by Tom Becker
Even though Doughnut was trembling, he stayed silent.
“It’s not his fault, sir,” a voice piped up from the other side of the kitchen. Mr Pitt broke off from Doughnut and strode over to Caiman.
“You got something to tell me, sonny?”
“I said, it wasn’t Doughnut who broke the plates, sir. It was Wilson.”
Mr Pitt grinned wolfishly, baring his yellow teeth. He turned to Adam. “Wilson!” he said, in an almost comradely fashion. “I was beginning to worry about you. You’d kept your nose clean for a whole week.”
“But, sir,” protested Adam, “it was an accident!”
“Come, come, Wilson,” Mr Pitt said amiably, patting him on the back. “Let’s not fall out again. Mop out the chapel every day this week, starting right now. I’ll be checking to make sure you’re doing a thorough job – and if I’m not satisfied, you’ll spend next week doing the latrines. Understand?”
Adam nodded slowly.
Mr Pitt raised a single, quivering eyebrow.
“Yes, sir,” Adam corrected himself.
“You’re walking a fine line, Wilson,” Mr Pitt said ominously. “A very fine line.” The guard turned on his heel and strode towards the door, calling out as he did so: “You’re a lickspittle, Caiman. Don’t think that shopping Wilson is going to curry any favour with me.”
They waited until the sound of Mr Pitt’s footsteps had faded away before letting out their breath. Accusing eyes trained on Caiman.
“Good one, idiot,” Doughnut said sarcastically.
“Don’t have a go at me,” Caiman shot back. “Someone had to tell Pitt, or we’d all have ended up in the punishment cells. You think I’m going back in there again? You ask me, Adam should have owned up.”
He was drowned out by a chorus of boos and whistles from the rest of the boys. Wounded, Caiman slunk back to his washing up.
“That lad’s starting to do my head in,” Adam muttered to Doughnut.
“Forget about him,” the fixer replied. “He’s not worth it. Come on. I’ll show you where the cleaning cupboard is.”
Ten minutes later, Adam found himself struggling over the walkway towards the chapel with a heavy bucket of water, a large mop banging insistently against his side. As the icy water slopped over the side of the bucket, once again he found himself grateful for the gloves Doughnut had given him.
As evening drew in, lights were flicking on around the prison – except for Wing XI, which was bathed in darkness. The Commandant’s residence was a surprisingly modest building – a lone tower with a crooked spire, linked to the neighbouring Re-education Wing by a covered walkway a hundred metres above the ground. No matter how times he had sneaked a glance towards the tower, Adam had never seen any movement or signs of life inside. Given the shadowy nature of the Dial’s head, Adam couldn’t help wondering whether the Commandant had been made up – an invention of Mr Cooper’s, perhaps, a bogey man to help keep the inmates in line. But there was nothing imaginary about the respect in both the guards’ and the prisoners’ voices whenever they mentioned the Commandant’s name. They certainly didn’t question that there was someone up there.
As Adam neared the chapel, the sound of excited giggles drifted over through the gloom from Wing VII, where the rest of the inmates were queuing to enter the theatre above the classrooms. Of all the nights he had to get into trouble, Adam thought glumly, it had to be film night. He struggled through the chapel doors, splashing water over his trousers, and stumbled inside.
The chapel was a narrow room with high ceilings, illuminated by a blazing forest of candles. It was modestly decorated, with few of the ceremonial flourishes Adam remembered from churches back home: there were no shining stained-glass windows, no intricate stone carvings, not even an altar. There were only banks of empty wooden pews and a row of confession boxes running along the left-hand wall, awaiting their next penitent arrival.
With a sigh, Adam dunked his mop in the bucket and began dragging it across the church floor. It looked like no one had cleaned this place in years, and the water in the bucket quickly turned brown with grime. Adam was looking for a drain when a grating sound caught his ear. He frowned. All the inmates and the guards would be watching the film – why would anyone else be here? Tightening his grip on the mop, Adam crept forward in search of the source of the noise.
