Jaws of Death

by Paul Adam

  Max sat down on the toilet and reached up to gently take hold of the chain. It took him only a few seconds to remove one of the metal links he’d prised apart earlier, then fasten the chain back together. As he did so, his fingers slipped and the chain rattled.

  ‘What’re you doing in there?’ the warder called out suspiciously.

  Max whipped his hands down just in time. The cubicle door banged open and the officer peered in.

  ‘I’m just finishing,’ Max said.

  ‘Well, get a move on.’

  The man glanced around the cubicle, then stepped back out. Max heaved a silent sigh of relief. The warder hadn’t noticed that the chain was now a few centimetres shorter than before. Max had the chain link hidden in his hand. He squeezed the metal together to form a smooth ring and swallowed it. Then he stood up, flushed the toilet and went out to wash his hands.

  Still suspicious, the warder took another look around the cubicle Max had just vacated, then told him to put his hands up against the wall. He frisked him thoroughly, checking his clothes, his pockets, even making him remove his shoes so he could look inside them. Thank God I swallowed the chain link, Max thought.

  He gave the officer a puzzled, innocent look. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the warder growled. ‘Put your hands behind your back.’

  He handcuffed Max and escorted him back to his cell.

  ‘There’s not much to do in here, is there?’ Max said conversationally as they walked along the corridor. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of something to read? A book, or a magazine.’

  ‘That’s not up to me, but I’ll ask,’ the officer replied, his tone gentler than before, as if he were trying to make up for his surliness in the washroom.

  ‘Thanks,’ Max said. ‘Can I get my cell light turned off earlier too? I’m only fourteen – I’m not used to going to bed so late.’

  Play on your youth, Max had decided. Emphasize the fact that you’re just a kid. Get their sympathy. He hoped the officer didn’t have teenagers of his own. If he did, he’d know that the idea of a fourteen-year-old wanting to go to bed early was utterly proposterous, and would suspect that Max was up to something. But the officer just shook his head.

  ‘The lights are on a timer,’ he said. ‘Off at eleven at night, back on at seven next morning. It can’t be changed.’

  ‘OK, never mind,’ Max said. He’d got what he wanted.

  The evening passed even more slowly than the afternoon. Max sat on his mattress and stared vacantly into space, biding his time. Only when the light went out would he make his move.

  He was aware of the CCTV camera up on the ceiling, but he made a point of not looking at it. Was someone watching him at this moment? Maybe, maybe not. He recalled what he’d seen in the control room: the screens chopping and changing between cameras, not lingering on any one location for more than a couple of seconds. There’d been no sound with the pictures. That was good. He didn’t want anyone hearing him later.

  Suddenly the bulb in the ceiling went out. At last, Max thought. Eleven o’clock. He started to count seconds and minutes in his head, clocking them off like a watch. After fifteen minutes he stood up, still counting. Now to retrieve the chain link. He arched his back slightly, took a deep breath and began the process of regurgitation that he’d practised for years for his stage act. Usually it was a key he was bringing up from his stomach, but a chain link was no different. He just had to concentrate, get his internal muscles to do exactly what he wanted. He focused on his stomach, making the top valve open, then his alimentary canal, squeezing the chain link slowly up the tube and into his mouth. It was easy when you knew how.

  He took the link out. The metal was warm and wet. He held it in his fingers and straightened it out, leaving a tiny hook at one end. Then he went across to the door, knelt down and looked through the keyhole. The lights in the corridor had dimmed, but hadn’t gone out completely. Max gripped the piece of metal between his thumb and forefinger and went to work on the lock.

  It was a fairly simple mechanism, an old model that had not been changed or upgraded to make it more secure. In a prison like Mount Pleasant, with all its guards and cameras and fences, it probably wasn’t thought necessary to have the highest quality locks on the individual cell doors. Max had seen many locks like this one. He had a collection of them, inherited from his father, in the basement at home, on which he regularly practised his picking skills. This one was well maintained, the moving parts smooth and recently oiled. In under thirty seconds Max had the tumblers inside disengaged. He could have opened the door then, but he delayed. He was still counting in his head, waiting for exactly the right moment.

