Brian Freemantle - The Blind Run

‘Which means they haven’t broken ours yet,’ said the deputy. He seemed surprised. Or disappointed.

‘It’s taking longer than I anticipated.’

‘We’ve got to assume they’ve intercepted the transmission by now,’ said Harkness. ‘They’ll be going mad not knowing what it is.’

‘They’re never properly going to know that,’ said Wilson.

‘We hope,’ said the restrained Harkness. ‘This is only the beginning, after all. The very beginning.’

‘Still uncertain about the sacrifice?’

‘It’ll be a hell of a sacrifice if it doesn’t work,’ said Harkness.

‘It’ll work,’ said Wilson, confidently. He stretched his hand out towards his beloved roses and said, ‘Know what these are called?’

‘What?’ said Harkness.

‘Seven Sisters,’ disclosed the Director. ‘Appropriate, don’t you think?’

‘The identification comes from Three Sisters,’ reminded Harkness.

‘Near enough,’ said Wilson. ‘Near enough.’

Charlie knew he was taking a terrible risk; of the governor dismissing what he was going to say as nonsense or of Sampson finding out, because of gossip among the screws. But there wasn’t any other way: certainly not one he had been able to think of since Sampson had told him what he intended doing. The sweat was banded around Charlie’s waist and his hands were damp, clasped obediently behind his back. He couldn’t remember being as nervous as this, not even on a job when things looked as if they were going wrong.

Armitrage sighed up at him, a man of perpetual hope disappointed yet again. ‘This is serious,’ he said. ‘Far more serious than the last occasion.’

‘There’s a reason, sir,’ said Charlie.

The governor picked the knife up from the desk, as if he were weighing it and said, ‘There can only be one obvious reason for attempting to steal a knife, Muffin.’

Commitment time, realised Charlie. He knew very slightly one of the escorting officers, a man named Dailey, but not the other one. What if Sampson did too, like he seemed to know everything and everybody else? Charlie didn’t intend naming Sampson, of course: that was his bargaining counter. But it would make a hell of a story to boast about having heard, to other officers. And other officers would repeat it, even though to disclose what he intended saying outside of this room would be an appalling breach of security. Charlie knew enough about security to know how little of it really existed. He said, ‘I took the knife intending that I should be seen doing it… intending that I would be put on a charge.’

Armitrage came up to him again, frowning. ‘What!’

‘I wanted to be brought before you, sir,’ said Charlie.

‘Definitely trying to conceal the knife, sir,’ insisted Dailey.

‘But I wasn’t trying to hide myself doing it, was I?’ demanded Charlie. ‘I was facing you when I did it, for Christ’s sake!’ Regulations didn’t allow him to question the warders: even behave like this in front of the governor. But he didn’t give a damn about regulations. Only one thing mattered: that they eventually believed him and even if they didn’t fully believe him became frightened enough to react properly.

Dailey waited for the correction to come from the governor and when it didn’t he said, ‘It was a clumsy attempt at concealment.’

‘Intentionally clumsy,’ insisted Charlie. He paused and then he said, ‘There is an escape being planned from this jail, an escape the embarrassment of which will cause repercussions sufficient to bring about your dismissal. Demands for your resignation, certainly.’

Probably too strong, conceded Charlie. But he had to bestir the silly old bugger somehow. On each side of him, Dailey and the warder he didn’t know shifted and actually moved closer, as if they expected Charlie to make a run for it there and then.

Armitrage’s demeanour of vague distraction slipped away. He came tight-faced to Charlie and said, ‘What is it? I want to know all about it. Everything.’

‘No,’ said Charlie.

The governor’s face reddened, the anger obvious. ‘I want to know all about it,’ he repeated. ‘And you will tell me.’

‘No,’ said Charlie again. ‘Not now. I will tell you, but only in the presence of Sir Alistair Wilson.’

‘Sir Alistair Wilson?’

‘The Director.’

‘Don’t be preposterous!’ said Armitrage.

‘Tell him that it’s important… vitally important,’ Charlie bulldozed on. They might have welched on the earlier deal but they weren’t going to on this one. This time Charlie intended getting his freedom.

‘I have no intention of making any approach to any outside person,’ said Armitrage. ‘This is a prison matter which will be settled by me. And it will be settled. Here. Now.’

Charlie stared at the man across his desk, saying nothing.

‘I’m waiting,’ said Armitrage.

‘In the presence of the Director,’ said Charlie. Then I’ll tell you everything.’

Armitrage looked to the prison officers on either side of Charlie. ‘Any suggestions of unrest, worse than normal?’ he demanded. ‘There’s usually an atmosphere, just before an intended break?’

‘Nothing sir,’ said Dailey.

‘I’d better get the deputy governor in on this,’ said Armitrage. ‘And the chief prison officer.’

Which would be how the story spread, thought Charlie, desperately. He said, ‘There’s no concerted plan: you’ll not discover anything, tightening security.’

To Dailey, Armitrage said, ‘Take him to solitary.’

As the order to turn and leave the office was snapped out, militarily, Charlie said, ‘I’ll say nothing, only in the presence of Sir Alistair Wilson. If it goes ahead, it’ll be the biggest embarrassment of your life.’

‘Out!’ said Dailey, thrusting him forward.

In the solitary cell, which was internal, without any window and smaller than that he occupied with Sampson, Charlie slumped forward on the bunk, head forward in his hands. Bad, he thought, judging his effort. Bloody awful, in fact. Word that he was before the governor would have already circulated through the prison, because the trusties who worked in administration had seen him marched in and out. They’d know he’d gone to solitary, too. And the silly old fart would convene his conference with the deputy and the chief screw because he was too damned ineffectual to make up his own mind without the advice of as many people as possible. Shit! thought Charlie. He’d been better than this once. A long time ago; too long. Sampson would have him killed. Charlie didn’t have any doubt about that. Any more than he had any doubt that the man would learn that he’d grassed. He could apply for permanent solitary, he supposed. There was a regulation that permitted it, usually invoked for bastards who’d sexually assaulted kids and needed protection from other prisoners, forming an enclave within an enclave, permanently frightened like he was frightened now. People went mad in solitary: Sampson said he would go mad. What was better, mad or dead? Jesus! What a fucking choice!

Without a watch or a window to judge from the changing light Charlie found it difficult to calculate the time but he guessed it was three hours before anyone came. Maybe longer, he thought, as he was marched back through the administration wing, where there were windows, through which he could see that it was dark. Did it really matter, whether it was day or night? Did anything matter, any more?

Charlie’s depression – his fear – was absolute so the stretch of euphoria was a physical reaction when he got to the governor’s office and saw, among the assembled people, the man who’d looked blank-faced at him in the dock of the Old Bailey on the day he got his sentence. Charlie stopped, so that the escorting officer following actually collided with him and he said ‘Thank Christ,’ aloud, careless of their knowing of his relief.