Rise

by Victoria Powell

  Toby pointed over his shoulder with both hands. “These guys are taking me to their HQ to get tortured to death. Why am I going? Cos better that than dying down here.”

  “Whatever you say, fuckwit.”

  Tim pushed in front of Toby, following strictly in Jack’s footsteps. “Come on. We all know baby-you popped out in a puddle around here somewhere. You’ve never seen the Sun. Terrified of it more than the cops.”

  Jack swung his elbow around, aiming at Tim’s head, but Tim wanted a reaction. Grabbing Jack’s arm, he pulled it like a floating boat, building momentum and driving it into the wall. Shoulder crunching, elbow popping, Jack squeaked and crumpled.

  “Tim!” Olive shouted, rushing forward to check on the guy with his warped limb.

  “Get back,” Jack snapped.

  “Get up.” Tim was already hoisting him to his feet. The pain fluttered.

  Jack rushed forward a couple of paces, then tumbled, learning how best to cradle his screaming arm.

  “Just go. The quicker we get there, and all that.” Tim kicked Jack forwards.

  He was crying. Quiet. Sniffling.

  Toby hung back. Quiet too. Waiting for the nudge from Olive before following.

  They exited the narrow tunnel into an old row with stone-faced cottages on the left and the monstrous wall on the right. The tile roofs were long gone leaving an unnatural void between the stone frames and the concrete tunnel ceilings above. Eyeless faces staring down at them. Scuttling noises.

  They were getting close to the first doorway. It led away endlessly to the left and right, parallel to their route.

  “Not that way.” Jack stuttered out. “Second right.”

  “Doesn’t this go the same way?” Toby said.

  “Not that way,” Jack growled.

  They walked on another fifty metres, following Jack in a staggering path that must have been affected. Surely there weren’t that many traps.

  “Doesn’t this doorway lead down the same path?” Tim said.

  Jack sidestepped out of Tim’s reach. “‘Course not.” He couldn’t hide his smirk.

  “Don’t piss about,” Tim spat. “If you think we’ll just let your friends ambush us... If I see even one of your buddies down here I’ll gut you.”

  Jack sniggered, picking up pace down a slimy concrete path. There was no mud here. It looked like this used to be part of the back lane to another row of cottages. There was no sign of the back gates and the green brick walls hinted at their age. The monstrous wall they had just looped around was a support wall built to keep the above ground city in place, built smack in the middle of the old lane.

  “That’s the bloody doorway we passed ten minute ago!”

  Jack cackled, too loudly for Tim to ignore.

  “No!” Olive pulled uselessly at Tim’s jacket. “Let him go.”

  Toby was five paces away. Should he run? He could run. Through the doorway and back the way he came. Then what? Jack wouldn’t keep Tim amused for long. Tim, the guy who easily pinned him to a table. A trained murderer. A thug. A brutalist. A fast runner. Leaving Olive with Jack. And Toby with Tim’s fists.

  Hell.

  Toby ran.

  Not enough time. Tim dropped Jack before Toby was through the gap. Feet slipping of green slime. Stone faces terrified.

  Fast pace. Zip tie pulling.

  Nearly at the tunnel. Footsteps closing.

  Muscles burning, fingers scratched his back.

  Then he was down.

  Not even at the puddle.

  Toby rolled with the fall, bringing his fists around like a discus, breaking weakly on Tim’s shoulder. Tim was on him, pinning his chest to the ground, blocking his arms and bouncing his head against the muddy Tarmac. Toby stilled, senseless.

  Tim rolled off him, breathing raggedly.

  “Get up.” He heaved a breath. “Don’t. Just up. Olive.”

  Toby rolled, slow to climb to the giddy heights. He touched the sore spot at the back of his head. No blood. Tim was good. Controlled. Just enough pain. Not too much.

  Tim pulled him up too fast, taking control. “Run.”

  Towed, tethered, Toby knew what the urgency was. Olive was alone with Jack.

  Tim tugged them to the left, following Jack’s prescribed route. The stone houses. Then the doorway.

  “Olive?” Tim called into the darkness. “Olive, where are you?”

