Gravedigger 01 - Sea Of Ghosts

by Alan Campbell

  The window offered him a view of Ethugra’s central harbour, where administration buildings crowded around the docks and the market stalls. The stony figures of the Drowned stood in silent rows along the waterfront, their contorted bodies granting shade to small groups of fishermen, old women, costermongers and trove sellers. An eclectic mix of boats, mostly fishing vessels, ferry boats and canal traders, churned trails of spume across the tea-coloured seawater. The wharf itself lay directly below his window, some sixty feet down.

  Granger spied a vessel approaching.

  Two of Maskelyne’s Hookmen had Hana in their flat-sided canal barge. She was trapped in a net, over which they’d thrown a brine-soaked blanket. They berthed among fishing boats, hurling orders at Ethugra’s civilian captains and throwing out their bow and stern lines like insults. Hana couldn’t walk unaided, and so they carried her up the steps to the esplanade.

  The Drowned died more quickly in direct sunshine, but the Hookmen chose a place for her under the shade of Maskelyne’s own prison façade. Whether this was to allow him a better view, or simply to prolong her suffering, Granger didn’t know. Her death, it seemed, was going to be a lengthy affair.

  Wearing whaleskin gloves, the two men peeled the blanket away from Hana and unravelled the net. They used knives to cut her frock away, leaving her naked. And then they fitted manacles to her ankles and wrists, running the chains through eyelets set into the flagstones. She managed to stand, and even stagger a few feet towards the harbour’s edge, before she began to scream.

  The sound was odd, coarser and deeper than Granger would have expected. Exposure to brine had already changed her larynx, thickening the tissues and cartilage in her throat. Here on dry land she sounded like a man. Her cries drove him to urgency.

  He glanced at the chalk marks again. Waste of time. He paced the cell. Walls, floor, bars, commode, washbasin, bed. The water pipes had been fused securely to the taps. Hana’s screaming harried him like a fire siren. Walls, floor, bars, pipes . . . He covered his ears, but it didn’t help. Stop.

  Think.

  The floor. The bed.

  Granger examined the bolts fixing the bed to the floor. They had been ground smooth and then welded to their surrounds. He couldn’t free them without tools. He ripped open the mattress with his bare hands, and rifled through its innards. Nothing inside but hair and dust. Useless. He felt his way around the walls, testing the mortar between the stones with his fingers, but he found no weakness. Too much care had gone into building this place. Too much money. He tried to kick the water pipes away from the sink, but they wouldn’t budge. He examined the metal door, hunting for a flaw in the design. The hinges were outside. A floor-level hatch allowed food to be passed through, but even if it had been open he doubted he could have squeezed his arm through.

  Hana’s screams continued.

  Slowly, slowly.

  He was breathing too rapidly. He had to think. He checked the bars in the window. Solid iron. This was one part of the building they hadn’t salvaged from cells below the waterline. He couldn’t bend them without leverage. The ends were buried into holes bored deep in the surrounding stones. No way to prise them loose. He paced the cell, looking closely at everything again. Floor, walls, bars, ceiling. A length of chain hung from a hook at the apex of the room. It must have once have been used to support a lantern, but there was no lantern there now. Granger might be able to reach it by standing on the commode, but he couldn’t see how he could get it loose. Everything looked as tough as anything that could be made by man. No way out without explosives. If old Swinekicker had had the resources, he might have built a prison like this.

  But not quite like this. The old man had talked at length about the art of confinement: the escapes, the little oversights that could let your income slip away from you, the changes he’d make to his own place if he only had the money. And now Granger examined his own cell with the same cold cynicism. To look into the room from the corridor outside required the guard to kneel on the floor and peer through that narrow food hatch in the bottom of the door. Wealthy prisoners, it seemed, were granted a peculiar degree of privacy. It was the only flaw Granger could discern. How could he use it to his advantage?

  Hana’s cries filled the air.

  Granger returned to the torn mattress. He scooped out the rest of the hair stuffing and then set to work tearing the blanket into thin strips. He plaited the strips together until he had fashioned two short lengths of rope, one longer than the other. He tied a knot in the end of the shorter.

  Then he stripped to his underwear.

  He pushed the legs of his breeches down into his galoshes, then stuffed the breeches full of mattress hair. He chewed holes in the hem of his shirt and used his bootlaces to tie the shirt to the belt loops in his breeches. Then he began packing the shirt too. When he’d emptied the mattress of stuffing, he used the remains the mattress itself and then pieces of blanket, keeping only a fistful of scraps aside. Finally, he slid his whaleskin gloves on to the padded-out arms of his shirt and stood back to inspect his creation. He had made a mannequin, a stuffed figure dressed in his own clothes. It wouldn’t suffer a close inspection, but it didn’t have to. He didn’t even bother to furnish it with a head.

  Granger climbed up onto the cistern, from where he could just reach the lantern chain hanging from the ceiling. He fed the longer of his two makeshift ropes through the bottom link, until it snagged on the knot at its end. He gave it a gentle tug. It held well enough. He hopped down again, then hoisted up the mannequin and tied it to the rope.

