by Tom Becker
Holding the lamp out in front of him, Doughnut got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the tunnel. After a brief pause Adam followed, staying low to avoid banging his head on the ceiling. The space was cramped to the point of breathlessness – there wasn’t even enough room to turn round. The light from Doughnut’s lamp flickered over the walls, picking out the wooden struts inserted in the tunnel to guard against cave-ins.
As he wriggled forward, rocks biting into his knees and palms, Adam felt a draught of cold air whipping across his face. It was coming from a long fissure in the left-hand tunnel wall. Adam stopped and pressed his face against it, taking in a deep lungful of fresh air. As he looked out through the hole, he found himself staring into a deep, desolate black. Adam swallowed and licked his lips nervously. They were on the edge of the chasm in the centre of the Dial. Above his head, the outline of the walkway was visible as it bridged the abyss.
“Come on, mate,” Doughnut called back softly. “No time for sightseeing.”
The tunnel curved to the left, skirting around the edge of the chasm. Adam wasn’t sure how long they had been underground – it might have been five minutes, it might have been an hour – but already his back was aching and the musty air inside the tunnel was making him dizzy. Only the fact that Doughnut continued without complaint stopped Adam from suggesting they turn back.
Just when he thought that the tunnel was never going to end, the ceiling changed from jagged rocks to smooth flagstones. Doughnut stopped, and turned out his lamp. He twisted round to look back at Adam.
“Not a word from now on,” he whispered. “Just watch me, and do what I do. OK?”
Counting the flagstones above his head, the fixer reached up and lifted one into the air, before pushing it to one side. He hauled himself up into the room above with Adam following close behind, grateful to escape the tunnel. They had come out into some kind of storage room, filled with crates stacked on top of one another. From upstairs there came the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, and scratchy gramophone music.
Doughnut quietly prised open the lid of the nearest crate and stared inside, his eyes lighting up. Looking over his shoulder, Adam saw that the crate was packed with food: cans of tuna, packets of biscuits and tinned peaches. After months of lumpy potatoes and thin gruel, the sight made Adam’s mouth water.
“What is this place?” he whispered.
“The pantry below the guards’ quarters,” Doughnut whispered back. He gave Adam an amused look. “What, did you think that they were eating stew too?”
As they rummaged through the crates, filling up Doughnut’s knapsack with food, Adam felt like a bank robber rifling through a vault filled with gold ingots and precious jewels. He was adding a jar of honey to their haul, stifling a triumphant chortle, when the door at the top of the stairs opened. Doughnut grabbed Adam and hauled him down behind a giant sack of flour. A light bulb flicked on. Peeping out from behind the sack, Adam saw a skinny boy with glasses enter the pantry, a look of disdain etched on his sallow face.
The door opened again, and a man’s voice barked down: “Make sure you get enough beer, Echo! I don’t want to have to send you back down there again.”
“Yes, sir!” the boy called back, a wheedling tone to his nasal voice. “Back as quick as I can!”
Echo waited until the guard had gone before rifling through a small crate on the floor. Watching the boy greedily stuffing chocolate bars into his pockets, Adam had a strong urge to rush out and throttle him. Did he not know that the other children on the Dial – his former friends and roommates – were slowly starving? Or did he simply not care? Seeing Adam’s fists clench, Doughnut shot him a warning glance and shook his head. Adam had to sit and watch as Echo picked up a case of beer bottles and carried them upstairs, humming a jaunty tune to himself.
As the door closed, Adam realized that he had been holding his breath.
“Close call,” he whispered.
“Too close,” Doughnut replied softly. “Let’s fill up this sack and get out of here. We can’t take too much, or the guards’ll know someone’s been down here.”
Above their heads, the party was in full swing: the laughter became more raucous, and feet stamped on the floor in time with the music.
Finally Doughnut’s knapsack was full, and he gave Adam the thumbs up. They were just about to lever themselves back into the tunnel when the room was engulfed in sirens.
