by Frank Almond
“It’s just down there,” he said. “It leads to the dorm.”
“Ah, a warm shower, something hot to drink, clean sheets,” I said, helping him up.
“You’ll be flippin’ lucky,” he said.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
We slopped and slapped along the tunnel till we came to a hole. The Duck clambered down it. I followed him and found myself on a landing overlooking an enormous boiler room or laundry—it may even have been a kitchen, for all I knew. It turned out to be all three and more, but we didn’t go down into it that night, we went up a flight of steps instead, and through a door, which brought us out into a warm corridor. I could hear and smell human beings close by.
“We can get cleaned up in here,” said the Duck. “They were originally built for the public.”
He directed me into a long empty washroom with dozens of toilet cubicles down one side and dozens of white porcelain hand basins down the other.
“Reminds me of my old prep school,” I said. “No showers?”
“There’s a shower, but it’s not hot,” said the Duck.
“Don’t care,” I said. “When you’ve survived two years at St Winifrid’s Preparatory School for Boys, you can endure anything. Take me to it.”
* * *
We showered in our clothes and then took them off, put them all back on again inside out and showered in them again—that was the Duck’s idea—and, finally, we showered with them off. And then put them back on wet. Memories of St Winnie’s came flooding back.
I had lost my trench coat and my shoes—the Duck, amazingly, seemed to be completely intact. But from what he told me, he had fallen in the Castle bilge loads of times and showed me the tidemark around his neck to prove it.
“So, how long have you been here?” I asked, as we walked along a warm passageway towards the din.
“Six months,” he replied.
“Six months? Who else is here? Has Emma turned up yet?”
“All in good time, mate,” he said, as we came to an impressive looking dungeon door. “Welcome to H Wing!”
He threw open the door and all I could see was row upon row of bunks and a mass of identically dressed inmates milling about. They were all wearing the regulation black boiler suits—though all variously adapted and customized by their owners—and all, as far as I could make out, male.
“Isn’t Emma here?” I said, attempting to look around farther on tiptoes. I could make out a far wall, but all I could see on the right, in the distance, were bars and bright lights beyond.
“No—it’s men only in this dorm. Come on, let’s change out of these wet clothes,” said the Duck, shoving a couple of the guys out of his way and dragging me through the throng. Everyone we barged past looked round aggressively, or in annoyance, at first, but, seeing it was the Duck, immediately grinned and apologized—and I noticed they all called him “Doc” or “Doctor.”
“What’s with the ‘Doctor’ thing?” I said.
“They make us use our real names and titles in here,” he said. “Everyone of these men that you see is a time traveller—and not just any old time traveller—we’re all re-offenders—men who have escaped many times before. Corrective Measures hasn’t found a prison that can hold us yet. So it sends us here—no man or woman has ever escaped from the Castle.” He lowered his voice. “I intend to be the first.”
“Yeah-yeah. You mentioned women—where are the women?” I said.
“They’re in a separate dorm—and that’s off limits,” said the Duck. “This way.”
I hurried after him. “Off limits? Well, when am I going to get to see Emma?”
“It’s a prison, Son—not a blinking knocking shop,” said the Duck. “You’ll see her soon enough. Now, button it—they don’t like us talking about birds. We’re supposed to be getting re-educated.”
“What—not to think about women? That’s a bit dangerous in an all-male dorm, innit?”
The Duck gave me a lopsided grin. “Come on—you’ll be all right—you’re with me.”
I patted him on the head. “That’s very reassuring.”
He knocked my hand away. “Hey! Don’t touch the barnet—in this place that’s considered dating!”
I whipped my hand away and wiped it on my backside, then quickly switched to my trouser leg, looking round to see if anyone had noticed.
We turned sharp left and headed down a walkway between two rows of bunk beds. All the bunks in these rows had canopies over the top bunk and black curtains around the upper and lower for privacy—like puppet theatres. The Duck stopped at one and drew back the curtain to reveal a comfortable enough looking berth, but without any personal touches or possessions, not even a shaving mirror.