  “Down here.”

  Further down the path, in the direction they wanted to go, they followed Olive’s breathy voice.

  “I’ve got him,” she said.

  “What did you do to him?” Tim asked, smirking.

  Olive rolled her eyes, holding her rifle like a bat over the slumped, sulking Jack. “He tried to run for it, so I chased him and whacked him. That’s all.”

  “You, up.” Tim pushed Toby to the front alongside Jack. “Be glad the rifle’s wet or you’d have a bullet in your head.”

  “Just let me go. Please. Fucking let me go.”

  Tim hoisted him up.

  “I’ve told you the way out. Come on.”

  Tim pushed him and the guy collapsed again. “Oh, come on.”

  “Fuck off. Just fuck off.”

  Tim kicked him, then kicked him harder. “Move.”

  Grabbing him by the back of his jacket, making him scream as his shoulder shifted, Tim lifted and dragged him down the path until he started walking on his own. Toby shuffled close behind, keeping out of Olive’s batting range and trying to block out Jack’s crying.

  They passed two side streets: each sloping steeply uphill. They’d have to crawl between the gap between the roof and the top of that incline. But they kept walking.

  Jack was squirming, fighting to get away, almost hysterical.

  “What’s that?”

  Toby could hear it too. Like an air conditioner, or a washing machine. Coming from the darkness behind them.

  Jack ran.

  “Shit.”

  Water.

  “Run!” Tim shouted.

  “Back to the last exit.” Toby turned, but Tim jolted him forwards.

  How far? The noise was building, gaining texture, getting angry.

  Toby didn’t even see the exit. Tim jumped to the left, pulling Toby up the slippery slope until they both collapsed above the tide line, Olive landing on top of them.

  “Bastard!” Tim shouted.

  A wall of foul water licked up the slope, sloshing back and forth until the foaming soup seeped back down to a drizzle, ending the afternoon emptying of the Middle Meadston sump tank.

  “Where are we?” Olive asked, crawling to the top of the ramp.

  Tim crawled up next to her and pushed on a large rainwater grill at the top.

  “West Street?” Tim grinned down at Toby.

  Toby rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  14 - The Daughter

  Swayed like a babe in the boughs of a rustling tree, Alex thumped into something solid. Thrown from her drug-induced sleep, she held back a shout as blood rushed to the clusters of pain along her left side.

  “Brian, steady. Slow down for the corners,” A muffled voice echoed behind her head.

  “Hey, cool it. She’s out for the count. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Alex strained to see in the muted light. She was in the back of a transit van. The bare aluminium floors and walls were dented from use. The windows in the door had been painted white. The dribbled surface let in a rippled translucent light that tinted the shadows. Thin chipboard separated the transit space and the cab, where the voices came from.

  Rolling onto her stomach, Alex tentatively got to her knees. Maybe there was enough headspace to stand. Doing a quick sweep of her body, her hands and feet were free and there were no motion alarms strapped to her. That was stupid. How long did they expect she’d sleep for? She pushed her hair out of her eyes.

  The van swung hard into another unknown street. Alex slipped her fingers along the floor until she was resting against the
back door. This was not a prison transport van. Were they trying to disguise her transportation as a simple goods transfer, or was this all Defoe could rustle up at short notice? Maybe this was just a normal van. If so, these vans with two doors at the back should have a door handle on the inside of the larger door.

  Screws protruded from the floor of the van, snagging the knees of her orange jump suit. Skimming the face of the door lightly, Alex found the remains of the door handle. Frayed plastic-coated wires poked into her fingers. They must have smashed it. Defoe knew all the tricks.

  Had the cops removed the release handle for the second back door, connecting that door to the floor? If they welded that shut then the door would never open again. There was not enough time for Defoe to use a welding torch. If she could release that handle, a few good kicks should open both doors together.

  It was still there! She pulled the handle, heard the pop of the pin releasing and then was thrown backwards as the van slammed to a stop.

  “Bloody hell, Brian! She’s sliding around all over the place and I’m gonna get whiplash.”

