“What’s the matter?” one of them asked.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “My brother was just doing an impersonation. He was taking off a 747. You know . . . a 747 taking off.”
“My ankle!” Tim moaned.
“That’s right,” I continued desperately. “His uncle. He’s hurt his uncle by refusing to take him plane spotting at Heathrow tonight.”
By now everyone in the room was looking at us. The two guards shook their heads. “Visiting time over,” one of them said.
I stood up and followed the other inmates through the door and into the prison. Tim sat where he was, rubbing his ankle and gazing after me. I must have given him quite a bruise. I just hoped he’d gotten the message.
When you’re doing time, time passes slowly. But the rest of that afternoon dragged past like a dying man. At last the sun collapsed behind the prison walls and darkness came. Johnny Powers had barely said a word since I’d gotten back from the visiting room. I’d told him that I’d gotten the message across and that Tim would be there.
“Okay, kid. We move at twelve.”
He spoke the words without moving his lips and I remember thinking he’d have made a great ventriloquist. And now that he had Tim on the payroll, he wouldn’t even need to buy a dummy.
We went down to dinner. I couldn’t eat a mouthful. Then it was back into the cells and lockup. Powers dozed off. I lay on my bunk, mentally composing my will. Tim would get my books, my records, and my old stamp collection. I’d leave Snape and Boyle my Australian underpants. We move at twelve. How would Powers even know when twelve had arrived? We didn’t have a watch. And what was he planning anyway? There were at least four locked doors between us and the main gate. If we climbed the walls we would be too high up to drop down on the other side. And then there were the guards in the watchtowers.
A plane grumbled across the sky. Powers’s eyes flickered open.
He didn’t say anything. He rolled over and reached underneath the mattress. A moment later he was standing up, the cold moonlight slashing across his face. His eyes were black. There was no color in his skin. The moonlight glinted off the gun he now held in his right hand. The gun from the shower room. He was only fifteen years old but somehow he was already dead. A discarded frame from one of those old black-and-white gangster films.
He turned to me.
“It’s twelve o’clock, kid,” he said. “Time to go.”
OVER THE WALL
“What do we do, Johnny?”
“Get on ya bunk. Put ya hands on ya stomach. And start groaning,” he said.
I hesitated for about half a second. Just long enough for him to turn around and hiss, “Move it!” Then I clambered up, curled into a ball, and began to groan like I was about to throw up. Which, in fact, I was. I always feel a little queasy when I’m afraid and right then I was scared out of my mind.
Powers glanced back at me, winked, and began to hammer on the door. I could hear the sound echoing down the corridors. There were heavy footsteps on the catwalk, coming our way.
“Guard!” Powers shouted. “Guard!” One of the other prisoners yelled something out. Then there was a rattle of keys and the door swung open. I groaned louder. Powers took a step back.
Walsh was on duty that night. I could just see him out of the corner of my eye, framed in the soft, yellow light of the doorway. “What’s the matter, 00666?” he asked.
“It’s the kid,” Powers said. “He’s sick.”
After the shower-room affair, Walsh didn’t trust either of us. I thought for a moment he was going to walk away. I gave a ghastly croak and shuddered. It wouldn’t have won me any major acting awards, but it seemed to convince Walsh. He walked past Powers, farther into the cell, and stood beside me. Powers made a sign at me as he edged toward the door. The meaning was clear. Keep Walsh talking.
“I’m sick,” I groaned. “I need a doctor.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I need the doctor.”
“You look okay to me.” Walsh was suspicious.
“Yeah—but you’re not a doctor,” I pointed out.
Meanwhile, Johnny had looked up and down the corridor, checking that there was no one else around. As Walsh straightened up, he moved. Suddenly the gun was pressed against his neck and Powers was right up close to him, purring like a kitten. A rabid kitten.
“Weasel Walsh,” he muttered. “Make one false move and I’ll decorate the walls with ya brains.”
“Powers!” The color had drained out of Walsh’s face. “Are you crazy?”
