Hell Is Too Crowded (1991)

by Jack Higgins

  The door opened and the young constable came in and handed Mallory a slip of paper. "Sergeant Gower thought you might find this interesting, sir."

  The door closed behind him and Mallory quickly scanned the paper. After a while he said, "It would appear that you're a pretty violent man when the mood takes you, Brady."

  Brady frowned. "What the hell are you getting at?"

  "We've just run a quick check to see if anything was known about you. Since flying in from Kuwait three days ago, you seem to have spent the intervening time in trying to drink yourself into an early grave. On Tuesday night you had to be ejected from a pub on the King's Road after knocking down the landlord who refused to serve you because of your condition. Later that night, you were involved in a fight in a drinking club in Soho. When the bouncer tried to throw you out, you broke his arm, but the owner refused to press charges. You were finally picked up by the police in the Haymarket at four a.m., drunk and incapable. It says here that you were fined two pounds at Bow Street yesterday. Quite a record."

  Brady got to his feet and paced restlessly across the room. "O.K., I'll tell you about it."

  He stood looking out of the window, down into the street, watching the policemen standing under the street lamp, their capes shining with rain.

  "I'm a constructional engineer. Work mostly on bridges and dams and that sort of thing. I met a girl in London last year called Katie Holdt. She was German, working for some family over here as a children's nurse while she learned the language. I fell pretty hard, wanted to marry her, but I was short of cash."

  "And what was your solution?" Mallory said.

  Brady shrugged. "There was an opening in Kuwait--a new dam. The money was exceptional as nobody wanted the job. Working conditions were pretty grim, mainly because of the heat. I took it on, lived off the company for ten months and had my salary credited to Katie here in London."

  Mallory looked pained. "And the usual thing happened, I suppose?"

  Brady nodded. "I flew in three days ago after ten months of hell and discovered from her employer that she'd returned to Germany a month ago to get married." He slammed a balled fist into his palm. "And there was nothing I could do about it--not a damned thing. It was all legal."

  "And so you decided to get drunk," Mallory said. "So drunk, you didn't know what you were doing for most of the time."

  Brady shook his head deliberately. "O.K., Inspector, so I got drunk. I even got mixed up in a couple of brawls, but I didn't kill that woman."

  Mallory got to his feet. He crossed to a small dressing-table, picked up a mirror and held it out. "Take a look!" he said. "Take a good look!"

  The blood from the scratches had dried and they looked ugly and somehow sinister. Brady touched them gently with his fingertips. "You mean she did that?" he said in a whisper.

  Mallory nodded. "The doctor took blood and skin from underneath the fingernails of her right hand. He'll examine you when we get down to the station."

  Brady clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. "I'm an American citizen. I'd like to get in touch with my Embassy."

  "That's already been taken care of," Mallory said, opening the door into the bathroom.

  Brady made one more try. He paused in the doorway. "Let's go over this thing again, Mallory. There's got to be an answer somewhere."

  "There's only one thing might help you now, Brady," Mallory told him, "and that's a lawyer. I'd ask your Embassy to get you a good one. The best there is. You're going to need all the help you can get."

  Gower was standing outside and his eyes glittered malevolently as Brady moved past him. They took him downstairs and paused at the top of the steps while Gower produced a pair of handcuffs.

  It was still foggy and the rain bounced from the asphalt surface of the street in solid rods. Several police cars were parked in the road and a small group of curious people crowded along the railings, held back by a couple of constables. It looked as if most of the inhabitants of the quiet street had turned out, probably awakened by the unaccustomed noise of the cars.

  As Gower clamped one steel bracelet around the American's wrist, Brady stiffened suddenly. Standing out from the mass of faces was one he was already only too familiar with. In the same moment, its owner melted into the fog at the rear of the crowd and disappeared.

  Brady pulled away from Gower and jumped down into the crowd, the handcuffs swinging from one wrist. He burst his way through and then someone stretched out a foot and tripped him so that he fell heavily. As he started to get up, they were upon him.

