by Frank Almond
“Hey! Where d’you think you’re going?” said the Duck, as I hurriedly left the table.
“Er, I was just, um—”
“Siddown! Nobody leaves without the others,” he said. “We haven’t had our spotted dick and custard yet.”
“I’ve lost my appetite,” I said, slumping back down. “I was just going to go up and lie in my bunk.”
“Yeah, well, mooning around up there won’t help, just you stay there—and when they come round with the desserts—tell ’em you want a double helping of spotted dick and custard and give it to me,” said the Duck.
“Are you going to eat those spuds, Stephen?” said Jemmons.
“Help yourself,” I said.
“Here—scrape his Yorkshires onto my plate, Jemmsey—I’ll have them,” said the Duck. “Go on—give me his swede and carrot as well then.”
“You should eat,” said De Quipp, slicing off a small piece of his beef and placing it delicately onto his tongue.
I folded my arms and ignored him.
“Can’t you-know-what on an empty stomach—what?” said our phoney pilot friend.
“Well, I don’t know where you put it all, Archie—you must have hollow legs,” I said. “You’re eating like Douglas Bader.”
The Duck gave me a kick under the table.
“Got to keep one’s strength up, old man.”
“Just mind you don’t go through the ice, Archie—eating all that,” I said.
The Duck whispered in my ear, “We’ve got a problem with him.”
“What’s that?” I whispered back, like a ventriloquist.
The Duck leaned in again. “He insists on staying close to you.”
“Lucky me,” I said, again without moving my lips.
“They must have told him and Reggie not to let you or me out of their sight,” whispered the Duck.
I coughed into my hand and then spoke through it in the Duck’s ear. “I’ve got an idea.”
The Duck dropped his fork and bent down to pick it up. I dropped my napkin and bent down to join him, below the level of the table.
“What idea?” he said.
“Tell Ali we can only take one—him or Archie—the strongest gets the ticket,” I smiled.
The Duck stifled a laugh. “Nice one, my son!”
We both sat up again.
I removed a biro from the breast pocket of the Duck’s biggles and wrote this note on my napkin: I’ll go tell Ali.
The Duck took his pen out of my hand, held it up to the light to check how much ink I’d used, and put it back in his pocket.
I got up. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have to go upstairs,” I announced. “Be back in two pulls of a chain.”
“Yeah, yeah—just do it—don’t write us a bloody sonnet about it,” said the Duck, waving his fork at me and pulling a pained expression.
I strolled through the dining hall on the lookout for Ali. I spotted him five tables away and tapped him on the shoulder as I walked past. By the time I reached the staircase up to the dorm, he was right behind me.
“The washroom,” I said, without looking round.
He let me walk ahead a little way. I got to the top corridor and turned into the washroom. He followed me in.
I turned round and he tried to embrace and kiss me.
“What’re you doing?” I cried. “Get off me!”
“Just Ali’s little joke,” he grinned.
“Yeah, well—you were a little bit too convincing, mate.”
He walked over to one of the plastic mirrors and inspected himself fondly. “What you want?” he said.
“There’s one place—it’s either you or Archie. You’ll have to cut cards or something,” I said.
He turned round and pulled out a huge curved dagger from somewhere inside his biggles—all in one smooth movement.
“Aunt bloody Nora!”
“I think Archie won’t make the cut,” he said, curling lip like an Elvis impersonator.
“No killing, Ali,” I said, sounding uncannily like one of my old school teachers.
* * *
I rejoined the others and smiled across at Archie as I sat down.
“What-ho, old man—touch of Delhi-belly?” he said.
I grimaced. “It feels just like someone’s sticking a knife in me—d’you know what I mean, Arch?” I said.
The Duck kicked me under the table.
“I hope you’re going to be fit enough to go over the wall, mate,” he said. “We don’t want any little accidents on the way down.”
“Don’t say that word,” I said.
“What—‘accidents’?” he smirked.
“No—‘go,’” I said.
