Jack Higgins - Dark Side of the Street

Somewhere across the moor gunfire rumbled menacingly, strangely subdued in the heat of the afternoon, and below in the quarry where the prisoners laboured stripped to the waist there was a sudden stir of interest.

Ben Hoffa worked in the shadow of the north face amongst a jumble of great blocks of slate and he paused as he swung the ten pound hammer above his head and lowered it slowly to look up towards the distant hills, a hand shading his eyes from the sun.

He was a small man in his late thirties, muscular and wiry with good shoulders, his hair prematurely grey, the eyes as cold and hard as the blocks of slate around him. His partner, O'Brien, a tall, stolid Irishman, loosened the crowbar he was holding with easy strength and straightened, a frown on his face.

"And what in the hell would that be?"

"Field Artillery," Hoffa told him.

O'Brien stared at him blankly. "You must be joking."

"Summer manoeuvres-the Army hold them every year around this time."

In the distance, three transport planes moved over the horizon and as they watched, a line of silken canopies fluttered open as men stepped into space to float down like thistledown blown on a summer breeze. The sensation of space and complete freedom was so acute that O'Brien was conscious of a sudden aching emptiness in his stomach. His hands gripped the crowbar convulsively and Hoffa shook his head.

"Not a chance, Paddy, you wouldn't get five miles."

O'Brien dropped the crowbar to the ground and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand. "It makes you think, though."

"The first five years are the worst," Hoffa said, his face expressionless.

There was the crunch of a boot on loose stones behind them, O'Brien glanced over his shoulder and reached for the crowbar. "Parker," he said simply.

Hoffa showed no particular interest and continued to watch the paratroopers drift down behind the breast of the moor three or four miles away as the young prison officer approached. In spite of the heat, there was a touch of guardsman-like elegance about the neatly starched open-neck shirt with its military-style epaulettes and the tilt of the uniform cap over the eyes.

He paused a yard or two away, the staff in his right hand moving menacingly. "And what in the hell do you think you're on, Hoffa?" he demanded harshly. "A Sunday School outing?"

Hoffa turned, glanced at him casually and without speaking, spat on his palms, swung the hammer high and brought it down squarely on the head of the crowbar, splitting the block of slate in two with an insolent grace.

"All right, Paddy," he said to the Irishman, "let's have another."

For all the notice he had taken of him, Parker might not have existed. For a moment, the prison officer stood there, his face white and then he turned suddenly and walked away.

"You want to watch it, Ben," O'Brien said. "He'll have you, that one. If it takes all year, he'll have you."

"That's what I'm counting on," Hoffa said and ignoring the expression of shocked amazement that appeared on the Irishman's face, he swung the hammer high above his head and brought it down again with unerring aim.

Hagen, the Principal Officer, stood by one of the Land-Rovers at the top of the dirt road that led into the quarry and smoked a cigarette, a black and tan Alsatian crouched at his feet. He was a tall heavily built man nearing retirement and a thirty year sentence spent at various of Her Majesty's Prisons had failed to erase an expression of natural kindliness from the pleasant bronzed face.

He watched Parker approach, aware from the set of the man's shoulders that something was wrong and sighed heavily. Amazing how difficult some people made it for themselves.

"What's wrong now?" he said as Parker joined him.

"Hoffa!" Parker slapped his staff hard against the palm of his left hand. "He really needles me, that one."

"What did he do?"

"Dumb insolence we'd have called it in the Guards."

"That's an Army charge-it won't wash here," Hagen pointed out.

"I know that only too damned well." Parker leaned against the bonnet of the Land-Rover, a muscle twitching in his right cheek. "It doesn't help matters when every con in the place treats him like Lord God Almighty."

"He's a big man in their book."

"Not in mine, he isn't. Just another cheap crook."

"Hardly that." Hagen laughed gently. "Nine hundred thousand quid is quite a bundle by anyone's standards and not a sou of it recovered-remember that."

"And what did it buy him?" Parker demanded. "Five years behind bars and another fifteen to go. That really must have taken genius."

"Poor old Ben." Hagen grinned. "He put too much trust in a woman. A lot of good men have made that mistake before him."

Parker exploded angrily. "Now you're sticking up for him for God's sake."

The smile was wiped from Hagen's face as if by an invisible hand and when he replied, there was steel in his voice. "Not exactly, but I do try to understand him which is a major part of my job.

Yours too, though that fact seems to have escaped your notice so far." Before the younger man could reply he glanced at his watch and added, "Three o'clock. We'll have them in for tea if you please, Mr. Parker."

He turned and walked a few paces away, the Alsatian at his heels and Parker stood there glaring after him. After a moment or two, he seemed to gain some sort of control, took his whistle from his pocket and blew a shrill blast.

Below in the quarry Hoffa dropped his hammer and O'Brien straightened. "Not before time," he said and picked up his shirt.

From all parts of the quarry prisoners converged on the track and climbed towards the Land-Rovers where Parker was waiting to dispense tea from an urn which stood in the back of one of the vehicles. Each man picked up a mug from a pile at one side and moved past him and Hagen and half a dozen other officers stood in a group lighting cigarettes

Hoffa took his tea, ignoring Parker completely, gazing towards the horizon where a couple of helicopters had swung into view. He moved to join O'Brien who was watching them intently.

"Now wouldn't it be the grand thing if they'd drop in kind of unexpected like and whisk us away," the Irishman observed.

Hoffa watched the helicopters drift across the distant hills and shook his head. "Not a chance, Paddy. They're Army Air Corps. Augusta-Bell scout 'copters. They only take the pilot and one passenger. You'd need something a little more substantial."

O'Brien swallowed some of his tea and made a wry face. "I wonder what they make it with-turpentine?"

Hoffa didn't reply. He watched the helicopters disappear over the horizon and turned to Hagen who stood a couple of yards away talking to another officer.

"Could I have the time, Mr. Hagen?"

"Thinking of going somewhere, Ben?" Hagen demanded good-humouredly and there was general laughter.

"You never know."

Hagen glanced at his watch. "Three-fifteen."

Hoffa nodded his thanks, gazed down at the contents of the enamel mug in his right hand for a moment and then walked towards the Land-Rover where Parker still stood beside the tea urn.

He frowned warily as Hoffa approached and held out the mug. "Would you mind telling me what this is supposed to be, Mr. Parker, sir?" he said mildly.

Behind him, the voices died away and Hagen called sharply, "What's all this then, Hoffa?"

Hoffa replied without turning round, "A simple enough question, Mr. Hagen." He held the mug out towards Parker. "Have you tasted it, Mr. Parker?"

"Have I hell," Parker said and the knuckles of his right hand showed white as he tightened his grip on his staff.

"Then I really think you should," Hoffa said gently and tossed the contents of the mug into Parker's face.