He was startled to see that in the gloom beyond the last confession box, a flagstone was moving magically across the floor, revealing a black hole beneath. A dirtied face popped up from below the ground. It was Corbett, the giant Tally-Hoer. He wiped the back of his hand across his face and took in a couple of long, deep breaths.
“I can’t believe I’m missing the film to spend time digging in this stinking hole with you,” he complained back beneath the surface. “I see that while we’re down here, Major X is putting his feet up and watching the flick.”
There came a muffled reply from below him.
“Too right,” said Corbett. Glancing around the chapel, he caught sight of Adam watching him.
“You!” he hissed. “What are you doing here?”
Adam held up his the mop. “Punishment duty,” he replied. “I’ve got to clean the floor.”
“Then go and do it somewhere else!” Corbett said angrily. “And keep your bloody trap shut, or you’ll be eating through a straw for the rest of the year. You catch my drift?”
Adam nodded dumbly. His eyes flashing with a final warning, the Tally-Hoer lifted the flagstone back over his head and disappeared from view. Determined to put as much distance between himself and the confession boxes as possible, Adam hurried to the other side of the chapel, only to round a pillar and find another boy sitting quietly in the front pew.
“Excuse me?”
As the boy looked up, Adam couldn’t help but stare. Beneath his cap, the boy’s face was submerged beneath a swathe of bandages. Slits had been cut for his mouth and his nostrils, allowing him to breathe, and two eyeholes revealed a pair of dark-brown eyes.
“Oh, sorry,” Adam said hastily. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right. Sit down if you like.”
Adam wanted to finish his mopping and get out of the chapel before he bumped into anyone else, but saying no seemed somehow rude. He put down his mop and took a seat on the pew.
“You didn’t want to watch the film?” he asked.
The boy shook his head. “I prefer places when they’re quiet,” he said. “The other kids don’t want me around, anyway. The bandages spook them.”
“What . . . erm. . .” Adam began hesitantly, “I mean . . . what happened to you?”
“Gas fire,” the boy replied. “I was carrying gas canisters over to the Quisling when one of them went off. I got caught in the flames.”
He lifted up his left hand, which was covered in a patchwork of angry burns and scars. Adam swallowed, unsure how to respond. The bandaged boy chuckled and waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. No one ever knows what to say.”
As Adam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the boy gazed off into the middle distance. “What’s the point in watching a film anyway?” he said quietly. “You might pretend you’re somewhere else for a couple of hours, but when it’s over we’re still stuck here.”
“A couple of hours is better than nothing,” Adam replied. “That’s why I like sleeping. Sometimes I dream I’m back at home with everyone and even though I’m not really, it’s still nice to feel like that.”
The bandaged boy nodded. “I have the same dream over and over again,” he said. “I’m digging my way out of the Dial, only not through soil, but fresh air. I’m in some kind of . . . sky tunnel, I guess, that takes me far above the prison and all the way up to the warphole. I climb so close to the warphole that I can stick my head through and there’s this amazing feeling, like when you stop holding your breath and all the air rushes int
o your lungs, and the light is so bright that it hurts my eyes and. . .”
He tailed off.
“And then?” Adam asked.
“Then I wake up,” the boy said flatly. “Here. And I can’t breathe again.”
In the silence that followed, Adam became aware of the loudspeakers crackling into life, and Echo’s hateful voice announcing:
“Apparently a certain troublemaker isn’t watching the film tonight. He should watch his step, or I bet things are going to get even nastier for him. This one’s for him. . .”
Adam silently seethed as a scratchy record began to play. It was bad enough missing the film without Echo mocking him. The bandaged boy shook his head.
“I go on too much,” he said. “I should get back to the infirmary. See you around.”
The bandaged boy slipped past Adam in the pews and padded softly out of the chapel. As he watched him leave, Adam suddenly realized that he hadn’t asked the boy his name.