“Sure.” Powers laughed. “That’s what my doctors say. But I ain’t so crazy about this joint, Walsh. That’s why ya’re going to be my ticket out.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Check it again, kid,” he said. I went over and looked out. The narrow corridor seemed to stretch into infinity, the dull yellow bulbs throwing sticky pools of light onto the floor.
“It’s clear, Johnny,” I said.
“Let’s go!” Powers pushed Walsh toward me. “Ya try anything Walsh and it’s pop goes the weasel.”
We stepped into the corridor. It’s a strange thing about prison. After a while you get used to being locked up. To me it felt all wrong being outside the cell in the middle of the night. The shadows seemed to reach out as if to grab me. Everything was somehow too big. I could hear my heart pulsing in my ears and the hair on my forehead was damp with sweat. I wanted to go back. I wanted to hear the cell door slam shut behind me. Now I knew what our hamster must have felt like when it went AWOL one Christmas.
Four doors stood between us and the main gate. Walsh had opened the first three without any problem. But as he turned the key in the fourth, the sirens screamed and the whole world went crazy.
We’d climbed a flight of stairs and we were high up. We were also outside. The cold night air came at me in a rush. The sirens were everywhere, ripping into the night. Somebody switched on a spotlight. I saw a perfect circle of light glide across the courtyard far below us then ripple along the wall, counting the bricks. Then it hit us. For a horrible moment I was completely blind. It was a brilliant, exploding blindness. I thought I was going to fall, but Powers must have reached out and grabbed me because I felt myself pulled back, my shoulders slamming into the wall behind me.
The fourth door led nowhere. We were on a small platform, about thirty feet above the ground, the same height as the wall. The platform was directly opposite one of the watchtowers. I could just make out the shape of two guards behind the curtain of light. They were pointing something at us—something long and thin. Somehow I didn’t think it was a telescope. Sitting ducks. I waited for the crackle of gunfire that would bring it all to an end.
But it didn’t come. Instead the sirens ended, abruptly fading into silence. Now I could hear people shouting. About half a dozen guards ran into the yard, making for the shadows. I looked at Powers. Did he have any idea how he was going to get us out of here? He’d told me to tell Tim to go to Heathrow. I gazed up at the sky almost expecting to see a helicopter—but that was insane. Powers wanted a driver, not a pilot. So what happened next?
“Listen to me!” Powers shouted. “Do what I tell ya and nobody gets hurt.”
“Put down the gun and give yourself up, Powers.” I don’t know who said that. It was just a voice out of the darkness.
“I got nothing to lose,” Powers called back. “If I don’t get some action, Walsh here takes a dive.” He pushed Walsh to the very edge of the platform. I had to admit, he knew what he was doing. If anybody took a potshot at him now, the guard would fall. “Lower the drawbridge,” Powers yelled. “Do it now!”
I’d forgotten the drawbridge. Each watchtower was connected to the prison by a strip of metal that could be lowered or raised automatically. That was why Powers had taken us up and not down into the yard. But would they lower it for him? I’d no sooner asked myself that than there was a low hum and a rectangular shape pushed through the spotlight
toward me. So long as Powers held Walsh, he held all the cards.
The drawbridge connected with the platform and the way ahead was clear. I looked at Powers. He was grinning from ear to ear like a kid at a carnival.
“All right,” he shouted at the two guards in the watchtower. “Drop ya weapons and come over here. But slowly. And no tricks.”
The guards did as they were told, and half a minute later there were five of us up there, crowded together in the narrow space.
“You’ll never get away with this, Powers,” one of them said.
“No? Just watch me. Come on, kid . . .”
Well, I suppose it was nice that somebody had remembered me. Up to now it had been as if nobody had noticed that I was escaping, too. Holding Walsh between us, Powers and I shuffled over to the watchtower and went inside.
“Raise it!” Powers hissed.
Walsh reached out and flicked a switch. The drawbridge swung up again.
So there we now were, cut off in the watchtower with the wall right beside us and a window leading out. But we were still in the prison. If we jumped from the window we’d be lucky to escape with just a broken leg. We wouldn’t escape at all. It was a thirty-foot drop and the road running alongside the prison was one hundred percent concrete.
