The Freedom Trap [= The Mackintosh Man]

I

I stared at Cosgrove unbelievingly. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you believe in freedom for others?’

‘The matter!’ My voice rose. ‘The man walks with sticks, Cossie. He’s a bloody cripple.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ he warned.

In a low voice I said savagely, ‘How in hell is Slade supposed to make a break for it? He can’t run.’

‘You’ll be there to help him, won’t you?’ said Cosgrove smoothly.

‘Like hell I will.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you something, Rearden. Those sticks of his are a bit of a fake — he’s been putting it on a bit ever since he came out of hospital. He can run well enough. Oh, I don’t say he could break the four-minute mile, but he can toddle along enough for what we want.’

‘Then he can bloody well toddle along by himself,’ I said forcibly. ‘Christ, if he obstructs my escape and I’m nabbed, I’ll spend six months in solitary — and I’d certainly be sent to the new nick in Wight or to “E” Wing in Durham. I’d never get out of there.’

‘The same applies to Slade,’ said Cosgrove easily. ‘And don’t forget he’s in for over forty years.’ His voice tautened and a rasp entered into it. ‘Now you listen to me, Rearden; Slade is a bloody sight more important to us than you are. You wouldn’t believe how much money we have riding on him. So you’ll bloody well do as you’re told. As for going to Durham, you’re due to be transferred there on Sunday, anyway.’

‘Oh, boy!’ I said. ‘You play rough.’

‘What’s the matter? Is it that Slade is a spy? Has a sudden wave of patriotism overcome you?’

‘Hell, no! I wouldn’t care if he’s inside for kidnapping the Queen, the Prime Minister and whole damned Cabinet. It’s just that he’s going to be a flaming liability.’

Cosgrove assumed a placatory tone. ‘Well, now; maybe we can compensate you for that. Our agreement is that when we get you out then you pay us twenty thousand quid. Right?’

I nodded wearily. ‘Right.’

‘Suppose we cut that in half and make it ten thou’. With the live body of Slade as makeweight for the other ten thou’. How would you feel about that?’

‘It has its points,’ I conceded.

‘I don’t think it’s at all bad considering you’re going to be lumbered with Slade anyway,’ said Cosgrove.

‘Do you have authority for that offer?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘Of course I have,’ he said, and smiled thinly. ‘Of course, it has its converse side. If you get over the wall and Slade doesn’t, then you get the chop. That’s just so you remember that Slade is more important than you are.’

I said, ‘This is just getting him over the wall?’

‘That’s it. Once the pair of you are on the other side my pals will look after you both.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a certainty Slade couldn’t make it on his own so that’s why we’re doing it this way. I’ll give it to you straight; he can’t run very well. Neither could you if you had a stainless steel peg through each hip joint.’

‘How is he at climbing?’

‘His arms are strong but you might have to give him a bunk up when that platform comes over.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’d better have a talk to him.’

‘No!’ said Cosgrove. ‘You don’t go near him. That’s part of the deal. He’s been talked to already and he knows what to do. I’m the one who tells you what to do.’ A bell rang stridently signifying the end of free association time. He flipped his hand at me. ‘See you in the yard on Saturday.’

Saturday was a long time coming. I was in a muck sweat when they changed my cell again — two changes in three days — and I wondered if someone guessed that an escape was in the wind. It took all my will power to carry on with my studies in the evenings and my Russian suffered and I turned to the course on Eng. Lit. but found Finnegans Wake hardly more relaxing in the circumstances.

I kept my eye on Slade and noted with glumness the obvious weakness of his legs. It wasn’t going to be at all easy to get him over the wall, cherry-picker or no cherry-picker. Once he saw me watching him and his eyes casually swept past me without a flicker. I didn’t see Cosgrove talking to him and came to the conclusion that he might have a different contact. It was possible that the whole damn prison was riddled by the hirelings of the Scarperers.

I scrubbed the tables and swept the Hall during the day and made sure I did a good job — even on the Saturday morning. I wanted no sign of abnormality to appear at all. But I hadn’t much appetite for the midday meal and left most of it. At a table across the Hall I saw Slade polishing his tin plate with a slice of bread.

At two-thirty we were marched into the yard for free exercise. Some of the boys were kicking a ball about, but most strolled up and down enjoying the sun and the sky and the air. I drifted over to Cosgrove and we walked the length of the yard. He said, ‘I’ll tell you where it’s coming over and then we walk right past, see? Then I’ll take you to the place you have to wait. You stay there and you keep one eye on me and one on the wall — but don’t stare at it as though expecting something to happen.’

