Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

He kept on pounding until, at last, the chain broke.

He ran from the yard. Sounds of fighting and confusion echoed behind him. No one noticed him amid the chaos.

His thoughts spun out of control, his heart racing like a locomotive, but he forced himself to be cold, logical. In his mind, he pictured the layout of the prison. Six main buildings radiated out like spokes, with narrow walls leading straight out from three of those buildings toward the huge double walls that encircled the whole prison. He’d never be able to climb the outer wall, not without a ladder, and those were in short supply in the clink. Instead of heading straight to the wall, Jack ran toward one of the smaller, two-story buildings that served as a dormitory for the unmarried warders who lived on prison grounds.

Pressing himself back against a low outbuilding, Jack watched as warders streamed out of the dormitory, all of them speeding toward the yard. Too focused on the riot, none of them saw him.

Once he felt certain the warder house had cleared, he sprinted to it. He tried the door. Locked. Jack swung his hammer again. It pounded against the lock, splintering the edge of the door. Finally, the door flew open.

Jack quickly took in the rows of tables covered with the remains of half-finished tea, the potbellied stove in the corner, photographic prints of the queen and the royal family. Nothing here would help him. He ran the stairs two at a time, the wooden steps shaking beneath his heavy boots.

Upstairs, beds formed two orderly lines. Unlike the convicts, who had to roll their straw mattresses up every morning for inspection, these beds were all made, tight as a parson’s arse. Jack wondered what it would be like to sleep on actual horsehair, or even feathers. He couldn’t remember if he ever had. What would it matter? His next sleep would be his last.

He ran between the rows of beds, until he reached the window at the far end of the room. Setting the hammer down, he pushed the window open. Unfortunately, he needed both hands for this next stage, so the hammer had to stay behind. Having a weapon was added insurance, but his fists could inflict plenty of damage. He planned on using them later, beating Lord Rockley into pulp, and then wrapping his fingers around the murderer’s throat until his breathing stopped.

Jack smiled grimly to himself. He couldn’t wait.

Climbing from the window, Jack hauled himself out, grabbed hold of the roof’s edge and pulled himself up onto the roof.

Jack crouched down. From his vantage, he could see the continued commotion in the yard, convicts and warders brawling. He turned his gaze from the riot to the rest of the prison. Never had he seen it from so far up. The windows in the cells were tiny notches set high in the wall, and the only way to look out of them would be to stand on a bucket or a stool. But that was a punishable offense, so he seldom tried it.

He didn’t care about the prison anymore. All that mattered was the rolling heath that surrounded the prison, stretching out for miles. That’s what he had to reach. The next stage of his escape.

Still crouched low, Jack moved along the roof, until he positioned himself directly above a brick wall that stood about fifteen feet high. This wall ran straight toward the circular stone walls that surrounded the prison, the last obstacles between him and freedom.

He leaped down onto the brick wall. It was narrow, and he struggled for balance. He felt himself start to slip. Boots dug in for stability, he righted himself, then ran lightly along the top, heading toward the first stone wall. The two walls were the same height, and they intersected. He continued on the brick wall toward the final border at the edge of the prison, looming ahead. Below him was the barren outer yard. No one ever walked among the patches of dead earth and dying weeds. It served as a space for attempted escapees to be caught before they reached the outside world. Sometimes, Jack had heard gunfire, and the shouts of guards. Sometimes, but not often. Few tried to escape, and even fewer made it.

“But I will,” he muttered to himself.

It looked like he would, too. So far, no one had noticed him, too busy beating down the riot in the stone yard.

Jack sprinted the last stretch of the brick wall. The outer wall rose up taller than the one on which he ran, looming high and daunting. He shoved past uneasiness and kept on running, gaining momentum. Though his heavy boots wanted to drag him down, he leaped, scrabbling for a hold on the outer wall. His fingers clutched at the top edge, hands burning as they took the full brunt of his substantial weight.

As he hung there, someone at a distance shouted. “Oi! Escaping prisoner!”

Fuck. Jack did not waste time seeing which warder had spotted him. He pulled, hauling himself up.

“Stop immediately,” the warder yelled, “or I’ll be forced to shoot!”

Ignoring him, Jack continued to draw himself higher, muscles clenching with effort.

A whine, and then chips of granite exploded around him. Jack cursed. The warder had fired on him. Then did so again.

Jack didn’t want to attempt crossing the moors leaking blood. He would lose precious energy, and he needed it to end Rockley’s miserable life.

With a burst of strength, he heaved himself up, then over. Still dangling by his fingers, the ground spun thirty feet below. Here was another hazard. If he landed wrong, he’d break a leg, maybe his back. He couldn’t hesitate, though. The screws and governor would be alerted to his escape, and he didn’t have much time before they massed in pursuit.

Jack drew a breath, forcing himself to relax, then let go.

The ground rushed up to meet him, and he bent his knees in preparation for the landing. He hit the earth boots first, keeping on the balls of his feet. The impact jarred through him, and he quickly tucked his head against his chest and rolled.

Rocks dug into him as he tumbled. He fought to keep his wind and his stability. Finally, he slowed, and straightened to stand.

He staggered for a moment, balance thrown by the impact and roll. As the world settled from its mad spin, he saw the stretches of scrub-covered moor, the merciless blue sky. No walls, save for the ones behind him.

“Freedom,” he said roughly.

But it wasn’t true freedom. He had a responsibility to carry out, an obligation driving him to run toward certain death in pursuit of vengeance.

Voices rose up from the other side of the wall, warders assembling to go after him. He’d come down far from the main gate, though, and it would take the screws a few minutes to reach him.

With his head still reeling, he took off at a run, determined to lose himself in the moors.

* * *

Jack threw himself down beneath a thicket of gorse. Thorns scraped his face and tore his uniform, but his attention remained pinned on the sounds of shouting men and baying dogs. His lungs burned and his legs ached. For hours he’d been running across the heath, always staying just a few steps ahead of his pursuers. Mud spattered his clothes and face, blisters burned on his feet inside his heavy boots, and he felt himself more hunted animal than man.

But he was getting close. So close.

He waited, panting, listening.

“Seen him?”

“Think he went this way.”

“We got to round him up soon. Night’s falling.”

“I got some tracks over here! And here’s his jacket.”

Jack held his breath. The screws’ voices faded, and he allowed himself a small exhale. The dummy trail seemed to be working, but he wouldn’t chance a dash until he was well sure the warders were gone.

He wanted to run, feeling time slip away like a slackening noose. His prey was near, and the predator in him wanted nothing more than to make the kill. But he had to be smart.