Immediately the laughter upstairs ceased, and footsteps thundered across the floor above Adam’s head. Doughnut hurled the knapsack through the hole into the tunnel and ushered Adam inside, before diving down after him and dragging the flagstone back over their heads.
Seconds later the pantry door crashed open, and a pair of footsteps marched into the room. “Who’s there?” a young man called out.
Doughnut grabbed Adam, frantically motioning at him to stay still. Adam held his breath, willing his heart to stop pounding so loudly. There was the click of a rifle being cocked, and the tread of jackboots got closer and closer, until the guard was standing right above their heads.
“Oi!” another voice barked. “What do you think you’re doing down here?”
At the sound of Mr Pitt’s voice, Adam’s blood froze.
“I was on my way out with the others, sir,” the guard replied, a quaver of fear in his voice. “Thought I heard a noise down here, so I came down to check.”
“Attention! Attention!” Echo’s breathless voice erupted from hissing loudspeakers, penetrating down into the cellar. “Suspected breakout in the exercise yard! All guards to Wing VI! Repeat: all guards to Wing VI!”
“Well?” Mr Pitt roared at the guard. “You heard him! If you’re not in the exercise yard in the next minute I’ll put you in the punishment cells. Understand me, boy?”
“Yessir.”
The young guard ran out of the pantry and slammed the door behind him. Doughnut wiped a hand across his brow with relief.
“That’s a bit of luck,” Adam whispered. “I thought we were done for.”
“We still might be,” replied Doughnut, “unless we’re back in our beds by the time the guards do the rounds. Let’s get out of here.”
As they scrambled away, the siren burrowed down into the tunnel like a drill, reverberating around the cramped surroundings and battering Adam’s skull. He crawled on through the tunnel, not caring any more about the musty air or the rocks scraping his scalp. They emerged back in the cellar beneath the prisoners’ quarters, barely catching their breath before moving the chest back over the hole in the wall. Doughnut unlocked the cellar door and looked up the stairs.
“Coast’s clear,” he reported. “The guards should be down in the exercise yard, so if we’re lucky we’ll make it.”
The two friends raced up through the building, past dormitory doors bulging with animated chatter. As they mounted the final flight of stairs, Adam pressed Doughnut back into the shadows as a guard stomped along the corridor above them, his rifle in his hands.
The sirens had abated by the time they burst back into their dormitory, panting as they closed the door behind them. The rest of the room had gathered by the windows and were looking out towards the exercise yard. Caiman shot Adam a sly look.
“Where have you two lovebirds been?”
“Leave it out, Caiman,” Doughnut replied wearily. “What’s going on outside?”
“Can’t really tell from here,” reported Mouthwash. “Obviously the goons thought someone was trying to make a run for it. We thought it was you. Where’ve you been?”
“Nowhere,” Doughnut said shortly. Pressing the knapsack into Adam’s hands, he said quietly: “You take that, mate. Anyone asks what it is, tell them to shove off.”
Adam smiled. “Cheers, Doughnut. I owe you one.”
The fixer smiled. “Doesn’t everyone?” Stifling a bone-cracking yawn, he collapsed on
to his bunk and curled up. “I’m knackered. Turn out the lights, will you?”
Within seconds Doughnut was sleeping soundly, the wooden slats beneath his bunk bed creaking as he snored. Adam’s mind was still churning following their breathless escape, and he lay awake for longer, clutching the precious knapsack. When he did finally fall asleep, he dreamed that he was back at the disused skate park near his home. Danny was standing on top of one of the ramps, staring accusatorily at Adam. As the silhouette of the Quisling appeared behind his friend, Adam tried to shout a warning, but no sound came out of his mouth.
The next morning, even the tense atmosphere of the mess hall couldn’t dispel Adam’s good mood. He polished off his lumpy porridge in double-quick time, scanning the tables around him. Through the throng, he caught sight of Jessica sitting alone at the far end of another table. Adam picked up his knapsack and skirted round the edge of the room towards her, careful not to catch the eye of any of the watching guards.
