Public Enemy Number Two (7 page)

I read the letter for a third time, starting with the
B
of “bad.” And at last it made sense.

 

BIG ED TAKING OVER.
COME HOME AT ONCE.

 

“Big Ed,” I muttered. I’d heard that name only the day before. He’d been the one who’d sent White and the others to deal with Powers.

“Ya can cut London into four slices,” Powers explained. “North, south, east, and west. There’s a gang for each slice . . . like, ya know, we got a gentleman’s agreement. The east was my territory until I got slammed up here. Since then, my ma’s been looking after it. She’s an ace, my ma. Top of the world. Now, Big Ed handles the south. That’s fine by me. Until he gets greedy. With me outta the way, he thinks maybe he can muscle in on my territory. Only it would be better for him if I was outta the way more permanent like. So he sends White and the others after me. And then he goes gunning after Ma.”

Powers paused and I was amazed to see a tear trickle down one of his pale, choirboy cheeks.

“Ya don’t know my ma,” he said. “She’s as tough as old nails. She’s a real killer. And her cooking! Nobody makes a moussaka like her—all hot and bubbling with the cheese melted on top. She sent me one here, back in February.”

“The St. Valentine’s Day moussaka?” I asked.

“That’s right. But she can’t stand up to Big Ed on her own. She needs me. That’s why she sent me the letter.”

He got up again and went over to the door. For a minute he listened carefully. When he was satisfied that there was no one there, he came back to the table.

“I’m busting outta here,” he said in a low voice. “And ya’re coming with me.”

“That’s terrific!” I said. This is terrible! I thought.

“We’ll go together.”

“When? How?”

“Ya leave the thinking to me, kid.”

And that was all he would say.

Another week passed. I cleaned plates, washed floors, marched around the yard, and fell asleep in class. Powers barely said a word during all this time, but he got two visits from his lawyer. He came back from each visit with a sly, secretive smile and an ugly light in his eyes. Somehow I didn’t think they’d been discussing legal niceties. Illegal, more likely, and probably not-very-niceties either.

It all came together one Friday morning, six weeks to the day since my arrival at Strangeday Hall. There were two visiting sessions on Fridays and that morning Powers got a visit—he said it was his cousin. But when he came back into the cell, his face was flushed with excitement.

He waited until he was sure nobody was listening. Then he came over and whispered to me. “It’s on,” he said. “We go tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“That’s right, kid. But there’s a problem.” He pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. “Nails Nathan,” he hissed.

“What about him?”

“He’s my getaway driver. Only he’s sick. He’s got food poisoning.” Powers kicked the wall. “I’ll poison him all right . . .”

“Can’t we wait until he gets better?” I asked.

“We can’t wait. Everything’s been set up. We gotta go tonight.” He thought for a minute. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Didn’t ya say ya brother was visiting ya this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Can he drive?”

“Yes. But—”

“That’s perfect, then.” Powers blew on the palm of his hand. “Tell him he’s gotta be at Terminal Two—departures, Heathrow, at eleven o’clock tonight.”

“Heathrow?” I stared at him. “Are we flying out of here?”

“Ya’ll see.” Powers gave me another sly smile.

“Just make sure he’s there.”

“But, Johnny,” I stammered. “Tim isn’t—”

That was as far as I got. Suddenly the smile was gone and the madness was back in his eyes. “He’s ya brother and he can drive. That’s all that matters. Don’t let me down, kid. I’m counting on ya.”

I could have told him that Tim was completely incompetent. I could have told him that he’d only passed his driving test after six attempts and that on the fifth attempt he’d run over the driving instructor. I could have added that Tim was too scared to park on a yellow line, let alone drive a carload of gangsters out of a maximum-security prison. But Johnny Powers was counting on me. If I argued, my number would be up.

“I’ll ask him,” I said at last.

“Sure, kid. Ask him nicely. And tell him, if he says no”—Powers smiled—“the next drive he’ll take will be in a hearse.”

 

The main prison visiting room was long and narrow, divided in half like two mirror reflections. A row of tables ran down the center. Two doors led into the room: one for inmates, one for visitors. The inmates sat at one end of the tables, the visitors at the other. Two guards stood in the room the whole time, listening to every word that was said.