  “Stop moaning. The lights are red, I had to stop.”

  “We nearly had a car up our arse, then.”

  Now or never. Alex pulled herself up from her bruised behind, twisted around and slammed her shoulder into the back doors. They creaked. She did it again. They stretched but did not give.

  “What the...” Came a voice from the front.

  Harder - kick it harder. She felt the lock giving way.

  Bang. Bang. Someone was outside. The van shook as someone got out of the cab. She stumbled back as the door opened. Tainted streetlight poured into the metal box and Alex squinted at the man stepping inside. Defoe.

  The inspector looked pissed. He shouted back at someone outside, someone Alex could not see. “Get us moving again. We can’t draw attention to the convoy.”

  Defoe pulled the door shut, drawing darkness back into the little black box. Alex wobbled as the van slowly pulled off, more carefully than before.

  “Sit down,” Defoe said, commanding her.

  Weighing her options, Alex sat. She was in no state to fight him. She couldn’t even stand without pain rippling through her body. She rested against the chipboard.

  “Are we still in the city?” She asked.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Of course. We wouldn’t take a convict out to work the fields.”

  “Just seems it’s taking a while to get there,” Alex said.

  “How would you know; you’ve been unconscious for hours.”

  “Then why aren’t we there yet?” She asked.

  Defoe tapped out a bored rhythm on the corrugated floor. “The Ambassador turned up. He was pissed that he couldn’t interrogate you.”

  She curled her legs into a tight ball. “What does he want from me?”

  “You’ll find out soon. We’re gonna hold you in the barrack cells for a couple of days. He’s sending a lacky to check on you tonight. Then you’ll move to one of the Ambassador’s bunkers.” Defoe’s brow furrowed.

  “His bunkers?”

  “Torture rooms, maybe,” Defoe said.

  “But My Dad told you everything I know,” Alex said.

  Defoe stared at a patch of flaking paint. “I should’ve pushed you off the tower. It’d’ve been merciful.”

  The van swung to the left and the feel of the road changed. The ride felt rougher, like gravel or cobbles. Defoe’s attention was drawn to the talk of the guards in the cab. Alex couldn’t stop watching him. Waiting for a knife.

  The van slowed to a crawl.

  “Evans!” Defoe called. “Are we on approach?”

  “Yes, Inspector. Queueing at the first check point.”

  Defoe pulled a pair of cuffs from his belt.

  “No manacles?” Alex asked. Her elbow already ached from the contact it had with the van wall.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  The cuffs dug into her skin and pulled at her cramping muscles. She tried to keep the pain internal, but tears stung as Defoe tugged her out of the van. She tried to absorb the scale of the police compound as she was whipped along the edge of the parade ground and into the jail house.

  Breeze blocks, concrete and glass featured largely in the atrium’s design. A row of signing in desks with glass facias lined one wall. A couple of thugs in their mid to late thirties were locked to the manacle holders attached to signing in desks. One guy was slumped onto his desk, half asleep. None of the cops were paying them any attention.

  Defoe took Alex straight to a glass door with a metal trim. A cop stood on the other side, stubbornly not letting them through. Defoe and the cop glared at each other.

  The cop pressed his finger to an intercom. “Sir, prisoners must go through a custody check-in before entering the prison.”

  “I’m not waiting for the next hour while you fanny around.” Defoe spat.

  The cop was bored, trailing a finger down a page. “Lock her up at any desk. Fill out a form and we’ll take her down to the cells shortly.”

  “Look, dumbass. I am not letting her out of my sight until she’s locked in a deep cell and I’ve got the key.” Defoe grabbed Alex by the hair and pressed her face into the glass. “This is Alex Jenkins. See. If I leave her tied to that desk she’ll be gone before you can say ‘help’.”

  Alex shook Defoe off her.

  The cop disappeared behind the scenes. Defoe cursed.

  A young female policewoman with copper hair came to the door, swiped her card and stepped out into the holding room. She smiled at Defoe and gestured for them to step backwards.

  “Inspector. This way, please. Let’s get this paperwork out of the way,” she said.

