“Right, Dad,” said the Sergeant. “Just give us the story again.”
He gave it again, as best he could remember it.
“Right,” nodded the policeman. “Papers.”
He held out a confident hand. Matlock, feeling very hammy, started to go through his pockets.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I was in a hurry. I’ve put on the wrong jacket.”
“Not even your cardio-card?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I’m sorry.”
Even now the Sergeant was still happy to believe him. At least that’s how he interpreted the mock severity of the man’s gaze.
“You oldies are all the same. What’s the matter with you, getting age-happy?”
Age-happiness. The state of being too near your final birthday to care what you did, who you offended. Matlock stared up at the young man’s face. Square-jawed. Broad nosed. Archaic military moustache. Not much imagination there. Might make another rank, but certainly no further.
He tried to look like a frightened, fuzzy-witted old man near his death.
It wasn’t difficult.
Shaking his head, the Sergeant lifted a ’phone from the wall.
“Inspector,” he said. “There’s an old guy down here. On his way to see a sick daughter. Forgot his papers.”
Then a period of listening.
“Yes. I reckon he’s OK. Address? Hang on.”
He hissed down at Matlock. “The address?”
“Address?” said Matlock, puzzled.
“You daughter’s. Where are you going? Come on!”
Matlock’s mind did a leap.
“The Hospital. Ripon General.”
He hoped such a place existed. He prayed it did. After another period of listening, the ’phone went down.
“You’re lucky,” said the Sergeant, “the Inspector feels kind. We pass the Hospital this sweep. We’ll drop you off. Smoke?”
Matlock didn’t. Never had. But now he felt the urgent need for something to calm his nerves. He took a cigarette. Within seconds the nerve-caressing smoke had damped down his fears and he began to look around.
A mobile dungeon. That’s what these things were. There was no hope of escape if you needed to escape, and just being there meant you needed to escape. Unless you were very lucky.
Superstitiously he diverted his mind from his own lucky break. Leaning back against the bulkhead, he felt a slight tremor which told him the wagon’s powerhouse lay behind him. Not that that told him anything much. He knew that the engines lay dead in the centre of these machines, insulated from assault by compartments such as the one he sat in now. Not that anyone had ever tried to assault a Curfew Wagon.
The Sergeant was seated at a small metal table bracketed to the wall. He was filling in some kind of form with practised ease. On the wall to his right hung the ’phone. To his left was the only other object which relieved the uncompromizing metallic squareness of the compartment. This was the simple control panel for the electric manacles which now dangled casually above his head.
There were, of course, stories of the interiors of wagons which made medieval torture chambers seem very dull unimaginative places and which peopled them with psychopathic manipulators of human flesh.
The truth was even more frightening, Matlock decided. Conscientious men, unaware of any need to examine what they were doing, and with the power to apply the exact level of pain desired to any part of the body.
The Sergeant caught his eye and smiled.
“Won’t be long, Dad,” he said.
The ’phone buzzed. He picked it up, listened, said, “Right,” then replaced the receiver.
“Come on,” he said to Matlock, “we’re nearly there.”
“This is very kind of you,” said Matlock with incongruous but real gratitude.
The Sergeant looked gratified.
“Think nothing of it. We’re here to help, one way or another. Up you go.”
He helped Matlock up the little aluminium ladder he had pulled down from the roof and which led to what seemed the only exit from the room.
“Hurry it up,” shouted the Sergeant below, prodding him unceremoniously in the behind.
“Which way?” asked Matlock when they were both upright in the corridor.
“Along there,” pointed the Sergeant.
Matlock, his heart beating fast in the anticipation of getting out of the wagon, moved smartly along. The end of the corridor seemed blank, but the Sergeant reached over his shoulder and by some sleight of hand conjured up a door into a well-lit room.
There were four men in the room which was obviously the eyes and ears of the machine. Two of the men were watching a bank of television monitors which gave 180 degrees visibility round the wagon. A third was obviously in charge of the radio equipment which was fixed to the wall in front of him.
The fourth, standing with his hands behind his back which was towards Matlock, had an air of authority even from behind which told Matlock as clearly as his lack of uniform that he was in charge.
This was immediately confirmed by the Sergeant.
“I’ve brought the old fellow, the one for the hospital, Inspector.”
“Right,” said the Inspector without turning.
A door slid open in the wall opposite Matlock. This led into a protective bulkhead. Beyond, another door opened and Matlock found himself looking out into the night. A draught of cool air rustled in, refreshing, invigorating.
“Go on,” prompted the Sergeant.
It was only half a dozen paces across the room. Another two would have taken him outside, but some built-in, deeply conditioned politeness made him pause a second, turn and say to the room in general, “Thank you. Good-night.”
The Inspector glanced round. Casually. Then with growing disbelief.
He took a step towards Matlock, his face still full of doubt. But even before the doubt disappeared, his hand was full of gun.
“It can’t be. No. I don’t believe it. But it is! It is, isn’t it? Matlock. Matthew Matlock. Step back inside do! You may not remember me, though I haven’t changed as much as you!”
Matlock remembered now too well. Manchester. This was the man who had been in control the night Percy died.
