High Water (1959) (26 page)

The strain of thinking had left him weak, and even the entry of a policeman carrying a tray of food failed to rouse him from the depths of despair.

The policeman returned later and stared at the untouched tray. ‘Tch! Tch! This won’t do, old man,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘You must keep your strength up, y’know.’

Vivian turned his head heavily. The constable was a sturdy young man, and his eye fell on the faded row of medal ribbons on his serge jacket. He smiled grimly.

‘What’s the joke, then?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’ He shook his head. But all the time, he was thinking. Lang, this constable, and myself. All heroes together. Can the years have changed us so much, or were we as we are now? The P.C. picked up the tray casually, but Vivian noticed how he stayed facing him, and he sensed the presence of another man outside the door.

A new feeling ran through him, and as he watched the heavy door begin to close he felt a tide of resentment and bitter fury engulfing his whole body and sweeping away the heavy weight of self-condemnation and surrender.

He knew at that moment that he would take the first opportunity, no matter how slight or small, to make a bid
for
his freedom. He could not, would not, wait for any obscure miracle. He had in the past shunned society, and now that very society was taking the word of a liar, and a murderer, against his. He must escape, if only to get his hands on the one man he had always trusted and admired, and the one man who had taken from him his one chance of happiness and life itself.

He lay on his back, seeing and hearing nothing, and when the cell light was switched off from the outside he continued to stare up at the invisible ceiling, his whole being throbbing with this new, consuming fire of destruction.

Vivian awoke from his sleep, dull and listless, until his puzzled eyes fastened upon the unfamiliar surroundings of the police cell. The door was open. It must have been the grating of the key in the lock which had summoned him back from his exhausted state of collapse. As he watched, with dulled eyes, a constable banged a tray of food on the floor and nodded to him.

‘’Mornin’,’ he grunted. ‘Breakfast. When you’ve ’ad it, you can come along ’er me and get a shave. Reckon you’ll need it!’ And so saying, he slammed the door.

Vivian rubbed the bristles on his chin. Must be damned early, he pondered, there was hardly any gleam through the thick glass of the window, only a suggestion of greyness.

He picked up the tray of food and realized suddenly that he was extremely hungry. As he munched steadily through the sausages and baked beans, and washed them down with an enamel mug of sweet tea, he began to think more clearly, his brain sharp, and his heart filled more than ever
with
an almost insane desire to break out, to find, and to kill Felix Lang.

Unlike the previous night, however, when he had been torn apart mentally and physically, he was able to look at the situation in a coldly calculating way, which would have surprised him, had he considered it. He had nothing to lose but his life, which already seemed to have been disposed of by everyone else, and to gain, he had the satisfaction of revenge, brought about by this new and savage hatred.

Two constables escorted him along to the end of the passage, and while he shaved in lukewarm water, he caught a glimpse of their stolid but watchful faces in the glass.

The whisper of caution which seemed to come from the vigilant faces of the two policemen was not lost on him. He realized only too well that they would be watching his every move. As far as they were concerned, he was a murderer of the very worst kind, and one small, careless move on his part would lessen his chances of escape one hundred per cent.

He wiped his tingling skin carefully with the towel. ‘Bit of an early start this morning?’ he observed casually. ‘I suppose that’s the usual thing in these places, is it?’

The two men glanced at each other, their faces blank. Then one of them smiled briefly, understanding crossing his face.

‘Of course,’ he nodded, ‘he means it’s dark.’ Then to Vivian: ‘You wouldn’t know about it, being in a cell. I mean, we’ve got the worst fog in the Channel we’ve had for bloody ages!’

‘Really?’ Vivian prayed that his voice concealed the mounting excitement he felt.

‘Yes, it may be dark, but it’s nigh on eight o’clock.’

‘Er, what time’ll I have to be leaving, d’you think?’ Vivian lowered his eyes as he folded the towel.

‘Pretty soon, I should say. They won’t be using the van this weather. You’ll have to go by car.’

‘Yup, the chief inspector’ll take you in ’is,’ added the other one.