“You can’t get down from here, Powers,” Walsh said, echoing my thoughts exactly.
“Ya think so?” Powers glanced in my direction. “See anything, kid?”
I looked back out of the window. And there was something. I’d never seen anything like it. It wasn’t a car. It wasn’t a truck. It was a long rectangular box, riding some twelve feet above the ground. It was held up on hydraulic arms, the wheels far below. Four mattresses had been strapped to the roof. It was driving down the road at about fifteen miles an hour. And it was coming toward us.
“It’s coming, Johnny,” I said—even though I didn’t know what “it” was.
“Here’s something to remember me by, Weasel,” Powers snarled. He’d turned the gun around in his hand, and before either of us could react he brought it crashing down. Walsh crumpled. I was relieved to see that he was still breathing. I’d never liked him much, but he was just an ordinary man doing his job. I went back to the window. The platform was getting closer.
“We jump?” I asked.
We climbed out of the window and hung there awkwardly. There was no sound from inside the prison. Nobody could see us. Perhaps they didn’t realize what we were about to do. The truck or whatever it was veered toward us without slowing down. Close up, it seemed to be going much faster than I’d thought and whoever was driving it clearly wasn’t too sure of himself. It was wobbling all over the place, the tires thumping into the curb. At one point it swerved away and I was afraid it was going to miss us altogether. But then it veered back again.
“Now!” Powers shouted.
We dropped.
It was still a long way to fall. It felt like I was in midair forever, like Alice on her way to Wonderland. I heard the engine roaring in my ears. Then I hit the mattress, rolled over, scrabbled for a handhold, somehow managed to cling on. It was a heavy landing. I didn’t break any bones, but I must have broken a few springs.
Powers was beside me. “Move inside,” he said.
The platform was still zigzagging down the road. Not exactly breakneck speed, unless, that is, you fell off. It was still a long way to fall. With the wind blowing in my hair, I crawled along the roof to the back end. There was a square opening beneath me and I could see lights inside. The wheels hit the curb again, sending a garbage can flying. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed hold of the edge and heaved myself into space. Now I was hanging there with the road sweeping away behind me. I tried to swing into the box. Then a strong pair of hands reached out and took hold of me. I was pulled inside, dropping the last couple of feet onto the floor. I stood up and blinked. And only then did I realize what kind of getaway vehicle we were getting away in.
If you’ve ever been to an airport you may have seen them. They’re called “people movers” or something like that. Imagine an ordinary airport bus, only with more seats and bright neon lights. Then put metal arms between the wheels and the undercarriage. When you step out of the plane, you’re about twelve feet off the ground. But you don’t need steps. The driver simply parks the people mover beside the plane, presses a button, and the whole thing rises into the air until it’s level with the door. You step inside. The bus sinks back down onto the wheels. And you speed away to the arrival lounge, where, provided your driver isn’t Tim Diamond, you finally arrive.
But our driver was Tim. I could see him at the far end of the bus, sitting in a sort of miniature cubicle, surrounded by switches and levers. He was making the most peculiar noises, whimpering and squeaking with every turn of the wheel.
“Johnny boy!” a voice said behind me.
I turned around. Powers had followed me into the people mover and now he was gazing at the man who had pulled us in. Only it wasn’t a man. It was a woman. And I didn’t need to ask her name to know who she was.
Ma Powers. Johnny’s mother.
On first sight she was like any other mother. She was about fifty, wearing a severe black skirt, a matching jacket, and a flowery shirt buttoned at the neck. Her hair was gray, mainly hidden by a black velvet hat. Her only makeup was a dash of red lipstick across her tight-lipped mouth. For jewelry she wore plain gold earrings and a cameo brooch in the shape of a rose.
But unlike any other mother, she was carrying a sub-machine gun, the barrel slanting across her chest. The more I looked at her, the less I liked her. Her eyes—like Johnny’s—were two bullet holes in a refrigerator door. She had a tough, weathered face, and when I say weathered I’m talking storms and blizzards. Her skin was as tough as leather. Her teeth when she smiled, which wasn’t often, were yellow and crammed together uncomfortably like being in a subway during rush hour.
