HONKY IN THE WOODPILE

by John Brunner

  It passed the time.

  The only noise came from the cinema overhead, playing the musical which Adelita Fal had mentioned to me yesterday, and from the drain in the corner. There was no chance of getting out that way; I’d looked, and found a mere sluice a few inches deep. The only light filtered through the hole in the door. It was enough to show me that there were graffiti in here but not for me to read them—and it revealed something that confirmed my guess about the original purpose of these cells: three rusty iron pegs driven into the wall, two broken off short but one still retaining a worn metal ring, at about waist-height—just right to attach the end of a chain linking a gang of newly-arrived slaves…

  Suddenly, however, there was a new sound. I strode to the door and tried to peer out, although I already knew what it was. I’d heard it, more or less identically, in many countries. A guard was coming around with food, doling it into tin or enamel dishes and delivering it to the cells.

  Hmm!

  I sniffed. I didn’t want to miss any clue I could pick up with any of my senses. The food smelled vaguely like curry, doubtless a cheap stew with spices. Question: were they using bowls small enough to pass through the bars on these doors, about five inches apart, or plates requiring that the doors be opened?

  Plates. I heard a distinct creak of hinges, and a grunting cry of joy.

  Next question: one man or two?

  Two. I could picture what was going on now, even though the hole in my door didn’t allow me to see it directly. One man either old or handicapped, because one of his feet dragged a bit at every step in a soft sandal or slipper. Another, younger to judge by his brisker pace, almost certainly armed and covering the occupants of the cells as their doors were opened. But he was bored; I heard a yawn which didn’t sound like a prisoner’s yawn. A couple of days here with nothing to do but sleep would make the captives disinclined to yawn anyway.

  And the food-cauldron, or whatever, was on a wheeled trolley that now and then had to be eased over a bump in the floor.

  Which one was unlocking the doors? I worked that out, too. Not the man serving the food, but the escort. Wonderful. It sounded as though he was using a big ring with a lot of keys on it, and that’s a terrific distraction for a man with a gun. I felt suddenly more pleased with the world than I’d expected to for a long, long time.

  Now if only my calculations were correct—if only that strongly-spiced stew turned out to be as hot as it smelled—if only…

  I slipped to the opening side of the door and pressed back to the wall. They might look in first and order me to the rear of the cell; on the other hand this seemed to have become so routine a job that they weren’t bothering much any longer with such precautions. As they drew closer with the trolley I heard voices—an insult hurled at someone in the next cell but one from mine, a woman as I could tell from the gender of the adjectives, followed by a dull moan and frantic lapping. I risked a glance through the hole in the door. By this time they were close enough for me to catch a glimpse of the shoulder of the escort. His back was half-turned to me, but I saw from the badges on his shirt that he was a policeman, not a Sabatano.

  Now one more cell, and then—

  Oh. Not the next cell. Nobody in there. I braced myself as the men and the trolley came abreast of my own door.

  And they opened the door next beyond.

  I slumped back against the wall.

  What the hell reason did I have to think anyone would have bothered to tell these menials that there was an extra customer for supper tonight?

  FIFTEEN

  Well, if nobody else had told them, I was going to have to. I rewrote my plan from top to bottom in about three seconds, stuck my arm out of the hole in the door, and shouted, “Hey, what about me?”

  They were just locking the final cell. I heard a grunt of surprise; then the old man came hobbling back to me. As I’d gathered from hearing his footsteps, he had a trick knee that he favored.

  “Who’s that?” the younger man asked as he removed the key from the door he’d just shut.

  “Didn’t tell me they’d put someone else in here tonight,” the old man grumbled. He halted and stared at me, and I at him. He was thin-armed, grey-haired, with a belly that bulged dropsically over the belt of his shabby pants.

  “Well, if they wanted him to eat they’d have told you,” the younger man said impatiently. I could see him too now, in a neatly-pressed police shirt with shiny badges on the shoulders, dark pants, well-polished shoes matching the black leather of his gun-belt. He had a sort of glib good looks, and his hair—slicked back with a heavy burden of pomade—glistened even more than the leather.

