by Sam Millar
“I don’t know what I was expecting.”
“Always expect the unexpected. It’ll help keep you healthy,” said Brendan, removing a torchlight from his rucksack before handing it to Karl. “I’ve got a couple of flares also, but we’ll keep them in case of an emergency.”
“Where do we start?” asked Karl.
“That’s the easy part. Straight to the end of the wing and into the one-time canteen, on the left. Come on.”
The chalky beam from the torchlight guided them, causing their shadows to dance and stretch before them.
Inside the canteen, a family of broken windows granted some jaundiced light, enough for the torchlight to be extinguished. Below the main cooking area, enormous potholes suddenly came into view.
“It’s a virtual warren,” said Karl in amazement. “The cops must have used jackhammers.” A moment of guilt suddenly hit Karl. Wilson had done a thorough job, as he had claimed.
“They’re the entrances of my old tunnels,” said Brendan, a hint of pride in his voice. “Eight, to be exact.”
“All the tunnelling was done here?”
“Most. There were twelve tunnels in all. Four more to check,” said Brendan, heading for the ablutions.
The shower area resembled a war scene. Toilets and showers smashed; plumbing mangled into metal knots. Cisterns were leaking, causing massive puddles of filthy water to spill into the cavities littering the ground. Streaks of orange rust trailed down from faucets opening to the drains, their colour developing through waste and edging towards the darkened holes.
“This is what’s known in prison jargon as a sledgehammer and fine-tooth comb of a search. The cops did a thorough job,” continued Brendan, surveying the devastation. “Have to give them full credit for that.”
“Not a stone’s been left unturned,” acknowledged Karl, his stomach coiling into a cold fist of defeat. “They’ve checked everything in –”
Suddenly, Willie’s static voice began crackling over the air.
“Karl?”
“Yes, Willie?”
“There’s someone approaching the jail. Hold tight …”
“Fuck!” said Karl in desperation.
“Take it easy,” encouraged Brendan. “There are a couple of ways out.”
“Out? Who’s looking out? My daughter is in here somewhere. Think I’m leaving without her?”
“Look, Karl, sometimes you have to walk away, so that you can –”
“Don’t give me any of your wartime philosophy bullshit! You go the fuck wherever you want! I’m staying here – even if it means digging up every dirty piece of soil in this –”
“Karl? You there?” crackled Willie’s whispery voice. “Karl?”
“Yes … yes, Willie. I’m here,” said Karl.
“All clear, Karl. It was only someone out for a late night walk. How are things back there?”
“Everything … everything is fine, Willie. You’re doing a great job. Keep alert.”
“You’ve got it. See you soon … or, over and out, as they say in the movies.”
The walkie-talkie went dead.
“I told you there were twelve tunnels,” said Brendan. “So far, these make eleven.”
Karl’s heart began moving up a beat.
“There’s one more?”
“I hope it’s still there.”
“Where?” said Karl, trying desperately to remain calm. “Are we far from it?”
“There is a unique passageway leading from the jail to the courthouse directly across the street. The screws used it as a security precaution to ferry prisoners to the courthouse.”
“And you dug a tunnel there, right under the Crumlin Road?” asked Karl, incredulously.
“The screws’ lack of intelligence and imagination made them arrogant. They never thought I had the audacity to tunnel right under their noses – or the so-called judge’s arse,” smiled Brendan. “Come on. It’s a good ten minutes walk to get there.”
It was fifteen – not ten – minutes later when Karl and Brendan entered the security passageway, known locally as The Tunnel.
Proceeding with caution, they could see bits of the old walling crumbling as they passed.
“This place is ready for collapsing,” said Karl, shining the torchlight on the walls.
“Now you know why they call it crumbling jail,” said Brendan, a wry smile on his face. “Don’t fart or sneeze, whatever you do.”
“So claustrophobic,” said Karl, feeling the leprous walls moving in on him. The stench of damp decay was everywhere.
