Blame

by Simon Mayo

  Furious calculations registered in the faces in front of her.

  ‘I’m in!’ whispered Daisy.

  ‘Me too,’ said Amos, looking around.

  It was clear that Lena was struggling.

  Ant broke the silence. ‘Sorry, Lena. It’s now or never.’

  ‘What are we deciding, Mum?’ asked Tilly.

  ‘You can take their straps off?’ asked Lena, tears running down her face. Ant handed her the key. She lifted her daughter’s T-shirt and, with trembling hands, tried to slot the key into the strap across Tilly’s spine.

  Ant stepped forward. ‘We should wait in case—’

  ‘Take it off,’ said Lena, gripping her arm. ‘I need to see this. You do it. Please.’

  Ant knelt down, placed the key under the strap’s arched bridge and twisted. There was a double click, the two clamps retracted and Tilly Durrow’s strap fell to the floor. Tilly and Lena burst into tears.

  ‘Troops running!’ called Jimmy, on window duty. ‘Last casualties being cleared, by the look of it.’

  ‘In which case,’ said Ant, ‘this is it. Take Tilly’s strap, Lena. I don’t suppose anyone is monitoring us, but just in case, keep it with you for now.’

  ‘I want my strap off,’ said Sam, staring at his sister.

  ‘I’ll take them all off,’ said Ant. ‘I promise. But we need to get out first.’

  ‘Too late!’ cried Jimmy, a fraction of a second before the cell door was kicked open. Three gas-masked, camouflaged soldiers burst in, hand guns raised. Screams and yells filled the room. One of the soldiers slammed the door shut again.

  ‘We’re strutters!’ shouted Jimmy, moving fast as everyone ducked, cowering.

  ‘There are rioters everywhere!’ shouted one soldier; his voice was muffled but almost panicky. He and his colleagues scoured the cell. ‘We need to evacuate, but strutters only. Let’s go!’ He pointed his gun at Amos, who stood up slowly.

  ‘But we’ve got no masks!’ he said.

  The man lifted his gas mask. ‘It’s a thirty-second run to the bridge. You cross it and you’re in the guards’ quarters. The air is normal there. There isn’t time to wait for masks. Hold your breath, if you can. When we start running, we don’t stop. We run together. If we see rioters, they’ll be dealt with.’ He pulled on his mask again and his colleague opened the door.

  Ant stood with Mattie and the Durrows. ‘We’ll run together,’ she said to Lena. ‘Mattie, stay close. Close your eyes,’ she told Tilly and Sam, ‘and see how long you can hold your breath! It’s not far.’

  The two children screwed their eyes shut and inhaled deeply. Ant felt for the gauze on her stomach and left a protective hand there as she ran out.

  Through narrowed eyes she saw Amos already jogging past cell 85. Within a few steps, she felt her chest tighten and her eyes start to water. She glanced up at the roof; clouds of rolling, churning black smoke were edging lower.

  The soldiers were right, they didn’t have long.

  No one spoke. It seemed a waste of air. The level was clear. Everyone had been taken away. We’re the last ones here, thought Ant.

  The high gates that marked the ends of the bridge were open. They ran into the POs’ corridor. It stretched for maybe fifty metres, numbered rooms on either side. Cold air from somewhere! Cold, uncontaminated air, and Ant, taking a lungful, began to cough. More soldiers, more shouting. ‘Keep going! Straight ahead!’ Behind them they heard doors slamming shut; ahead, raised voices. They ran through a fire door into a stairwell, the source of the voices and the cold air.

  Like passengers waiting to board a plane, long lines of strutters were being herded down the stairs. Many were suffering from the effects of smoke or gas, others from wounds, but there was no let-up in the shouted instructions.

  ‘Down the stairs! Get in the coach! Take the first seat!’

  Ahead of her Ant heard a man shout, ‘What’s down there? Where are we going?’

  ‘Prison transport! They’re putting us in coaches!’ came the reply.

  Mattie was jumping up and down, straining for a decent view of the descending crowd. ‘Gina! Dan!’ he shouted, but his voice was lost in the hubbub.

  Ant’s turn. ‘Who’s out from one, two and three?’ she yelled. ‘Anyone from levels one, two and three?’

  ‘I’m looking for the Toselands from cell twelve,’ someone shouted further down the stairs.