  Shift change for the prison staff was at midnight. At changeover time they would be distracted. They’d be busy talking to colleagues, passing on messages, maybe gossiping, talking about their social lives. Those few minutes would be when they were at their least alert, least likely to be watching the CCTV monitors carefully. That was when Max was going to break out.

  He counted down the seconds. Every part of his plan had its risks. He just had to hold his nerve. He was pretty sure his cell door wasn’t alarmed. The warders taking him in and out had never disabled an alarm first, as far as he could tell, but there were plenty of other things to worry about. The CCTV camera up on the ceiling for one. It couldn’t see him in the dark, it wouldn’t have heard the faint scrape of metal as he picked the lock, but the second he opened the door, it would no longer be pitch black inside the cell – a tiny amount of light would inevitably seep in from the corridor. Then there was the camera outside to negotiate. This was when Max needed luck on his side.

  Eleven fifty-eight … eleven fifty-nine … midnight – or as close as he could estimate it. Max prepared himself; then, in one swift series of movements, he pulled open the door a few centimetres, slipped out through the gap, closing the door behind him, scuttled rapidly away along the corridor and ducked into the washroom. He leaned back against the wall just inside the doorway and waited, listening out for an alarm bell ringing, for the thud of feet as the prison officers came to find him. But nothing happened.

  He was safe, at least for the time being. Max went across the washroom to the waste bin by the sinks and rummaged through the piles of used, screwed-up paper towels. Please let it still be here, he said to himself. He scooped some towels out of the bin and sifted carefully through them. At the bottom of the pile he found what he was looking for – the wooden match that he’d noticed the day before, thrown away by the warder who’d sneaked into the washroom for a surreptitious smoke. The match hadn’t been used. The warder had obviously struck it, but the match hadn’t ignited properly and he’d tossed it into the bin. On the head there was still some of the pink combustible coating that made matches catch fire. Max hoped there was going to be enough for his purposes.

  Putting the match and a few clean paper towels in his pocket, he went back to the doorway and listened again. Still no sounds of activity anywhere. Would the night-shift guards have settled down to work by now? Would they be watching the CCTV monitors in the control room? Max knew the corridor camera would not be continuously transmitting pictures. That reduced the odds on him being spotted. Steeling his nerves, he crept out into the corridor and slid along the wall in the shadows where the camera – even if it happened to be online at that moment – would find it hard to pick him out. He made no sudden movements, kept his arms by his sides, his face pressed to the wall. He reached the door at the end of the corridor and exhaled with relief. He was underneath and behind the camera now, in the blind zone where he couldn’t be seen. Crouching down, he used his metal pick to unlock the door.

  This was probably the most dangerous part of the operation. On the other side of this door was the staff area – the kitchen and control room. If he was going to be caught, this was where it was most likely to happen. There was no point in delaying now – he just had to take a chance. Grasping the handle, Max turned it as softly
as he could and eased the door open a fraction. He peered through the gap, saw the back of a prison officer in the control room ahead, but no one in the hallway in between. The door to the kitchen was open, but it was impossible for Max to see if there was anyone in the room. Another chance he just had to take.

  He opened the door wider and sneaked through, then closed the door quietly and darted across the hallway into the kitchen. His luck was holding – the room was empty. He pushed the door to behind him and looked around. It was a smallish room. The table, chairs and sofa took up most of the space. There was a refrigerator by the sink, and tea, coffee and sugar set out on the worktop near the kettle. Hanging from the wall was a mini fire extinguisher, and next to it a glass case containing a red button to set off the fire alarm. Max headed for the door on the far side of the kitchen that gave access to the courtyard. He was almost there when he suddenly heard footsteps in the hall outside. He reacted instantly, throwing himself to the floor behind the sofa.

