Dark Side of the Street pc-5

by Jack Higgins

  "So you've really wasted your time?"

  "Not on your life. Youngblood's on his way out of here. I've never been so certain of anything in my life. He hasn't said so in so many words, but everything about him confirms it. His general manner, the remarks he makes and so on."

  "You've no idea how or when?"

  He shook his head. "Not a clue. There is one thing. He seems to be feeling his oats a bit at the moment. I think something's in the air."

  She shook her head. "It doesn't make sense, Paul. I've read the file on this place. He couldn't get out- nobody could."

  "He's going to go, there's nothing surer and I'd like to be there when he does."

  "You'll stop him, of course."

  "Not on your life, angel," Chavasse grinned. "He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going with him."

  There was immediate dismay in her eyes, but as she opened her mouth to reply, a prison officer approached. "Time's up, miss."

  She got to her feet. "Goodbye, Paul. Look after yourself."

  "You, too," he said and turned and followed the Duty Officer out.

  Meals at Fridaythorpe were taken in a small canteen on the second floor of each tower block and when Chavasse arrived, lunch had already started.

  The officer in charge signed for him and he went down to the counter and filled a tray quickly. Youngblood was sitting at the first table near the wall and he waved, pointing to a vacant place next to him.

  "A sister, eh?" he commented as Chavasse sat down. "You've been holding out on me."

  "I wasn't sure she'd want to know me any more," Chavasse said. "I must take a lot of living up to."

  "I hear she looked pretty good."

  Chavasse had long since got over being surprised at Youngblood's apparently inexhaustible supply of information. "Is there anything you don't hear?"

  "If there is, it isn't worth knowing."

  Atkinson arrived on one of his periodical tours of inspection and a few minutes later, the bell rang for the end of the session. They queued to return their plates and then stood in line at the lift to be returned in batches to their cells for the rest period before the afternoon session in the workshops began.

  Smoking was allowed as they waited and Youngblood produced a cigarette, put it in his mouth and searched unsuccessfully for a match. Atkinson stopped beside him, took a box from his pocket and held it out.

  "You can keep those, Youngblood, but make 'em last." He shook his head as he moved away. "I don't know what some of you blokes would do without me."

  There was a certain amount of dutiful laughter, particularly from those who wanted to stay in his good books. A moment later, the lift arrived and as they moved forward, Youngblood put his cigarette away and slipped the matches into his pocket.

  Chavasse was conscious of a sudden surge of excitement. The whole incident was completely out of character. There was no love lost between Atkinson and Youngblood, both men made that quite plain, and yet the Principal Officer had gone out of his way to do Youngblood a kindness. It just didn't make sense.

  During the rest period the cell doors were left open and there was a certain amount of coming and going, but any prisoner was at liberty to lock himself in if he didn't feel sociable.

  "You don't mind if I close the door, do you?" Youngblood said to Chavasse when they reached their cell. "I'm not in the mood for fraternising today."

  "Suits me." Chavasse stretched out on his bed. "What's wrong-aren't you feeling so good?"

  "Restless," Youngblood said. "Let's say I feel like cracking the walls wide open and leave it at that."

  Chavasse opened a magazine and waited and after a while Youngblood got to his feet and moved to the washbasin. He lit a cigarette, keeping his back turned and then placed the box of matches on the side of the basin.

  Chavasse took a cigarette from one of his shirt pockets, got to his feet and moved forward quickly, reaching for the matches. Youngblood was staring down at his open palm. He closed it quickly, but not before Chavasse had seen the small brown capsule.

  "Mind if I have a match, Harry?"

  "Help yourself," Youngblood said.

  Chavasse lit the cigarette and returned to his bed. So Atkinson was the contact man? They must have paid him a small fortune, but then, there was a lot at stake. He lay down and behind him, Youngblood filled a plastic cup with water and drank it slowly.

  There was a strange fixed expression on his face as he sat on the edge of his bed and Chavasse said,

  "You sure you're okay, Harry? You don't look too good to me. Maybe you should go sick."