  ‘And the Hapgoods? Are they here?’ cried a tearful voice. There was a murmuring and shaking of heads. No one, it seemed, had seen anyone.

  ‘Maybe they’re evacuating the first three floors somewhere else,’ said Ant.

  Mattie looked at her blankly. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  A breeze had started blowing up the stairs. After the smoke- and fume-filled oven that Spike had become, it made Ant feel light-headed, almost dizzy.

  Mattie had noticed too. ‘That smells sweet,’ he said. ‘That’s my first fresh air for two years.’

  Pushing past some of the injured, they caught up with Daisy. Jimmy and Lena were just ahead, carrying Sam and Tilly. Tilly waved and Mattie waved back. All around them there was a sense of elation at having escaped the riot, fear for those unaccounted for, and fury at what they had been put through.

  ‘I can’t see Mum anywhere!’ said Daisy, fear pushing her voice higher.

  ‘Some coaches have already gone!’ came a voice, and her face relaxed a little.

  ‘Well, maybe she’s in one of those,’ she said. ‘Jimmy can’t find his mum, and Amos is searching for his dad. Everyone’s looking for someone, I suppose.’ Daisy’s hands were shaking and Ant took them in hers.

  At the bottom of the stairs Ant recognized a PO waiting to lock the doors behind them. It was Denholm, the sweating officer she had shouted at during jug up yesterday. He looked wrecked, beaten and very twitchy. Ant thought she’d risk it. ‘We the last?’ she said casually.

  The guard shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ he said, his voice hoarse.

  ‘What happened on one, two and three?’

  He shrugged again and said nothing. The queue was moving forward. Ant and Mattie hesitated, then headed away from the stairwell. They’d caught up with the others when they were aware of heavy footsteps behind them. It was Denholm, his head bleeding profusely.

  ‘Some got out. I know that,’ he said, eyes fixed on the middle distance.

  Ant offered him what was left of her gauze. He looked taken aback, then took the dressing.

  ‘So some didn’t?’ said Mattie. He nodded. Mattie held out his bottle. ‘Would you like some water?’

  The guard gulped down a few mouthfuls before handing it back. ‘They’re saying you killed MacMillan,’ he said, staring at Ant.

  ‘You mean Grey says I killed him,’ she said. ‘And he’s lying. Treves killed him. Brian was trying to save me.’

  Denholm’s eyes flicked between Ant and Mattie. ‘Thanks for the water,’ he said, ‘and the dressing.’ They watched him head back into the stairwell, locking the doors behind him.

  Ant and Mattie climbed into the coach. It wasn’t a high-security transporter – there were no restraints on the seats; it was used to move HMP London’s employees between prisons. There was room for forty passengers, and Ant and Mattie found two spaces in front of Jimmy. Four police officers took up positions along the aisle.

  Ant sat there glumly as the coach picked up speed. There was an unshiftable knot in her stomach, eating away at her. It was grief, terror and remorse all in one.

  What a catastrophic day. What a disaster. And my fault. And Dan and Gina? Surely they got out . . . But so many dead . . . Who knows how many . . . ? MacMillan certainly, Osbourne certainly. And all those bodies . . .

  She became aware that Jimmy was trying to attract her attention. ‘Ant, this is it!’ he said.

  ‘This is what?’ Ant turned to face him – his expression was animated.

  Jimmy had leaned forward as far as he could and spoke in an urgent whisper. ‘What you said inside! If we
don’t try to get out now, we’ll be inside for years. We need to find a way to get off the coach. We’re outside, Ant – look!’

  Through the glass, they saw a supermarket, a pub, estate agents, coffee shops, beggars, drunks and shoppers. Ordinary life. An almost-forgotten life.

  ‘I thought we could have got out of Spike in all that chaos,’ she said. She indicated the police. ‘It’s less chaotic now.’

  ‘So we need to create some chaos,’ said Jimmy.

  Ant twisted in her seat as far as her wound and her strap allowed. ‘Jimmy Noon, you’re smiling,’ she said. ‘You must have an idea.’

  He nodded.

  ‘It had better be good.’

  ‘It’s the best,’ said Jimmy. ‘And actually, it’s yours.’

