by Jan Needle
Not all of them were so lucky. Occasionally, one or two unhappy men, battered and bloody, would be paraded on the roof, in the hope the world would not forget the Scar. But the radio bulletins on the disaster were increasingly dominated by political bickerings, interspersed with homilies on the need for maturity and restraint. No moves of any sort were made.
Richard Pendlebury, who like the other hostages was not allowed a radio and knew nothing about what was going on outside his cell, went through a variety of emotions which at times became so powerful he thought he would go mad. He had seen Arthur Probert dead in front of him, Ian Serple beaten to a bloody pulp, and suspected that Les Rix, who’d made a break for it and been hunted out of sight, must have been killed like an animal at bay. Strangely, he still found his sympathies as much with the majority of the prisoners as he did with himself and his officers. Sometimes his hatred and contempt for the authority he served was overwhelming.
He had fantasies, as well, fantasies which he guessed must be common to all prisoners, the worst about his daughter. He imagined the indifference she’d get from the Prisons Department when she sought information about him, and the lack of real support. At times his blood chilled when he imagined escaped prisoners going to his house, despite the fact that its location was meant to be a secret. Sometimes he even blessed the agony of his torn and infected face because it made other thoughts impossible.
Incomprehensibly to him, the electricity and water to the prison was not cut off to drive them out. The level of filth rose rapidly, and the stench from the broken sanitary systems was very bad, but they still had water, food and light. As the sense of awful gloom and total isolation grew, it seemed to many that the only contact with the outside world was the growing army of rats and cockroaches moving in. Within three days some prisoners were beaten back by other inmates while trying to ‘escape’.
Outside, the Army watched indifferently. And the cameras clicked or whirred less frequently. News fades.
*
Gorton. Michael Masters.
Barbara Masters was not the only one who wondered exactly where her husband was. Sitting tied to a chair in a dingy little house with crap furniture and fittings, he wondered it himself. He was in a bedroom, which he had been told had a window of armoured glass. He did not believe a word of it. There was a thick curtain of grubby net nailed over it. That was prison wall enough.
His guess was that he’d been brought to Manchester. Two of the men in the Mercedes had accents that he recognised from the telly, and the distance from the jail was right. The other man, the man beside him in the back, was Irish, and he was clearly the boss. Conor Brady, reputed to be the hardest man in Bowscar, and hard enough to have stolen him from Brian Rogers and his crew like candy off a kid. Hard enough to have put a blindfold on him without expecting any resistance.
Masters, when he realised what had happened, was not afraid. He wondered if Rogers had survived the breakout, and hoped to God that he had not. Conor Brady, the Armagh Wolf, was certainly a killer, but he clearly didn’t covet arsehole, and was clearly in it for the money. It seemed possible he’d had his eye on Michael’s millions for some long while. He undoubtedly saw him as a business proposition.
The proposition wasn’t long in coming. After his first night’s sleep he was released by ‘the silent two,’ as he had dubbed his minders, allowed to have a crap and wash in more privacy than he’d had at the Scar, then directed at pistol point to the kitchen table for his breakfast. He had tried to speak to them and failed, he had tried to make them crack a smile, also unsuccessfully. When they’d returned him to his bedroom and tied him to his chair, the dark-faced Irishman came in. Within two minutes they had struck paydirt.
‘I want a million,’ he said. ‘Fuck me about and I’ll make it two. We’re going to ring your wife. The lovely Barbara.’
Why doesn’t it surprise me that you know her name, thought Masters.
‘You’re cracked,’ he said. ‘It’s tapped. Unless you want the Government to know?’
‘It’s Barbara’s own number and it’s ex-directory. Don’t try and spoof me, Mister.’
‘I wouldn’t waste my breath. You’re right on both counts. And it’s still tapped. Sorry.’
In Bowscar, it was said, the Armagh Wolf had not smiled in thirty-seven months. He smiled now.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Not popular, are we? So how do we get the money?’
‘You don’t.’
The smile deepened.
