‘Afterwards,’ he said sullenly, glaring at his enemy like a caged animal when it is forced to accept the inevitability that its struggle for freedom is over but still rages with frustration inside. ‘Afterwards you’ll leave me and mine alone?’
Bridge sniffed. ‘What possible use could I have for you when it’s done?’
‘Then understand this,’ Alex growled. ‘If anything ever happens to my family, I’ll hunt you down. I’ll dedicate my life to it.’
‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then,’ Bridge stated, letting his eyes roam the room.
Alex leaned back. ‘I’ll come to the Block when I’m called and you’ll have your ambulance.’
‘That’s us done. Until Thursday then.’ Bridge said rising to his feet. ‘Don’t let me down. You know what’s at stake.’
Alex watched him walk to the door, then called out, ‘When you’re back on the Block tell them it was only a bad case of indigestion.’
‘Sure Doc, good idea. Cover our tracks, eh!’ Bridge winked conspiratorially. ‘Guess we all have to chew on something unpalatable at some time in our lives.’
Bridge opened the door and stepped out. The escorting officer popped his head in, raised a cynical eyebrow.
‘Skiving was he, Doctor? Wasting our time? One of his little games?’
‘Indigestion,’ Alex told him, his first lie. ‘The symptoms can be deceiving.’
The officer jerked his thumb. ‘Like our pal there, you mean? Ask me, he just fancied a walk to mess us about.’
When he’d closed the door Alex stared at the ceiling. He felt isolated and depressed by the knowledge that he’d just crossed the line dividing him from the criminals to whom he was supposed to minister with integrity. He felt as low as he’d ever been, lower than when he’d lain wounded in Iraq and in the throes of the mental trauma that had followed, lower than when he’d separated from his wife and daughter. Everything he had ever worked for, not least his respectability, was being eroded. He closed his eyes, tried to banish the depression but found no respite as the ghosts of young friends who had died in Iraq paraded themselves across his mind with accusatory stares and confused expressions, as though they couldn’t understand why they were dead and he was alive to betray them and their youthful promise.
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday morning came too quickly. Alex wondered how he’d got through the preceding days. One lucky break was that Gloria was on a course in York for a few days; he considered it one piece of luck amongst the avalanche of misfortune that had befallen him. He’d been so morose, so brooding that she was bound to have challenged him and he’d have had to lie to her. As a crutch to help him through he’d turned to whisky again, drunk it copiously to blunt his overworked nervous system.
At work, he clung to his office, shutting himself off from other staff, pretending he was overwhelmed with paperwork. His eyes constantly drifted to the phone on his desk as though it held a fatal fascination. Half his mind hoped it would never ring, while the other half wanted it to because the sooner the business started the sooner it would be over and done with. When it did ring it startled him so much that he recoiled and, for a moment, was paralysed, couldn’t lift his hand to pick it up. Could this be the call that was going to change how he regarded himself for ever? Tentatively, he reached out, allowed his hand to hover while he composed himself.
With an effort of will, he eventually picked it up. ‘Doctor Macdonald here.’
‘SO Webster, Block 3.’ Alex had already recognized the voice, knew this was it. ‘You’ll have to come down. Charlie Bridge is throwing a fit or something. He doesn’t look good. We don’t know what to do.’
Alex felt his throat go dry, the way it had in Iraq before a fire-fight. He felt a fraud and it hadn’t begun yet. He swallowed hard.
‘I’ll be right there.’
He grabbed his bag and hurried out of the office, let himself out of the medical centre on to a corridor and made his way to Houseblock Three. His turmoil was such that the officers he passed on his way barely registered as people, were like a phantasmagoria from another dimension, nothing to do with him. When he arrived at the block, he let himself in and made his way to the room set aside for staff. The tall officer who had accompanied Bridge to the medical centre two days earlier was alone in the room. He looked up as Alex entered.
‘Apparently Bridge needs to be seen,’ Alex said, avoiding eye contact.
The officer stood. ‘I’ve been told to take you to his cell,’ he stated, as though it was a chore.