  Bug safe house, Bath

  Max was given the top room. It was small, dark and sparsely decorated. It was also exactly what he had been hoping for. Max felt hidden. The bedding was musty and the carpet worn, but he didn’t care. After leaving university and watching what was happening in London, all he wanted was a hole to bury himself in. Not for long – he knew there was work to be done – but for now this suited him fine.

  The street was noisy; the middle-aged couple who were his hosts were noisy too – radios seemed to blast from every room – but Max was reassured. Life was carrying on around him. Life was carrying on without him. He could hear creaking floorboards, conversations and ringing phones but knew he could ignore it all. Only the doorbell had made him jump, but it was nothing. He watched a supermarket delivery van drive away, then lay back on his bed, clutching his rucksack. Inside was his new phone, a hundred and twenty pounds and a change of clothes. It was everything he had.

  Max had taken the memorized route from the coach station to the safe house. He had knocked once and the door swung open to reveal a smiling woman in jeans and dusty black shirt.

  ‘Top of the house,’ she said quietly as the door closed behind him.

  That had been a few hours ago. Since then, an endless supply of tea and cake had been deposited outside his door. He had eaten what he could, but the truth was, he had lost his appetite. He removed his new phone from the rucksack and stared at the screen. Sara had said it was ‘cold’, so he assumed that all data he sent or received would be encrypted. Desperate for information but terrified of what he would find, he stalled. His fingers hovered above the keys. He started to type in the site address, only to stop and delete it. For a moment he even considered asking the woman downstairs to find out for him.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said to the room. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Max. Just . . . Just do it.’ His throat was bone dry and he gulped down some water. He took a deep breath, then typed in the address of his dark-web contact site. This time he hit ‘enter’. Deeper and deeper he went, answering the familiar questions – until finally he keyed in his sixteen-digit code. He hit ‘enter’ and waited for the pages to load, his hands trembling slightly.

  ‘Please let them be alive,’ he whispered.

  Prison coach, Archway, North London

  The shouting began on the back row. It was a woman who started it.

  ‘Cons!’ she yelled. ‘We’ve got cons on board!’ Heads turned; other voices exclaimed in alarm. The woman then launched herself at a couple sitting in front of her who were wearing hoodies; soon fists were flying. All three fell onto the floor before the first policeman reached them.

  ‘They don’t have straps!’ shouted a man on the back row.

  ‘Cons trying to escape!’ shouted another.

  Strutters stood up to see what was happening, pushing their way into the aisle. The other policemen were now caught up in the crowd; one ordered the driver to pull over immediately.

  There was no mistaking the fury in the coach. Ant, Mattie and Jimmy were sitting quietly, but around them people were itching for a fight.

  ‘The police need to get this under control soon or there’ll be a lynching,’ muttered Jimmy.

  ‘I’ll go to the front with Daisy,’ said Ant. ‘Do some talking.’

  ‘I’ll take Blakely.’

  They stumbled as the coach swerved, changing lanes.

  Ant grabbed a woman sitting nearby. ‘This is an escape. Tell everyone.’

  Horns blasted, cars braked and swerved around them, but on the coach all eyes were on the fight.

  The two suspected cons weren’t going quietly, but six strutters now pinned them against the back window, their faces forced against the glass. The police had now reached the melee; one had raised a sidearm.

  ‘Stand down! Stand down! Let them go! Move away!’

  But the woman who had led the attack now hauled her captives’ shirts up as high as she could. Two pale, bruised but strap-free backs produced howls of anger and the crowd surged forward, shouting, ‘Murderers!’

  The coach came to a sudden stop. Bracing themselves, the police kept their balance while around them everyone staggered. Two officers grabbed the pair of ‘cons’, then frog-marched them down the aisle; another walked in front, clearing a path, the fourth walking backwards behind them, gun raised, aiming at the outraged passengers.

  Ant watched as the prisoners were pushed past her. She made eye contact with the first, nodding her head slightly as he was bundled away.

  The doors hissed open as the police escort car pulled up in front, lights flashing, siren wailing. The prisoners, now in handcuffs, were pushed out of the coach. They stumbled and fell onto the pavement. Immediately they were surrounded by police.

  Ant leaped to her feet. ‘Now!’ she said.