‘So you don’t stay alive. I’ve got Tweedledum and Tweedledee. I won’t even soil my pretty little hands. So what’s the proposition?’
‘A mobile phone. I need to make a call. Not to Barbara. To another woman. Not for money, but because I’ve got to talk to her. If you want it straight, Mr Armagh Wolf – for love.’
‘And when you’ve talked to her?’
‘I’ll contact Barbara. I can do that, you can’t. Give me a mobile, and there’s no more argument. You can even listen if you’re that prurient.’
This time Conor Brady laughed.
‘A million for a fucking phone call. Love’s young dream. I wouldn’t fucking dream of listening.’
They both knew he was lying. And neither of them cared.
*
On the road. Forbes and Rosanna
Forbes and Rosanna parked the Golf three streets from the address they’d squeezed out of Eileen Pendlebury, and walked to the house from separate directions. When they were satisfied no one was watching them, they rang the bell. And nobody was in.
While they stood there, though, a white-haired and inquisitive woman appeared at a doorway opposite and waved. They went across.
‘Are you looking for Carole Rochester? She’s gone,’ she said. ‘She went last night with a couple of chaps who turned up. It was ever so funny, because she’s usually on her own. There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
Rosanna tried to appear slightly put out, but in the know.
‘Oh, I certainly don’t think so,’ she said. ‘We were just hoping...’
‘We’re old friends,’ put in Andrew. ‘I suppose you don’t know where she’s gone? It’d be really nice to see her.’
The upshot was that Carole had probably gone to her caravan in Wales, because she’d loaded food and stuff into her camper van before the men arrived. Mrs Parkinson didn’t have an address, but it was on the something peninsula, did they know it? Near where Butlins was.
‘Pwllheli,’ said Andrew Forbes. ‘The Lleyn Peninsula. Would that be it?’
‘Ooh,’ said Mrs Parkinson. ‘I don’t know how you pronounce it, but it could be, though. The static’s near an old windmill on a hill, a sort of pepperpot-looking thing. Carole sent me a postcard once, with it on. She could see it from her window. A sort of folly kind of thing.’
And the men, asked Andrew. What of the men?
Well, it had been dark, but come to think of it, one of them had seemed to be having trouble with his neck, which he held onto a lot. Oh – and they’d left their car in the garage, and gone off in the camper van. Yes, she’d almost forgotten. Would they know their car?
While she and Rosanna chatted on inanely, Forbes nipped across the road and had a good peer through Carole’s garage window. He returned blithely enough and said he did not know it, so that was that, goodbye and thank you. When they were a hundred yards away, Rosanna laughed at him.
‘Hidden depths!’ she crowed. ‘Butlins at Pwllheli! Have you got some children tucked away or something? Something you need to tell me, Andrew?’
He continued walking briskly until they were round the corner. Then stopped and put a hand on to her arm.
‘That car in there,’ he said. ‘The dashboard’s covered in blood. And the seat cover. Blood everywhere.’
‘Oh Christ,’ said Rosanna. ‘But surely— Why?’
‘I don’t know. But it can’t be a coincidence, can it? Somebody in the Scar must… I don’t know.’
Later they rang Peter Jackson, and bef
ore Andrew could mention where they were, he told him not to, just in case. Andrew’s spirits dropped another notch.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Your house is boarded up, impenetrable, and I guess it’s under watch, so don’t bother, OK? If this doesn’t sound too melodramatic, keep away from big cities, and become a bit nocturnal. And do you know anyone who’s good at changing accents? Some regional ones are so easy to place, aren’t they?’
‘This is not a joke?’
‘Is God a woman? Lister’s dead. Ditto three Miami drugmen and a lady. They did a bad thing when they killed the fat prat and his buddy, and they got punished. You’ll read it in the papers in the morning. Better book a nice hotel and watch the news. Get off the streets. Use false names.’
‘It’s a thought,’ said Andrew. ‘But we’re rather busy. I’ve got a hunch.’