Alex followed him out, then down some stairs to the cells. It was a descent into a world of concrete and bars, nothing natural, and no window to alleviate the stark bleakness of the place. There was that unique prison smell too, that seemed to lurk in an ill-defined olfactory no man’s land somewhere between urine and cabbage.
The rhythm of their feet against the stone floor was the only sound because most of the prisoners were either in their cells or at work. Occasionally, hearing the hurried footsteps, one of those who remained would pop his head out of a cell door to see what was going on because in this cloistered world any hint of something unusual happening was a welcome breach in the monotony and almost the equivalent of a world event.
The door to Bridge’s cell was wide open. One officer was standing at the bottom of the bed while SO Webster, his face as grave as a postulant’s at prayer was kneeling at its head. Bridge was flat out on the bed, his hands on his chest, body rolling side to side while his wide fish eyes stared at the ceiling. Moans issued from his open mouth while his tongue lolled like a useless appendage. A fish out of water would have looked more comfortable.
Relieved to see the doctor and pass on responsibility, Webster got to his feet, moved aside and pointed at the prisoner.
‘He’s all yours.’
Alex kneeled to take his place, putting his bag on the floor. Watching Bridge’s performance, he had to admit it was a convincing one, if a little overdone. Hating his part in the theatricals, he reached for Bridge’s hand, took his pulse, then used a stethoscope on his chest.
When he thought he’d done enough to convince his audience, he turned to Webster and frowned. ‘Looks bad. I think his heart is struggling and he needs to go to hospital. Keep him warm while I go call for an ambulance.’
Webster blew out his cheeks. Frown lines creased his forehead. ‘I’ll have to inform the governor first. Get his permission.’
‘No time for that,’ Alex said with deliberate emphasis. ‘I’ll use the phone in your office before you do. I’ll ring for the ambulance, then get a trolley up here to transport him to the loading bay. After that you can ring the governor.’
‘It’s that urgent, is it? He’s that bad?’
‘Bad enough not to take a chance. Just look at him.’
‘Right,’ Webster said, patently pleased that Alex was taking over, that the decision was out of his hands. ‘Use the phone. I’ll come down in a minute to inform Governor Baker.’
The tall officer who’d waited outside the cell accompanied Alex on his way back to the Webster’s office.
‘Don’t trust him, me,’ he opined as they hurried along. ‘You sure it’s his heart and not in his daft head? He’ll be up to something. Mark my words.’
How near he was to the truth shook Alex. This officer knew his man all right so, where Bridge’s actions were concerned, the other staff on the wing must be sceptical as well. After the escape the doctor who’d pronounced on the matter would look very naïve and fingers would be pointed in his direction. He shook off the thought, looked the officer up and down in what he hoped was a suitably officious manner.
‘Who’s the doctor here?’ he said. ‘Would you take a chance on his dying if you were me?’
The officer, looking sheepish, grunted. ‘Don’t suppose I would if I were you, but where he’s concerned maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing if he snuffed it.’
As they entered Webster’s office Alex tried for a withering look. ‘A
nd they try to tell me the day of the politically correct prison officer is upon us.’
Keeping his doubts and emotions in check, he called the hospital for an ambulance, then rang the medical centre and asked Janet to arrange for a trolley equipped with oxygen to be brought to the block immediately. The tall officer waited outside. When the business was done, maintaining a sullen silence, no doubt the result of Alex’s chastisements, they walked back to Bridge’s cell together.
Webster was waiting at the door. Alex nodded to him indicating he’d made his calls. Meanwhile Bridge was keeping up the cacophony of moans and groans.
‘Two officers will have to accompany him,’ Webster stated.
Alex expected that; it was standard practice. He hoped whoever had formed the escape plan had taken account of their presence and that they would be neutralized in a non-violent manner as Bridge had indicated.
Webster continued, ‘And we’ll have to cuff him to the officers.’