As they headed back to the cell Vivian’s heart pounded noisily and he shuffled his feet heavily, in case they might notice any sudden change in his manner, or any expression of hope in his appearance. They passed another policeman shepherding a small, watery-eyed man in a rumpled, blue suit, who pressed himself against the wall as Vivian went by. There was a mixture of fear and curiosity in his dirty face, and Vivian concluded that he must be the singing drunk from the night before. Also on his way to court, no doubt.

That was just one of the many curious glances he was to get when, shortly afterwards, he was accompanied to the main building. He was led into a high, bleak room, labelled ‘Charge Room’, behind the front office, and even in there he could sense the air of excitement and expectancy as the groups of policemen studied him with interest.

He was able to ignore them. His whole attention was taken by the overpowering and almost threatening gloom which hung over, and even invaded, the police-station. As a sailor, he knew that this fog was one of real menace and strength. But at that moment he knew that it was his only possible ally.

His thoughts were interrupted by the bustling entrance of Chief Inspector Laidlaw, his eyes darting everywhere, and his lower lip thrust out belligerently.

The uniformed policemen fell back respectfully, and the hum of conversation died away.

Sergeant Arnold followed his superior, his arms clutching a file of papers, and his face dark and impassive.

Laidlaw was wearing a light raincoat, and Vivian’s keen eyes noted the heavy drops of moisture on the collar. It was a real fog all right.

‘We’re off soon,’ snapped Laidlaw. ‘We shall come back here after the hearing, and then you’ll be collected by prison officers and taken to a safer place while you’re on remand.’

Vivian inclined his head, the detective’s eyes were too dangerous to meet.

‘I suppose you don’t feel like altering your statement?’

‘I have told you the truth,’ Vivian answered quietly.

Laidlaw looked at him thoughtfully. ‘We shall see,’ he said slowly. He turned to speak to his sergeant, and then as a thought came to him, he swivelled his eyes back to Vivian. ‘By the way, if you’re thinking of anything, don’t! I thought I’d mention it.’ His face hardened. ‘My boys are pretty used to this sort of thing!’

Vivian shrugged angrily, and pretended to read one of the notices on the Charge Room wall.

Perhaps the detective always gave warnings like that. Maybe he had been unlucky once with a prisoner. It made Vivian realize that if and when his chance came, it would be his only opportunity of escape, and unless pressed with a ruthless determination it would easily be cut short by a man like Laidlaw.

His attention was taken by a new voice and he saw a constable, his peaked cap glistening with moisture, speaking to the detective.

‘Car’s out back, sir,’ he reported. ‘We’ll have to take it slow, but it shouldn’t take more than ’alf an hour.’

A small procession clattered past. The drunk was being escorted out of the rear of the station.

‘He’s goin’ in the other car,’ explained the driver. ‘We shall be followin’ him all the way.’

A fine contrast, thought Vivian grimly. A drunk and a murderer. All in a day’s work for the police, it seemed.

When, a few moments later, Sergeant Arnold touched his sleeve, he felt an icy thrill run through him, and as he was led to the massive door, which opened out on to the enclosed yard, he had to fight hard to keep the tenseness out of his arms.

The fog swirled in on them, its thick, moist breath caressing them, and its dark tentacles filtering between and around them, causing Arnold to change his grip on Vivian’s arm, his cold fingers twisting the bottom of his cuff into a tight and effective handcuff.

Laidlaw led the way and they stumbled down the steps to the waiting car, its vague shape broken only by the dull eyes of its headlamps. Laidlaw flung himself into a corner seat, and Vivian found that he was squeezed between him and the sergeant, who sat back cursing, and rearranging the papers which had threatened to slide under the car. The upholstery felt cold and clammy to the touch, and the windows were already black with dirt from the fog’s embrace, the windscreen wipers squeaking ineffectually on the filthy glass.

The driver hunched over the wheel, and another uniformed man sat beside him, the back of his head and casual stance, typical of one who is neither concerned nor responsible for possible events.