  I’d more or less expected this reaction. “Come on!” I wheedled. “I’m hungry—and I can pay!”

  The policeman laughed harshly. “Don’t give us that shit!” he retorted. “They always take the money from people they shut up here.”

  “They didn’t look in my shoes,” I murmured. It was quite true; they hadn’t. “I got a fifty-thousand bill in each. For emergencies.”

  Funnily enough, that also was true. I’m a cautious guy.

  The old man’s bleary eyes lit up. He nudged his companion. “One each?” he muttered.

  The policeman hesitated. Eventually, though, he nodded and reached towards the grille. “Okay, pay up,” he ordered.

  “Not on your life,” I said. “You could take the money and not give me any food. Let’s see you dish it out—and make it a full plate, hm?”

  “I want to see the money first, then! Show it to me!”

  I pulled off my right shoe and turned back the insole. The bill was there, rolled into a tight spill. I spread it out so the light could shine on it.

  “Right, get him some food,” the policeman said, and the old man hobbled off to ladle it out. Meantime he watched me suspiciously.

  “What about the other one?” he demanded.

  “For a plate of measly stew?”

  “One for each of us, or you don’t get anything!”

  I gave an exaggerated sigh, dropped my shoe to the floor and pushed my foot back into it, and pantomimed removing the other one. That satisfied him.

  “Hurry up!” he called to the old man, glancing nervously around. “We daren’t be too long, or they’ll want to know why.”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming!” the old man wheezed, and then added in an injured tone, “Hell, you haven’t even opened his door yet!”

  Was there anything on the plate to eat with—a fork or spoon I could use as a weapon? No. But it was hardly to be expected. Still, he’d kept his promise to fill it to the brim.

  The policeman levelled his gun, unlocking the door with his left hand. Standing back, he gestured for the plate to be passed to me. The old man offered it with one hand and with the other reached for my left hand in which I was pretending to have the money ready.

  But in the dimness I’d slipped the bills into my sleeve. He got a shock instead of a bribe.

  I caught hold of his wrist and tugged. He weighed no more than a hundred pounds. He toppled forward with a yell, his bad knee betraying him, and I grabbed the plate of stew and hurled it like a custard-pie straight in the policeman’s face and went after it.

  I think I trod on the old man as he fell down. I know I drove the policeman slamming into the wall behind him and kneed him in the crotch a second later. His gun exploded, but dropped from his hand as it went off, and I flung him to the ground and stamped on his solar plexus to force the wind out of him. He yelled, and in the cells I heard anxious scuffling noises. Someone looked out, a dark anonymous face.

  This boy had probably never been in a fight more serious than a brawl between kids. Besides, his mouth, nose and eyes were full of hot spicy stew. I had lots of time to pick up his gun, check it—it had a full magazine bar the one shot accidentally expended—and point it at him before he recovered enough to try and stand up.

  “In there,” I said, nodding to the cell I’d just left. When he was slow in obeyin
g, I caught hold of him and threw him in. He tripped over the old man, who was moaning on the floor, and I slammed the door and turned the key he had obligingly left in its lock.

  Then I ran up the steps to the outside door, wondering if one of these keys would fit it—and to my astonishment discovered it wasn’t locked. It had a simple iron latch.

  And I’d thought these Sabatanos were thorough. Well, it must have been a long time since they’d locked up anyone who wasn’t conditioned by a lifetime of belief in their legend.

  The alley outside, I learned when I peered cautiously past the jamb, was deserted. Except for—?

  No, just a cat snuffling among the garbage.

  In that case, there was another obvious step to be taken. Ignoring the shouts of the policeman and the moans of the old man, I dashed back to the nearest occupied cell, opened it, and left for the next without bothering to see the occupant’s reaction. The next—no, the one beyond mine had been empty, I recalled—so the next, and the next… nine in all.