  "I'm fine," Youngblood said. "Just fine. Probably the spring and all that jazz. I always get restless at this time of year. It's the gypsy in me."

  "Who wouldn't in a dump like this," Chavasse said, but Youngblood didn't seem to hear him and sat there staring at the wall, a strange far-away look in his eyes.

  It was hotter than usual in the machine shop that afternoon, mainly because the air circulating system had broken down, and most of the men had stripped to the waist.

  Chavasse worked at one end of the bench cutting plates with a hand guillotine and Youngblood was grinding steel clips to size on a high speed wheel. He had been sweating profusely for some time now and there was a strange dazed expression in his eyes.

  "You all right, Harry?" Chavasse called, but Youngblood didn't seem to hear him.

  He paused for a moment, leaning heavily on the bench, rubbing sweat away from his eyes and when he reached out to pick up another clip from the stack on the bench beside him his hand was trembling. He groped ineffectually for a moment and then the whole pile went over, one of the clips ricocheted from the wheel like a bullet in a shower of sparks.

  And then Youngblood started to shake. He staggered back, rebounding from the bench behind, driving headfirst into the mass of working machinery opposite.

  Chavasse got to him just in time. Youngblood's eyes had retracted, sweat poured from his body and his limbs jerked convulsively. There was no question, but that he was undergoing a perfectly genuine fit, however it had been induced-the second stroke for which the governor had been waiting, the one which would earn him a fast trip in an ambulance to Manningham General Hospital. And afterwards …?

  There were cries of alarm from all parts of the workshop, a rush of feet and as Youngblood's body was racked by another convulsive spasm, Chavasse did the only possible thing and allowed himself to fall backwards across the bench still holding him. When he ran his left forearm along the edge of the grinder, the flesh split open in a nine-inch streak and blood spurted across the bench in a satisfying stream.

  He started to slide to the ground, clutching at his arm, letting Youngblood fall and Nevinson caught him just in time. Strangely enough there was no pain and Chavasse sat there pressing his thumb in to the brachial artery in an attempt to stop the bright flow.

  For a while there was considerable confusion and then Atkinson arrived, pushing his way through the crowd.

  "What in the hell happened here?" he demanded of the Duty Officer.

  "Youngblood threw another fit. He'd have gone into the machinery if Drummond hadn't caught him. He opened up his arm on the grinding wheel."

  Atkinson inspected it briefly. "Doesn't look too good, does it?" He turned to the Duty Officer. "I want a couple of stretchers up here fast from sick bay and tell them to ring through to Manningham General. Tell them Youngblood's had another stroke and we're on our way."

  "What about Drummond?"

  "Him too, of course. You don't think we can deal with an injury like that here, do you? He's going to need a dozen stitches in that arm. Now get moving."

  Strangely enough it was at that precise moment that Chavasse's arm started to hurt like hell.

  5

  Nightwatch

  When he opened his eyes the room was festooned with cobwebs-giant grey cobwebs that stretched from one wall to the other and undulated slowly. He closed his eyes, fighting the panic that rose inside him. When he opened
them again the cobwebs had almost disappeared.

  He was lying in a narrow hospital bed and his left arm felt strangely numb. When he looked down he saw that it was heavily bandaged and then he remembered and looked around him.

  The ward was small-no more than half a dozen beds. Two of them were occupied. One by Brady who lay with a cage over his legs, the other by Youngblood. Both men seemed to be either sleeping or unconscious.

  Two prison officers were sitting at a small table by the door playing cards. As Chavasse stirred, they glanced across and one of them got to his feet and walked over.

  "How do you feel?"

  "Terrible." Chavasse tried to moisten dry lips. "What happened?"

  "They gave you an anaesthetic and stitched you up." He turned to his companion. "Better get the doctor. He said he wanted to know when he came round."