In response, Alex looked at him doubtfully, stroked his chin, pretended he was mulling it over. If the prisoner was cuffed, escape would be much more difficult and the chances of a violent outcome more likely. Alex didn’t want that.
‘Cuffs would restrict the blood supply, too big a risk in his condition.’
Webster opened his mouth as though to protest, but shut it again thinking better of it. His petulant expression spoke for him; he didn’t like his men accompanying a prisoner without restraints.
‘Your show, Doctor,’ he said, washing his hands of it. ‘You’re the main man. Look bad if he dies because we restrained him.’
‘No cuffs, then.’ Even as Alex spoke, his words weighed heavily. Yet events were already in motion and he had to go with them now, do his best to ensure it went smoothly, trust blindly in the plan however nervous that made him.
Two male nurses pushing a trolley equipped with oxygen arrived. Alex went ahead into the cell, kneeled beside Bridge, performed a last, cursory inspection for appearances’ sake, then stood aside to let them in. He watched as they lifted Bridge on to the trolley and put the oxygen mask over his mouth.
‘Wheel him as gently as possible, lads,’ he said, playing the concerned doctor.
Accompanied by the Senior Officer he followed the nurses through corridors and locked doors to the loading bay. Governor Baker, a plump man in his fifties, with only a couple of years to retirement, was waiting for them. He was twiddling with the middle button of his dark suit. He looked overdressed for the bleak surroundings, like a businessman who has strayed from the salubrious ambience of the boardroom to the more prosaic work floor. Detecting his anxiety, Alex felt another surge of conscience. The governor had been kind to him and he was betraying him when all the man wanted in his final working years was a smooth run to retirement; no potential catastrophes, such as an escape, to bring the wrath of higher authorities down on his head when they needed a scapegoat.
His eye fixed on Alex. ‘Are you sure?’
Alex nodded. ‘I am.’
The governor stopped twiddling with his button. ‘Good enough, then. The ambulance is already waiting outside. We’ll open the doors as soon as the escorting officers arrive. Where the hell are they?’
‘Here, sir.’
Two officers had arrived behind them. Alex recognized one, Officer Clark, a ruddy faced young man whom he knew the prisoners liked because he was firm but fair and would go out of his way to help them. He remembered that in conversation Clark had mentioned he had a young family. The other officer was middle-aged but, other than that his name was Higgins, like the snooker player, he didn’t know him. He hoped neither man would choose to play hero today.
‘Which hospital are they going to?’ the governor inquired of Alex as the Senior Officer briefed the officers.
‘South Tees, Governor.’
Alex watched him purse his lips. He knew he was calculating the possibilities, any potential obstructions to a smooth run.
‘It’ll take about . . . fifteen minutes. Traffic’s not too bad on Marton Road this time of day,’ he said.
Simultaneously, they looked down at Bridge on the trolley. The governor nodded at Alex, then raised a hand and the doors swung. The ambulance drove in and two paramedics dressed in green tunics emerged from the back doors. One of them went straight to Bridge and began examining him, while the other addressed Alex and the governor.
‘Which of you gentlemen is the doctor?’
Alex stepped forward, told him Bridge was showing signs of an impending heart attack and needed close observation in hospital.
‘Just get him there as quickly as possible,’ he added.
The medics got straight to work, wheeling the trolley right up to the back doors of the ambulance. They lifted Bridge on to a stretcher and carried him inside. Clark and Higgins climbed in behind them. As soon as they were all settled, the doors closed and the driver started the engine.
Like the gates of a medieval fortress, the tall doors swung open and the ambulance reversed into the daylight. Alex watched until it sped off. Then the doors started to close shutting out the daylight again. Alex felt something inside him diminishing with the fading light because it was done now and there was no chance of stopping the chain of events he’d helped set in motion. He’d stepped over to join those on the dark side. His greatest fear was for those men in the ambulance, whose safety he’d had to weigh in the balance against his family’s safety. God forbid they’d be hurt during the escape. He’d wanted to believe Bridge when he’d said that wouldn’t happen but, as the business had unfolded and the reality hit home, he realized his optimism was mainly based on wishful thinking. Would he be able to live with it if anyone was hurt? That was the question which started to nag away at him and which he knew would continue to assail him until this was over.