  Someone came into the kitchen. Max lay still and listened hard. Had he been spotted coming in? Had his disappearance from his cell been noticed? He heard the kettle being filled, the chink of a spoon in a mug, and relaxed a little. It was only one of the warders making a cup of tea. Would he stay in the kitchen to drink it? Max guessed probably not. The night shift had only just begun; the officer wouldn’t be on his break already. And sure enough, a few minutes later, Max heard footsteps going back out into the hall. He looked out around the end of the sofa, making sure the coast was clear, then hurried over to the courtyard door and crouched down with his lock-pick.

  This was a more sophisticated lock than the ones on the two internal doors, but nothing Max hadn’t seen before. Most lock mechanisms were based on the same fundamental principles. Max had been practising cracking them since he was four years old. He knew exactly where to place the pick, how much pressure to exert and in what direction. One after one, the tumblers snapped back, unlocking the door.

  Max didn’t touch the handle. An external door like this would almost certainly have an alarm on it. He needed to cover the sound of it going off, and the best way to do that was to set off another alarm – like a fire bell.

  He went back to the sofa and took the paper towels and unused match out of his pockets. He screwed up the towels, made a small mound out of them on the cushions, then struck the match on the rough surface of the wall. Some of the pink coating came off, but the match didn’t ignite. Max felt a jolt of panic. He needed this to work – his whole plan depended on it. He turned the head of the match round, said a silent prayer and struck it again. For a split second it looked as if it wasn’t going to light, then suddenly it burst into flame. Max applied it to the paper towels and they flared up immediately. Seconds later, the cushions caught fire. Max flitted across to the kitchen door and closed it. He didn’t want the smell of smoke to alert the prison officers until the fire had really taken hold. He waited until the sofa was well ablaze, the flames licking up to the ceiling, then removed the fire extinguisher from the wall and broke the glass cover of the alarm with his elbow. An ear-splitting bell immediately started to clang. Max opened the door to the courtyard. A second alarm went off, but it was impossible to distinguish it from the fire bell. The two noises seemed to merge together into one deafening cacophony.

  Max closed the door behind him and ran along the side of the courtyard garden, still carrying the fire extinguisher. He dived behind a clump of bushes and lay flat on the ground, looking back the way he’d come. The kitchen window shattered and flames shot out through the broken pane, getting larger and more ferocious as they were fanned by the breeze. Huge clouds of smoke billowed up into the air, much to Max’s satisfaction. The blaze was too big now for the staff to tackle on their own, particularly as Max had made off with the nearest fire extinguisher. That was just how he wanted it.

  For five or six minutes he lay in the bushes watching the asylum burn, then he heard the sound of sirens drawing nearer, getting gradually louder. The arched wooden doors in the front wing swung open, and three fire engines raced through into the courtyard and came to a halt.

  Firemen jumped out and the courtyard came alive with activity. Hoses were unrolled and connected up to hydrants, then the jets of water were directed onto the burning kitchen. In only a few minutes, the blaze was under control. Max was pleased with himself. He’d got it just right: the incident was serious enough to warrant calling the fire brigade, but localized enough for the prison not to be evacuated, and Max’s empty cell discovered.

  He waited until all the firemen were occupied, then slithered out from the bushes on his belly and snaked underneath the nearest fire engine. He lay on the ground out of sight for the next half-hour while the firemen extinguished the blaze and then began to pack up their gear. He saw legs moving around the fire engines, the firemen’s thick protective boots tramping across the courtyard. The air was heavy with the smell of smoke and burned wood.

  A fireman’s feet stopped only a metre away from Max’s face. The man slid open the locker on the side of the fire engine to stow away some item of equipment. Max let him finish, then wriggled across underneath the chassis and looked out cautiously. The fire was completely out now, a few plumes of smoke drifting up into the sky. The firemen were rolling up their hoses, removing their helmets and clambering back into the fire engines. Max prepared himself. He had to time this just right. He checked in all directions. There was no one looking his way, no one close to the fire engine. Squirming out quickly from under the vehicle, he pulled open the roller door of the equipment locker on the side and scrambled inside, pulling the door down after him.