  From the food hatch at the bottom of the door, one could see a pair of boots dangling before the window. By pressing his face against the floor, Granger could make out the hanging dummy’s legs and the lower part of its torso and arms. Good enough.

  Now he had to get the jailer’s attention. He couldn’t afford to wait until meal-time, whenever that was. He grabbed the last few scraps of blanket and stuffed them down into the washbasin plughole. Then he turned on the taps.

  The basin filled and soon began to overflow. Water spilled over the floor, gradually reaching the corners of the cell. As it began to leak out of the gap under the door, Granger wrapped the shorter length or rope around each of his hands and waited.

  Less than a quarter of an hour later he heard noises in the corridor outside. A key clunked in a lock. A door slammed. He heard the jailer cursing, his boots sloshing along the flooded corridor.

  Two bolts snapped back, and the hatch at the bottom of the cell door clanged open.

  Outside, the jailer gave an angry hiss. ‘If you’ve broken that bloody sink, we’ll beat . . .’ he began. And then he must have seen the hanging mannequin, for he said, ‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.’

  Keys rattled.

  The door opened.

  Granger stepped from his hiding place into the open doorway and kicked the jailer in the stomach. Before the other man had time to register surprise or pain, Granger looped the short rope around his neck and dragged him down. He twisted the rope.

  The jailer made a choking sound.

  ‘We’re walking out of here,’ Granger said.

  The jailer opened his mouth to object, but Granger twisted the rope tighter around his neck. ‘Don’t speak,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll crush your larynx.’

  A corridor stretched in both directions, with numbered cell doors lining both walls and an iron-banded wooden door at the end of the passage. Granger marched his captive towards this last door. From his initial trip here he knew that the guards’ office lay beyond. ‘How many guards?’ he whispered into the man’s ear. ‘Hold out your fingers.’

  The jailer made no move.

  Granger tightened the rope.

  ‘One.’

  ‘I said donâ€�
��t speak.’ They had reached the door by now. ‘Unlock it.’

  The other man obeyed, fumbling with his keys.

  ‘Quickly.’

  The door swung open to reveal a small windowless chamber, a watch station for the cell corridor – little more than an airlock to separate free men from their captives. Racks of keys hung from pegs along the back wall, each labelled with a cell number. A single guard reclined in a chair, his feet propped on the desk before him. He had been half asleep, but now snapped alert as the two men bustled in: one dressed in underwear, the other turning blue. He looked at Granger and then he reached for his blackjack lying on the desk between them.

  ‘Leave it,’ Granger said.

  The guard hesitated.

  ‘Throw me your keys or I’ll break his neck.’

  ‘Break it,’ the guard said. ‘They’ll give me his job.’

  Granger pitched his captive across the table and into the seated man. The guard’s chair toppled backwards and he went down, pinned under the thrown man’s weight. Granger stepped around the desk and kicked the guard hard in the groin. Then he dropped to a crouch, slamming his elbow down into the back of the jailer’s head, knocking him out cold.

  The guard groaned through his teeth, still trapped under the unconscious man.

  Granger spied a bunch of keys hooked to the man’s belt and tore them loose. He picked up the jailer’s keys from the floor. His chest had begun to cramp again. He staggered upright, wincing at the pain, and locked the door to the cell corridor. Then he tried the opposite door, the exterior one. It was unlocked. He opened it a fraction and peered out.

  A broad staircase descended several flights to the main foyer. On the opposite side of the landing stood another door, but this was not reinforced. A tall window looked out on the gloomy façade of another building. There was nobody about. Granger glanced back at the fallen guard. Then he stepped out, shut the watch station door and locked it behind him.

  He hurried down the staircase, clutching his chest.

  When he reached the foyer he stopped. An open doorway to his right led to the prison offices, from where he could hear the susurration of scribes at work. To get to the front door he’d have to walk straight past them, in his underwear. The front door would undoubtedly be locked, and he didn’t know which one of the keys he had stolen would open it. He rifled through the bunch, selecting a couple that looked to be around the right size.

  Then he took a deep breath and crossed the foyer to the door.

  A shout came from the office. Granger pushed the door, but found it to be locked. He tried the first key, but it wouldn’t turn. Over his shoulder he heard a scribe shouting for the guards. He tried the second key.

  The lock turned.

  Granger burst out into bright sunlight.

  The marketplace was mostly empty. Rows of stalls stood like canvas colonnades. A few costermongers milled around behind them, chatting or stacking crates to be moved to the wharf side, sitting on the steps of the Imperial Administration Buildings. Fishermen and ferrymen lounged in the shadows of the Drowned. A old man sat mending his net. The Hookmen had gone, leaving Hana alone. She was crouching on the ground with her arms wrapped around her knees, wailing in a thick broken voice. Not a damn soul paid any attention to her.

  Granger locked the door behind him, then ran over to her.