He had only just picked up his mop again when the chapel doors crashed open and a platoon of guards came hurtling inside, their boots drumming on the flagstones. Mr Pitt was at their head, a barking German shepherd loping along at his side. To Adam’s horror, the guards headed straight behind the confessional boxes, where Mr Pitt knelt down and prised up Corbett’s flagstone, shining a torch down into the tunnel.
“Get out of there, you horrible little vermin!” he screamed. “I’ve got two punishment cells with your name on them!”
Adam watched open-mouthed as the two Tally-Hoers were hauled out of the tunnel and marched away. Corbett flashed him a vicious stare as he was bundled past.
“You dirty little—”
A guard cuffed the burly Tally-Hoer around the back of the head, cutting him off mid-insult. The men exited the chapel amid wounded protests and dragged feet, the doors slamming conclusively behind them. As the candles flickered in the sudden gust of wind, Adam picked up his mop and dolefully returned to his chores.
After the excitement of film night, sullen clouds closed in over the Dial. With the Quisling still too damaged to fly to Earth for supplies, the food rations were reduced again, until the scant portions could no longer satisfy even the meagrest of appetites. Mealtimes took on a violent edge: the inmates guarded their portions warily, aware that a stray breadcrumb or a spilled blob of soup could spark an argument with the person sitting beside them. After the fourth fight had broken out, extra guards had to be posted to the mess hall during mealtimes.
Adam kept out of trouble, taking particular care to steer clear of the Tally-Ho and their grim huddles in the exercise yard. Following their capture in the chapel, Corbett and his accomplice had been given a week in solitary – and judging by the filthy looks Adam was getting, it was clear that the Tally-Ho were pinning the blame squarely on him.
On the final day of his own punishment detail, Adam helped Doughnut stash away another mysterious consignment of boxes – this time in an empty attic room above the prisoners’ quarters – and then mopped the chapel until night fell, determined not to give Mr Pitt any excuse to dole out further chores. With aching muscles, he hauled his mop and bucket back across the bridge towards the mess hall. Guards were briskly patrolling the perimeter wall, training searchlights at the slightest movement in the darkness.
Adam hummed a happy pop song to himself as he walked, careful not to let his mind wander. It was easy to get spooked crossing the chasm at night, especially when passing the Re-education Wing. There was a chilly atmosphere to the brooding, windowless structure, an ice cube down the back on a boiling summer day. Late at night, the inmates told hushed horror stories of what took place within its walls, of troublesome inmates who had been dragged there in secret by the guards, who used the machinery to wipe their minds completely, reducing them to a state of vacant obedience. Though the tales made Adam shiver, when he recounted them to Bookworm all he elicited was a reedy laugh at the implausibility of it all. Wherever possible, Adam heeded the librarian’s advice and tried not to think about it.
No guards were keeping watch outside the mess hall; inside, the benches and tables formed an army of still silhouettes in the gloom. Adam navigated his way over to the cleaning cupboard and gratefully returned the mop and bucket for the final time. He was closing the door when a rattling noise in the canteen stopped him in his tracks.
“Hello?” he called out. “Anybody there?”
There was no reply, only a choked sob. His pulse beating a little quicker, Adam crept over to the canteen, pushed the door open and flicked on the light switch. And stared.
“Jessica?”
The girl looked up, her eyes wide with fright. She was standing beside a large fridge, her hand resting on the heavy padlock securing its doors.
“What are you doing here?” asked Adam. “If the guards catch you they’ll punish you for sure!”
“I thought there might be some food,” Jessica said, gesturing uncertainly at the fridge, “but it’s locked away. . .”
“The guards aren’t stupid. There’d be a riot here if it wasn’t.” Adam peered closely at Jessica’s wan features. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It’s just—”
She passed a hand across her forehead, and collapsed to the ground.
“Jessica!” Adam cried out.
He ran over and knelt by her side, lifting her head off the tiled floor. Jessica stirred hazily.
“What’s wrong?” Adam asked.
“I don’t know,” she breathed. “I felt dizzy for a second.”
“You need someone to look at you. I’ll take you to the infirmary.”