“Broad and high enough for three screws and two prisoners,” said Brendan, by way of explanation.
“Has it always been this dark and clammy in here?” Katie’s terrified face flashed into his mind. He quickly erased it. Now was not the time. Somehow he had to remain detached.
“See all those heating pipes attached to the walls?” asked Brendan. “Try and imagine them at full throttle, the sweat running down your back. More like an oppressive jungle. The only good thing about it was that the screws got roasted as well. They hated the tunnel assignment. All that dust and insufferable heat.”
Even in the dim light, Karl could see Brendan grinning at the memory of it all as he continued speaking.
“After a while, the screws did their utmost to avoid the passageway assignment, rarely ever bothering to count the prisoners on the way back to the prison.”
“I take it you were one of those prisoners they didn’t bother to count?”
“I worked this passageway for almost two years. Sometimes I would go disguised as another prisoner. Sometimes an extra wage package was needed to buy a screw into turning a blind eye. It got so embarrassing that sometimes I was the one taking the other prisoners across!”
“There’s something on this,” said Karl, studying the disease- riddled wall. “Long reddish streaks.”
“They look like blood smears,” replied Brendan, studying where the torchlight’s beam rested.
“I bet these flakes of paint and cement are the same as the ones trapped beneath Martina’s fingernails. This has to be the place.” A posse of dark, hairy spiders suddenly skittered across Karl’s hands, giving him the heebie-jeebies. “Shit!”
“What?”
“Spiders. The place is crawling with them – literally. I hate spiders.” A sudden flashback of a wee boy hiding in an ironing cupboard from a monster lit up in the darkness of Karl’s mind.
“This is their kingdom, Karl. Never forget that. We’re only guests. Besides, I used many webs to cover most of my digging in here during –”
“Shhhh!” hissed Karl, gripping Brendan’s shoulder. “Listen. Can you hear something?”
Tilting his head, Brendan cocked his ear. “Sounds like the wind. But that’s impossible. This place allows no natural sound.”
“Not the wind. Something … alive …” The sound was sinister, evil in an almost subconscious way, like claws on a chalkboard. Its rhythmic clicking sent a momentary shiver down Karl’s back, and not for the first time doubt began gnawing his thoughts.
Katie’s face reappeared. He blinked it quickly away.
“Don’t let it bother you, Karl. This old place can creep the strongest heart out. Anyway, there’s the metal door leading to the courthouse,” stated Brendan, pointing down the tunnel. “Come on.”
The mystery sound was still troubling Karl as Brendan removed the rucksack from his shoulders.
“The gate is totally covered in rust. It’ll never open,” said Karl, shocked at the state of the Victorian metal gate. “How on earth is Willie going to pick the lock on that thing?”
Rummaging through the bag, Brendan suddenly produced a collection of items, some wrapped in greaseproof paper.
“Despite his expertise, Willie couldn’t pick this lock, Karl. This calls for something unconventional. Something a bit more … flexible.”
“What’s that stuff you’re bending?” asked Karl, staring at the brick-orange piece of rubbery s
ubstance being manipulated by Brendan’s hand.
“Semtex. A plastic explosive. Very malleable and twice as powerful as TNT.”
“What?” Karl’s stomach suddenly began tightening into knots. “Are you out of your mind? You’re not seriously going to use that stuff?”
“You have some other magical alternative, like abracadabra? This door hasn’t been opened in years. Do you really think that a key or pick will open it? That’s why the cops ignored it.”
“But … isn’t it dangerous, in such a confined space? If there’s a tunnel at the back of this door, surely it’ll …” Karl’s voice trailed off.
“Collapse on anyone in there? It’s not a tunnel behind those doors, but the annex area of the courthouse.” Brendan shook his head. “Besides, I only need a minuscule amount, just enough to take the door down. I came prepared for this eventuality, Karl. I’ve calculated the risks and the chances, over and over in my head. I warned you that things would get messy.”
“I didn’t realise explosives would have to be brought into it.”