‘I’m not stupid.’

He grunted. ‘That’s as maybe. All right, we’re coming to it now. See that chalk mark?’

‘I see it,’ I said, and almost laughed. It was a crudely phallic scrawl more likely to be found in a run-down public lavatory.

Cossie wasn’t laughing. ‘That’s where it comes over. Now we carry on to the end of the yard.’ We walked on and turned in unison, just like the teachers who supervised the playground at school used to do when I was a kid. ‘You might have to jump for it, but there’ll be a bloke to help you.’

‘Jump!’ I said. ‘What about Slade?’

‘You give him a bunk-up first. There’ll be ropes hanging from the platform. He’ll be all right once he grabs those — he has strong arms.’

I saw Slade watching the football match with evident appreciation. ‘He’ll be leaving his sticks behind then.’

‘That’s obvious,’ said Cosgrove impatiently. We strolled back to a point on the other side of the yard facing the chalk mark. Slade was leaning against the wall quite close to the mark and wouldn’t have to move more than a few feet when the action started.

Cosgrove said, ‘Now you just stay here and wait for it.’ He consulted something he held in his fingers and I saw it was a very small ladies’ watch. ‘Nearly twenty minutes to go.’

The watch vanished. ‘Where did you get that?’ I asked.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said with a sour grin. ‘And I won’t have it at all in twenty-five minutes. The screws’ll act as though someone lit a fire under them when this comes off and they’ll turn the whole bloody place upside down. They won’t find this watch, though.’

I leaned against the wall and looked at the faint chalk mark on the other side of the yard. I could hear the traffic on the other side of that exterior wall but not much because it was Saturday afternoon and there wasn’t much commercial stuff on the roads.

Cosgrove said, ‘I’ll leave you now, and this is what you do. At two minutes to three a fight will start over in that corner. There’ll be a lot of noise. As soon as you hear it you start walking — slowly, mind you — across the yard towards that mark. Don’t make a fuss about it and, for God’s sake, don’t run. Slade will see you move and he’ll get ready.’

‘I could have done with talking to him about it myself,’ I grumbled.

‘Too dangerous,’ said Cosgrove. ‘Now, don’t be surprised by anything else that happens around you, no matter what it is. Just keep your mind on your job and head for that mark. By the time you get there the platform will be coming over. You hoist Slade up on your shoulders and then you jump for it yourself. It should be easy.’

‘I’ll be all right, Cossie.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Good luck, Rearden.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘Under the circumstances we won’t shake hands. I’m going now; I’ll be talking to Paddy Colquhoun until this thing’s all over.’ The watch appeared again. ‘Fifteen minutes exactly.’

‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘What about the closed-circuit TV outside the wall?’

‘That’ll be taken care of,’ he said patiently. ‘Goodbye, Rearden.’

He walked away across the yard leaving me leaning against the wall alone. My hands were sweating and my mouth was suddenly dry as I looked at the barbed wire on top of the exterior wall. God help me if I got snagged on that. I wiped my wet hands on my trousers and squatted down on my heels.

Slade was standing next to the chalk mark and he, too, was alone. Probably everyone had been warned to keep clear of us; they wouldn’t know why but they’d obey, especially if the warning had been given by the strong-arm boys. Accidents can be arranged, even in prison, and it’s awfully easy to get a broken arm, or worse.

Cosgrove was talking to Paddy and they appeared to be enjoying a huge joke. I hoped the joke wasn’t on me. I was taking a hell of a lot on faith, but if Cossie was conning me — if he was pulling a practical joke — I’d have his lights for a necktie. The prison wouldn’t be big enough for both of us. But I looked across at Slade and knew, deep in my bones, that this was the real thing.

There were four screws in the yard, walking up and down with set, expressionless faces. And I knew there were two more watching from the high windows above my head. From there they could see into the street outside the exterior wall. God in heaven, surely they’d ring the alarm as soon as they saw that mechanical lift drive into the street. They couldn’t be as stupid as all that.

The minutes went by. I found myself losing track of time. Fifteen minutes had already gone by — or was it only five? Again I could feel the sweat on the palms of my hands, and again I rubbed them dry. If I had to jump for a rope I didn’t want any chance of slipping.