‘I don’t care if you’ve got a wooden fucking leg! If you have to ring me, keep it short and mystifying, eh? You never know with defenders of the realm, do you? Look Andrew—’
But Forbes cut the connection. He smiled across at Rosanna’s small, sharp face.
‘Cheerful twat,’ he said. ‘I think he wants to frighten us.’
There were a couple of hours of daylight left, but instead of stopping, they drove. They were on country roads, heading towards the border, and Rosanna listened sombrely to what Jackson had said.
‘The trouble with getting off the streets,’ she said, ‘is we’re looking for a disused windmill and a caravan. We sure as hell won’t find them in the dark.’
‘Especially not in Wales. The roads are small and dark and twisted, like the people. And the signposts are incomprehensible. Put it another way – in Welsh.’
They booked into a bed and breakfast pub at ten to ten, and watched the news. Sinclair’s face, so open and concerned, upset them both as he told his lies about the death of Lister and his gang. At 10.30, they went to bed. They lay in each other’s arms for some time, listening to the noise of the television rising from the bar. In the intervals, they could hear wind blowing through the trees outside their window. Their mood stayed sombre.
‘Andrew?’ Rosanna said. ‘You don’t have any children, do you?’
In the darkness, he shook his head.
‘No. After Maggie died, I just got lonely. Drank too much. I had a few things with a few women, you know. Couple of them had kids. I came to Butlins once, down here. They haven’t actually called it Butlins for God knows how long, but it’s the place. No secrets, Rosanna.’
A whoop rose from the bar below, disembodied.
‘Andrew? Why do you do all this? I mean, McGregor was my fight really. Now we don’t even know what we’re looking for, do we? We’re sort of on the run, and we don’t know why. Why do you write your books, get up people’s noses?’
Forbes answered slowly, thinking as he spoke.
‘The face of corruption,’ he said. ‘That man on telly. Urbane sincerity, with democracy in his sights. I don’t do it because of politics, I do it because of politicians. They’re loathsome. I like to rock their boats. I like to bring a bit of mayhem to their lives, it’s my substitute for chucking bombs. Call me old-fashioned if you like. I’m a patriot.’
Rosanna did not question him. That seemed all right to her.
‘I love you,’ she said. There was a long pause.
‘Is that a challenge? Or a statement?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it. Well, I did. It just slipped out. You don’t have to love me, though. I’m sorry.’ There was another long pause. Below, they heard the landlord shout: ‘Please. Finish up your drinks now, please!’
‘How very mouse-like to apologise,’ said Andrew. ‘I don’t know how to say this, it’s been a long long time. I love you too.’
*
It took them two more days to locate the static caravan, with the help of an Ordnance Survey map, and a lot of walking. The rains had come, and they bought boots and corduroys and bobble hats and anoraks at Betws-y-Coed before driving over the mountains and onto the Lleyn. The hoods gave them especial cover, and the wee Scots lass now spoke in modulated English.
The pepperpot tower, which was nothing like a windmill when they saw it, was off the road from Llanbedrog to Aberdaron, four miles or so from Pwllheli, and on a fairly pointed hill. From the top they could work out all the likely places, and then they rambled. The mobile home was off a tiny unmarked road in its own small clump of trees at the bottom of a steep field. It had clearly been a rather useless piece of farmland, sold off years before. Parked near it was a camper van.
‘Or like stout fucking Cortez,’ said Andrew, as they looked at it. ‘When with eagle eye. What are we going to find here, then Miss Mouse? Ideas?’
‘We could go home.’
‘But we haven’t got a home to go to.’
*
In the garden. Mary Sinclair.
Donald Sinclair kept in touch with his home solely by telephone. Since the crisis had started, he explained to Mary, it had been quite impossible to get away. He was very tired, and he probably was not looking after himself too well, but she did understand, didn’t she? He missed her terribly, and he was sorry that they’d been at loggerheads, and when all this was over, perhaps they should take a little holiday?