“This one’s mine—I reserved you the top bunk,” he said.
“It’s all a bit Spartan,” I said. “How did you know I was coming?”
“I heard it on the grapevine,” he said. “Go up and get out of those damp things, I’ll find you something dry to put on.”
There was a small ladder. I climbed up it and rolled into my bunk to begin stripping off. I heard the Duck rummaging around beneath me for a few minutes.
“Give me the wet ones,” he called up. “And don’t leave anything in the pockets or your bunk—from now on you carry everything you own in your biggles.”
“What’s a biggles?” I said.
“One of these things I’m wearing,” he said. I noticed he was now wearing a dry one. “Someone nicknamed ’em after the Biggles flying suit and it stuck.”
I passed him down my bundle of wet clothes. And he handed me up a neatly folded boiler suit like his.
“It sounds a bit Boys’ Own to me,” I said, pulling my new dungeonwear on. “Just tell me what your escape plan is and let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Don’t mention that word!” hissed the Duck, through clenched teeth.
Two curtains opened across the aisle and two heads popped out. One of the guys, who had one of those handlebar moustaches British pilots used to wear in the Second World War, said, “What plan, old boy?”
“Nothing—he’s new!” snapped the Duck. “There is no bloody plan. Now, go back to bed, Archie!” He reached up and swished the guy’s curtain shut.
The other one, who looked foreign—perhaps from the Eastern Mediterranean—winked and gestured the Duck over.
“I am useful,” he whispered. And he drew his forefinger across his throat.
“I’m sure you are, Ali—but there is no plan,” said the Duck. “It was just my friend over there getting the wrong end of the stick as usual.”
Ali nodded across at me. “I will fight him—you will take the stronger,” he said.
“Oh, go back to sleep!” said the Duck, swishing his curtains across.
The Duck climbed up my ladder and eyeballed me.
“What?” I said.
“Rule number one,” he quacked, “—keep it shut! Careless talk costs plans.”
“What’s the big deal anyway?” I said. I lowered my voice. “Why can’t they think up their own plans?”
The Duck gave me another of his lopsided grins. “There’s only two men in this prison who command any respect—and you’re looking at one of them,” he said.
I looked around him. “Where?” I said. “I can’t see anyone.”
“Me,” he said, blinking his eyes patiently.
“Oh, you meant you. And who’s the other one—The Birdman of Brent Knoll?”
“The Colonel,” said the Duck.
“Who’s he when he’s at home?”
“You’ll meet him soon enough—now stay in your bunk and keep shtum—I’ll be back in ten minutes.” He swished the curtain in my face.
I swished the curtain open and called after him. “The Colonel and the Doctor? You’re having a laugh!”
* * *
It was a long ten minutes—more like forty—before I heard the ladder creaking. I must have been half-asleep, because the
first I knew about it the whole frame of the bunk was shaking. The curtains parted and a familiar face grinned in at me like an enormous Mr Punch.
“Ahoy there, matey!”
“Rog!”
“Gangway!”
I moved back and drew my legs up. Jemmons hoisted himself in and shuffled up alongside me on what was my pillow, but he was so big and burly that his head pushed the canopy up. Next came De Quipp, looking just as dapper and handsome as ever in his drab biggles, which he had customized with dozens of cargo pockets, all of which seemed to bulge with something. He tried to sit near me, but I gave him a wide berth—pardon the pun—and virtually kicked him down to the foot of the bunk, from where he had the nerve to smile at me. I glared at him. Finally, the Duck climbed in, drew the curtains closed behind him and sat right in the middle, with his back resting against the rail separating my bunk from the vacant neighbouring one—the one in the next row over.
“Right,” he said, slapping his thigh. “I’ve made some inquiries and a prisoner fitting Emma’s description was brought in early this evening.”
