Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

He surfaced from his discomforting thoughts to hear the Inspector speaking rapidly and authoritatively into the ’phone. He was giving instructions for the utmost speed.

“Also,” he added, “stop for nothing. If you can’t go through it, go round it. And no further arrests, not even on the move. Understood?”

Even as he spoke, a small panel in the wall above his head flashed red and white.

“I said no arrests!” he screamed angrily.

Matlock surmised that someone had been spotted and swept up automatically (as he had been) just as the order was being given. The Inspector’s next words seemed to confirm this.

“All right. No. We might as well keep him now we’ve got him. Put him down. But no more! Understood? Right.”

He replaced the ’phone and turned to Matlock.

“A little respite for you, Mr. Matlock. I’m glad in a way. I was beginning to believe that you had nothing to tell me and nothing isn’t really an end to justify these means. How are your friends?”

“Friends?”

“The ones I met in Manchester. The night the old man was killed. You were wrong about that, by the way. Nothing to do with us. Our orders came from the Chief Constable and he was hardly likely to arrange to murder one of his fellow-conspirators, was he?”

“No. I don’t know. I forget about… him. My friends? I don’t know. I don’t know where they are. I don’t know. I don’t.”

Amazed at himself, Matlock felt a couple of large tears swell at his eyes and begin to course down his cheeks. He tried to brush them away, but his hands were held by the manacles.

“Could I ... ?” he asked, looking down.

“Of course,” said the Inspector and moved over and unfastened them, at the same time removing the wires taped to Matlock’s body.

But he hadn’t finished this when there was an interruption. The trap opened and a pair of legs appeared, not uniformed legs, but short massive limbs straining to the limits the worn yellow trousers which clothed them.

“What the hell’s this?” snapped the Inspector.

A constable’s face peered through what little remained of the gap and he said anxiously, “It’s the prisoner, sir. You said to put him down.”

“Not down here, for God’s sake!” said the Inspector violently. But it was too late. The man let go of the ladder and dropped to the floor, landing with a heavy crash but not even bending his knees.

Even without the curfew he looked villainous enough to be arrested on sight. Above the yellow trousers was a voluminous and evil looking green donkey-jacket. Above this, a vast head, its features squashed between a narrow deeply corrugated brow and a blue triple-cleft chin. The figure only stood about five feet high, but in terms of sheer volume, it was the largest in the room. The accompanying constable had dropped down after him and stood with gun drawn. But the arrested man was by far the most menacing figure present.

Matlock recognized him at once as Ossian.

“Get rid of this thing, Sergeant,” cried the Inspector. “Lock him up somewhere. We’ll interrogate later. God, this used to be an efficient unit.”

The Sergeant moved forward to Ossian who had been slowly looking round the room. His gaze had rested lightly on Matlock for a second, then moved on.

The Sergeant put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Right. You, up!”

Ossian nodded and slowly began to climb the exit ladder. The constable came close behind. As he reached the trap, Ossian jerked back one of his legs and backheeled the man beneath the chin. His neck snapped audibly and he was thrown back into the dungeon with great force. Then Ossian shook a small metal object from one of his voluminous sleeves, dropped it into the room, pulled himself up and closed the trap.

The constable lay where he had fallen, his head strangely askew, the Sergeant leapt up the ladder, the Inspector rushed across to the ’phone. Matlock saw them both stiffen almost simultaneously, the Sergeant’s hand stopped almost a foot from the rung he was grasping at, the Inspector’s three times that distance from the ’phone. Then both dropped, and Matlock almost had time to think, “nerve gas!” before he fell forward, oblivious to the pain as the tape holding the remaining wires ripped away from his skin.

But his subconscious raced on filling his sleeping head with visions of Ossian like some monstrous troll running across the world, himself over his shoulder, and all men falling dead before them.

When he awoke he thought it must have been true for he was looking down at the surface of the earth from a great height. It seemed to be revolving very quickly beneath him and he could not understand why he was not falling. Then it seemed that he was and he closed his eyes in terror waiting for the impact.

When he opened them again, he knew instantly that he was lying on the floor of a helicopter with his face pressed to the observation panel. Looking up he saw Ossian, his ugly face expressionless if you discounted what seemed its perpetual look of brutal malignancy, a pink plastic respirator thrust up over his beetle-brow like a pixie’s hat.

Beside him at the ’copter’s controls was another vaguely familiar figure. Attracted by Matlock’s movement he glanced down and the moonlight which was so clearly etching out the landscape below picked out his features in patches of shadow and brightness.

It was the man with the hole in his head.

Matlock felt he ought to say something. Perhaps ask how he got there. It could have been no mean feat for one man, even armed with nerve-gas grenades, to take over a Curfew Wagon, rescue an unconscious man and get him into a helicopter.

But he didn’t really feel interested, and only slightly grateful. He was more amused that Ossian who could have no personal love for him, indeed must bear a strong grudge against him, should have had to take such risks on his behalf.

He did wonder, however, why they were flying so low. The ground now did not look more than about fifty feet below. And they were crossing pretty hilly terrain. He shivered as he looked out of a side port and saw they were flying lower than the peaks of some of the hills.

Ossian touched the pilot’s arm and pointed; Matlock automatically followed his finger, looking straight into the moon which was halfway down the sky. He saw nothing at first, then thought he picked out a sudden gleam, then unmistakably saw a dark shape flash across the gleaming saucer.

“Are they looking for us?” he asked.

Ossian ignored him but the man with the hole in his head answered in his precise Scots tones.

“That’s right. If they find us, we’ve had it. But don’t worry. Down here there’s little enough chance of that. They’re too fast, too high.”

“Then we’re safe?” said Matlock seeking the repetition of reassurance.

“Oh, no,” said the man. “They’ve got helicopters too. And they’ll be waiting at the Wall.”

“The Wall?” enquired Matlock stupidly.

“Don’t say you’ve forgotten the Wall, Mr. Matlock? It was restored at your instructions. After standing for centuries as a monument to the ruthless persecution and the unquenchable spirit of a great race, you resurrected it from history and gave it its old role again. Aye, Hadrian’s wall. Pushed a bit further north in places, but the same thing. Matlock’s wall some of the lowlanders still call it.”

“What about it?”

“Well, we have to cross it. They’ll have been alerted, the guardians I mean, and it’s well fortified as you may know. We’ll have to go up to get over it safely, and up there there’s lots of the Few waiting to blow us out of the sky. If we keep too low, they’ll drop us from the Wall, or get us with their ’copters.”

“Thanks,” said Matlock.