At his back he still felt the cool night air, but even as his memories of the man flooded back, he heard the doors slide shut behind. Over the Inspector’s shoulder he could see the Sergeant’s face, bewildered, worried, angry.
“Sergeant,” said the Inspector.
“Sir!” snapped the Sergeant.
“This poor old man you’re so eager to help is none other than Matthew Matlock, one time politician, cabinet minister, Deputy Prime Minister, now rebel, terrorist, wanted on any number of charges. Don’t you recognize him?”
“I do now, sir,” said the Sergeant with nervous reasonableness. “But you must admit he doesn’t look much like his pictures, sir. He looks . . . older. Doesn’t he, sir?”
“Older? Perhaps. But we’ll talk more about your lapse later. I suggest meanwhile you take Mr. Matlock back below.”
The Sergeant, his face a blank of subordination, moved smartly across to Matlock who looked with some unease on the savage eyes which burnt through the mask. His arm was seized violently and he found himself being dragged bodily across the room. In some far corner of his mind he heard the Inspector instructing the radio operator to contact his Headquarters and give them the news. Then he was out in the corridor, being bounced from wall to metal wall. The Sergeant never uttered a word but used the rock-hard edge of his hand with controlled viciousness. When they reached the trap which led back down into the ‘dungeon’, Matlock attempted to drop cleanly through it, realizing his particular vulnerability here, but one boot came down on his hand and crushed it against the floor while the other swung at his unprotected face. He ducked as best he could but felt a gaping wound flower on his forehead as the boot crashed home. Then the pressure on his hand was released and he fell backwards.
He di
dn’t become unconscious, but was only distantly aware for the next few minutes of what was going on. There was a hubbub of voices, he was lifted up and sat down, and when he finally managed to re-focus his eyes and his mind, he found that the Inspector was leaning over him bandaging his head, which was nice.
Then he tried to move his hands and discovered that he was once again wearing the electric manacles. Which wasn’t nice at all.
The Sergeant was standing stiffly, resentfully, to attention. It was a small comfort to realize he was being reprimanded.
“It is our business to act within the law,” the Inspector was saying severely, “and though there may be times when sheer brute force is the only kind of force available or suitable, this can never be the case in an establishment like this. We have absolute electronic control over the amount of persuasion we administer. It is measured and recorded. Should accusations of maltreatment and abuse of power be brought against you, those measurements and recordings are your defence. You know the precise limits of your authority. But who can measure a kick in the face? You might have killed him. Just weigh the consequences to yourself of that for a moment.”
It was nice to know that there were precise limits to the amount of pain these men could administer, but Matlock reckoned they would be far beyond his tolerance if his earlier experience was anything to go by. He kept his eyes nearly closed in an effort to postpone the interrogation he knew must follow, but he soon became aware with sinking feeling that the Inspector, the bandaging now finished, was carrying on with his preparations quickly and efficiently. He realized now that the Sergeant’s brief application of shock earlier had indeed been casual, routine. Then he had only worn the manacles. Now there was a variety of wires and tubes being attached to his body. At first he thought they were merely refinements of the actual pain-inflicting apparatus, but as his mind cleared, he realized that their function was less directly unpleasant but at the same time more sinister. This was recording apparatus. The Inspector would be able to keep a close check on his pulse, breathing, temperature, degree of consciousness, etc. while questioning him. Through the fringe of his nearly closed eyes he saw the man move back to the control panel and throw a switch.
“Well now,” said the Inspector, “I see that you are, or at least ought to be, fully awake.”
Matlock didn’t move. The Inspector did, and a split second of fearful pain coursed round his body.
“There you are. Try not to drop off again. Right, Sergeant. I think we can begin.”
The Sergeant produced a small radio-microphone which he attached to the wall apparently magnetically. He switched it on.
The Inspector spoke.
“Zero one-thirty hours. Thursday 13th September. Interrogation of Matthew Matlock by 0576621 Inspector Ross P.K.”
The Sergeant spoke.
“Witnessed and recorded by 3789552 Sergeant Hamer P.”
“Now Mr. Matlock,” said the Inspector. “Let me sketch out to you briefly the information I wish to obtain from you before we reach Headquarters. Firstly, with regard to your escape tonight from Fountains Abbey, it seems unlikely that you could have done this unassisted. I want to know first of all which members of the attacking force aided you. Secondly, I want to know where you were going when we picked you up.”
Matlock opened his mouth, but the Inspector raised his hand.
“No, don’t speak yet. We’ll take your first answer as spoken. People always lie the first time. Let’s just say we don’t believe you.”
He moved his hand.
The pain this time lasted several seconds and left Matlock feeling as though his nerve-ends had been rubbed raw.
“Now I’ll ask you again. Who helped you to escape? Where were you going?”
Matlock opened his mouth again, but before he could speak, the pain returned, longer lasting, more violent, and the words turned into a high, drawn-out shriek.
“That was just in case you were thinking of lying again. Now the truth, please.”
“No one. Nowhere,” rasped Matlock from a dry, rough throat.