“How’re you doing, Jessica?”
She looked up warily from her food, only to break into a slight smile at the sight of Adam.
“Better this morning. Thanks for asking.” Jessica lifted her spoon out of her porridge, letting its contents slop back into her bowl meaningfully. “Even this doesn’t taste quite as bad as usual.”
Adam slipped into the seat opposite her. “I’ve got something better than that,” he whispered, passing the knapsack under the table. “Take this, and whatever you do don’t show anyone else.”
Jessica cautiously opened the flap and looked inside the knapsack, her eyes widening with shocked delight.
“This is for me?” she breathed. “Thank you! But how . . . where. . .?”
Adam pressed a finger to his lips, winked, and walked back to his table. He sat down, whistling happily to himself.
“I take it your friend liked her present,” Doughnut said slyly.
“Our present,” corrected Adam.
“Eh?”
“I saved a bit for us as well.”
The fixer clapped him heartily on the back.
“Good man!” he exclaimed. “I’ll get word to Mouthwash and Paintpot and we’ll have a little picnic.”
They congregated that afternoon in a cellar beneath the chapel, sitting cross-legged on the flagstones as they merrily munched their way through sandwiches and packets of crisps. Mouthwash arrived late and out of breath.
“Where’ve you been?” asked Adam.
“Having a chat with old Harker. He doesn’t half go on a bit.” Settling down beside them, Mouthwash plucked a half-eaten sandwich from Doughnut’s hand, ignoring the fixer’s cry of indignation. “Seems last night was a false alarm – a guard got jumpy and thought he saw something. Mr Pitt’s blaming Harker for the mess, and has spent the last hour screaming at him. I almost feel sorry for the poor goon.”
Adam knew what he meant. Mr Harker was the most amiable of all the guards, and seemed to spend almost as much time being told off by Mr Pitt as the prisoners did. Adam had wondered whether there was some bad blood between them, but the simple truth appeared to be that Pitt was a natural bully who couldn’t help seizing upon any weakness – wherever he found it.
“I don’t know why the guards are so obsessed with prisoners trying to escape,” Paintpot said quietly. “Only the Tally-Ho are crazy enough to still think that they can make it over the wall. No one ever gets out of here.”
But there had been one notable exception to that rule, and everyone in the cellar knew it – even if no one mentioned his name. Adam thought back to the library, and V. Mix’s mocking poem in the Codex Treacherous: But he’s long gone, the only true traitor, Luca D’Annunzio the Collaborator! He chewed thoughtfully on his sandwich.
“Any of you guys heard of a prisoner called V. Mix?”
Paintpot shook her head. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“And she should know,” Mouthwash butted in. “Paintpot’s been here longer than any of us.”
The dark-haired artist glanced at Adam. “Why are you asking?”
“No real reason,” replied Adam. “Thought I heard someone talking about them the other day.”
“If it’s bugging you, go to the library. They’ve got a big register there with all the people who’ve ever done time here. You’ll know soon enough if there’s a V. Mix or not.”
“Good call,” said Mouthwash, taking a giant bite out of his cheese and pickle sandwich. “After all, the library’s Wing V, isn’t it?”
He nudged Adam jovially, unaware that the latter had paused. Even though their simple meal was the finest, most delicious feast Adam had ever tasted, silently he seethed with impatience as his friends lingered over the remaining morsels. Finally he was able to make his excuses and hare over to Wing V.
As usual, the library was deserted – its vast collection of books slumbering in the quiet. Bookworm was fast asleep behind a desk, his mouth wide open and his feet propped up on two volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Adam crept past him and into the warren of shelves, where he stopped to think.
What if Mouthwash had stumbled across the truth – and that V wasn’t an initial at all, but code for the library? Maybe Mix wasn’t another prisoner but the author of a book. As he inspected the shelves, Adam saw with a sinking heart that the volumes weren’t arranged alphabetically, but by reference numbers. Or, more accurately, reference letters: LX, LXI, LXII. . .