  Chavasse closed his eyes as the other officer picked up the telephone. His mouth was bone dry and he felt curiously light-headed, but otherwise he was fine. He looked down at the arm. He could feel nothing except that curious numbness which indicated the use of painkilling shots and he wondered how bad it was.

  He'd taken one hell of a chance back there at the machine shop. What if he'd severed a tendon, for instance? He closed his eyes, sweat springing to his forehead, and opened them again in time to see one of the prison officers unlock the door.

  The doctor who came in was African, a tall cheerful Nigerian with tribal caste marks prominent on one cheek and a ready smile. He sat on the edge of the bed and took Chavasse's pulse.

  "How are you feeling?"

  "A bit light-headed and my mouth's very dry."

  "After-effects of the anaesthetic, that's all. Nothing to worry about." The Nigerian poured water into a glass from a jug on the bedside locker. "Drink this-you'll feel a lot better."

  Chavasse did as he was told and then lay back. "What about my arm-is it serious?"

  The Nigerian shook his head and grinned. "You'll play the violin again, isn't that what they would say on television? Thirteen stitches-I hope you are not superstitious, but I couldn't find room for an extra one."

  "Are you sending me straight back?"

  "To Fridaythorpe?" There was something close to compassion in the Nigerian's eyes when he replied. "No, I think we'll hang on to you for a day or two."

  Chavasse tried hard not to show his relief, but in his weakened state found it impossible. "What about Youngblood-is he very ill?"

  The Nigerian shrugged. "A second stroke is never a good thing. We'll know more after our tests tomorrow. But we've talked long enough. Now you must sleep again."

  He went out and they locked the door behind him. The two screws went back to their card game and Chavasse turned and looked at Youngblood. He was sleeping peacefully, his face in repose looking strangely innocent. Chavasse took a deep breath. So-the stage was set? He wondered what the next act would be and still wondering, drifted into sleep.

  When he next awakened it was night and the ward was a place of shadows, rain drumming against the windows. One of the prison officers slept soundly on an unoccupied bed, the other read a magazine at the table.

  He glanced across as Chavasse stirred. "Are you all right?"

  Chavasse nodded. "I think I'll take a walk."

  He swung his legs to the floor, sat there for a moment and then got to his feet and walked to the washroom at the other end of the ward. It could have been worse-much worse and on the way back he felt even better.

  When he sat down again on the edge of his bed he realised, with something of a shock, that Youngblood's eyes were wide open. He stared at Chavasse strangely, a slight frown on his face and Chavasse pulled a chair forward and sat down beside him.

  "How are you feeling, Harry?"

  "What is this?" Youngblood said. "What's going on?"

  "You're in the closed ward at Manningham General. You had another stroke."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "When you blew your top at Fridaythorpe you almost went headfirst into the machinery. I caught you just in time. Opened up my arm on the grinding wheel in the process."

  "Is it bad?"

  "Thirteen stitches-could be worse. They're keeping me here for a couple of days."

  The prison officer at the table make a quick phone call and then came over. "I've sent for the doctor. How do you feel?"

  "Hungry as hell," Youngblood said. "Any chance of a meal?"

  "We'll see what he says."

  A moment later there was a knock at the door and he opened it to admit the Nigerian. He crossed to Youngblood's bed, sat down and made a quick examination. "Good-very good. You feel better for your sleep."

  "What he really needs is something to eat," Chavasse said. "And so do I. We're both starving."

  The Nigerian smiled. "I'll see what I can do, but you must get back into bed." He turned to the prison officer. "I'll tell the kitchen to send something up." Mr. Carter. I'm going off duty now, but my colleague, Dr. Mackenzie, will be taking over. If you need anything, ring through to night sister, but in any case, he'll be looking in later on."

  Carter locked the door behind him and returned to the bed. He was a middle-aged, rather kindly man who was thought by most of his colleagues to be too soft.

  "Anything I can do for you?"

  "I could manage a visit to the washroom," Youngblood said. "I never could stand these damned bedpans. Maybe you and Drummond could give me a hand."

