of the other ridge Newman aimed, fired, deliberately hit one man in the kneecap. A shriek as he fired two more shots over their heads, dipped his own head.

The mist made his tactic work. The three in front thought the three blurred figures coming from the other direction had opened fire on them. A fusillade opened up on the men behind Newman and Paula, immediately returned by a rattle of automatic weapons. The three men on the ridge nearest the prison dropped, slumped like dead men. Newman looked over his shoulder. The three behind him were collapsing on their ridge. No further movement anywhere.

'Let's get out of this,' Newman ordered urgently.

They ran to the ridge behind them. Newman paused to check the bodies on the ridge. All dead. Bless the Duke of Wellington, he said to himself.

They ran all the way after Paula had checked her watch and said they were going to miss the return ferry. As they arrived on the dock, Abe, his motor running, waved at them. Newman glanced down into a powerful motorboat tied to the other side of the jetty. The earlier wind had blown overboard a canvas covering, now floating in the water. He saw the contents.

'We've made it,' Paula panted as she hauled herself aboard the ferry.

'Don't be too sure of that,' Newman warned.