Adam slapped his forehead with exasperation. Of course! It wasn’t “Mix”, it was “MIX” – roman numerals for 1,009! It was a coded reference to a particular book! Picking up the trail of numerals, Adam plunged deeper into the library, until the aisles got narrower, the books reeked of mould and mildew, and warped shelves sagged under the weight of their burdens.
Finally he located the right aisle, dragged over a rickety ladder and clambered up to the top shelf. Swaying uncertainly on the highest rung, Adam thumbed the spines of MVII (The Penitent Prisoner) and MVIII (Terrible Tales from The Re-education Wing) before finally alighting upon MIX. He pulled out the book, his hands shaking with excitement. It was a hefty red volume entitled The Dial Cookbook, filled with page after page of handwritten prison recipes: Stir Fry; Lamb with Thyme; Canned Chicken. Not what Adam had been expecting. He fanned the pages and turned the book upside down and shook it, but no secret notes fell out. Maybe “V. Mix” hadn’t been code after all. Dispirited, Adam was about to close the book when a particular recipe caught his eye. It was tucked away near the back of the book, and written in the same flowing handwriting as the mocking poem in the Codex Treacherous:
Volcano Chilli
This explosive concoction will burn more than the roof of your mouth!
As he scanned the list of ingredients beneath the recipe’s cheerful introduction, Adam frowned. The Volcano Chilli was made up of a mixture of chemicals and fertilizer – nothing that could be eaten. In fact, he was fairly sure he was looking at a recipe for a home-made bomb.
“What are you doing here?”
Adam jumped, dropping the cookbook to the floor with a thump. Bookworm was standing at the end of the aisle, sleepily rubbing his eyes.
“Just browsing,” Adam replied weakly.
The librarian picked up the book and inspected its spine. “Unusual choice,” he said wryly. “As far as I know, no one’s ever taken this book out before.”
“Really?” Adam’s ears pricked up. “How do you know?”
“I’ve had a long time to memorize the books here. And I always try to remember the ones no one else cares about.” Bookworm paused. “I’m not going to be around here for ever, though. This place is going to need someone to look after it when I’m gone. What about you?”
“I don’t think I’d be up to it,” Adam said quickly.
“Really? You’re in here almost as often as I am. Did you find what you were looking for in the Codex Treach
erous?”
“Not really.” A thought occurred to Adam. “Is there another copy anywhere?”
“Of the Codex?” Bookworm scratched his head. “There’s a set of official records in the guards’ quarters, but they’re off-limits to inmates. Why – what’s wrong with mine?”
“Nothing,” said Adam, climbing down from the ladder. “Listen, I’ve got to go – I’ll see you later.”
Bookworm held up the cookbook. “Don’t you want this?”
“Maybe next time!” Adam called back, hurrying away down the aisle. He didn’t want to encourage the librarian into any further investigations. Although the Dial Cookbook had raised more questions than answers, there was definitely something going on: certainly suspicious, and possibly dangerous. This was Adam’s mystery – and his alone.
To the immense relief of the Dial’s inhabitants, winter began reluctantly releasing its icy fingers from around the prison’s throat. No longer were the walkways booby-trapped with frozen puddles, nor the inmates’ stale morning breath collecting in frosty clouds above their bunks.
As his dormitory prepared for roll call one daybreak, Adam saw the sunlight streaming in through the window and decided to leave his cap and gloves on his bunk. He walked down to the exercise yard in a happier mood than he had for a long time. It felt as though the sun was warming him from the inside out. Although life on the Dial was far from easy, Adam was slowly adapting. With the only copy of Luca D’Annunzio’s record locked away in the guards’ quarter, his quest to learn more about the infamous inmate and his escape had quickly reached a dead end. Any time Adam had tried to broach the subject with Paintpot she had only reddened and looked away, and he didn’t want his friend to think that he was deliberately trying to embarrass her.