“If we use the front of the jail to gain entry into the courthouse, the cops stationed on the Antrim Road will spot us. It would be impossible to go unnoticed. Unless, of course, you owned the place like Bob Hannah. No doubt he was able to come and go as he pleased without arousing suspicion.”
“I …”
“Tell you what,” said Brendan impatiently. “Say the word and the Semtex goes back in the bag. But I’m telling you now, there is no other way of that door being opened.”
Karl licked dried lips. His mouth felt like cotton. “No … no, let’s do it. Just be careful … please.”
“We’ll head back down the tunnel. I’ve set this timer for two minutes. It’ll give us plenty of time,” said Brendan, picking up his rucksack.
“Won’t they hear this, outside?”
“Don’t worry about that. This small amount of explosives will be well muffled by the thickness of the walls.”
Karl turned, quickly walking back down The Tunnel, torchlight in his hands, expecting the whole place to collapse all around him.
“How far is safe?” asked Karl, suddenly walking faster.
“How long is a piece of string?” responded Brendan. “Just keep walking until I tell you.”
“I really hope you know what you’re doing …”
“Hope has nothing to do with it.”
Hope is all I have, thought Karl.
“Okay. This is far enough,” stated Brendan, halting ten seconds later. “Get tight against the wall and block your ears.”
Popping his fingers into his ears, Karl waited, dreading what the sensation would be like. Each passing second seemed like an hour.
Suddenly, a muffled sound rattled along the ground, shaking Karl, sending particles of the wall crumbling down upon his head. His spine seemed to move slightly out of kilter.
“It’s over,” said Brendan, dusting himself down. “Are you okay?”
Opening his eyes, Karl tried blinking away the dust. Everything was weirdly silent, like snow falling on a lake. Grey darkness was everywhere as dust began settling, exposing a curtain of dull light where the old door had once been.
“That … that was madness. It was the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” said Karl, shaking his head with disbelief.
“I gauged the back-draft of the explosion. There was nothing to worry about,” assured Brendan.
“Nothing to worry about? Tell that to the torchlight,” said Karl, holding up the cracked and now useless item.
“Shit! We needed that damn light. That’s the first time I ever saw that happen.”
“Just to be on the safe side, let me call Willie. See if he heard the explosion up on the street.”
“You’re wasting your time,” said Brendan, handing Karl a walkie-talkie. “Willie – or anyone else, for that matter – wouldn’t have heard the explosion. It was too muffled.”
“Willie? Can you hear me, Willie,” said Karl, speaking into the walkie-talkie. “Come in, Willie.”
Nothing; only radio static filling the air.
“Willie? Can you hear me?”
“Willie can no longer hear you, Karl,” replied the calm voice of Robert Hannah, crackling from the walkie-talkie. “He’s gone to meet his maker.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“And in the icy silence of the tomb …”
John Keats, “This Living Hand”
“Hannah …?” said Karl, hesitantly.
No answer, only static laughter.
“Hannah!” hissed Karl. “What … what have you done … what have you done with Willie, you bastard?”
“Done? Done is the operative word, dear Karl. All your fault, I hasten to add. You brought Silly Willie here, and he cursed your name to high heaven while I slit his throat from ear to ear. Squealed like a pig while crying for his wife. Isabel, I think her name was. Hard to make out with all that lovely warm blood gurgling in his large mouth.”
“You fucking bastard!” Karl’s grip tightened on the walkie-talkie. “When I get my hands on –”
“You’ll have the opportunity soon. I’m so close to you, Karl, I can see the sweat on your brow, the terror in your face. Want me to reach out and touch you?”
A shiver ran immediately up Karl’s spine. He glanced quickly from left to right, but before he could say another word, Brendan snatched the walkie-talkie from his hand.
“Enough! We’ve got work to do.”
“Willie’s dead,” mumbled Karl, visibly shaken.