  Her chipper attitude jarred against Defoe’s grit. “I haven’t got time for this.”

  “It’s got to be done.”

  Defoe pushed Alex into the arms of a nearby cop.

  Alex scanned around the holding room. She had never been here before. Not in the holding room. She’d helped with two breakouts from this building, but never through this entrance. Shame her last escape route was discovered as they left.

  The exits to this room, both the door to the parade ground and the glass door to the cells, were only accessible to someone with a police pass. The floor and the ceiling were made of concrete, much like an old multi-storey car park. The walls looked like they were breeze block, but there might be steel reinforcements inside. The place looked secure. Plus, the congregation of marching police officers out the front was a major deterrent.

  Defoe took her arm again and led her beyond the glass door. The little policewoman led the way.

  “Constable,” he called to the policewoman. “We need to head to the deep cells.”

  She glanced back. “Every prisoner goes through the surface cells first. The prison wardens need to register them. You know that.”

  “What a waste of time,” he said.

  “No use moaning, Inspector.” She slid her tablet computer into a docking station. “There’s always a name on a piece of paper nowadays.”

  They left the policewoman at the glass door. A quick shove down the corridor and Alex was passing through another guarded door and looking down a flight of stairs that descended into the jail. The pistol on the hip of the door guard called invitingly, but Alex’s wrists were firmly strapped behind her. Alex cautiously took the steep steps downwards.

  Defoe tightened his grip on her arm. Was he going to throw her down the stairs? Would that be merciful in his eyes? Red-black marks trailed down the steps.

  Two drowsy guards sat at a small table at the base of the stairs. They glanced upwards, but gave Defoe no other courtesy. A couple of mostly empty metal barred cells were nearby. In the nearest cell a ragged old man was barely breathing.

  “Sergeant,” Defoe said. A man slowly rose from his seat. “This prisoner is for the deep cells.”

  The sergeant straightened and looked her over curiously. “I haven’t been down there in a while.”
>
  “Don’t you feed them?” Defoe asked.

  The sergeant rubbed his hands down his shirt officiously. “We’ve got a lad for that. Not a job for the decent cops up here.”

  “Whatever. Let’s go,” Defoe said.

  The sergeant scrambled for a pair of keys from the table and headed down the corridor.

  Tapping on security locks every flight down, the sergeant led them along ever more neglected corridors and staircases. All concrete, the surfaces became dank and slippery when they were six floors down. The smells coming from the connecting cells were rank, bordering on putrid.

  A couple of guards nodded at them as they passed. Their faces were pale, sunken and mad. Pins and needles shot along Alex’s arm. Defoe’s grip was increasing. Screams were coming from the cells below. The in-cell plumbing disappeared, with a lucky few cells containing a sticky bucket.

  “Sergeant, I need her in one piece. She is a priority prisoner,” Defoe said.

  “And you’re wanting her in the deep cells?” The sergeant asked.

  “That’s where the Ambassador wants her. She’s an illegal. She needs to be secured,” Defoe said.

  The sergeant looked wary. “I dunno. We’ll not torture her or anything, but we can’t stop the rats getting in.”

  Defoe scanned Alex. “She can cope with a couple of sleepless nights.”

  The sergeant led them off the stairs when they were seven floors below the ground. This level was lit with a gloomy purple light. It hid the dirt that made the floor slick. An old iron grill blocked the corridor beyond. A guard was sleeping on a camp bed on the other side.

  “Davey! Wake up, it’s not even nine o’clock yet,” the sergeant said.

  The guard jumped, making his crib squeak as it shifted on the floor. He scrambled out of the bed and jangled his keys as he unlocked the door.

  “Sorry, Sergeant. It’s these thirty-six-hour shifts. I don’t know what time of day it is.” He must have been in his teens, but his six-foot-tall burly frame made him a formidable gaoler.

  “Just let us in,” the sergeant said.

  The lad’s eyes stuck to Alex as she was pulled past him. He trailed behind them like a puppy. Defoe noticed. Davey paused a bit too long outside her cell before remembering his duty to unlock the barred door and then re-lock it when she was safely inside.