* * *
Half an hour later we were all ready to go. Now here’s where it all got a bit strange. I stayed close to the Duck, but as soon as we got up on the landing both he and De Quipp darted into the toilet, telling me, Jemmons, Archie, and Reggie to wait outside. And then when the two of them didn’t come back out, Archie started to get a bit jittery and went in to find out what was keeping them. We couldn’t stop him. He never came out again. I still to this day don’t know what happened to him in that washroom, but I’ve got a pretty good idea. Now, here’s the thing of it—Ali then came out with the Duck and they both grabbed Reggie and dragged him off towards the dorm.
“Wait there!” the Duck shouted back.
“Hey? What about us?” I called after him.
I looked at Jemmons and we both shrugged. At this stage I didn’t know where De Quipp and Archie were, so I said to Jemmons we should go in to the washroom and have a look for them. No sooner had we got through the door than the Duck barged into us and pushed us outside again.
“What the—? I thought you just went up there,” I said.
“That was De Quipp,” he said.
“But he looked exactly like you,” I said. “Didn’t he, Rog?”
“The spitting image,” said Jemmons.
“It was make-up—we made a mask—hid it in the washroom—now no more questions,” said the Duck. “Come on—I’ve had a new hole cut in the overflow pipe, the bugs sealed the last one up—our boards should already be in there.”
He herded us towards the landing.
“Down here.”
The great pipe ran along the back of the landing and right out over the basement.
“There’s something very fishy going on,” I said, as the Duck was removing a small section of the pipe, which had been pre-cut and carefully put back in place.
“Aye, and there’s nothing new in that,” said Jemmons.
“Just keep a lookout,” said the Duck. He shone a torch around inside. “Right, Roger—you’re the biggest—you first.”
I had stepped over by the rail along the landing and was keeping an eye out for anyone coming up the stairs or around the corner from the wing. I looked round and saw the rear of Jemmons disappearing into the hole.
“Right, now you,” said the Duck.
I hurried over and climbed up into the pipe, and then turned round and offered my hand to the Duck. He gripped my wrist and I hoisted him in. He brought the panel with him and now gently replaced it from the inside, using strips of, er, duck tape he got from one of his many pockets, while Jemmons held the torch light on it for him. Meanwhile, I had spotted the snowboards and immediately started looking through them for the one with the holes. There were five boards in all and I found two with holes in right at the bottom of the pile. The Duck had obviously copied me. I pulled one clear and took a laundry trolley wheel out of my thigh cargo pocket to try it in one of the holes. It fitted perfectly. If anything it was a little loose, but it was good enough for my purposes.
Jemmons was watching me.
“That’s a good idea,” he said.
“Just in case,” I said.
The Duck came over, took the torch back off Jemmons, and picked up a board. “Bring the rest,” he said, and set off along the tunnel. We took two boards each and followed him. I we
nt second.
The tunnel was so big that even Jemmons only had to bow his head slightly to walk upright in it. It was the same tunnel the Duck and I came in through, but this time we were going the other way, though there was still a strong smell of biogas. It was strange to think that we were walking out over the dining hall, which was probably some twenty feet below us. The pool of light from the Duck’s torch wobbled about ahead of us up the dark tunnel like a giant amoeba on a microscope slide, picking out swatches of green slime and casting eerie shadows.
“This is the storm drain,” said the Duck. “There’s a shaft all the way up somewhere.”
“Like that one we fell down?” I said.
“No—nothing like that one—this one’s got a ladder, according to the plans,” said the Duck.
“Good,” I said. “What about Emma and the Princess—how are they getting up?”
“We’re meeting them—there should be a riot starting about now on G Wing—courtesy of the Colonel. The women’s dorm is right above it, under the infirmary.”
“Why don’t we follow this drain all the way out of here?” said Jemmons. “Be a lot easier.”
The Duck stopped and turned round. I bumped into him. He pushed me aside and shone his torch up into Jemmons’s squinting eyes.