I looked at Cosgrove again. He was standing with his head cocked on one side listening to what Paddy had to say, and I saw him flick an eye towards me before he burst into a guffaw of laughter and slapped Paddy on the back.

I didn’t see him give the signal but suddenly there were raised voices at the other end of the yard, so perhaps the slap on Paddy’s back had been the signal. I got to my feet and began to walk slowly forward as though hypnotized by that distant chalk mark. Slade pushed himself away from the wall and came forward, hobbling on his sticks.

The men all around me were looking towards the disturbance which had grown noisier. Some of the prisoners were running in that direction and the screws had begun to converge on the fight. I glanced to my right and saw Hudson, the senior screw, who had apparently sprung from nowhere, making his way across the yard. He wasn’t running but walking at a smart pace, and he was on a collision course with me.

Something astonishing happened behind. There was a sharp crack, like a minor explosion, and a billow of dense, white smoke erupted from the ground. I kept going but Hudson turned and stared. There were more explosions in the yard and the smoke grew thick and heavy. Somebody was being liberal with the smoke bombs that were being tossed over the wall.

Hudson was now behind me, and I heard his anguished bellow. ‘Escape! Escape! Sound the alarm.’

Frantically he blew on his whistle but I kept going to where Slade was waiting. His face was set in lines of strain and as I approached he said urgently, ‘Where the hell is that damned contraption?’

I looked up and saw it coming over through the wreaths of smoke, looming over the wall like the head and neck of a prehistoric monster with slimy weeds dripping from its jaws. As it dipped down I saw that the weeds were four knotted ropes dangling from the platform on which stood a man who was, so help me, talking into a telephone.

I bent down. ‘Come on, Slade; up you go!’

He dropped his sticks as I heaved him up and he made a grab at one of the ropes as it came within reach. He was no lightweight and it was not easy for me to hold him up. He caught on to the rope and I was thankful when his weight eased from me.

The man on the platform was looking down at us and when he saw that Slade had a secure hold he spoke urgently into the telephone and the platform began to rise. The only trouble about that was it was leaving me behind. I made a frantic leap and grasped the last knot on the same rope that Slade was climbing. He was going up fast but his legs were flailing about and he caught me under the jaw with the tip of his shoes. I felt dizzy and nearly let go but managed to tighten my grip at the last moment.

Then somebody grabbed my ankle and I looked down and saw it was Hudson, his face contorted with effort. The man had a grip like iron so I lifted my other leg and booted him in the face. I was learning from Slade already. He let go and tumbled to the ground which, by that time, seemed to be a long way down. I carried on up the rope, my shoulder muscles cracking, until I could grasp the edge of the platform.

Slade was sprawled on the steel floor, gasping with the effort he had made, and the man with the telephone bent down. ‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘You’ll be all right.’ He spoke into the mouthpiece again.

I looked down and saw the barbed wire apparently moving away underneath as the great articulated arm swept me over the wall. Then it began to drop and the man bent down again, directing his words at both of us. ‘Do exactly as I do,’ he said calmly.

We were swept dizzily over the street and then stopped dead. A small open delivery truck came from nowhere and pulled up beneath the platform. The man swung over the railings of the platform and dropped lightly into the back of the truck and I thankfully let go of the rope and followed him. Slade came after and fell on top of me and I cursed him, but then he was thrown off me by a sudden surge of acceleration as the little truck took off and went round the first corner with a squeal of tyres.

I looked back along the street and saw the big cherry-picker move ponderously into view and the great arm fell forward, completely blocking the street. Men tumbled from the cab and ran, and then we turned another corner and I saw no more of that.

Slade leaned against the side of the truck with his head lolling on one side. His face was grey and he seemed thoroughly exhausted. I remembered that he had been in hospital not long before. The man with us thumped his elbow into my ribs. ‘Pay attention!’ he said sharply. ‘You’ll be transferring into a little black mini-van. Get ready to move.’

The truck was moving fast but there was little traffic to hinder us on that Saturday afternoon. Suddenly we swooped to a stop behind a mini-van which stood at the kerb with its rear doors open. ‘That’s it. Into there — quickly.’

I jumped out of the truck and took a header into the mini-van, and heard the doors slam shut behind. I lifted my head and, looking through the windscreen between two broad-shouldered men in the front seats, saw that the truck I had left was already on the move with Slade still in it. It turned ahead to the right and at high speed.