“Thank God for that!” I exclaimed. “I never saw them take her off.”
“No,” said the Duck, “they brought her round the other side of the island by snowmobile. You came in the tradesman’s entrance.”
Jemmons patted my shoulder and gave me a smile of encouragement. De Quipp scowled at me.
I threatened him with my finger. “If you even say her name, I’m going to break your neck, Mon Sewer,” I said. “I know all about that little love charm you implanted in her—I’m onto you.”
He said nothing but looked a little uncomfortable. He and the Duck exchanged a glance and then the Duck turned on me.
“That’s enough of that, Stephen!” he said. “We’re all comrades now.”
“I’m not his comrade!” I said.
“You don’t know the full story, Son,” said the Duck. He glanced at De Quipp again. “I’m sure that when you do, you will look upon Monsieur De Quipp with fresh, er, insight.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, pulling a face at De Quipp.
“That’s enough! We have got to work together!” snapped the Duck. “Without Monsieur De Quipp’s help we’ll never get out of here. We need him.”
“You may need him,” I said. “I just want to see him rot in hell.”
The Duck opened his mouth to have another go at me, but De Quipp merely raised his hand and the Duck closed it again.
“Is he working you with a pedal?” I said.
“Forgive me, Stephen,” said De Quipp, dropping the fake French accent he had used up till then. “Help me and I will help you.”
“That’s better—you used your real voice. I knew that other one was phoney,” I said. “I don’t forgive you, but I will help you to free the Princess. In return you will get Emma and me out of here. Have you got that?”
The Duck looked to De Quipp. De Quipp looked deeply saddened, but replied, “It’s a deal, Stephen.”
He held out his hand. I looked at it for a moment or two and then reached out and shook it. His hand felt cold and clammy, as though he had poor circulation. I studied him more closely—his face looked pale and drawn. I put it down to the six months he had done in the Castle.
The Duck put his hands over our hands and grinned at us. We both withdrew our hands.
“Now that we’ve got that settled,” he said, “let’s get down to business. We go tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow?” said Jemmons. “Ah, there’s no moon.”
“Precisely, Roger—everything’s in place—there’s no need to delay it any longer,” said the Duck.
“Wow, that soon,” I said.
“You have a problem with that, Stephen?” he said.
“No. No,” I said. “It’s just that I’ve only just got here. I haven’t had a chance to be a prisoner yet—you know, bait a few guards, play cards with the lads, dig a tunnel—the sooner the better, Duck.”
“Er, could you call me ‘Doctor’ while we’re in here, Stephen?”
“Okay,” I said, “Doctor Duck it is.”
Roger nudged me with his elbow and I heard him stifle a laugh. The Duck gave me his sick grin. I noticed De Quipp was smiling at me, too, but, dare I say it, admiringly.
“I have befriended the trustee, Reggie Goldenhair—” continued the Duck.
“—That pipsqueak!” exclaimed Jemmons. “I wouldn’t trust that little runt any farther than I could throw him!”
“And neither would I,” said the Duck. “Under normal circumstances—but needs must when the devil drives, as they say.”
“He’ll betray us,” insisted Roger, folding his arms tightly across his barrel chest.
“I hope so,” said the Duck. “I’m counting on it. ’Cos I’ve told him the wrong plan—and he thinks he’s coming with us.”
“Are we talking about the same little bald-headed bloke who helped you to winch me up?” I said.
“The very same,” confirmed the Duck.
“Your right-hand man?”
“I only told him that to gain his trust,” said the Duck. “Everybody in here knows he’s a grass, but I’m going to set him up to distract the guards from our real escape route.”
“Which is?” I said. “We’re not going down in that bloody chair, are we?”
“That’s the diversionary plan,” said the Duck. “By tomorrow night every guard on the Knoll will be watching that winch room on their security cameras. Reggie will turn up and someone who looks like me will turn up. But we will be elsewhere, my friends.”
