by Guy Walters
Alec might not have told them anything, but that silence had clearly had a price. He was sobbing like a child who had lost his parents, sure that they were never going to return. Armstrong had seen this happen to even the bravest of men, seen them come back from an assault into no man’s land like little boys. They said that war put years on you, turned you into an old man, but Armstrong had sometimes thought the opposite was true. Some of his men had regressed, become young again, almost infantile. It was the way that some of them had coped, as if reverting to childhood and all its innocence could in some way blot out the horrors they had witnessed. The only problem was that it didn’t work. The images were still there, and nothing could remove the horror of seeing a comrade being clumsily butchered into his constituent parts by machine-gun fire.
For an hour, they lay in near silence, Armstrong comforting Alec as if he really was a little boy. He knew he should make Alec snap out of it, but the man had been here for at least four months – he deserved an hour in which he could escape.
‘So what happened to you?’ Alec asked a little later.
Armstrong told him everything – from the telephone call from Anne through to his arrest at Claridge’s.
‘This is one hell of a lot to take in,’ Alec whispered back. ‘Are you sure it’s this man Frost who’s betrayed you?’
‘I’m certain of it,’ said Armstrong. ‘I suspect that he and Ousby are in cahoots and are attempting to use our network to gain power.’
‘But that’s fantastic!’
‘From the little I know, it’s never a good idea to underestimate the Russians. They’re trying to use us, Alec.’
‘But why did Ousby arrest you?’
‘I wish I knew. If they were using me as some sort of patsy, then you would have thought they’d have kept me on the loose. It might just have been a mistake.’
A pause.
‘It’s academic, though, isn’t it?’ said Alec.
Armstrong swallowed.
‘You’re right. It is academic. At least it is at the moment.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve got to try to escape.’
‘Christ, man, there’s no hope of that.’
‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t mind seeing my son again.’
‘That’s not fair James, you know I’d love to see Anne and the boys, but we’re screwed, man, absolutely screwed.’
‘Perhaps we are, but we’ve got to try. I’m not going to sit here and wait to die. And if there’s any chance of stopping Frost, then I’m going to take it.’
* * *
The letter was slipped under the cell door a few days later.
Armstrong and Alec were still locked up together, although both had been taken away for the occasional beating and interrogation. They were getting steadily weaker, far too weak to attempt anything as exhausting as assaulting a guard. Perhaps Alec was right, perhaps their situation was hopeless and they would just be left to rot here, slowly losing their strength and will in a cell that stank of their effluence and despair. They would get beaten for that, for keeping a filthy cell, but Armstrong knew there was no point in arguing, for that would only make the punishment more severe. The beatings were certainly brutal, but Armstrong reflected that they could have been worse. The guards left his face and genitals alone, although it was hellishly painful whenever one of their rubber truncheons struck him, especially on one of his tack wounds.
At first Armstrong assumed that the letter was a fake. It purported to come from Ted.
James,
We can get you out. Tomorrow night, after supper, your cell door will be unlocked. Wait five minutes, then leave your cell. Turn left and make your way down the corridor. At the end is a staircase – go up it right to the top. At the top there is a door which will be left unlocked. This will take you on to the battlements between the Cradle Tower and the Salt Tower. Wait there. You will be able to see the river and Tower Bridge. We shall be down at the wharf waiting for you to appear. When you do so, we shall fire a weight with a string attached to it up to the battlements. Pull on this string – it will be fixed to a rope. Tie the rope to one of the cannons. Make your way down the rope – we shall be waiting for you at the other end, where we have a boat. If all goes well, we shall be in a safe house in the East End ten minutes later.
Your friend,
Ted
Armstrong read the letter again. How had Ted arranged all this? It had to be a trap – the plan seemed too simple, too childlike. Besides, who did Ted know inside the Tower who would be able to get them out? There was only one answer to that: Ousby. In that case, it was a trap, a convenient way of dispatching him and Alec without the bother of a trial. Far better from a propaganda point of view to claim that they had been shot as they attempted to escape. Much more exciting for the readers of Action and The Blackshirt, who would be able to marvel at the efficiency of the regime for thwarting these most dangerous of prisoners.