The mini-van took off more sedately, well within the speed limit, and turned to the left. I felt absolutely breathless. My lungs were strained and my heart was thumping as though it was going to burst in my chest. I lay there panting until I felt better and then raised myself and poked at the passenger in front with my finger. ‘Why were we separated?’

He made no answer to that, so I tried again. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Shut up and keep down,’ he said without turning. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

I relaxed as much as I could, sitting there on the hard metal floor of the van. From what I could gather from the brief glimpses I saw from the rear windows we were covering a complicated course among the streets, stopping properly at all the traffic lights and not moving fast enough to excite attention.

The van turned into a side street and swung up an alley. I leaned up on my elbow and looked forward cautiously. Ahead were two big wooden doors which were open, and inside the building was a huge moving-van with the tailgate down. Without hesitation the driver headed right for it in low gear, bumped up the ramp formed by the tail-gate and drove right inside the pantechnicon. Behind us something came down from the roof, enclosing the van completely, and I heard the slam of the tail-gate as it was closed.

We were in complete darkness when the rear doors of the mini-van were opened. ‘You can get out now.’ It was a woman’s voice.

I scrambled out and bumped into her, steadying myself on a soft arm. The front door of the mini-van slammed. ‘For God’s sake!’ she said. ‘Turn on a light.’

A light came on in the roof and I looked around. We were in a cramped compartment just big enough to take the van with a little space left over. The woman was a tall blonde dressed in a white overall and looking like a doctor’s receptionist. One of the men pushed past me and bent down; I saw he was attaching a shackle to the rear bumper of the mini-van.

I heard the throb of a heavy diesel engine and the whole compartment lurched. The man straightened up and gave me a grin. He patted the side of the van. ‘We don’t want this to get loose, do we?’

There was another lurch and a grinding of gears. The big pantechnicon was travelling, taking me to — where?

The blonde smiled at me. ‘We haven’t much time,’ she said practically. ‘Take your clothes off.’ I must have gaped at her because she said sharply, ‘Strip, man! Don’t be prudish — you won’t be the first man I’ve seen bollocknaked.’

I took off the grey flannel jacket — the uniform of servitude — and watched her unpack a suitcase, producing underwear, socks, a shirt, a suit and a pair of shoes. ‘You can start to get dressed in these,’ she said. ‘But don’t put on the shirt yet.’

I took off the prison uniform and dressed in that lovely soft underwear, then balanced uneasily against the rocking motions of the moving pantechnicon to put on the socks. One of the men said, ‘How does it feel to be out, chum?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m out, yet.’

‘You are,’ he assured me. ‘You can bank on it.’

I put on the trousers and then the shoes. Everything was a perfect fit. ‘How did you know my measurements?’ I asked.

‘We know everything about you,’ the man said. ‘Except maybe one thing.’

‘And what’s that?’

He struck a match and lit his cigarette, then blew a plume of smoke in my face. ‘Where you keep your money. But you’ll tell us, won’t you?’

I zipped up the trousers. ‘At the proper time,’ I said.

‘Come over here,’ said the blonde. She had pulled up a stool in front of a basin set on a shelf. ‘Sit down. I’m going to give you a shampoo.’

So I sat down and she lathered my hair, digging her fingers deep into my scalp. She rinsed and then shampooed again before giving a final rinse. Then she took me by the chin and tilted my head. ‘That’ll do. Now for the eyebrows.’ She got to work on my eyebrows and when she had finished she handed me a mirror. ‘How do you like yourself now?’

I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Gone was the black hair and I was now middling blond. I was surprised at the difference it made; even Mackintosh wouldn’t recognize me now. I felt her fingers on my cheek. ‘You’ll have to shave twice a day. That dark five o’clock shadow would give you away. You’d better shave now — you’ll find the kit in your suitcase.’

I opened the case and found it very well fitted out with everything a man would normally travel with. There was a small battery-powered shaver which I put into use immediately. As I shaved she began to lay objects on the shelf. ‘Your name is Raymond Cruickshank,’ she said. ‘Here are your initialled cuff-links.’

‘Do I have to be that kind of a man?’ I asked lightly.

She wasn’t amused. ‘Don’t be funny,’ she said coldly. ‘The same initials are on the suitcase. All this is your insurance, Rearden; insurance against getting caught — treat it seriously.’

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘You’ve been to Australia, Rearden. You were mixed up in something in Sydney a few years ago, so we’ve made you an Australian. People over here can’t tell the difference between a South African and an Australian accent, so you should get away with it. Here’s your passport.’