  I was right down by the sharp turn of the passage, and had just checked to make sure there were no more prisoners—there were more cells, but their doors were all wide open—when the dazed captives dared to emerge. They were half-starved and wholly filthy, in soiled rags, their bare feet foul with their own excrement. The sight of the woman in particular turned my stomach; she was drooling all down her chin from slack lips parted to display toothless gums.

  Yet I doubted she was more than about thirty. I wondered what in hell she’d done to be shut up here.

  “Get away! Run! Escape!” I shouted at them, making shooing motions. One of them, a little more quick-witted than the rest, turned for the steps and saw the open door at the top, and the rest went after in a mad scramble.

  Might as well add one last touch, I thought, a bit light-headed with the success of my crazy scheme. I selected one of the biggest of the keys and, on the wall directly under a light-bulb where it stood the best chance of being noticed, I wrote the word CRINÉ! It wasn’t hard to make it legible. The grime and dirt of ages formed a deep crust on the stone, and I only had to scrape some of it away.

  But then, suddenly, I heard noises from the far end of the passage by the steps, and it seemed as though someone must have come on the door the escaped prisoners had left open. It might have been a man looking for a secluded spot to empty his bladder; equally, it might not.

  Cursing myself for an exhibitionist, I glanced wildly around. It would be crazy to make for the alleyway now—but where did the other passages lead?

  They’d better lead somewhere useful.

  Gun in hand. I hurried down the only available route, and found that the music grew louder as I went, as though I was drawing closer to the screen end of the cinema overhead. I found a junction where I had to choose between another corridor and a flight of steps climbing into darkness. The choice was made for me when from along the corridor I heard heavy footsteps and a gruff voice complaining about those bastards who were taking such a long time.

  At the top of the steps there was a door, not locked, but bolted on this side with bolts that couldn’t have been touched for years. Rust powdered on my fingers as I pulled at them, and they squeaked horribly.

  I darted through and found myself in an unmistakable janitor’s closet. It was pitch-black when I’d shut the door again, but on reaching out I touched a bucket, a broomstick, a dusting-cloth hung from a nail, a plumber’s friend…

  Working my way forward with care between these obstacles, I noticed a thin line of light close to the floor. Another door! Pray that it was a real door, openable from this side, not just a closet-door opening from the outside only. I was in luck; there was a handle for me to turn.

  And I was in the men’s toilet of the cinema.

  Empty.

  I hadn’t realized just how scared I’d been. I put the gun in my belt, buttoned my jacket around it so it wouldn’t show, and then I planted my hands on the side of the nearest washbasin and just stood there shaking for a minute or so. A grand production number in the movie was making the walls tremble, too.

  Eventually I was able to move normally again, so I went to the urinal, came back and washed my hands and face—Moril’s gun had cut my chin slightly, which I hadn’t noticed at the time, but the mark was barely visible—and tidied myself up generally in front of the mirror. I had dirty patches on both my sleeves, but there was no help for that.

  Then I sneaked quietly out of the room and found myself in the auditorium: big, and in near-darkness. Either the scene being shown was taking place at dusk, or the voltage was too low to light the projection lamp properly. From the groaning vibrato of the music I was prepared to bet on the latter.

  Speaking of bets: my best chance of getting away from here inconspicuously would be when the picture ended. I felt my way to a vacant seat, but I’d barely dropped into it when the closing titles started to appear on the screen. A few people clapped and whistled. The house-lights went up. Everybody scrambled to their feet to leave and I followed their example.

  The situation seemed to be relatively cool as I crossed the foyer—on the side opposite that damned auction-block—and then I had a shock. A door marked Prohibido el Ingreso swung back and out came Adelita Fal.

  For an instant I was chilled to the bone. If she were the traitor Fierro suspected, she might very well know about my being arrested, in which case she would either yell for the Sabatanos the moment she spotted me, or at least inform on me to them. Not that they were going to be kept in ignorance of my escape for long anyway—that guy I’d heard trudging down the passage had probably already made the discovery—but I was going to have to gamble on a conclusion I’d reached about the Sabatanos, and I didn’t want the dice loaded against me.