Mary, who had watched his TV interviews and read his statements, was too intelligent to argue, and perhaps no longer sure enough. Despite their recent differences, she had never really doubted the firmness of his purpose, his beliefs, however strained they might have been by the grim realities of office. But there was something in his eyes these days, even on television, that she did not recognise, and did not like. There was an abrasiveness, an attack, that was more than just the expression of his natural self-confidence and strength of will. She suspected it was a product of ambition.
So she reassured him, and told him she understood, and went into her garden and worked for many hours every day, and wondered. Perhaps it was just the jail disaster, as he said. It did seem pretty bad, from what she had picked up.
It did not occur to her that it was far worse than that, worse beyond belief, and that her husband, to a great extent, was running it.
She did worry, though, and she hoped. She couldn’t bear it if her husband turned out to be the type of politician she despised.
Even in the rain, she worked among her flower beds.
*
Cynthia’s Beam. Sarah and Brian Rogers
And then the phone did ring. It rang while Rogers wasn’t even fucking her. Which was unusual, because the fat and beast-like man appeared for some long time to be insatiable, it seemed to her that some part of him – a penis, tongue, or fist – was never out of one of her orifices. He had told her once that she had ten of them, and he was going to penetrate them all. Even lying stunned in misery she sometimes wondered what he meant by ten, but she dared not contradict him. And when he did start on the smallest ones, she knew the depths of agony as well as shame.
But when the phone rang this time, Sarah was on the bed alone. Her hands and feet were tied, she was naked as usual, and as it warbled, her back arched uncontrollably and she made a tortured sound. She twisted this way and that, desperate to see the mobile, and Rogers came in from the other cabin, in a dirty tee shirt, with the beginnings of what he would call a ‘lazy lob’ at the sight of her anguished helplessness.
‘Fuck me,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a caller, girl! Secret admirer, is it? If he could only see you now.’
He leaned across her, careful that his penis slid across her face, careful that she did not try to bite it. He picked the phone up and looked at the display.
‘No name,’ he said. ‘No fucking pack drill. Maybe they’re offering me free minutes. Maybe it’s—’
He clicked it on. He held it out to Sarah’s face. She was groaning. She was mewling with distress.
‘Speak, you silly bitch,’ he said. ‘It’s your knight in shining armour. Tell him what a lovely time you’re hav
ing. Speak!’
She heard the voice, and almost choked with pain.
‘Sarah,’ said Michael Masters. ‘Sarah? Sarah, please.’
Rogers put the phone up to his mouth.
‘Hallo, Mickie, how’s it going, lad? It’s Brian, innit? Sarah can’t speak now, she’s got her mouth full, she’s too polite. Full of my big red dick, son, she’s lovin’ it. Next best thing for me than your arsehole, but we can’t have everything. Maybe the next time, eh?’
Sarah did scream then, a tearing, grinding scream that Rogers cut off by jamming his exploding penis down her throat. The last words that Masters heard were, ‘oh fucking Jesus, Michael, that is good. Oh fucking, fucking, fucking Jesus Christ.’
TWENTY TWO
Gorton. Masters, Wolf
Conor Brady was not an unfeeling man. After Michael had made his call to Sarah he left him on his own for a good ten minutes to get himself together. He had listened to the call, and been almost astonished at the bestiality of Brian Rogers. He made a mental note that he could use him sometime, when things had settled down.
But business was business, and soon he was back. Masters, tied to his chair once more, was white and shaky. Brady smiled a wolfish smile.
‘Tough shit that, man,’ he said. ‘When we get you out of here you need to have a word with that vile pig, I’d say. Now, I’ll bring the phone again. Ring Barbara up about that million. And by the way, you’ve got a good incentive now. So make it one point five.’
It occurred to Masters just to say fuck off. Fuck off and die, and let me just die too. The thought of speaking to Barbara now was horrible, unbearable. To speak to Barbara, and think of Sarah. Being raped and tortured and degraded. But the thought was quickly gone. He would save her, then he would kill. If she had died already, he would still kill. Step one – ring Barbara. Step two – get cash. Step three – get out. Then the killing could begin.