“Where?” I said.
The Duck tapped his big nose mysteriously. “That is for my mind only at this stage,” he said.
“How do we know it’s not a daft plan?” I asked.
“Daft?” quacked the Duck. “Do you really think a place like this could hold a man like me? I’ve worked it all out, mate. Don’t you worry about that.”
“I just think we should all know what we’re getting into,” I said. “I mean, everyone knows you’re insane.”
“Steve’s right,” said Jemmons. “We have a right to know.”
“Don’t you start as well!” cried the Duck.
“The plan will work,” said De Quipp suddenly.
Jemmons and I turned our attention from the animated Duck to the calm-faced aristocrat—if he was one.
“I see, Duck,” I said, staring at De Quipp. “You and the Count of Monte Cristo here cooked this up together—right?”
“You have my personal guarantee the plan will work,” said De Quipp.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s say I believe you, just answer me one thing—where do we go when we get down onto the ice? Anybody thought about that?”
“Of course, we’ve bloody thought about that,” said the Duck. “It’s all in hand.”
“I’m asking him,” I said, nodding at De Quipp.
“I have a ship,” said De Quipp.
“A ship?” I said. “What sort of ship? And where is it? There’s nothing out there but miles and miles of ice.”
“A time ship,” replied De Quipp.
“Where?”
“He’s not going to tell you where it is, is he?” said the Duck.
“Why not?” I said. “I thought we were all comrades now.”
De Quipp pursed his lips and studied me for a second or two. “If I told you where it is hidden, you would not need me. Is this not true?” he said.
“If you mean—would I leave you out there on the ice and take off in your ship if I got the chance? The answer is yes,” I said.
“I appreciate your honesty,” said De Quipp. “And what about the Princess—would you abandon her, too?”
I shook my head. “No, just you, mate.”
“That is all I needed to know,” smiled De Quipp. “My ship is in string stasis—I have a device to activate its dimensional drive. Once we are aboard we can transflux to any time or place. In other words—we would be uncatchable.”
“What’s string stasis?” I said.
“He means it’s in a sort of time envelope,” said Jemmons. “It’s out there but not in the same dimension at any one time.”
De Quipp gave Jemmons a nod of approval. “A simplistic way of putting it, but essentially the fact.”
“This machine can cross temporal space, mate,” quacked the Duck. “It’s bloody interplanetary!”
“Now I know why we’re all in this mess,” I said.
“Are you saying this is all my fault? I was helping the Princess—” cried the Duck, looking mortified.
“Oh, forget it,” I said. “All right, suppose I buy all this—where’s the device?”
De Quipp unbuttoned the collar of his biggles and pulled out a cranberry-coloured glass rod, which he was wearing around his neck on a length of cord. It was about the size of a throwaway cigarette lighter but tapered at one end. It could have been a temporal space machine key—on the other hand, it might just as well have been a Christmas tree decoration for all I knew.
“Satisfied?” said my father.
I looked at him. “If he’s lying, I’m going to hold you personally irresponsible,” I said. “How do we get Emma and the Princess out?”
“Leave that to me,” said De Quipp.
My mouth fell open. I turned to the Duck. He smiled and nodded. I looked back at De Quipp.
“If that thing’s not out of her back by the next time I see her,” I warned him, “I am going to take that key around your neck and shove it up your—”
“—Stephen!” said the Duck.
“And snap it off,” I added.
“I will remove the device,” said De Quipp.
“Would you mind telling me why you put it there in the first place?” I said.
De Quipp shrugged. “I found her attractive.”
I smiled. “It might be fun to beat the real reason out of you some day, De Quipp,” I said.
“You won’t be beating anyone up, if you keep this up,” said my father. “Because we’ll leave you behind.”
“Oh, shut up, Dad,” I said. “You oldies always stick together.”
“So, how in tarnation are we getting off this rock, Doc?” asked Jemmons, changing the subject.