Chapter Fifteen
Bridge figured that the sense of exhilaration as the ambulance accelerated away from the place of his incarceration was better than the high any of his punters had achieved from the drugs he sold them. It had all gone so well. The doc had come through. There were moments he’d doubted he would, when he’d thought he might have an attack of conscience and give him up, in spite of the pressure exerted on him. But it hadn’t happened and he was on his way, his freedom so close he could taste it.
He was aware that the paramedics were hovering over him and that the screws were sitting near the doors looking as though they’d rather be somewhere else. Just wait boys, he thought, there’ll be plenty of action soon, only you won’t like being on the receiving end. Himself, he couldn’t wait to be rid of that damn oxygen mask clinging to his face like a bloodsucking alien. He tried to put his discomfort out of mind. Not long now and he’d be out of this tin can, breathing proper fresh air.
Seven minutes into the journey a jolt so violent that even he had not anticipated its force threw him off the bed and dislodged the mask. The paramedics and screws came off much worse, bouncing off the sides of the ambulance like pinballs until they settled in a heap on the floor, limbs entangling in a collective sprawl. In the ominous silence which followed, Bridge heard their moans and groans. It was sweet music to his ears.
‘What’s happened?’ one of the paramedics shouted, holding his head in his hands.
The younger of the screws disentangled himself from the mêlée, stepped over Bridge and peered out of the small window which gave a restricted view into the driver’s cabin and of the road in front of the ambulance.
‘We’ve been hit by a van,’ he declared. ‘The driver’s outside staggering about.’
Bridge couldn’t help himself. He tore off the mask, laughed and said, ‘Send for an ambulance, why don’t you?’
The older screw, Higgins, was still on the floor rubbing his arm. He froze mid-motion, stared at the prisoner wondering how he’d revivified all of a sudden. A gleam of suspicion came into his eye.
‘Get on your radio right now!’ he shouted to Clark. ‘This might be—’
The rest of his sentence
was drowned in the explosion that blew in the doors. A shock wave shook the ambulance and threw Clark backwards so that he ended up sprawled on top of the others. A shroud of smoke engulfed them all. Bridge heard Higgins cough and splutter and emit a strangulated curse. A little stunned himself, but aware enough to know he had to be ready to move, he lifted a foot off his chest and hauled himself free of the others.
He saw the black-clad figure in a balaclava emerge from the smoke like a devilish spectre from Hell. The figure pointed a shotgun at the entangled bodies on the floor, trying to distinguish one from the other but finding it difficult. A rough voice called out in exasperation.
‘Charlie, get outside! Quick man! There’s too much smoke. I can’t see you.’
Freedom so close now that he could smell it, Bridge crawled. Outside the doors, just visible through the swirling smoke, he could see a patch of blue sky where freedom resided, his freedom. A hand reached down, pulled at his collar. Two eyes peered at him through slits in a balaclava.
‘Gotcha, feller!’ the rough voice exclaimed.
Bridge started to rise, his eyes fixed on that patch of blue. Yet, to his horror, he couldn’t move. Someone was holding his leg, trying to drag him back. Demented, he kicked out with his free leg, but the grip wasn’t relinquished, only tightened.
‘He’s got my ankle,’ he screamed looking up at his helper. ‘Do something!’
The masked figure turned back, reversed the shotgun, held the barrel. His arm rose high, came down hard. He repeated the action with equal venom. Bridge heard a groan somewhere behind him and felt the grip on his ankle loosen. Leaning on the gunman, he hauled himself upright, staggered to the door. His rescuer helped him down to the ground and leapt out himself.
As soon as he was out two masked men grabbed his arms, hurried him to the front of the ambulance. He was conscious of cars behind the ambulance, drivers and passengers watching with shocked expressions, frozen in their seats as though they were watching a scene from a film.
Stitched Page 8