  Gower twisted his arm and Brady turned desperately as the inspector came forward, "I saw him, Mallory," he said. "He was there at the back of the crowd watching. He can't have got far."

  In the light of the street lamp, Mallory looked suddenly more tired than ever. "For God's sake, cut it out, Brady! This isn't going to get you anywhere."

  Brady's control snapped completely. He lifted an elbow into Gower's face, tore free, and plunged through the crowd, striking out madly at the faces which surrounded him.

  It was no good. He pulled away from the clutching hands and turned with his back to the railings. "Come on!" he cried. "Come and get me, you bastards!"

  They came in a rush, Gower leading the way. Brady smashed a fist into the detective's face and then a staff cracked down across his right arm. He swung again with his left. Someone twisted it behind his back and they forced him down against the wet flagstones. He cursed and kicked out wildly.

  It took six of them to get him into the car.

  (3)

  THE governor of Manningham Gaol sighed. Men who had been in the condemned cell always seemed to have that look about them--as if the whole world was their enemy. On the other hand he'd always considered it rather barbaric to let a man sweat it out until the appointed day was almost upon him before reprieving him. It was hardly to be wondered that anyone who had gone through such an experience should be different from other men.

  It was eight o'clock in the evening and he was already late for a bridge party. He shuffled the reports neatly together, replaced them in their file, and leaned back in his chair.

  "This is a maximum-security prison, Brady," he said. "There's no way out except through the front gate. That's why men are sent here. You'll find that most of the inmates are serving long sentences or life, like yourself. Have you any questions?"

  "No, sir!" Brady said.

  The light from the desk threw his face into relief. It had fined down in the past three months and there was a touch of grey in his hair. His eyes were cold and hard and devoid of any expression. He looked a thoroughly dangerous man and the governor sighed. "I understand you attacked a prison officer while on remand at Wandsworth? I wouldn't advise that sort of thing here."

  "I was under great stress at the time," Brady said.

  The governor made no comment, but opened the file again. "You were a constructional engineer by profession, I see. We'll be able to make use of you. We're building our own extensions, within the walls, of course. There's no reason why you shouldn't start in the morning with the others."

  "Thank you, sir!" Brady said.

  "Of course, I need hardly mention that it's a privilege which will be revoked at the first sign of bad behaviour. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Perfectly, sir!"

  The governor smiled briefly. "If you feel in need of advice at any time, Brady, don't hesitate to see me. That's what I'm here for."

  He got to his feet as a sign that the interview was over and the chief officer led Brady out.

  Manningham was the third prison Brady had been in during the past three months and he looked about him with interest as he was taken to the clothing store, then to the kitchen for a meal, and finally to his cell.

  The building had been constructed in the reform era of the middle of the nineteenth century on a system commonly found in Her Majesty's Prisons. Four, three-tiered cell blocks radiated like the spokes of a wheel from a central hall which lifted 150 feet i
nto the gloom to an iron-framed glass dome.

  Each cell block was separated from the central hall by a curtain of steel mesh for reasons of safety, and the chief officer unlocked the gate into C Block and motioned Brady through.

  They mounted an iron staircase to the dimly lit top landing. The whole place was wrapped in an unnatural quiet and the landing was boxed in with more steel mesh to stop anyone who felt like it, from taking a dive over the rail. It gave one a feeling of being in a steel labyrinth and Brady shivered slightly as the Chief paused outside the end door on the landing and unlocked it.

  The cell was larger than he had anticipated. There was a small barred window, a washbasin and fixed toilet in one corner. Against one wall, there was a double bunk, against the other, a single truckle bed.

  A man was lying on the single bed reading a magazine. He looked about sixty, white hair close-cropped to his skull, eyes a vivid blue in the wrinkled, humorous face.