“Because, Roger,” he said patiently, “we’ve already sussed that one—it doesn’t go outside—it goes straight down into an underground lake—and then out into the sea. Which is under about thirty feet of bleeding pack ice—does that answer your question?”
“I’m sorry I spoke,” said Jemmons, shielding his eyes with his hands.
The Duck turned on his heels and soldiered on, swiping a dangle of slimy stuff out of his face.
“Livingstone Duck,” I sniggered.
“Shut up.”
We continued in silence until we came to a thirty-degree downturn. Well, it looked pretty steep to me.
“I thought we were supposed to be going up,” I said.
“It must be down here,” said the Duck, slipping and sliding onward. “Come on—”
At that moment he lost his balance and splatted down on his backside. Jemmons and I sensibly held back.
“Looks dangerous,” I said. “You sure that’s the right way?”
“Course it’s the right way!”
Jemmons pointed upwards. “What’s that hole?” he said.
I could hardly make it out. “Throw me the torch, Duck,” I said.
“Help me up then!” he quacked.
Jemmons held my hand and I ventured a little way down the slippery slope and grabbed the Duck’s outstretched hand to pull him back up. He pushed us both out of his way and went straight over to shine the torch up the hole himself.
“No,” he said. “That’s not it. It’s too narrow. That can’t be it. Can it?”
“Lift me up on your shoulders, Rog—I’ll have a closer look,” I said.
Jemmons knelt down on one knee and I sat on his back with my legs around his neck. He kept stooped and bore me over to the hole. The Duck passed me up his torch. I got my head in line with the hole.
“All right, Rog.”
Jemmons straightened up slowly and my head and shoulders rose straight up through the hole.
“What can you see?” called the Duck.
“Yeah—it’s a shaft. This looks like a drainage hole—there’s a grille—hang on, I’ll try to move it.”
I pushed up with the flat of my hand and dislodged the cover easily. Then I reached both my hands up and hauled myself through. When I stood up, I found myself in a shaft some four feet square.
The Duck’s hands and then head appeared by my feet and I helped him in. Then we both reached back down to pull Jemmons and the boards up. Once we were all in the shaft, I kicked the grille cover back in place. We were now standing in a tight circle, staring each other in the face.
“Where’s the bloody ladder then?” quacked the Duck.
“Um?”
“I told you it wasn’t the right way!” he said, giving me a push.
I pushed him back.
The Duck snatched his torch off me and shone it up the shaft.
“I think I can get up there,” said Jemmons. He handed us the boards and spat on the palms of his hands. “Give me some room, boys.”
The Duck and I squeezed ourselves up into a corner. Jemmons braced his heels against one wall and fell forwards, stopping himself hitting the opposite wall with his hands. Then, drawing first his right foot up the wall and then the left, he began walking up the shaft, hand over hand. The Duck nudged me and I saw he had taken an orange fishing line out of his biggles and was tying the boards together. I passed him my two and went back to watching Jemmons.
“Sod that!” I said. “How far up does it go?”
“It’s no height at all,” laughed Jemmons. “Have you never been out on the yardarm of one of His Majesty’s ships of the line in a force nine gale, crossing the Bay of Biscay, sonny?”
“Not recently, Rog,” I said.
Jemmons disappeared up into the darkness. We looked at each other. The Duck, who was by far the shortest, stuck the torch in his mouth, paid out all of the nylon line, tied the end around his waist, walked out into the middle of the shaft, swung his arms about, looked up, clapped his hands, shuffled backwards, braced his heels against the foot of the wall, fell forwards, and knocked himself out cold on the opposite wall.
“What was that?” called Jemmons.
“Midshipman Duck just fell off the floor,” I said.
Jemmons cackled and started whistling a hornpipe.
I picked up the torch and shone it in one of the Duck’s eyes. The eyeball moved about. I did the same to the other one. I dropped the torch and jumped back with a yelp. To my horror—the Duck’s eye was still and staring, but worse than that I could see the telltale red light of a camera lens in the retina.
“What’s up?” called Jemmons, sounding farther away than I wanted him to be at that moment.