I picked it up and flipped it open. It had a photograph of a blond-haired me.

She produced a wallet and opened it for my inspection. ‘This is all pure Cruickshank; you’d better check it to make sure you know what’s in it.’

So I did, and was very surprised. This mob was super-efficient — no wonder Cossie had said it needed time to set up. There were membership cards of Sydney clubs, an odd Australian two-dollar note among the British currency, an Australian AA card together with an Australian driving licence and an International driving licence, a dozen business cards announcing where I lived and what I did — it seemed I was the managing director of a firm importing office machinery. All very efficient, indeed.

I held out a dog-eared photograph. ‘What’s this?’

‘You and the wife and kids,’ she said calmly.

I looked at it more closely in the dim light and, by God, she was right! At least, it was a blond-haired me with my arm around a brunette’s waist and with a couple of kids in front. A nice tricky photograph.

I put it back into the wallet and felt something else at the bottom of the pocket which I dug out. It was an old theatre stub, dated two months previously — the theatre, naturally enough, was in Sydney. Apparently I had been to see Fiddler on the Roof.

I put it back carefully. ‘Very nice,’ I said admiringly. ‘Very nice indeed.’ I laid down the wallet and began to put on my shirt. I was just about to fasten the sleeves with the cufflinks when she said, ‘Mr Cruickshank, I said all this stuff was your insurance.’

I paused. ‘Well?’

‘Hold him, boys,’ she said sharply, and I was grabbed from behind and held cruelly tight.

‘What the hell... ?’

‘Mr Cruickshank,’ she said clearly. ‘This is our insurance.’ Her hand came from behind her back holding a hypodermic syringe which she held up to her eyes and squirted professionally. With one movement she rolled up the unfastened shirt sleeve. ‘No hard feelings,’ she said, and jabbed the needle into my arm.

There wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it. I just stood there helplessly and watched her face go all swimmy. And then I didn’t know any more about anything.

II

I woke up with the feeling of having been asleep for a long, long time. I didn’t know why this should be, but it seemed a hundred years since I had gone to sleep in my cell, the new cell into which I had just been moved. I certainly didn’t feel as though I had wakened from a normal night’s sleep; after all, by now I had got used to the light being on all night.

And I had a hangover!

Hangovers I don’t mind when there has been a cause for them; one takes one’s pleasures and pays the consequences. But I strongly object to the consequences when the pleasure has been missed. I hadn’t had a drink for eighteen months and to have an unaccountable hangover was abominable.

I lay there in bed with my eyes closed stickily. My head felt as though there was a red-hot iron bar wrapped around it and it throbbed as a blacksmith beat lustily on it with his hammer. I also had the old familiar dehydrated feeling and my mouth tasted, as a friend once inelegantly put it, like the inside of a Greek wrestler’s jockstrap.

I turned over slowly and groaned involuntarily as the blacksmith gave an extra hard thump. Then I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling vacantly. With care I traced the elegant moulding of the cornice which was picked out in gilt, being careful not to go too quickly in case my eyeballs fell out. ‘Funny!’ I thought. ‘They’ve given me a nice cell this time.’

With grudging movements I leaned up on one elbow just in time to see someone leave. The door closed with a gentle click and there was the sound of a key turning in a lock. That was familiar enough, anyway, which was more than the cell was.

As I stared uncomprehendingly at the dove-grey walls and the gilt rococo panelling, at the Dolly Varden dressing-table and the comfortable armchair standing on the thick-piled carpet, it hit me suddenly. My God, I made it! I got out of the nick!

I looked down at myself. I was dressed in silk pyjamas and the last time I had seen those was in the bottom of a suitcase in a moving-van.

A moving-van?

Slowly and painfully it all came back. The frantic grab at the rope; the wild swing over the barbed-wired wall; the jump into the truck, then into the mini-van, then into the pantechnicon.

The pantechnicon! That was it. There was a blonde who had dyed my hair and who gave me a wallet. My name was Cruickshank and I was an Australian, she said. And then the bitch doped me. I put my hand to my arm and rubbed it where it felt sore. Now, why the hell had she done that?

