A Question Of Honour: A Harry Royle Thriller (27 page)

For forty-five minutes of hell, Harry was stuck standing in front of a hole. For each time he attempted to move closer, one of the warders would catch his eye and he would be forced to carry on working on his stencils. Joey at this point was doing any task he could think of to stay clear of Harry, and the windowless frame. Out of the corner of his eye, Royle could see Joey was now so utterly lost for something to do that would keep him far away from Harry. He knew in his mind that any more of a delay and Joey would attract enough attention to get them both caught. He picked up the rope, and taking a deep breath, a breath which tasted of moorland fog, he leapt onto the window sill. Then standing on the ledge, he tossed the rope with the hook attached through the hole, heaving his slim body through after it. Dropping to the ground, he crouched, waiting in the misty yard. Closing his eyes, he waited for something, anything, a whistle, a shout a siren. No sound came. Nothing happened. Carefully and deliberately he opened his eyes again and looked around.

His eyes adjusted very quickly and soon he could see well enough. Just ahead were offices, there were lights on, lights blazing only meant one thing, people and they would spell trouble. Behind was worse still. Looking back over his shoulder he could see the main gate and visitors coming through, this would mean screws who would be taking them in. There was no going back now, he knew this. Taking hold of the rope he made for an alley just across the way. Running blindly into the alley he turned right and saw it. Even through the dense fog he could see the prize waiting to be collected. Just a few feet away stood the main prison wall, standing stark and grey, blotting out the countryside and the freedom beyond. Running fast, Harry threw the grappling hook as hard as he could. It cleared the top and struck home. He tried his weight, the hook held, this was it.

Tensing his body to take the strain he began to climb slowly upwards. Moving hand over hand as his legs walked up the wall. Then disaster struck. Slowly and very dreamlike the hook on the end of the rope began to straighten itself out. Try as he might to make faster progress, he knew deep inside, as he’d known before the escape, that the hook wasn’t strong enough. He silently cursed Joey and his jitters. Just another day, or two and it would have bloody worked.

With a scraping sound that seemed so loud to his heightened senses, the hook came away, sending the fugitive crashing to the ground. Harry lay there stunned and winded. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his mind, he got to his feet and straightened the hook out. The second try was just as accurate as the first. The hook remained at the top of the wall. This time, he changed tactics by standing on tiptoe. He hoped that this would take some of the initial weight of the hook until he was moving smoothly. But nothing had changed as far as the hook was concerned, it still wasn’t nearly strong enough. Once more laying on the ground there seemed only one thing to do. Since he hadn’t been missed, he would get back into the mailbag shop and try some other way.

It very quickly became apparent that this was, in fact, hopeless as the prison yard was alive with warders carrying out their duties. Sprinting toward a low building, he clambered up an outhouse pulling himself onto the roof, where he lay flattened against the rough surface. The roof felt cold against his cheek. Then it happened, the escape hooter screamed through the fog. He knew it was too late for anything. The search of the prison began and from his vantage point up on the blacksmiths roof Harry could see men moving quickly around the yard. In and out of buildings. Lights flashed through the fog and men shouted. Then he heard it, the near feverish cry of a sharp-eyed man.

“There he is.”

Then they came. Swarming like angry bees, screws with truncheons drawn, and fire blazing in their eyes. This was going to get messy, that much he knew. Just then a saviour appeared walking through the angry mass. The second chief warder was by anyone’s book a decent sort. He was humane and didn’t hold with the beatings dished out by so many of his fellows. Raising his hand and his voice to the crowd he gave the escapee safe passage through the threatened gauntlet of violence. Marched off once more to the punishment cells, returned to the diet of bread and water and a further eight months loss of remission.

Once again he served his time in the punishment cell with no complaints or ill behaviour. In fact, he was to all intents and purposes quite the model prisoner. With time, he was put back in the mailbag shop.

Harry’s new place of work within the shop was directly in front of a warder. This to the officer’s mind would indeed be poetic justice, for he would work where he’d escaped from, but with no chance of repeating the performance. He accepted that escape now from that room was impossible, but escape was something that he would do. He resolved to think of another way, to find another method. This time, he wanted something that wouldn’t have any weak links. There would be no Joey and no hooks to chance his hand with. This time, it would be perfect, but how? Harry Royle was an A-1 priority and now classed as the highest risk inmate residing in Dartmoor. But this just added relish to the much-anticipated meal. There is nothing like a challenge to whet the appetite. No prisoner on the escape list had ever made it, not far at any rate and none had ever reached London, which was Harry’s intention. As he stood working in the shop one gloomy morning, the warder facing him smiled a taunting laughing smile.

“You off again soon Royle?”

Harry answered without hesitation.

“I’ll be gone by Christmas.”

Harry knew deep inside that he’d had enough. He knew that his remark had been more bravado than anything else. He also knew that he would keep trying. The only thing on his mind was making it over the wall and to London. This would have continued, had it not been for a visit from Jean. She had learned about his two failed escape attempts from the newspapers and was also shocked by his appearance. He had told her about his remark about being out by Christmas and she had become angry.

“Look at you, you’re all skin and bone. You look bloody awful.”

He had smiled. And she had snapped back a biting reply.

“You’re not helping anyone doing this.”

“I’m doing it for you, love.”

“Don’t you dare say that, you’re doing it for yourself and it’s time you stopped. I’m sick of the heartache. You nearly died on those moors and all of these escapes count for nothing. You lose remission each time. You escape, they catch you and back you go and still you’re serving the same time. I’ll wait for you, but not until I’m old. If you want me to wait, you need to do this thing and come back to me properly, no more running and hiding, Harry, you’re better than this. We’re fighting a war outside these walls and you’re in here fighting yourself.”