A faint, pink glow lit up the fog as the other car’s rear lights backed towards them, then with a snap of gears, both vehicles started to move forward, passing between the dark, indistinct shapes of the main gates, and both drivers watching and responding to the white gauntlets of a traffic policeman, who, seconds later, was swallowed up by the seemingly impenetrable grey clouds.

Vivian’s heart quickened. They were out and on their way. With narrowed eyes he peered ahead, watching the black shape of the car in front. Several times they lost it and then the driver would brake violently, as the twin red lights loomed up under his bumper. Like ships in convoy, he thought, remembering the chaos as one ship would tear down upon another, terrified of the fog, yet even more afraid of being left alone.

He was aware of Laidlaw watching him from the corner, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the big man leaning back on the cushions, as if to keep as much of him under observation as possible.

The driver swore savagely, and the car lurched again.

‘Blast!’ Arnold stirred uncomfortably, easing his long legs under the bucket seat. ‘Pity we weren’t in front.’

‘Pity we’re here at all!’ commented Vivian, amazed at his own calmness.

He seemed to feel the tension slacken within the car’s sweating atmosphere. It was almost as if his simple remark had caught them all off guard.

Laidlaw blew his nose noisily, and snorted with disgust, as he stuffed the handkerchief away. ‘The blessed stuff gets right inside you,’ he grumbled.

The rear lights loomed up again, and once more the driver slammed on his brakes, swearing under his breath and rubbing the windscreen with his sleeve.

They waited while the engine raced impatiently. A door slammed, the sound muffled and distorted, and dimly they could see some dark shapes moving away from the other car.

‘What the hell’s going on now?’ Laidlaw studied his watch. ‘We’ll be damn late at this rate!’

‘Seems as if they’re goin’ off the road for something.’ The other constable had spoken for the first time. His lazy voice
confirmed
Vivian’s previous opinion of his indifference. ‘They’ve left the car doors open though, so I don’t s’pose they’ll be long.’

‘Well, get out and see, you fool!’ barked Laidlaw, his patience completely gone.

And with a hurt glance over his shoulder, the man began to put on his helmet while the driver, now humming tunelessly, snicked back the hand-brake and killed the engine.

As if to show his feelings the constable threw back the door, and as he lumbered away into the murk he left the door hanging open, allowing the fog to sweep into the small, private world of the car, making their breath steam in small clouds to mingle with the encroaching vapours.

‘For Christ’s sake, shut the door!’ barked Laidlaw, coughing angrily.

And without thinking, Vivian leaned forward across the curved back of the bucket seat, his fingers groping for the edge of the door. He felt the seat give slightly under his weight and he gripped the driver’s seat with his right hand to steady himself.

As he grasped the door his eyes fell on the damp tarmac of the roadway. So near—and yet so far. In a flash it dawned on him. This was the moment. This was it!

With a wild sob of excitement he heaved with his right hand, pulling his taut body forward with all his might, and at the same time grabbing the edge of the open door with the other. The bucket seat collapsed under his weight, folding submissively forward, and in a flash he was clawing and kicking over the top, diving head first for the roadway.

A hand gripped his ankle in a vice of steel, but he kicked back savagely, his heel connecting with something hard; there was a grunt of pain, and once more he was free.

Everything was happening at once. He heard Laidlaw’s
voice,
seemingly right above him, calling on the others to hold him, and the next instant he felt his hands scrape on the road. He rolled over, and like a cat, landed on his feet. A door burst open, and as he ran round the car he met the driver, his face distorted by the fog and the pale gleam of the headlamps. He raised his arm, and Vivian saw the truncheon swinging towards him. He side-stepped quickly, his thigh bumping against the car wing, and drove his fist into the pale, frightened face. More shouts and the stamp of feet in the roadway. He almost fell over the crouching body of his fellow prisoner, who was busy being sick in the roadway. So that was the cause of the delay. The drink last night, the worry of going to court, and the taste of the fog had had their effect. Vivian blessed him briefly, and then, as a blue figure loomed in front of him, he swerved wildly, knocking down another groping shape before the man could recover his wits.