“I heard that much,” replied Brendan, nodding solemnly. “I’m sorry, but we’ve got to keep moving. The anteroom is directly beneath us. Come on, but be careful where you walk. With no torchlight, it’s going to be treacherous.”
Karl followed, zombie-like, his head filling with accusations and guilt. He could see Isabel’s angry face as he relayed the news of Willie’s murder to her. She’d hate him for dragging her husband into this.
“Snap out of it!” snapped Brendan, suddenly shaking Karl by the shoulders. “You’re becoming a liability. Wallow later in self-pity. You haven’t earned the ticket for a guilt trip. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Less than five minutes later, the duo stood at the entrance of the impressive anteroom.
“Is it locked?” asked Karl, watching Brendan running his hands over the door’s metal skin.
“Sealed tight. I can blow it off its hinges, but it’ll be so dark in there, it’ll be almost impossible to see anything. I’m going to have to use one of the two flares. I wanted to keep them both, in case of an emergency.”
“What’s that black shadow sticking out from the wall, over there?”
“Huh?” muttered Brendan, turning to see what Karl was pointing at.
“Over beside that wall with the water pipes.”
“I hope it’s what I think it is,” replied Brendan.
“What is it?”
Bending beside the outpost, Brendan quickly removed a cigarette lighter from his pocket before firing it up, the flame long as a welding torch. “An emergency generator,” he replied, pulling at the door.
The generator’s door opened without protest.
“Is it working?”
“It’s been greased lately,” replied Brendan, pushing his finger against a green button made of glass. “Someone’s been making use of it. More than likely Hannah.”
The generator began sporadically humming for a few seconds before shuddering to a deadly silence.
“Can you fix it?” asked Karl, concern in his voice.
“I’m trying,” said Brendan, pushing the button once again. “C’mon! Work!”
The sporadic humming recommenced, slowly building into a continuation before shuddering violently.
Karl held his breath.
Suddenly, a deafening clicking sound began emitting from the generator, and the thinnest of lights magically appeared from beneath the anteroom.
“It’s working! The ligh
ts are on in the anteroom. Get over in that corner – hurry,” instructed Brendan, producing a tiny piece of Semtex from the rucksack, before attaching it to a timer.
Seconds later, he was running to join Karl.
“Heads down!”
The explosion was duller than the first one, but Karl’s ears popped horribly.
“I could never get used to this sort of shit,” mumbled Karl, nerves frayed.
“No one ever gets use to it,” stated Brendan.
Both men waited, watching the dust do a tornado dance. Two minutes later, it downgraded to a harmless swirling before revealing a gaping hole where the door had once stood guard.
“Stay here,” commanded Brendan. “We don’t know what’s in –”
“Just try and stop me,” hissed Karl, pushing past Brendan. “Just try …”
Seconds later, both men stepped inside, with Karl immediately taking in the entire scene.
The shock flared his eyes.
The floor had been torn up with tiny mounds of dirt coning the surface. Empty take-away cartons were strewn everywhere; discarded milk bottles filling a far corner, their contents thick with curdled cobalt-coloured sourness. The milky sourness was being suffocated by a mustier undercurrent of excrement and eye-stinging piss. Shabby clothes carpeted the ground in a tapestry of eerie colours.
Discovering a small stick, Brendan bent down and began fishing the collage of debris, as if looking for clues. Hooking an item, he stood and scrutinised it, spreading it out like the wings of a dead bird. It was a bra, simple in design and filthy with grime.
Karl wanted to look more carefully at the clothing, but he dreaded what it would tell him.
Brendan seemed on the verge of asking something, but said nothing after glancing at Karl’s concerned face.
Continuing his search, Brendan picked up a plastic milk carton, sniffing the contents before finally scrutinising the plastic skin. “Good,” he said, breaking Karl’s thoughts.
“Good? What the hell do you mean, good?”
“All this stuff. Someone’s been here … could still be here. The sell-by date of this milk is still fine.”
Karl felt his heart move up a notch. Everything Brendan said had the ring of possibility about it.