I threw back the bedclothes and swung out my legs. No sooner was I standing upright than I felt violently ill, and so I staggered to the nearest door which gave at a push and I fell into a bathroom. I lurched to my feet and over to the water-closet where I retched up my guts, but nothing came forth but a thin brown mucus. Still, when it was over I felt fractionally better, so I got to my feet and swayed towards the wash basin which I clutched hard as I stared into the mirror at the unfamiliar face.

She was right, I thought; the five o’clock shadow does give the game away. The blond hair with the black-bearded face looked incongruous and the whole ensemble wasn’t improved by eyes which looked like burnt holes in a blanket. I rubbed my arm again and, on impulse, rolled up the pyjama sleeve to see five red pinpricks.

Five! How long had I been unconscious? I fingered my beard which rasped uncomfortably. That felt normal for about thirty-six hours, or maybe a bit longer. Unless they’d shaved me when I was dead to the world — which was a distinct possibility.

I turned on the cold tap and ran some water into the basin, then gave my face a thorough dousing, spluttering a bit. There was a clean towel at hand and, as I wiped myself dry, I began to feel better but the feeling tended to ooze away when I caught sight of the bathroom window. There were thick steel bars on the inside and, although the glass was frosted, I could see the outline of similar bars on the outside.

That was going one better than the nick. Even in there they had but one set of bars to a window.

I dropped the towel on to the floor and went back into the bedroom. Sure enough the bedroom window was also barred inside and out, although here the glass was clear. I looked through the window and saw a courtyard surrounded by buildings. Nothing moved except a blackbird foraging for worms on a neatly mown lawn.

I watched the courtyard for five minutes but nothing happened, so I turned my attention to the bedroom. On the dressing table by the window was the toilet case and the shaver that the blonde had provided. I opened the case, took out a comb and combed my hair. Shaving could wait a while. I looked into the mirror and stuck out my tongue at the changed man who faced me. He did the same and I hastily pulled it in again as I saw the coating on the tongue.

Then I stiffened as I looked over his shoulder, and I whirled about to face the room. There were two beds; the one I had occupied had rumpled sheets, but the other bed was occupied. I strode over and found Slade breathing heavily through his mouth and totally unconscious. I slapped his cheeks and prised open his eyelids all to no avail; apart from the breathing he was a reasonable facsimile of a dead man.

So I left him to it, principally because I had seen a newspaper lying by the side of the armchair. Whoever had been waiting for me to wake up hadn’t taken his Sunday Times with him.

We were front page news. The headlines blared in a most uncharacteristic Sunday Times manner, but I’d bet the News of the World outdid them in that respect. There was a photograph of the outside of the nick with a thick, pecked line to show the course of events — there was a photograph of the cherry-picker with its neck collapsed across the entrance to a street, looking a bit like a dead Disney dinosaur from Fantasia; there was a photograph of someone being carried to an ambulance on a stretcher — Senior Prison Officer Hudson had unaccountably broken his leg!

The front page news story was pretty factual and they hadn’t got much wrong as far as I could see. I read with interest that the exterior closed-circuit TV cameras had been rendered inoperable by having paint sprayed on to the lenses. That was a nice touch. It was also interesting to read that the small open truck had been found abandoned near Colchester, and the black mini-van near Southampton. Police had established road blocks around both areas.

Slade captured most of the limelight. What was a jewel thief compared with a master spy? But Brunskill had a go at me. ‘This man is dangerous,’ he said, with a straight face. ‘He was convicted for a crime of violence and has a record of violence extending back for many years. The public should be wary of him and should on no account try to tackle him unaided.’

That was the most libellous thing I’ve ever read. Two convictions for violence over twelve years and I was being described as a Jack the Ripper. All Brunskill was trying to do was to build up the original arrest. I hoped his bosses threw the book at him for talking out of turn.

Insight had nothing to say about it, but they would, they would — I’d have to wait until next week’s issue to get the inside story on how we’d escaped. But the editorial went off pop! The escape was described as a colossal piece of impudence and that if criminals were going to use such methods as mortar-fired smoke bombs then it was time that the prison authorities should also use military means to defend the integrity of the prisons.

I thought so, too.

Lord Mountbatten was not available for comment, but lots of other people were, whether they had anything relevant to say or not. One man especially fulminated about it — a Member of Parliament called Charles Wheeler who spoke bitterly about gangsterism in our English streets and swore he’d put a question to the House at the first available opportunity. I wished him luck. The mills of government grind slowly and it takes a hell of a long time to close even a stable door.

I quite enjoyed reading that Sunday paper.

