‘You can go now, Drake,’ the Principal Officer said, then turned to Rogan and said briskly, ‘All right, Rogan.’
They went downstairs and crossed the courtyaid to one
of the blocks. Rogan stood waiting for the door to be unlocked, aware from the expression on the Duty Officer’s face that he knew, which wasn’t particularly surprising. Within another half hour every con, every screw in the place would know.
The prison had been constructed in the reform era of the nineteenth century on a system commonly found in Her Majesty’s prisons. Half a dozen three-tiered cell blocks radiated like the spokes of a wheel from a central hall which lifted a hundred feet into the gloom to an iron framed dome.
For reasons of safety each cell block was separated from the central hall by a curtain of steel mesh. The Principal Officer unlocked the gate into D block and motioned Rogan through.
They mounted an iron staircase to the top landing, boxed in with more steel mesh to prevent anyone who felt like it from taking a dive over the rail. His cell was at the far end of the landing and he paused, waiting for the Principal Officer to unlock the door.
As it opened, Rogan took a step forward and the Principal Officer said, ‘Don’t try anything silly. You’ve everything to lose now.’
Rogan swung round, his iron control snapping for a brief moment so that the man recoiled from the savage anger that blazed in the grey eyes. He slammed the door shut quickly, turning the key in the lock.
Rogan turned slowly. The cell was only six by ten with a small barred window, and a washbasin and fixed toilet had been added in an attempt at modernization. A single bed ran along each wall.
A man was lying on one of them reading a magazine. He looked about sixty-five, with very white hair, and eyes a vivid blue in a wrinkled humorous face.
‘Hello, Jigger/ Rogan said.
In that single moment, the smile died on Jigger Martin’s face and he swung his legs to the floor. ‘The bastards,’ he said. ‘The lousy rotten bastards.’
Rogan stood looking out through the small barred window and Martin produced a packet of cigarettes from beneath his mattress and offered him one. ‘What are you going to do now, Irish?’
Rogan blew out a cloud of smoke and laughed harshly. ‘What do you think, boyo? What do you think?’
As the gates closed behind them, Dwyer was conscious of a very real relief. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from him, and he took out his cigarettes.
He offered one to Vanbrugh who was driving, his face dark and sombre, but the big man shook his head. When they reached the crest of the hill, he braked, turned and looked down at the prison.
Dwyer said softly, ‘What do you think he’ll do, sir?’
Vanbrugh swung round, all his pent-up frustration and anger boiling out of him. ‘For God’s sake, use your intelligence. You saw him, didn’t you? There’s only one thing a man like that can do.’
He moved into gear and drove away rapidly in a cloud of dust.
CHAPTER TWO
DURING most of September it had been warm and clear, but on the last day the weather broke. Clouds hung threateningly over the moor, rain dripped from the gutters and when Rogan went to the window, brown leaves drifted across the courtyard from the trees in the Governor’s garden.
Behind him Martin shuffled the cards on a small stool. ‘Another hand, Irish?’
‘Not worth it,’ Rogan said. ‘They’ll be feeding us soon.’ He stood at the window, a slight frown on his face, his eyes following the roof line of the next block to the hospital beyond, and Martin joined him.
‘Can it be done, Irish?’
Rogan nodded. ‘It can be done all right. It took me just over two hours last time.’ He turned and looked down at Martin. ‘You’ll never make it, Jigger. You’d break your bloody neck halfway.’
Martin grinned. ‘What would I be wanting to crash out for? Nine months and I can spit in their eyes once and for all. My old woman’s got a nice little boarding house going in Eastbourne. They won’t see me back here again.’