“The-the Duck’s a-cl-clone!” I stammered. I started to shake uncontrollably.
“He’s a clown all right!” laughed Jemmons, and carried on whistling.
The Duck was still slumped against the wall opposite me. Not moving. I reached out slowly for the torch, without taking my eyes off the shadowy figure. My hand touched the torch. Suddenly, another hand grabbed mine and I dropped it again with a loud gasp. Instinctively my arms and legs recoiled from the thing I had thought was the Duck.
“Give me that!”
“Duck?” I said.
“What?” He shone the torch in my face. I winced and averted my eyes. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he said. “You look like you’ve just seen a Benetton ad.”
“You’re a—you’re a clone,” I said.
“Clone. I’m not a clone. How am I a bleeding clone?”
“Your eye—your left eye—it’s a camera,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s false. I had a digital one fitted years ago. Come on—to rest is not to conquer!” He stood up.
“So you’re not one of them?” I said.
“Not the last time I looked. Here, hold that,” he said, handing me the torch. He shuffled backwards to wedge his heels. This time he remembered to throw his hands out to stop himself. And then he was away, jiggling up the shaft like a mechanical monkey.
“Who is Matthew Turner? And how did you first hear about him?” I said, shining the torch on his face, as he ascended into the darkness.
“Your so-called mate,” he laughed.
“They could know that,” I shouted up. “What did you show me about him?”
“Newspaper clipping!” called the Duck. “He sold his story to the Sunday papers—made you look a right pratt! I still read it when I want a good laugh!”
That was definitely the Duck up there. I braced my heels, put the torch in my mouth, and fell forwards. And then I was shuffling my hands and feet up the sides of the shaft to join him. It was easier than it looked. The walls
were, of course, made of a plastic resin and were uneven, so they gave plenty of grip. However, after several meters of this crab-like wall-walking, my arms and legs began to tire—but what was worse, I could hear the Duck panting and gasping somewhere above me. Now, if he fell it would be—
“Aa-aghhhh!”
I felt an almighty jolt on my back and instinctively dug in with my toes and fingers. Arms and legs were all over me. The torch beam was flashing about on the wall as I tried to flick off the tangle of fishing line that had fallen around my face and hair. Someone was panting very heavily in my ear like a nuisance caller in a hurry. And then I felt myself slipping.
“Carn’t rold oo—gerroff!” I said, through a mouthful of torch.
I felt an elbow in my back and then a knee—some of the weight lifted off me. I could hear fingernails scrabbling on the wall overhead.
“Hang about,” gasped the Duck. “Nearly there.”
“Gerroff—hine going!” I mumbled.
At last the load came off my back—my fingers and feet flexed. My spine almost sprang back into position with the release of tension. It was lucky the Duck was five feet nothing much and as light as a feather. Now, if Jemmons had fallen—but let’s not go there!
I snatched the torch out of my mouth and held it on the wall under my hand. “You bloody idiot!” I screamed. I craned my neck round and saw the Duck’s red and puffy face grinning down at me. “You nearly had me off.”
“I lost my grip,” he said.
“You’ll lose more than that when I get hold of you!”
“Ahoy down there!” called Jemmons.
“Ahoy, Rog!” quacked the Duck.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah—Stephen slipped and I had to help him!” smirked the Duck, and sped away from me.
I grabbed the fishing line and yanked it.
“Hey—no! Pack it in!” he panicked.
I laughed ghoulishly and yanked it again.
“If I go—you go!” he sneered.
I let go and carried on climbing.
“Pipe down,” whispered Jemmons. “Someone’s coming.”
“Hey?” said the Duck. “He’s there.”
I put all my effort into my climbing and got back into my rhythm. I found that if I exaggerated the movement in my shoulders I could climb better—just a little tip if you’re ever in a similar fix. The best way I can describe it is you have to be like your own cox in a rowing team—egging yourself on in a set series of strokes. One, two, three—one, two, three, I was counting in my head. It really works.