He showed the letter to Alec, who struggled to read it in the near darkness.
‘It’s got to be claptrap,’ he grunted.
‘I suspect it’s all been arranged by Ousby in order to silence us,’ said Armstrong.
‘Or maybe Ousby really does wants us out of here,’ said Alec. ‘If you assume that he doesn’t know we’re aware that we’re being set up, then it would be the most natural thing in the world for him to make it look as though your friend Frost can rescue us. No doubt Frost will give us some cock-and-bull about how he managed to bribe a guard. But we’ll know the real reason, and be able to get rid of him and work without his and Ousby’s interference.’
Armstrong didn’t reply at first, allowing himself to chew it over.
‘So you’re saying that we should call their bluff?’
‘Quite.’
‘And if it doesn’t work?’
Alec shrugged his shoulders in the gloom.
‘Then we’re fucked.’
‘Is that any better than being screwed, do you think?’
* * *
Armstrong and Alec’s hearts certainly missed a beat when they heard the key turning in the lock – Ted’s plan appeared to be coming to fruition. If it was a trap, then Armstrong was beyond caring. Better to die tonight than to be hanged in a fortnight as some public spectacle.
They counted down five long minutes, after which they got up from their mattresses. Both men were barefoot and only wearing ripped, bloodstained shirts and trousers, the braces of which had been removed. This meant that they had to hold their trousers up, which would severely impede them. Should they just get rid of them? No – they would need them when – if – they went down the rope. Without them their progress would be agony and therefore much slower.
Armstrong took a deep breath and gently pulled on the heavy wooden door. It didn’t move. He tugged harder; still no movement. It was a trick, a low trick to bring their spirits down even further. Out of sheer frustration he pulled again, and to his surprise the door swung towards him. The noise filled the cell and echoed down the corridor, causing them to pause. No sound came in reply, no footstep, no shout, no corresponding door opening. All was silent.
They stepped into the corridor, expecting to be pounced on. Armstrong looked in both directions – empty, bar the form of a rat scurrying away in the gloom. As instructed, they turned left, and running as best they could made their way down the passage. Armstrong nearly fell a couple of times, tripped by his trousers and then by the unevenness of the flagstones. They felt cold under his feet, cold and shiny, their surfaces worn marble-smooth by countless guards and prisoners over the centuries.
He could hear Alec’s breathing behind him – it seemed to fill the air. He felt weak, the sudden rush of exercise bringing on a bout of light-headedness. He paused, supporting himself with a hand against the passage wall. He did his best not to cough, but his lungs ached, wanting to expel whatever it was that was irritating them. He stifled an involuntary cough, forcing himself not to
open his mouth. He looked at Alec, who appeared to be in an even worse state. Keep running, he told himself, keep running.
They shambled on quickly rather than ran, and Armstrong noticed that he was making his way up a slight incline. The staircase must come soon, it had to. A clanging sound from behind caught up with them, causing him to freeze. Silence. It sounded like a door slamming. Their door? Forget it, keep going, don’t stop, you fool, don’t stop until you are in that boat.
At last – the staircase. A set of stone steps, winding clockwise. Armstrong did his best to bound up them, but his loose trousers hampered him. He hitched them up by their pockets and ran on, hoping that he would not lose his balance and slip down, his fall broken by either Alec or his own chin. He could break both their necks, he thought; be careful.
A feeling of intense nausea. Not now. He wasn’t going to allow an attack. He made a pact with himself, telling himself that he would have a whisky, the first one in many years, if he made it to the safe-house. Arguing with himself, convincing himself – this was madness. But it was working, the dialogue forcing him up the steps, keeping him going. Christ, his worst enemy was sometimes himself.