I had just finished when the door clicked open and a man in a white coat wheeled in a trolley on which were several silver-covered dishes. Behind him followed a tall man with a balding head fringed with silvery hair. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you would relish a light meal.’

I looked at the trolley. ‘I might,’ I said cautiously. ‘If my stomach will stand it.’

He nodded gravely. ‘You feel a little ill; that I can understand. You will find two bottles on the table. One contains aspirin and the other a stomach preparation. I had assumed you would find them.’

‘I didn’t,’ I said, and held up the paper. ‘I was more interested in this.’

He smiled. ‘It does make interesting reading,’ he agreed, and tapped the white-coated man on the shoulder. ‘You can go now.’ He turned back to me. ‘You don’t mind if I stay for tea?’

‘Not at all,’ I said magniloquently. ‘Be my guest.’

White Coat had laid the table and pushed out the trolley; he closed the door behind him and again I heard the snap of the lock. They weren’t taking any chances even with one of their own in the room. I looked with attention at the tall man; there was something incongruous about him which I couldn’t put my finger on — and then I had it. He was tall and thin but had a curiously pudgy face, ill-suited to his build. It was as though the face of a fat man had been grafted on to a thin man’s body.

He gestured. ‘You’ll find a dressing-gown behind the bathroom door.’

I crossed to the table and found the two small bottles, then went into the bathroom. The stomach preparation I ignored but the aspirin was very welcome. I put on the dressing-gown and returned to the bedroom to find Fatface in the act of pouring himself a cup of tea. ‘You don’t mind if I’m Mother?’ he asked sardonically.

I sat down and picked up the glass of chilled tomato juice. Fatface pushed over the Worcestershire sauce. This improved it. I laced the juice liberally, added pepper, and drank it quickly. Almost immediately I felt better, but not so much better that I could face the breakfast that faced me when I lifted the silver cover from my plate. I looked down at the yellow eyes of eggs, with sausages for eyebrows and a bacon moustache, and shuddered delicately. Pushing the plate away distastefully I picked up a slice of toast and buttered it sparingly.

I said, ‘If you’re being Mother you can pour me a cup of tea.’

‘Certainly — anything to oblige.’ He busied himself with the teapot.

I crunched on the toast and said indistinctly, ‘Anything? Then perhaps you can tell me where I am.’

He shook his head regretfully. ‘Then you’d know as much as me — and that would never do. No, Mr Rearden; that is one of the things I can’t tell you. You realize, of course, that because of that particular restriction your movements must be, shall we say, circumscribed.’

I’d already figured that out; the double bars at the windows weren’t there for nothing. I jerked my head at the bed behind me. ‘Slade is a bit too circumscribed right now.’

‘He’ll be all right,’ said Fatface. ‘He’s older than you and takes longer to recover.’ He passed me a cup of tea. ‘You will be confined to these two rooms until the time comes to move you again.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘That depends entirely on you. We hope to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. If you have any special preferences at meals — grapefruit juice instead of tomato juice, for instance — we will do our best to please you.’ He rose to his feet and crossed to a cabinet which he opened. It was well stocked with bottles. ‘You can help yourself to a drink at any time. By the way, what cigarettes do you prefer?’

‘Rothmans filter.’

He produced a notebook and made an entry like a conscientious maître d’hôtel. ‘That we can manage easily.’

I grinned at him. ‘I’d like a half-bottle of wine with lunch and dinner. White, and on the dryish side; a hock or moselle, preferably.’

‘Very well.’ He made another note. ‘We try to run a top-class establishment. Of course, our expenses being what they are, our charges are high. In fact, there is a standard charge no matter how long you stay here. In your case I think it has been agreed already — twenty thousand pounds, wasn’t it, Mr Rearden?’

I picked up my tea-cup. ‘It wasn’t,’ I said economically. ‘Ten thousand pounds is lying on that bed over there. That was the deal.’

‘Of course,’ said Fatface. ‘I forgot.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ I said amiably. ‘You were trying it on. Your tea is getting cold.’

He sat down again. ‘We would prefer to settle the account as soon as possible. The sooner it is settled the sooner you will be able to go on the next stage of your journey.’

‘To where?’

‘I think you can leave that to us. I assure you it will be outside the United Kingdom.’

I frowned at that. ‘I don’t like buying a pig in a poke. I want a better guarantee than that, I want to know where I’m going.’