“No! Don’t take me there!” Jessica clutched Adam’s arm. “I know how dirty that place is. People only get sicker there. I’ll be better after a night’s sleep, I really will.”
She climbed unsteadily to her feet as Adam hovered next to her, waiting to grab her if she fell. They walked awkwardly out of the mess hall together, and called back the walkway to take them to the prisoners’ quarters. Adam was afraid that at any moment a patrolling guard would stop and interrogate them, and he didn’t relax until they were standing back outside Wing II.
Jessica gave him a weak smile. “Sorry to cause such a fuss,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ll be OK in the morning.”
She walked slowly up the stairs towards the girls’ rooms, glancing back shyly over her shoulder before disappearing from sight. A resolute look came over Adam’s face, and he hurried back to his dormitory. He found Doughnut sprawled out on his bunk, lazily playing cards with Mouthwash. Adam pulled the fixer to one side.
“What’s up?” asked Doughnut.
“I need a favour,” Adam said softy. “A friend of mine’s ill. She needs food – proper food, not the rubbish they serve up here. I know you can get stuff other people can’t. Can you help me?”
“I wish I could. Everyone’s on at me to get them food, but I’ve got a problem with supply right now.”
“Please, Doughnut. This is serious.”
Doughnut chewed his lip thoughtfully.
“OK,” he said finally. “I’ll help you.” He grabbed Adam’s arm, his amiable features suddenly serious. “But you tell anyone about this – anyone – and me and you are finished. You’re on your own.”
“I won’t say a thing. I promise!”
The fixer shrugged. “What’s a promise worth in a prison full of traitors? I’ve told you how it is – the rest is up to you.”
“Can we get the food now?”
Doughnut shook his head. “Too many guards around,” he said. “Later.”
After lights out Adam lay impatiently in his bunk, fully clothed beneath the sheets, waiting for the whispers and sniggers to die down around him. Eventually the room went quiet, and as the boys fell asleep their deep, even breaths rose and fell in time with one another, until it felt as thoug
h the room itself was sighing with contentment.
There was a movement in the darkness: a large black silhouette carrying a knapsack rose silently from Doughnut’s bunk and, gesturing to Adam, crept towards the door with surprising stealth. Adam pushed back his sheets and followed suit, wincing at every creak of the floorboards beneath his tread. Caiman stirred in his bunk as he passed, but didn’t wake up.
Outside their dormitory, Doughnut turned right, heading deeper into the heart of the building. They ghosted through the corridors like draughts of air, alert for the burly footsteps of the guards. Doughnut led Adam down a flight of backstairs to a door, where he produced a bulky key ring from his pockets. Selecting a worn iron key, he slipped it in the lock, opened the door, and ushered Adam into the room beyond.
They descended into a dank cellar, where water seeped across the flagstones and the atmosphere was stained with damp. Doughnut picked up an oil lamp from a shelf and lit it carefully, casting a pale glow over the cellar.
“Nice place,” Adam said dryly.
“The goons tend to give this place a swerve. Good job, too.”
“So what are we doing here?”
Doughnut shone a light over a rotting wooden chest against the far wall. “Give me a hand with this.” As they heaved the chest away from the wall, the fixer explained:
“Believe it or not, when I first came here all the other guys thought I was a loser. People wouldn’t hang out with me, kept making fun of me. So I spent all my time exploring the Dial, from the cellars all the way up to the roofs. I bumped into the Tally-Ho a few times, and had to do some pretty fast talking to stop Major X setting his boys on me. I got caught by the guards too, and did some time in solitary. But it was worth it – I know this prison better than anyone, mate. Which is how I know what’s behind here.”
With the chest cleared out of the way, Adam saw that it had been concealing a small black hole in the wall behind it.
“See, prisoners have been trying to dig their way out of here for centuries,” explained Doughnut. “No matter how much time the guards spend combing the prison for old tunnels, they can’t find all of them. This was the first one I ever found – and the best. It’s how I started my business. Now everyone knows who I am, and if they think I’m a loser, no one’ll say it to my face. Follow me.”