The door – here was the door. It was shut. Come on, you bastard, open. He pushed hard against it, but it wouldn’t move.
‘Harder!’ whispered Alec frantically.
‘I’m bloody trying!’
One more shove, and then he saw the handle, allowed himself a smile at his own expense and turned it. He pushed the door open, the night air flooding in on a slight breeze. He could smell the river, with its reek of effluence and freedom.
It was nearly dark; Armstrong guessed that it was around half past nine or so. Was this where it was going to end? he asked himself. Were they simply going to be pushed off the battlements? Tower Bridge loomed in the twilight, a small light visible in one its windows. To his left Armstrong spotted a line of cannons pointing towards the river. These must be the ones Ted had mentioned in his note.
He stopped and caught his breath, scanning the wharf for signs of activity. There was none. He strained his eyes, trying to spot a boat, a signal, anything, but he was not rewarded.
‘Can you see anything?’
‘Nothing,’ Alec replied, his voice huskily exhausted.
Now what? Armstrong looked down to the ground – a fifty-foot drop. There was no way they could get down on their own, not unless they wanted to die. Armstrong felt exposed, expected a light to snap on in the darkness, to hear a voice ordering them to halt. If that happened, then he would just keep running and pray there was somewhere he could jump from.
Come on, Ted, for Christ’s sake. If he was there, he must have seen them by now. Armstrong shivered in the breeze, doing his best once more not to cough. His wounds ached, and he looked down to see that he was bleeding from his chest. One of them must have burst open. He forced himself to ignore it. If he forgot about it, then it would not hurt. Mind over matter, Armstrong, something he had often told his men; mind over matter.
A whizzing sound and then a dull chink ten or twelve feet to their left. Armstrong instinctively ducked, a part of him saying that he was being shot at.
‘What the hell was that?’ Alec hissed.
Armstrong crouched and waited for a few seconds. Of course – the string and weight! He scuttled over to where the sound had come from, and there, draped over the battlements, was some thick twine. Armstrong pulled it up and curled it a few times around the barrel of a cannon, and then pulled it.
It was heavier than he had expected, but he was frantic now, and he pulled hard. Eventually, out of the near darkness came the rope, advancing towards him like a bouncing snake. He grabbed it and tied it around the base of the cannon, wrapping it securely, then looked round at Alec, who nodded back to him.
‘Let’s do it,’ Alec whispered. ‘Even if it is a bloody trap.’
‘In that case, I’ll go first,’ said Armstrong.
‘Good God, no,’ said Alec. ‘It’s got to be me.’
‘Forget it!’
Armstrong turned and tugged on the rope. He felt a tug come back. That had to mean the rope was secure. It felt tight and strong, more than capable of holding their weight. Now for the difficult part.
The last time he had crawled along a rope was in India, when he was a subaltern. That was well over twenty years ago, and even then it had been difficult. And now he was about to try it again, when it was nearly dark, with wounds on his chest, and in a state of near exhaustion. It was foolhardy, mad, stupid, but essential. There was fear, plenty of it, but it was outweighed by a determination, a fundamental yearning to break free, to avenge.
He knew the worst part would be when he started. Arms shaking, he hauled himself up the battlement and grabbed hold of the rope. He would crawl along it, his arms out in front, his right leg stretched out behind him with his right foot curled around the rope. His left knee would hang down slightly, providing him with the means to maintain his balance.
‘Good luck!’ Alec whispered.
Armstrong tried not to look down as he gently felt along the rope. His feet had still not left the edge of the wall, and he could go back if he wanted. Not a chance. He pulled himself away, and for one terrifying moment felt as if he was about to fall. He wrapped his legs tightly around the rope and paused, catching his breath.
He was now fully on the rope, suspended fifty feet up. One slip and he would be dead for sure. It was time to move on. He tried to relax, but it was hard. The rope savagely scraped and chafed the wounds on his chest as he edged along, causing him to release the odd stifled groan. With every tug he felt as if he might lose his balance, but he managed to maintain his position.