  They took him between them, Chavasse on the left so that he could use his good arm. He walked very slowly like an old man and they had to support almost his whole weight. Chavasse was sure he was bluffing, yet on the way back there was sweat on his forehead and when they got him on to the bed again, he seemed exhausted. On the other hand, that might be the after-effects of the drug …?

  There was a knock on the door and when Carter opened it, a male nurse came in pushing a trolley. He served them with scrambled eggs, toast and tea, and went out again.

  Chavasse took his time over the meal, watching Youngblood intently. He showed little desire for conversation and ate slowly, apparently still weak and yet there was a slight air of tension about him and he kept glancing at the electric clock on the wall.

  When they had both finished, Carter took the trays and put them back on the trolley which the nurse had left by the door.

  "What about a smoke, Mr. Carter?" Youngblood said.

  Carter looked dubious. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

  "Just one-that's hardly likely to kill us."

  "I suppose not."

  He gave them a cigarette each and a light and went back to his magazine. It was just five minutes to nine and to Chavasse the atmosphere seemed to crackle with electricity. Youngblood lay back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, the cigarette held loosely between the fingers of his left hand-a hand that shook slightly each time he raised it to his mouth, betraying his inner tension.

  As the second hand swept round towards nine he crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside locker and looked across at Chavasse.

  "I'd like to say thanks while I still have the chance for what you did up there in the machine shop. First Brady and then the other thing."

  "That's okay."

  "I wish there was something I could do for you-I don't like being in debt to anyone-but there isn't. Whatever happens, I want you to get that straight."

  "What in the hell are you talking about?"

  Before Youngblood could reply, there was a knock on the door. Carter opened it on the chain and Chavasse heard a pleasant cultured voice, "Dr. Mackenzie-just making my rounds."

  The man who stepped into the room wore the conventional white coat of the staff doctor and a stethoscope dangled from one pocket like a badge of office. He had a pale, aristocratic face and a fixed smile.

  To the average person he might have seemed a slightly effeminate rather upper-class young man, but not to Chavasse who knew a real pro when he saw one.

  "How are t
hings then?" he said pleasantly and as Carter turned to lock the door, took a.38 automatic from one pocket and delivered a stunning blow to the base of the prison officer's skull.

  Carter groaned and fell heavily to the floor. There was a cry of anger and the second prison officer, who had been sleeping on one of the spare beds, flung himself forward and landed squarely on Mackenzie's back before he could turn. He lurched into the wall, the gun flying from his hand to skid across the polished floor.

  They went down together, Mackenzie underneath and then Youngblood arrived on the run. He grabbed the prison officer by the collar and pulled him off with a tremendous heave, swinging the man round, driving his clenched fist into his stomach. The prison officer doubled over and Youngblood's knee lifted him back against the wall. He slid to the ground and Mackenzie moved in fast and kicked him expertly in the side of the head.

  "Almost fouled things up for us didn't he, old man?" he said to Youngblood as they stood over the two prison officers breathing heavily.

  "A remarkable recovery, Harry," Chavasse said. "I must say you put in quite a performance back there in the machine shop."

  He was standing three or four yards away, one hand behind his back as Youngblood turned to face him. "That was genuine enough, thanks to a drug called Mabofine. All the symptoms, but none of the after-effects."

  "It must have taken quite some planning."

  "A fascinating exchange," Mackenzie interrupted, "but I'm sure you won't mind if we postpone it and get to hell out of here."

  "That suits me just fine," Chavasse said.

  Mackenzie smiled patiently. "I'm afraid you'll have to sit this one out, old man. We've only catered for one."

  "That's right, Drum," Youngblood said. "Fare paying passengers only this trip."

  Chavasse took his hand from behind his back and held up Mackenzie's automatic. "This tells a different tale. It says we all go or nobody does."

  Mackenzie's habitual slight smile disappeared and he slid one foot forward tentatively. "I wouldn't," Youngblood said heavily. "He means it."