  "New cell mate for you, Evans," the Chief said. "He'll be joining the gang on the building site tomorrow. Show him the ropes." He turned to Brady. "Remember what the governor said and watch your step. Play fair with me, and I'll play fair with you."

  The door closed behind him with a slight clang and the sound of the key turning in the lock seemed to carry with it all the finality in the world.

  "Play fair with me and I'll play fair with you." The man on the bed snorted in disgust. "What a load of crap." He sat up and produced a twenty packet of cigarettes from under his pillow. "Have a fag, son. My name's Joe Evans. You'll be Brady, I suppose?"

  "That's right." Brady took a cigarette. "How did you know?"

  Evans shrugged and gave him a light. "Got it on the vine from Wandsworth. Hear you tried to do a screw down there?"

  Brady lay on the bottom bunk and inhaled with conscious pleasure. "He needled me from the day they got me in there on remand. I couldn't take any more."

  "Those Sunday papers gave you a rough time, didn't they?" Evans chuckled. "I expected you to have fangs and two heads."

  In spite of himself, Brady grinned, and Evans smiled back at him. "That's the way, son. Don't let the bastards get you down. If you ever feel really depressed, spit right in some screw's eye. It can always be guaranteed to liven things up."

  "I'll bet it can," Brady said. "What's it like here?"

  "Better than some. They'll be sticking some other bloke into that top bunk soon, but you've got to expect that these days. I came here three years ago when they made it a maximum-security nick for bad lads. There hasn't been a single crash-out since then."

  "How long have you got to do?"

  The old man grinned. "That's up to the Board. I've served six years of a seven-stretch. Would have been out by now if I'd minded my manners to start with." He blew smoke up in a long plume to the ceiling. "Not to worry. My old woman's got a nice little guest house going in Cornwall. They won't see me back here again."

  "I seem to have heard that one somewhere before," Brady said.

  "But I mean it," Evans said. "I'll tell you something, son. You know what ruined me? Being too good at my bloody job. When I blow a safe, it makes no more noise than a mild belch. Trouble is, I do it so expertly, the cops always know where to come."

  "You seem to have things pretty well organized here anyway," Brady said, holding up his cigarette.

  Evans grinned. "I'm not complaining. You fell on your feet, getting in with me, son."

  "What's this building work the governor was telling me about?"

  "They can't cope with the crime wave, so we're having to build 'em another cell block in the main yard. It's a good number. Better than sewing mailbags or sitting on your fanny in here all day going slowly nuts. Should last another ten months if we take it easy."

  "I don't intend to be around that long." Brady stood up and went and peered out of the window. The outer wall was perhaps forty feet high and the main railway line ran on the other side of it. Beyond, through the autumn night, the lights of Manningham gleamed fitfully. They might as well have been on another planet.

  "Now look, son," Evans said seriously. "Don't beat your head against a stone wall. That's the way to end up in the other place. Nobody can crack this can. I've been here three years and I tried every possibility. There's no way out."

  Brady turned and looked at him. "But I've got to get out. I was framed, Evans. Somebody else battered that girl and used me as a fall guy. I want to know who and why."

  "The story you told at the trial was one thing," Evans said. "It was a good try, but it didn't work. We're all guilty in this place. Guilty of getting caught."

  Brady shrugged helplessly. "Sometimes I think I must be the only sane person in a world gone mad." He walked across to the door and touched it lightly with his fingers. "If only I could open this for a start."

  Evans stood up and crossed to the cupboard under the washbasin. He opened it and took out an ordinary spoon. "Always happy to oblige."

  He pushed Brady out of the way and knelt down in front of the door. The lock was covered by a steel plate perhaps nine inches square. He quickly bent the handle of the spoon and forced it between the edge of the plate and the jamb. He worked it around for a few moments and there was a click. He pulled and the door opened slightly.

  "God Almighty!" Brady said.

  Evans pushed the door gently into place and worked the spoon round again. There was another slight click and he stood up.

  "But that's incredible," Brady said.