It was coming back to him now, the technique stored somewhere for all these years. It wasn’t easy, but he knew he could do it, knew that he would do it. He had to – for Philip above all else. He edged along a further seven or eight feet, which put him right above the middle of the dried-up moat. He refused to allow himself to look down, and resolutely kept his gaze above his line to freedom. He thought he could make out figures at the end of it, but he wasn’t sure. He was sweating, perspiration running down his forehead, saturating his eyebrows. He desperately wanted to wipe it away, but he knew that was a luxury he could not afford.
And then it happened. He didn’t know what caused it – perhaps the sweat, or a movement in the rope, or just a tiny lack of concentration – but he lost his balance. His body twisted round, flipping to the right. He gripped tightly with his hands, but his legs gave way and dropped away beneath him, causing a massive jolt that nearly made him lose his hold. He was starting to hyperventilate, starting to panic, but he told himself to calm down, that he hadn’t fallen, and he wasn’t going to have an attack.
He tried swinging his legs up to get hold of the rope, but found it impossible. The movement made the wounds on his chest and stomach feel as if they had burst open. Those in his armpits were in agony, blood oozing down his sides. Or was it just sweat? Keep going. Don’t fucking stop. He would just have to make his way down the hard way, hanging by his hands, swinging one in front of the other.
But there was one other problem. He was facing the wrong way, facing the walls of the Tower. He needed to turn; there was no way he could make his way down backwards. Gripping tightly with his right hand, he released his left and moved it round behind his head. So far so good. He paused, and took a deep breath before releasing his right hand in order to turn himself round.
He nearly fell. His left arm felt too weak, the pain under his armpit too excruciating. He wanted to scream out, to roar, but he allowed himself only a slight grunt as he twisted round, his wounds tearing as he did so. The fingertips of his right hand brushed against the rope but could not manage to grab hold. Another swing of the arm, and then success. He was now facing the right way, both hands gripping the rope. Time to move on.
Every movement was agony, sending a new pain shooting around his body. He knew that his wounds were bleeding badly
now, that the warm liquid trickling down his torso was certainly not sweat. Every time one hand left the rope, the other wanted to give up, to let him fall and dispatch him to the ground, where he could join Mary. Not yet, he told himself, not yet. He would get down this bloody rope, whatever the pain, whatever the effort.
He was making good progress now, had established a rhythm. He could make out shapes, of humans, boats, boxes. The human shapes were beckoning him on, but were making no sound. Who were they? Secret policemen, or Ted and the others? Their presence gave him a new surge of energy, pushing him beyond pain, to a state in which adrenalin and willpower had negated all other sensations. He wanted to laugh, because he was so close, because he was about to bloody succeed.
He could see where the rope ended now. It was lashed over the top of a ten-foot wall that marked the outer perimeter of the Tower. The wall was his last obstacle, but if he fell before it, then he would be trapped. He wondered whether he would be able to haul himself over it, hoping that the others would be able to pull him up.
Within a minute he had reached the wall and could make out the faces and arms of his rescue party. He thought he could discern their anxious expressions in the faded light, but perhaps it was only his imagination. His body was now flat against the wall, his hands still on the rope. His bare feet scrabbled for the semblance of a hold, anything to take even the slightest pressure off his arms.
‘Give us your right hand!’
Armstrong obeyed Ted’s whispered command and felt two strong hands grab his wrist and forearm.
‘Your left!’
Armstrong released his left hand, abandoning the rope. Two more hands clutched him, and now he was being clumsily but firmly pulled up, his bare feet scraping against the rough stone. With a huge heave that scraped his chest over the lip of the wall, Armstrong fell into their hands.
They tried placing him on his feet but he collapsed. Without a word, he felt himself being hauled up with a fireman’s lift on to broad shoulders. And then a rocking motion as they stepped on to a rowing boat and he was deposited somewhat roughly into the bow.