“Really? That is helpful. You should perhaps realize Mr. Matlock that I can take you to the edge of unconsciousness and keep you there for some minutes without actually pushing you over. That’s the beauty of these things.”
He caressed the control panel affectionately.
“Why not truth drugs?” muttered Matlock.
“Those will come, never fear. But in laboratory conditions. For all I know, you are pumped full of one of the many neutralizing drugs which have been developed. For rapid accurate results, nothing can beat this. Now I don’t like your answer, I’m afraid.”
Again pain, taking him to the brink of a deep dark pit into which he tried desperately to fall, but always he was pulled back, always he swayed on the edge.
“No one. Nowhere. Truth,” he muttered again.
Then he was back by the pit, screaming to be plunged into the oblivion which swirled vaporously below.
His mind now wanted to say something, anything, which would satisfy the Inspector, but he could think of nothing, he was incapable of imagining, of inventing. Some very remote, still controlled part of his mind noted the effectiveness of the torture, but it was light-years away. Then like a headlight in the fog it came slowly, imperceptibly closer and closer till suddenly it rushed on him with unstoppable impetuosity and he opened his eyes to a world beautifully free from pain, but still hideous with its memory and its threat.
The respite had been caused by an interruption. Clambering down through the trap was a constable. In his hand was a message form.
He saluted.
“Radio from H.Q. Sir.”
“Read it,” said the Inspector.
“It’s coded, Sir.”
The Inspector motioned to the Sergeant who took the paper. The constable saluted again and climbed out.
The Sergeant stood hesitating for a moment.
“Do you want me to ...” he began.
“You’re studying for your promotion exams, aren’t you?” said the Inspector with the slightest hint of a sneer.
Without replying or saluting the Sergeant left.
The Inspector spoke into the mike.
“Interrogation pause. Zero One-Forty-Seven Hours.” He switched off and said conversationally to Matlock.
“We’ve got to have a witness.”
Seventeen minutes, thought Matlock. At this rate the few days that remain to me can seem longer than the previous seventy years.
The Inspector was quietly smoking a cigarette and making a note of some figures on the control panel.
“You’re a pretty fit fellow, Mr. Matlock. I can understand how you feel about the Age Limit. But you couldn’t really hope to do anything about it, could you, now?”
He sounded almost reproachful.
The trapdoor opened and the Sergeant’s well-set figure filled the square. He came slowly down and stood at attention. Matlock even through his weakness felt he detected a kind of triumph in the way the man stood, though his face was the old subordinate blank.
“Message decoded, sir,” he intoned expressionlessly.
“Not bad, Sergeant,” smiled the Inspector. “Read it please.”
The Sergeant held the paper up before him, but Matlock got the impression he did not need it. His eyes seemed to be focused on the Inspector.
“From Commissioner One,” he began. The Inspector became absolutely still. This was not the message-source he had expected, Matlock guessed. Commissioner One was the man responsible directly to the Prime Minister for the police force of the country.
The Sergeant went on in the monotonous voice usually reserved for the giving of evidence in court.
“Your message acknowledged. Bring prisoner quickest repeat quickest to local H.Q. Do not stop for any reason whatever repeat do not stop for any reason whatever. Pick up no one repeat pick up no one. Do not commence interrogation of prisoner. Ensure that all further messages concerning prisoner are encoded rep
eat encoded. Message ends.”
There was a silence.
“Sergeant,” said the Inspector softly, “didn’t the operator encode my first message.”
“No, sir.”
“Despite my instructions?”
This was an invitation, Matlock decided, an invitation to cover up. But he saw the Sergeant was in no mood to conspire.
“You gave no instructions, sir. I checked. There were three constables present. Shall I file the interrogation tape, sir?”
The Inspector pulled himself together and managed an ironic smile.
“Yes, you better had, Sergeant. At the same time ensure the time of receipt of this message is clearly recorded, send off an acknowledgement, and pass the instructions about not stopping or arresting to the control room. No, on second thoughts I can do that more quickly from here. You might be delayed.”
There was an unmistakable stress on the ‘you’, but the Sergeant showed no reaction and busied himself removing the radio-microphone, while the Inspector moved over to the telephone.
Matlock’s relief at realising he was temporarily free from the threat of further torture brought him new strength. His mind began to regain its old agility and he had watched the Inspector closely, realizing that despite his effort at unconcern here was a sadly worried man. More interesting to Matlock than the Inspector’s personal worries, however, was the background to the message.
Obviously the news of his arrest had been channelled right up to the top, to Browning himself most likely. Hence the reply from Commissioner One. He felt mildly flattered, but more interesting still was Browning’s desire to save interrogation till he personally could deal with it. Matlock smiled. There were things about the setting up of the Abbey which the Prime Minister would not want blurted out by a tortured and obviously truth-telling man.
But most interesting of all was the reprimand for not encoding the message about his capture. The implication was that they were worried about possible interception of messages. But by whom? And to what effect? Rescue must be out of the question. Even if there was anybody desirous of rescuing him and capable of arranging action in the twenty minutes or so since the message was sent, he was now imprisoned in the strongest most impregnable vehicle ever known to man, on his way to what he suspected was going to be even closer confinement.
Matlock's System Page 18