  From the back of the coach, Mattie shouted, ‘Catch!’ He threw two lengths of metal, the first caught by Ant, the second by Jimmy. They sprinted to the front and jabbed them hard into the back of the driver.

  ‘Stay silent,’ said Jimmy, leaning in close. ‘Get off the coach. You’ve got two seconds.’

  The man started, half turned, then froze.

  ‘One second,’ said Ant, pushing the still-warm strap harder into the folds of flesh. He didn’t need telling twice; he leaped off the coach.

  ‘Blakely, you’re up!’ Jimmy called.

  The driver’s seat was instantly occupied, and Blakely punched the button that operated the doors. Outside, the police were still bundling their newly acquired prisoners into the car, but they all turned as they heard the hiss of compressed air. The nearest officer was just metres from the coach, and as he turned, he levelled his gun at Blakely.

  The coach started forward. As Blakely found the controls, he steered it straight into the police car. The officers leaped clear, their vehicle propelled into a lamp post. The bonnet buckled, the windscreen smashed, and as the coach pulled into traffic, it caught the police car again. There was a screech of tearing metal as the car was spun through 180 degrees, one of its wings spinning across the road.

  ‘Get down! Everybody down!’ yelled Jimmy as he ran along the aisle. Some, too stunned to move, were pulled to the floor. Ant found Sam and Tilly Durrow under one of the seats, Lena lying flat next to them. The first bullets smashed the rear window, showering glass over the back six rows. There were screams followed by more gunfire, louder this time. With the window shattered, the crack-crack-crack from the police guns sounded closer.

  The Durrows looked petrified. ‘What’s happening, Ant?’ asked Lena, struggling to keep her voice steady.

  Mattie scuttled along the aisle and handed Ant the strap-key. He was grinning. It was the biggest smile any of them had seen for days. ‘Worked a treat,’ he said.

  Ant ruffled his hair. ‘Sure did. We’re going to get off this coach, Lena. Soon as Lord Whiny up front can find somewhere to pull off the road. Somewhere safe.’

  ‘Safe?’ Lena sounded incredulous.

  ‘OK,’ said Ant, ‘maybe not safe. This coach is too big. And the tech in the straps pinpoints exactly where we are. As soon as we’ve put enough distance between us and those coppers, we’ll park up and I’ll unstrap everyone. Hopefully most of the police are ti
ed up with the riot. Might give us a few minutes. But that’s it. We leave the straps on the coach, maybe hide them somewhere if there’s time.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Ant shrugged. ‘Haven’t worked that bit out yet. But we’ll be free strutters, Lena! The first ever!’

  Lena smiled but still looked sad. ‘Then we just have to stay free.’

  Ant nodded. ‘That’s about it, yes. But first we need to get these straps off. Might as well start here . . . You first, Lena.’

  There was a flash of panic in Lena’s eyes; then she sat up and lifted her top. Ant dug the key into the centre of the strap and twisted. Lena bit back a cry as the clamps sprang back, the handle dropping to the floor. Her hands rubbed the place where the strap had been. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Didn’t you use to be a nurse?’ said Ant.

  ‘Yes. Seems ages ago now . . . but yes.’

  ‘If you could help with some of these strap sores . . .’

  ‘Of course. I’ve only got a few dressings left, but I’ll follow you round till they run out,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ant. ‘OK, Sam, you’re next.’

  The coach braked, turned, then accelerated. The gunfire had stopped, the screaming replaced by volleys of questions and comments.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Who were those cons?’

  ‘Looked like the Pearsons from forty-one, but they had no straps . . .’

  ‘It was the Pearsons . . .’

  Ant shouted, ‘Jimmy, tell everyone what’s happening! I’ve started already!’

  Jimmy Noon crouched at the front of the coach, facing the strutters. Through the shattered back window he saw that they were climbing past a hospital and a football stadium; beyond them was the burning prison.

  ‘OK, listen up! We haven’t much time. Who knows how long it’ll take for the cops to get a fix on us and send a helicopter? We’re pulling off the road ASAP. Ant has a strap-key – that’s how we got the Pearsons’ straps off – and she’ll take off every strap before we stop. We leave the straps here and lose the Spike shirts. We disappear. If anyone doesn’t want their strap off, you can just wait for the screws to come and get you. Take you back inside. Though inside where is anyone’s guess.’