“How ya doing, Johnny?” she asked. She spoke just like him, only her voice was deeper.
“I’m okay, Ma,” Powers said. “All the better for seeing you.”
“That ya friend?” She nodded at me.
“That’s right, Ma. Nick . . . come and meet my ma.”
“Not now, Johnny boy. We gotta move.”
Even as she spoke, I heard the scream of approaching police cars. Looking through the open end of the bus, I could see the flash of blue lights in the distance. Tim groaned. We were still only doing twenty miles an hour. At that speed, they’d catch up with us in seconds.
“Go and check with ya brother,” Ma Powers commanded. “I’ll hold ’em off.” She cocked the machine gun and moved to the back.
“Has Nails fixed the bus?” Powers asked.
“Sure, Johnny boy. Bulletproof windows. Sawed-off back. And a souped-up engine.” She glared at me. “Shame we ain’t got a souped-up driver. Tell him to put his foot down.”
Powers and I ran up to the front of the bus. Tim was white-faced, his eyes staring, his hands clutching the steering wheel like he was trying to pull it apart.
“Nick . . . !” he began when he saw me.
“Not now, Tim,” I said.
“Can’t ya lower this thing?” Powers rasped. We were still twelve feet off the ground, higher than the top deck of a London bus. Only there was no bottom deck.
“I don’t know how it works,” Tim whimpered.
“Didn’t Ma show ya?”
“Yes. But I’ve forgotten.”
“Take the next turn on the left!” Ma Powers called out.
Tim put his foot down and swung the wheel to the left. The people mover surged forward with fresh power, skidding around the corner. For a horrible moment we were driving on two wheels and I thought the whole thing would topple over. But then it somehow managed to right itself.
“Lower the bus!” Ma Powers shouted.
“Lower the bus!” I screamed.
I’d seen it the moment we’d turned the corner. A road sign in a red triangle: LOW BRIDGE AHEAD, CLEARAN
CE NINE FEET. About three feet too low. Tim had seen it, too. He took his foot off the accelerator and at once we slowed down. There was a chatter of machine-gun fire from the back of the bus.
“Keep moving!” Ma Powers yelled.
She was cradling the machine gun like a bouquet of flowers. Except that I’ve never seen a bouquet with smoke curling out of the end. Looking past her, I saw that the first of the police cars had reached the turn. Despite our souped-up engine, it was gaining on us. And there were four more right behind it.
“What do I do?” Tim moaned.
“Just keep going—fast,” Powers said. Tim was about to argue, but there was something in Johnny’s tone of voice that made him think again. He gave a little squeak and stomped down on the accelerator. We rocketed forward.
The machine gun chattered again. The road was narrow now, hemmed in on both sides by a wire fence. There was only one way to go and that was straight ahead. But there was the bridge. It was looming up at us, a humpback bridge with a railway line on top. I could see the rails. I was actually looking down at them. At the rate we were going, we would hit it in around thirty seconds. The metal box of the people mover would crash right into the brickwork. I didn’t like to think what would happen to the people inside.
Powers ran back to join his mother—perhaps to warn her. I stood beside Tim, fighting to keep my balance as we bounced over the tarmac, hurtling toward the bridge. He wasn’t even trying to lower the bus. He was too frightened to let go of the steering wheel. Desperately I examined the controls. Why did there have to be so many levers? Ma Powers fired for the third time. And this time she found her target. The siren of the nearest police car died away. There was a screech of tires, a shattering of metal, then an explosion. The bridge glowed red. Twenty seconds until impact.
I ran my hands over the controls, frantically flicking switches and pulling levers left, right, and center. I turned out the lights, opened and closed the doors, lowered the antenna, and adjusted the mirrors. But I didn’t lower the bus. Behind us, Powers was shooting with the pistol he’d taken from the prison. Mother and son seemed to be having a whale of a time. A second police car had moved up to take the position of the first. And now they were firing, too. I tugged at another lever. The ashtray popped out of the dashboard. Ten seconds until impact.