My problem was that I had to tell Tim to be at Heathrow Airport later that night without telling him why. I knew he’d argue—and probably at the top of his voice. And if the guards overheard anything, that would be that.

He was already sitting there, waiting for me, as I came in. He gaped at me like he’d never seen me before. I guessed it was the uniform, the blue denim and stenciled number, that had taken him by surprise. But what had he expected me to be wearing? Top hat and tails? I sat down and for a long time neither of us said anything. Tim loosened his tie and collar.

“It’s like a prison in here,” he said at last.

“It
is
a prison, Tim,” I reminded him.

“Oh yes. Yes, of course.” He smiled aimlessly. “How are you?” he asked.

“I’m all right.”

“Well—there’s only seventeen months to go. And maybe they’ll give you time off for good behavior. How is your behavior?”

“It’s good,” I said.

“Good.”

There was a long pause. Tim was obviously lost for words. He’d never had a jailbird for a brother before and of course he still didn’t know that I was innocent. He took out a pack of chewing gum and offered it to me.

“No passing food over the table,” one of the guards snapped.

“Can I pass it under the table?” Tim asked.

“No food,” the guard said.

Tim shrugged, rolled up a piece for himself, and flicked it toward his mouth. It missed and hit him in the eye.

I sighed. “How are Mum and Dad?” I asked.

“I called them in Australia,” Tim said. “They didn’t take the news very well, I’m afraid. Mum had hysterics. Dad disowned you.” There was another long silence. So much for family loyalty.

Tim looked at his watch. “I haven’t got long,” he said.

“How’s the plane spotting going, Tim?” I blurted out.

“The plane spotting?” He looked at me as if I’d gone mad.

“Sure.” One of the guards was listening, obviously puzzled. I smiled at him. “Some people spot trains,” I said. “My big brother spots planes.”

“But—” Tim began.

“Seen any good jumbos lately?” I was smiling frantically now. The guard looked the other way. I winked at Tim. “Didn’t you say you were going to Heathrow at eleven o’clock tonight? To the departure lounge in Terminal Two?”

I was still winking furiously. “Have you got something in your eye?” Tim asked.

“That’s right.” I laughed. “Maybe when you get to Terminal Two at eleven o’clock tonight you can get me some ointment.”

“But, Nick . . .”

There was nothing else to do. I stretched under the table and kicked him as hard as I could. Too hard. Tim screamed. Both the guards hurried over to us.

“What’s the matter?” one of them asked.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “My brother was just doing an impersonation. He was taking off a 747. You know . . . a 747 taking off.”

“My ankle!” Tim moaned.

“That’s right,” I continued desperately. “His uncle. He’s hurt his uncle by refusing to take him plane spotting at Heathrow tonight.”

By now everyone in the room was looking at us. The two guards shook their heads. “Visiting time over,” one of them said.

I stood up and followed the other inmates through the door and into the prison. Tim sat where he was, rubbing his ankle and gazing after me. I must have given him quite a bruise. I just hoped he’d gotten the message.

 

 

When you’re doing time, time passes slowly. But the rest of that afternoon dragged past like a dying man. At last the sun collapsed behind the prison walls and darkness came. Johnny Powers had barely said a word since I’d gotten back from the visiting room. I’d told him that I’d gotten the message across and that Tim would be there.

“Okay, kid. We move at twelve.”

He spoke the words without moving his lips and I remember thinking he’d have made a great ventriloquist. And now that he had Tim on the payroll, he wouldn’t even need to buy a dummy.

We went down to dinner. I couldn’t eat a mouthful. Then it was back into the cells and lockup. Powers dozed off. I lay on my bunk, mentally composing my will. Tim would get my books, my records, and my old stamp collection. I’d leave Snape and Boyle my Australian underpants.
We move at twelve.
How would Powers even know when twelve had arrived? We didn’t have a watch. And what was he planning anyway? There were at least four locked doors between us and the main gate. If we climbed the walls we would be too high up to drop down on the other side. And then there were the guards in the watchtowers.

A plane grumbled across the sky. Powers’s eyes flickered open.

