ther side and he ran raggedly. Glimpsing Wolff’s face, Vandam saw that it was taut with strain. Wolff put on a burst of speed, but it was not enough. Vandam drew level, eased ahead, then braked sharply and twisted the handlebars. The back wheel skidded and the front wheel bit the wall. Vandam leaped off as the bike fell to the ground. Vandarn landed on his feet, facing Wolff. The smashed headlight threw a shaft of light into the darkness of the passage. There was no point in Wolff’s turning and running the other way, for Vandam. was fresh and could easily catch him. Without pausing in his stride Wolff jumped over the bike, his body passing through the pillar of light from the headlight like a knife slicing a flame, and crashed into Vandam. Vandam, still unsteady, stumbled backward and fell. Wolff staggered and took another step forward. Vandam. reached out blindly in the dark, found Wolff’s ankle, gripped and yanked. Wolff crashed to the ground. The broken headlight gave a little light to the rest of the alley. The engine of the bike had cut out, and in the silence Vandam could bear Wolff’s breathing, ragged and hoarse. He could smell him, too: a smell of booze and perspiration and fear. But he could not see his face. There wa3 a split second when the two of them lay on the ground, one exhausted and the other momentarily stunned. Then they both scrambled to their feet. Vandam jumped at Wolff, and they grappled. Wolff was strong. Vandam. tried to pin his arms, but he could not hold on to him. Suddenly he let go and threw a punch. It landed somewhere soft, and Wolf said: “Ooff.” Vandam punched again, this time aiming for the face; but Wolff dodged, and the fist hit empty space. Suddenly some- thing in Wolffs hand glinted in the dim light. Vandam. thought: A knifel The blade flashed toward his throat. He jerked back reflexIvely. There was a searing pain all across his cheek. His hand flew to his face. He felt a gush of hot blood. Suddenly the pain Was unbearable. He pressed on the wound and his fingers touched something hard. He realized he was feeling his own teeth, and that the knife had sliced right through the flesh of bis cheek; and then he felt himself falling, and he heard Wolff running away, and everything turned black. 13
Wolff took a handkerchief from his trousers pocket and wiped the blood from the blade of the knife. He examined the blade in the dim light, then wiped it again. He walked along, polishing the thin steel vigorously. He stopped, and thought: What am I doing? It’s clean already. He threw away the handkerchief and replaced the knife in the sheath under his arm. He emerged from the alley into the street, got his bearings, and headed for the Old City. He imagined a prison cell. It was six feet long by four feet wide, and half of it was taken up by a bed. Beneath the bed was a chamber pot. The walls were of smooth gray stone. A small light bulb hung from the ceiling by a cord. In one end of the cell was a door. In the other end was a small square window, set just above eye level: through it he could see the bright blue sky. He imagined that he woke up in the morning and saw all this, and remembered that he had been here for a year, and he would be here for another nine years. He used the chamberpot, then washed his hands in the tin bowl in the corner. There was no soap. A dish of cold porridge was pushed through the hatch in the door. He picked up the spoon and took a mouthful, but he was unable to swallow, for he was weeping. He shook his head to clear it of nightmare visions. He thought: I got away, didn’t I? I got away. He realized that some of the people on the street were staring at him as they passed. He saw a mirror in a shop window, and examined himself in it. His hair was awry, one side of his face was bruised and swollen, his sleeve was ripped and there was blood on his collar. He was still panting from the exertion of 159 160 Ken Follett