  But on recognizing me she merely checked and gave a tired, maybe slightly tipsy smile.

  “Ah, Señor Curfew! You have come here to sample for yourself the kind of movie our people enjoy?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “And I see you do indeed do good business with musicals. You must have had nearly a full house.”

  “Yes, this one is particularly popular. So perhaps you’ll tell your friend in London that he’s wasted your time? Hasta la vista!”

  And she walked on.

  So did I.

  I now had to do something extremely crazy. Had to. And with nothing to protect me from the consequences except that weakness of the Sabatanos I was banking on. I intended to return to the hotel as though nothing had happened. Diego Santandero was due to contact me there. Never in a million years would either Fierro or I have foreseen that I was going to be in this much trouble within this short time of my arrival, so we had made no alternative arrangements. Now, though, if I was to escape with a whole skin, I needed help from someone I could trust absolutely, and nobody except Santandero filled the bill.

  I wasn’t looking forward to our meeting. To have come here primed with the belief that I was some sort of miracle-worker, and find that I had the entire corps of Sabatanos hunting for me already…

  Still, that weakness of theirs would work in my favor, I kept insisting to myself. Putting it simply: there weren’t enough of them. They’d guarded their privileges so jealously for such a long time there couldn’t possibly be enough of them to comb even a city like Brascoso, with its population of two hundred thousand, let alone the entire country. Besides, by breaking out of their jail I’d kicked them right square in the majiz’, and it was a safe assumption that they wouldn’t inform the police and army until they’d done their damnedest to sweep the whole matter—and me—under the carpet.

  It was only a few blocks to the Valencia, and it was a fine warm night with a quarter-moon. I strolled along the second street inland from the sea-front road, glancing into the open terraces of various bars where people were eating, drinking, chatting, dancing to jukeboxes. There were fewer tourists than one saw by day, and a higher proportion of Brascosans, as though now they’d catered for their visitors they were d
etermined to have a bit of fun themselves before bedtime. It was early yet, about nine o’clock.

  I considered being really blatant and buying myself a meal, but I wasn’t hungry. I’d eaten enormously at midday, and what I’d been through since hadn’t helped my digestion.

  I didn’t see any Sabatanos.

  I entered the hotel circumspectly, half-expecting to find that word had run ahead of me and some of Moril’s chums were waiting for me on the handsome padded benches of the lobby. But it was deserted, except for the bored reception clerk who handed me my key without being asked, and so was the manager’s office behind his desk where during the day Sarita Redón held court.

  There was music coming from somewhere, a song with guitar, and I recognized the voice. On the spur of the moment I said, “Isn’t that Señor Lorreo singing?”

  “Yes, señor. Not him personally, of course. But it is one of his most popular records.”

  Of course. I said, almost at random but thinking that maybe I should keep up my travel-writer pose as long as possible, “Does he give any concerts nowadays? I’d like to go to one.”

  “Why, he can be heard at least once, often twice a week at night-clubs, señor. Tomorrow night, for example, he has an engagement not far away from here. But—ah…”

  He dropped his voice and swept the lobby with his gaze before continuing.

  “If the señor is going to be still here on Sunday, it does so happen I have a ticket I could sell for this!”

  With a flourish he produced from under his desk a glossy handbill. I took it, realizing with surprise that it advertised the president’s birthday celebration which Moril had mentioned to me. On the happy occasion of the sixty-first birthday of His Excellency Don Amedeo Porfiroso, the Madrugadan Minister of Culture had the honor to announce that following the celebration of a Solemn Mass in the Brascoso Baseball Stadium the following outstanding performers of traditional Madrugadan culture would appear, tiddly-pom, Lorreo being right at the head of the list, plus a grand display of badoan folklórico with the ***MOST AUTHENTIC*** dancers and musicians!!! The guy who drafted the ad must have learned his layout from Victorian circus posters; he even used little pointing hands.