He didn’t say anything. He rolled over and reached underneath the mattress. A moment later he was standing up, the cold moonlight slashing across his face. His eyes were black. There was no color in his skin. The moonlight glinted off the gun he now held in his right hand. The gun from the shower room. He was only fifteen years old but somehow he was already dead. A discarded frame from one of those old black-and-white gangster films.

He turned to me.

“It’s twelve o’clock, kid,” he said. “Time to go.”

“What do we do, Johnny?”

“Get on ya bunk. Put ya hands on ya stomach. And start groaning,” he said.

I hesitated for about half a second. Just long enough for him to turn around and hiss, “Move it!” Then I clambered up, curled into a ball, and began to groan like I was about to throw up. Which, in fact, I was. I always feel a little queasy when I’m afraid and right then I was scared out of my mind.

Powers glanced back at me, winked, and began to hammer on the door. I could hear the sound echoing down the corridors. There were heavy footsteps on the catwalk, coming our way.

“Guard!” Powers shouted. “Guard!” One of the other prisoners yelled something out. Then there was a rattle of keys and the door swung open. I groaned louder. Powers took a step back.

Walsh was on duty that night. I could just see him out of the corner of my eye, framed in the soft, yellow light of the doorway. “What’s the matter, 00666?” he asked.

“It’s the kid,” Powers said. “He’s sick.”

After the shower-room affair, Walsh didn’t trust either of us. I thought for a moment he was going to walk away. I gave a ghastly croak and shuddered. It wouldn’t have won me any major acting awards, but it seemed to convince Walsh. He walked past Powers, farther into the cell, and stood beside me. Powers made a sign at me as he edged toward the door. The meaning was clear. Keep Walsh talking.

“I’m sick,” I groaned. “I need a doctor.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I need the doctor.”

“You look okay to me.” Walsh was suspicious.

“Yeah—but you’re not a doctor,” I pointed out.

Meanwhile, Johnny had looked up and down the corridor, checking that there was no one else around. As Walsh straightened up, he moved. Suddenly the gun was pressed against his neck and Powers was right up close to him, purring like a kitten. A rabid kitten.

“Weasel Walsh,” he muttered. “Make one false move and I’ll decorate the walls with ya brains.”

“Powers!” The color had drained out of Walsh’s face. “Are you crazy?”

“Sure.” Powers laughed. “That’s what my doctors say. But I ain’t so crazy about this joint, Walsh. That’s why ya’re going to be my ticket out.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Check it again, kid,” he said. I went over and looked out. The narrow corridor seemed to stretch into infinity, the dull yellow bulbs throwing sticky pools of light onto the floor.

“It’s clear, Johnny,” I said.

“Let’s go!” Powers pushed Walsh toward me. “Ya try anything Walsh and it’s pop goes the weasel.”

We stepped into the corridor. It’s a strange thing about prison. After a while you get used to being locked up. To me it felt all wrong being outside the cell in the middle of the night. The shadows seemed to reach out as if to grab me. Everything was somehow too big. I could hear my heart pulsing in my ears and the hair on my forehead was damp with sweat. I wanted to go back. I wanted to hear the cell door slam shut behind me. Now I knew what our hamster must have felt like when it went AWOL one Christmas.

Four doors stood between us and the main gate. Walsh had opened the first three without any problem. But as he turned the key in the fourth, the sirens screamed and the whole world went crazy.

We’d climbed a flight of stairs and we were high up. We were also outside. The cold night air came at me in a rush. The sirens were everywhere, ripping into the night. Somebody switched on a spotlight. I saw a perfect circle of light glide across the courtyard far below us then ripple along the wall, counting the bricks. Then it hit us. For a horrible moment I was completely blind. It was a brilliant, exploding blindness. I thought I was going to fall, but Powers must have reached out and grabbed me because I felt myself pulled back, my shoulders slamming into the wall behind me.

The fourth door led nowhere. We were on a small platform, about thirty feet above the ground, the same height as the wall. The platform was directly opposite one of the watchtowers. I could just make out the shape of two guards behind the curtain of light. They were pointing something at us—something long and thin. Somehow I didn’t think it was a telescope. Sitting ducks. I waited for the crackle of gunfire that would bring it all to an end.