  Evans shook his head. "An old lag's trick. Plenty of geezers in this place can do as much. Most of these doors are mortice deadlocks, fitted years ago. One of these days they'll get wise and change them." He grinned. "Not that it would matter much. Show me any key you like for five seconds and I'll copy it from memory."

  He went back to his bed and lit another cigarette. "But I don't understand," Brady said. "You told me it was impossible to crash-out of this place."

  The old man shook his head pityingly. "Have another fag, son, and let me tell you the facts of life. Getting out of this cell is only the start. You've got to get through the cell-block gates downstairs. That puts you in the central hall. From there you've got no less than five gates to pass through before you hit the yard, and the main entrance is a fort by itself. Even the governor has a pass." He shook his head. "This is maximum security, son. Some of the worst bastards in the business are doing time here. That's why they converted the place."

  "I'll find a way," Brady said. "Just give me time."

  But it's got to be soon, he said to himself as he lay down on his bunk. It's got to be soon. I can't take much more of this. He closed his eyes and the face seemed to smile at him out of the darkness, the face that had stayed with him through his trial and the two weeks as a walking dead man in the condemned cell.

  Why me? he asked himself. Why me? But there was no answer, could be no answer until he got out of this place and found one. He turned his face to the wall, hitched a blanket over his shoulders and drifted into a troubled sleep.

  The days that followed merged into a pattern. Each morning after breakfast, fifty men paraded for the chief officer in the main yard and were allocated their work for the day. The main fabric of the building was already in an advanced state of construction, but there was still a considerable amount of work to do on the steel framework of the fourth storey.

  Evans had been working as a welder and riveter up there and Brady was placed in his charge. After seeing the skill with which the American handled a blow torch, the old man sat back and let him get on with it.

  "By God, son," he said. "What I could teach you to do with that torch is nobody's business. You're a natural."

  Brady grinned and pushed his goggles up from his eyes. "You're incorrigible, you old hellion. You'll come to a bad end yet."

  Evans gave him a cigarette and they crouched down in a corner between crossed girders and looked out over the town. It was a crisp autumn day, the air tinged with a hint of the winter to come. Beyond the g
aunt chimneys of the grimy Yorkshire industrial town, the moors lifted in a purple swell, fading almost inperceptibly into the horizon.

  "By God, it's good to be alive on a day like this," Evans said. "Even in here."

  Brady nodded and glanced briefly down into the main yard below, watching the men working on the brick pile below with the duty screws hovering near by. There could be no illusion of freedom there, not with those dark uniforms standing out so clearly.

  He looked across at the glass dome of the central tower and his eyes followed the fall pipe that dropped forty feet to the roof of D block. The block branched out from the central tower like a pointing finger, and stopped thirty or forty feet from the perimeter wall. He sighed and flicked his cigarette end out into space. A man would need wings to get out of this place.

  Evans chuckled. "I know what you're thinking, son, but it just isn't possible. You're in a privileged position because it's all spread beneath you like a map. If you can find a way out, I can get you five hundred quid for the information any time."

  "Maybe I'll hold you to that" Brady picked up his torch. "Let's get back to work."

  For the next two weeks he kept his thoughts to himself, but each day, working high on the extension, he used his eyes until finally, every detail of the prison buildings was imprinted on his brain. It would take careful planning, but already there was the glimmering of an idea at the back of his mind.

  Just before noon on Thursday, a duty officer called him down and told him he had a visitor. As he waited in the queue outside the visiting room, Brady wondered who it could be. He had no friends in England and both his parents were dead. There was only his sister in Boston, and she had been over already for the trial.

  When his turn came, the duty officer took him in and sat him in a cubicle. Brady waited impatiently, the conversation on either side a meaningless blur of sound, and then the door opened and a young girl came in.

  She was perhaps twenty, her dark hair closecropped like a young boy, the skin sallow over high cheekbones, the eyes dark brown. She was not beautiful, and yet in any crowd, she would have stood out.