He spread his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Rearden; but our security arrangements preclude your knowing in advance. You must understand the importance of this. We cannot take any chances at all on the penetration of our organization by... er... undesirable elements.’

I hesitated, and he said impatiently, ‘Come, Mr Rearden; you are an intelligent man. You must know that we have a reputation that rests entirely on our ability to keep our promises. Our good faith is our stock-in-trade and it would need but one dissatisfied client to do us irreparable harm.’ He tapped gently on the table with his teaspoon. ‘In any case, I believe you were informed of what would certainly happen to you if you did not keep your side of the bargain.’

The threat was there again — veiled but unmistakable. I had to play for time, so I said, ‘All right; get me a cheque form of the Züricher Ausführen Handelsbank.’

Fatface looked pleased. ‘And the number — the account number?’

‘You’ll know that when I put it on the cheque,’ I said. ‘I have security precautions, too, you know.’ I did a quick calculation. ‘Make it out for 200,000 Swiss francs. You take your share and let me have the balance in the currency of the country in which I’m being dropped.’

He nodded. ‘A wise precaution. The sensible man never leaves himself short of liquid funds,’ he said sententiously.

I looked down at myself. ‘Do I have to live in pyjamas?’

He looked shocked. ‘Of course not. I apologize for not telling you sooner. Your clothes are in the wardrobe.’

‘Thanks.’ I crossed the room and opened the wardrobe. Hanging up was a business suit and, next to it, a more sporty and informal outfit. Underwear was neatly laid out on the shelves and two pairs of highly polished shoes — black and brown — nestled in the shoerack.

I went through the pockets of the suits quickly and found them empty, then I clicked open the suitcase which stood at the bottom of the wardrobe and found it as empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. I swung on Fatface, ‘No passport,’ I said. ‘No wallet — no identification.’

‘We let you look at those to show our good faith, Mr Rearden — or should I call you Mr Cruickshank? We wanted you to see the lengths to which we would go to ensure a successful outcome of this enterprise. But there is no necessity for you to have them just yet. They will be returned to you prior to the next stage of your journey.’ He wagged his finger at me solemnly. ‘Security — that’s the watchword here.’

That I could well believe. This mob considered all the angles.

Fatface said, ‘If you want anything, all you have to do is to press this button — like this.’ He waited, looking expectantly at the door, and White Coat arrived within two minutes. ‘Taafe will look after you, Mr Rearden; won’t you, Taafe?’

White Coat nodded, but said nothing.

‘I must be going now,’ said Fatface regretfully, as though he desired nothing more in the world than to stay and chat. ‘We have to get on with our business.’ He looked at me closely. ‘I advise you to shave; you look most uncivilized. I daresay that while you are attending to your toilet Taafe will tidy up the room.’ He gave me a brief nod and departed.

I looked curiously at Taafe who was busying himself with the breakfast crockery and leaving only his broad back for my inspection. He was a big man with the battered face of a small-time bruiser — small time because good boxers don’t get hit about like that. After a while I shrugged and went into the bathroom. It was a good idea, no matter who had suggested it.

I ran a bathful of hot water and settled down to soak and think. The mob was good — there was no doubt about that. Provided I could come up with the money I would undoubtedly be released in some foreign country with adequate, if fraudulent, identification and enough money to see me right. Of course, the converse wasn’t too good — if I couldn’t provide the funds required then I would probably occupy a cold hole in the ground in an isolated place and my bones would be discovered to mystify some rural copper in the distant future.

I shook my head. No — this mob was too efficient for that. They would leave no bones to be discovered. I would probably be encased in a block of concrete and tipped over the side into the deepest part of the sea available. It would be an act of charity if they killed me before pouring the concrete.

I shivered a little in spite of the hot water and thought glumly of the Züricher Ausführen Handelsbank and that cold-minded bastard, Mackintosh. I had better begin making plans to break out of this luxurious nick.

That brought me to another question. Where the hell was I? Fatface had played safe on that one, but maybe he had slipped up, after all. I thought about Taafe. That wasn’t an English name at all — so could I be already out of England? It hadn’t been smart of Fatface to let that name slip out.

As I mused, a little rhyme came into my head:

Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief; Taffy came to my house And stole a side of beef.

I had learned that one at my mother’s knee. Apart from being libellous to Welshmen did it mean that I was somewhere in Wales — still in the United Kingdom?

I sighed and splashed water. Time would tell, but time was something I hadn’t much of.