He didn’t say anything for several minutes, just looked at the floor. He had expected words of comfort, or even encouragement. Instead, she had told him the truth. He knew deep inside that he had had enough. That first time on the moors had been horrible and he was only too aware that if he did get over the wall, he still had to face the moor. He had been fixated on making it to London and getting to Jean. He suddenly realised that his plans had never gone further than this. He swallowed hard and looking up, saw the love in her eyes, as well as the tears.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. As long as I know you’re waiting, I can bide my time. I’m not saying I’ll be good as gold.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be, I’m not asking you to stop being a man, just to stop and think.”

That had been the turning point. He decided to do his time. He wouldn’t be a model prisoner, as he now had a reputation and would buck the system and strain the rules, as often as he could, but he wouldn’t escape. He’d serve his time and walk out a free man at the end of his sentence.

Life at the prison moved at a snail’s pace and the days slowly turned into weeks, which in turn gave way to long months. Months of hard labour, poor rations and damp cold sleeping conditions. The routine was broken up with an occasional visit from Jean, Devon or Jenny. They would come with news of their lives and Johnny, music and, of course, the war, which seemed like something from another world to a man shut away from reality. Of all things, chess had become important to him. With so much time on his hands, he had become almost obsessed with the game and had studied the scant few books available from the prison library on the subject. One afternoon in the library, having searched the shelves, Harry glanced around.

He noticed a new man sitting at one of the tables. He guessed who the newcomer was, as he was sat alone and fitted the description of the latest infamous inmate. Brody Monaghan had been in all the papers. He was the latest IRA man to be given the twenty-one-year sentence, for crimes against the Crown. As a soldier, Harry had known what was right and who to trust and then he’d lost everything. The Crown and King and Country, all the things which had been his life, these had been destroyed. Since being in prison, he had had plenty of time to think and to consider. Now his views were more understanding and far more liberal than before.

The other man sat with a bent back and lazy shoulders leaning over a magazine. Flicking the pages two at a time with unseeing eyes focused on distant sights not available to him. He had red hair and piercing blue eyes. The man was almost as tall as Royle but twice as wide. Harry leaned across from the next table and clearing his throat, asked.

“Can I have a read of that after you?”

The man looked up at him and smiled, as he closed the magazine slowly. He offered it to Royle and indicated the availability of the scuffed wooden chair which faced him. Harry sat down and returned the stranger’s smile, as he spoke.

“Harry Royle, don’t think I’ve seen you in the library before.”

The man shook his head in the negative.

“Harry Royle, I’m very pleased to meet you. The name’s Brody Monaghan.”

He paused for a moment, watching Harry’s face for a reaction and seeing none, continued.

“Is that going to be a problem Mr Royle you see…”

Harry held up his hand.

“Mr Monaghan, I judge a man, not his politics. As far as I can see you appear to be a decent man, and someone I could have a good chat with. I know about your ideas and beliefs, and in your place maybe I’d feel the same way, so let’s not bother about politics. Maybe you won’t want to associate with me when you hear more.”

“Royle, I’ve already heard a great deal about you and it’s hardly your fault that you were born an Englishman. You don’t happen to play chess do you?”

Harry shot him an innocent look.

“As a matter of fact I do play, but I’m not very good.”

“I saw that twinkle in your eyes, you bloody liar, and I bet you’re a fleecer, aren’t you?”

With this the two men laughed, and Monaghan pulled a tattered and very worn chessboard across the table. The pieces all of which were made of wood were in a poor condition, all that is except two. These were a little smaller than the other pieces but newer and of a much better quality. These had been the result of a very skilful carver filling in his time and restoring the missing queen and knight, both of which had been lost during a fight months before.

The two men focused their attention on the game before them. The opening moves were far from novice level and Harry could see that here was a man of equal level and ability. The game became interesting, in fact before ten minutes had elapsed, four other men were huddled at the back of the table.

These were men who had seen Royle in action before, but here was a new twist, someone who could carry his own. Silence ruled the room as the stocky Irishman from Dublin swapped pieces with equal coolness. Check followed check, until thirty-two minutes had ticked by on the cracked glass fronted wall clock. Then with a smile that said it all, Brody slid his queen at a tangent to Harry’s king, which coupled with the rook already in place, ended his reign. Harry smiled and gently toppled his king, which skittered across the board’s surface. Shaking hands with The Irishman, Royle rose to his feet and stretched.

“Well lads, this man is the business. I take my hat off to you Monaghan you’re a bloody good player, thanks for the game.”

Twinkling Irish eyes met blue-grey in a smile of mirthful triumph.

“Why thank you kind, sir, now don’t let it get to your head, but you’re not a bad little player yourself.”

Prison was a great leveller putting men together in an artificial microcosm of human existence. The harsh regime of prison life bonded men who were inclined to be sociable. Others would move around the peripheral avoiding the larger groups. Harry liked people and enjoyed the company of like-minded men. He did not suffer fools gladly and detested bullies and manipulators.

On the surface, Brody Monaghan and Harry Royle were very different. Monaghan was a writer, a man of words, letters and opinions, most of which were very political. Harry, the soldier, turned criminal. Escape king with crown intact. A man with little, or no interest in politics. However both men enjoyed the art of argument, and both were avid readers and homespun philosophers. Over the months, they became good friends. As the days went by the two would play as often as circumstances and chess board availability permitted. Until one late afternoon as the weather had just turned Monaghan turned to Harry and asked.

“Why do you feel the need to escape all the time? Is it a kind of way of proving yourself?”

Royle thought this over, turning it this way and that in his mind for several seconds, before answering the other man.