  The Hookmen had soaked her in brine to prolong her life, but her stony flesh had already begun to crack across her arms and shoulders. It looked like paving slabs. Most of her hair had turned from black to grey. Her face appeared scorched. Brine crystals frosted the corners of her mouth. Her ankles and shins glistened redly where the manacles had bitten in.

  ‘Hana?’

  She looked up, but her eyes were clouded by cataracts and he doubted she could see him. Others were looking over at them now. A few men stood up. The net-mender stopped his work. Someone whistled. From the direction of the prison, Granger heard a door rattling.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the sting of the brine. ‘It’s Tom.’

  She just wailed. If she recognized him, or even understood his words, Granger didn’t know. He examined her manacles and chains, then glanced around for something with which to break them. The fishermen would have tools in their boats. He stood up.

  The door to Maskelyne’s prison opened, and a group of men filed out – five, six, eight of them. Granger recognized Bartle and two of his crew from Swinekicker’s place. A scribe stood beside them holding a bunch of keys. The other four were jailers and carried blackjacks looped around their wrists. Bartle saw Granger and grinned. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Tom?’

  Granger crouched down beside Hana again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly to his chest. He kissed her ear and stroked her hair. The metal salt taste of brine lingered on his lips, and then began to burn. Granger crooked his arm around her neck and squeezed.

  She gasped, but she didn’t struggle.

  Her tough, leathery flesh barely yielded under his grip. He gripped her neck harder, squeezing the muscles of his forearm into her windpipe, trying to drive the last pitiful breaths from her. But then Maskelyne’s men reached him and it was too late.

  One of the jailers swung his blackjack, striking Granger across the temple. Granger’s vision swam, but he held on to Hana with all of his strength. He heard her choke.

  They struck him again, and the world went dark.

  ‘Forty-six minutes,’ Maskelyne said. ‘That’s how long it took him to break out of the best and most expensive prison in Ethugra.’

  The jailer hung his head.

  ‘Where do you think the fault lies?’ Maskelyne said.

  ‘The fault?’ The man glanced at the body in the olea tank. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ Maskelyne sat up. He studied the man for a moment, trying to judge the fellow’s level of retardation. ‘Well let me ask you this: Did he spend those forty-six minutes tunnelling through the walls?’

  The jailer was growing paler with every passing moment. ‘We thought he’d killed himself.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I thought he’d killed himself.’

  Maskelyne stood up and wandered over to the brine-filled alcoves. He pressed his hands against the glass and watched the jellyfish drift past like tiny luminous globes. They had absorbed almost all of their meal by now. Only the corpse’s skull and part of its spine remained in the tank. ‘Men like that don’t kill themselves,’ he said. ‘They keep on going, and going, and going until somebody like me stops them. That’s why men like me are so valuable to the empire.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You stripped his new cell?’

  ‘Completely, sir. Basin, bed, mattress and commode. He’s got nothing but his clothes.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  The jailer shook his head, then nodded. ‘A blanket, sir.’

  Maskelyne thought for a moment. He glanced at his pocket watch. It was approaching forty-five minutes since his men had hosed the colonel down and placed his unconscious body into the new cell. ‘I’d like to see him myself,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Maskelyne wandered over to one of the tables. He opened an ornate box and took out a tangle of red wires like a small bird’s nest, which he placed in his jacket pocket. ‘Bring a chair,’ he said to the jailer.

  ‘A chair, sir?’

  ‘Any one of these will do.’

  They walked over to the prison wing, with the jailer carrying a chair from the lounge. He set this
down to unlock the watch station and then carried it inside. The duty guard rose to attention and admitted them into the cell corridor.

  Maskelyne ordered the jailer to place the chair outside Granger’s cell. He took a seat, while the other man opened the hatch at the bottom of the door.

  There was a moment’s pause.

  And then the jailer let out a hiss and said, ‘He’s trying the same damn thing again, sir.’

  Maskelyne looked at his pocket watch again, and smiled. ‘What could he have used to stuff the mannequin with this time?’

  The jailer frowned. ‘Nothing, sir.’ He looked puzzled, and then realization slowly dawned in his eyes. He peered back through the hatch again.

  ‘Open the door,’ Maskelyne said.

  This time it was no mannequin hanging from the lantern chain, but the body of Thomas Granger himself. He had fashioned a second rope from the blanket they’d left with him. To this one he had added a noose. His eyes were closed, his neck crooked, and his tongue protruded from his mouth. His boots dangled a foot from the floor.

  Maskelyne looked up at the hanging figure in utter disbelief. Brine scars now covered Granger’s lips and one side of his face. From the plaza outside could be heard the wailing of the Drowned woman.

  ‘Cut him down,’ he said. And then he turned and left the room.

  Granger’s eyes opened the moment he felt the jailer grab his legs. He reached inside his shirt and tugged at the knot he’d tied across his chest. The whole of his makeshift harness immediately came undone, and he dropped down from the rope into the arms of the startled jailer.