Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

Matlock saw a look of excitement cross his face, then he turned to the others and his mouth opened and shut in silent agitation. The others all came forward then and peered closely at him.

Matlock knew he had been recognized. It was eerie to stand there and see these men within a yard of him, silently plotting his death. One of them brought his gun up and pointed it at the wall, but another said something sharply and the gun was lowered.

Matlock smiled. With hand weapons they were more likely to damage themselves than him by firing pointblank at a three foot-thick poro-glass wall.

He began to walk slowly, almost casually along the corridor in the direction of the Infirmary. The soldiers kept pace with him, one of them speaking excitedly into a wrist-radio.

The wall to his right was still a wall. Real or poro-glass he did not know, but at the moment it was beautifully opaque.

He prayed silently that there would be a door in it. At the end of the passage would be the Infirmary which must by now be as bright as day.

When the door appeared, he almost believed in God. Then he entered and found himself in a small windowless store-room with no other exit, and his new-formed faith crumbled.

He glanced around looking hopelessly for something that might help him. The room seemed to be some kind of medical store-room and it was full of crates and bottles. Leaning against the far wall was a row of gas cylinders. There seemed to be two types. Matlock was not expert enough to decipher the markings on them but one of them he was certain must be oxygen. And the other…

Swiftly he moved along the row, turning each tap full on. Then he bent and picked up a bottle he had noticed by the door. Phosphorus. Memories of chemistry lessons in the old smelly laboratory at school more than half a century before came back to him.

He eased the stopper half out and turned the bottle on its side. The liquid in it began to ebb out. Carefully he propped it up against the wall so that its mouth pointed to the floor at an angle of forty-five degrees.

Then he stepped back into the corridor and pulled the door shut behind him.

Looks of relief appeared on the faces of the men opposite. They too must have been praying that there was no other exit.

“A simple example of the democratic nature of prayer,” said Matlock to the unhearing men, and moved slowly away along the passage. After fifteen paces he stopped. This ought to be safe enough. He sat down and made himself as small as possible. Back in the store-room he imagined the gas hissing out of the cylinders and the insulating liquid dripping out of the phosphorus bottle. And he wondered how long it would be before the other soldiers got round to him. He was surprised that they had taken so long. He could only surmise that Brother Phillip was keeping them occupied with a hard rearguard action.

Distantly he heard the sound of trotting feet. Booted feet.

He didn’t bother to get up but glanced back the way he’d come. Within seconds he saw them, four soldiers and an officer moving towards him at the double, guns ready. He wondered dismally whether they had been told to capture him or kill him on sight.

Then as they passed the store-room door, there was a small bang, followed immediately by a vast explosion. The door was hurled from its hinges squashing two of the soldiers flat against the poroglass. A great tongue of flame licked out into the corridor bearing with it chunks of store-room wall. Protected though they were, the men opposite flung their arms before their faces in horror and fear.

Matlock rose slowly and without looking at them moved carefully back through the smoke to what had been the storeroom. One of the soldiers was still moving. He shot him as an act of mercy and taking a deep breath, he plunged into the smoke and reek of the room, stepped through a wall of flame, thought for one horrified moment that the wall had not been breached, then felt the cool night air on his face.

A minute later he was being carried by the river underneath the Infirmary and out into the inviting darkness beyond.

Looking back later, he realized what risks he took then. But somehow the river had been identified with safety and escape, and once in it, a trance-like confidence came over him. He made no effort at concealment when he clambered out, but strode openly across the grass, even pausing to look back at the red glow which was all he could see now of the Abbey. He supposed that similar scenes must have taken place at the other centres mentioned by the Abbot.

Browning’s dissolution of the monasteries, he thought almost jauntily as he struck across country.

An hour later he was wandering through the outer streets of Ripon. It seemed as if his luck was going to hold.

Then minutes later he was sucked into the cavernous depths of a Curfew Wagon.

The first torture wasn’t too bad. Indeed as he swam back to the surface of consciousness, he realized that it was his own refinement of fear, plus the physical debility resulting from the night’s activities, which had caused him to faint rather than any real intensity of pain. The pain had been administered quickly, almost casually. It was obviously routine. You got it no matter what your story was. They hadn’t even asked to see his papers to check the incoherent, jerkily-told tale he had offered them to explain his presence on the streets. A sick daughter — a telephone call — action without thought. It sounded weak enough to start with, and he hadn’t been able to project much sincerity into his voice.

But the curious thing was that they were ready to believe him. He could feel it as the young sergeant leaned down over him and slipped those terrible metal bands from around his wrists. Their nights, he realized, must be full of people like him, curfew-breakers with good reason, or at least real reason, sad reason, even tragic reason. And they would all stammer and tremble when caught, all sound guilty of every treasonable crime in the law books.

“Right, Dad,” said the Sergeant. “Just give us the story again.”

He gave it again, as best he could remember it.

“Right,” nodded the policeman. “Papers.”

He held out a confident hand. Matlock, feeling very hammy, started to go through his pockets.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I was in a hurry. I’ve put on the wrong jacket.”

“Not even your cardio-card?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’m sorry.”

Even now the Sergeant was still happy to believe him. At least that’s how he interpreted the mock severity of the man’s gaze.

“You oldies are all the same. What’s the matter with you, getting age-happy?”

Age-happiness. The state of being too near your final birthday to care what you did, who you offended. Matlock stared up at the young man’s face. Square-jawed. Broad nosed. Archaic military moustache. Not much imagination there. Might make another rank, but certainly no further.

He tried to look like a frightened, fuzzy-witted old man near his death.

It wasn’t difficult.

Shaking his head, the Sergeant lifted a ’phone from the wall.

“Inspector,” he said. “There’s an old guy down here. On his way to see a sick daughter. Forgot his papers.”

Then a period of listening.

“Yes. I reckon he’s OK. Address? Hang on.”

He hissed down at Matlock. “The address?”

“Address?” said Matlock, puzzled.

“You daughter’s. Where are you going? Come on!”

Matlock’s mind did a leap.

“The Hospital. Ripon General.”

He hoped such a place existed. He prayed it did. After another period of listening, the ’phone went down.

“You’re lucky,” said the Sergeant, “the Inspector feels kind. We pass the Hospital this sweep. We’ll drop you off. Smoke?”