  He was in complete darkness, surrounded by buckets and cylinders of compressed air for the firemen’s breathing apparatus. Trying not to make any noise, he slid to the back of the locker and curled up, arranging the pieces of equipment so that he couldn’t be seen if anyone opened the door. His heart was in his mouth, his stomach churning with anxiety. He needed just a few more minutes, that was all. He’d got this far. Please don’t let them find me now, he whispered to himself. Please.

  The engine turned over and the vehicle set off slowly, circling around the courtyard and heading for the exit. Then it stopped. Max heard voices, but not what they were saying. Footsteps scraped on the concrete close by. Had the prison officers discovered that Max was missing? Were they searching all the fire engines? The locker door rattled open. Max buried his face in his arms and held his breath. Someone was looking inside the locker. Max could sense their eyes peering around. He waited for the shout, the hands reaching in and dragging him out, but all he heard was the noise of something being thrown in – a piece of equipment that must have accidentally been left behind – then the locker door clattered shut.

  The vehicle moved off. Max started breathing again. He listened to the sounds from outside, the pitch of the engine. They were passing through the exit, crossing the prison forecourt. An outer gate opened, the fire engine picked up speed, then it turned and accelerated some more. They were out on the open road, speeding away from Mount Pleasant.

  THIRTEEN

  It wouldn’t be a long journey, Max knew that. The fire engines had got to the prison less than ten minutes after the alarm had gone off, so it couldn’t be far to their station. They were driving slower on the return trip, of course, their sirens silent, but Max reckoned they would still be back at base in less than fifteen minutes.

  He pressed his back to the wall of the locker to stop himself sliding about as the fire engine went round corners. He was feeling jubilant. He couldn’t believe he’d pulled it off. He’d got away. ‘A hundred per cent escape-proof’ was how Penhall had described Mount Pleasant. Well, Max had shown him how wrong that was. He wished he could see Penhall’s face when they told him that Max had broken out. That would be quite something. But when would they actually discover that he’d gone? Very soon, if they decided to check the cells – though why would they do that in the middle of the night? No, seven o’
clock was the earliest they’d notice his absence. When the lights came back on, the prison officers would certainly spot the empty cell on the CCTV monitors. It was probably about one o’clock now, maybe half-past. That gave Max five and a half hours before they came looking for him.

  The fire engine slowed to a crawl, turning sharply to the left. Max heard the clatter of a big door sliding open and knew they’d reached the station. The vehicle moved forward a few metres and stopped. Max stayed where he was until he was sure that all the firemen had left the immediate area, then very quietly pushed up the roller door of the locker and clambered out. The garage was deserted, the three fire engines parked next to one another. HERTFORDSHIRE FIRE AND RESCUE SERVICES, it said on their sides. So he’d been right. He was just north of London. Now all he had to do was find a way home.

  The main doors at the front of the fire station were closed, but Max went through into a storeroom and found an unlocked door that opened onto the car park at the side of the building. He went across it and walked quickly away. He was in a built-up area: residential streets leading off a main road that, even at this time of night, had a fair amount of traffic moving along it.

  After about four hundred metres he reached a roundabout and signs pointing to Hatfield, St Albans and the M25. He took the exit for the motorway and stood in a lay-by with his thumb out. He knew hitch-hiking was a risky business, but he had no money, no other way of getting back home. He had to wait ten minutes before a large white bakery van pulled in.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ the driver asked.

  ‘London,’ Max replied.

  ‘I’m making a delivery to the South Mimms service station, junction of the M25 and A1. Will that do you?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Max said.

  ‘You’re out late, a young lad like you,’ the driver said as he swerved back out onto the road.