Public Enemy Number Two

screamed. Both the guards hurried over to us.

“What’s the matter?” one of them asked.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “My brother was just doing an impersonation. He was taking off a 747. You know . . . a 747 taking off.”

“My ankle!” Tim moaned.

“That’s right,” I continued desperately. “His uncle. He’s hurt his uncle by refusing to take him plane spotting at Heathrow tonight.”

By now everyone in the room was looking at us. The two guards shook their heads. “Visiting time over,” one of them said.

I stood up and followed the other inmates through the door and into the prison. Tim sat where he was, rubbing his ankle and gazing after me. I must have given him quite a bruise. I just hoped he’d gotten the message.

When you’re doing time, time passes slowly. But the rest of that afternoon dragged past like a dying man. At last the sun collapsed behind the prison walls and darkness came. Johnny Powers had barely said a word since I’d gotten back from the visiting room. I’d told him that I’d gotten the message across and that Tim would be there.

“Okay, kid. We move at twelve.”

He spoke the words without moving his lips and I remember thinking he’d have made a great ventriloquist. And now that he had Tim on the payroll, he wouldn’t even need to buy a dummy.

We went down to dinner. I couldn’t eat a mouthful. Then it was back into the cells and lockup. Powers dozed off. I lay on my bunk, mentally composing my will. Tim would get my books, my records, and my old stamp collection. I’d leave Snape and Boyle my Australian underpants. We move at twelve. How would Powers even know when twelve had arrived? We didn’t have a watch. And what was he planning anyway? There were at least four locked doors between us and the main gate. If we climbed the walls we would be too high up to drop down on the other side. And then there were the guards in the watchtowers.

A plane grumbled across the sky. Powers’s eyes flickered open.

He didn’t say anything. He rolled over and reached underneath the mattress. A moment later he was standing up, the cold moonlight slashing across his face. His eyes were black. There was no color in his skin. The moonlight glinted off the gun he now held in his right hand. The gun from the shower room. He was only fifteen years old but somehow he was already dead. A discarded frame from one of those old black-and-white gangster films.

He turned to me.

“It’s twelve o’clock, kid,” he said. “Time to go.”

OVER THE WALL

“What do we do, Johnny?”

“Get on ya bunk. Put ya hands on ya stomach. And start groaning,” he said.

I hesitated for about half a second. Just long enough for him to turn around and hiss, “Move it!” Then I clambered up, curled into a ball, and began to groan like I was about to throw up. Which, in fact, I was. I always feel a little queasy when I’m afraid and right then I was scared out of my mind.

Powers glanced back at me, winked, and began to hammer on the door. I could hear the sound echoing down the corridors. There were heavy footsteps on the catwalk, coming our way.

“Guard!” Powers shouted. “Guard!” One of the other prisoners yelled something out. Then there was a rattle of keys and the door swung open. I groaned louder. Powers took a step back.

Walsh was on duty that night. I could just see him out of the corner of my eye, framed in the soft, yellow light of the doorway. “What’s the matter, 00666?” he asked.

“It’s the kid,” Powers said. “He’s sick.”

After the shower-room affair, Walsh didn’t trust either of us. I thought for a moment he was going to walk away. I gave a ghastly croak and shuddered. It wouldn’t have won me any major acting awards, but it seemed to convince Walsh. He walked past Powers, farther into the cell, and stood beside me. Powers made a sign at me as he edged toward the door. The meaning was clear. Keep Walsh talking.

“I’m sick,” I groaned. “I need a doctor.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I need the doctor.”

“You look okay to me.” Walsh was suspicious.

“Yeah—but you’re not a doctor,” I pointed out.

Meanwhile, Johnny had looked up and down the corridor, checking that there was no one else around. As Walsh straightened up, he moved. Suddenly the gun was pressed against his neck and Powers was right up close to him, purring like a kitten. A rabid kitten.

“Weasel Walsh,” he muttered. “Make one false move and I’ll decorate the walls with ya brains.”

“Powers!” The color had drained out of Walsh’s face. “Are you crazy?”

“Sure.” Powers laughed. “That’s what my doctors say. But I ain’t so crazy about this joint, Walsh. That’s why ya’re going to be my ticket out.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Check it again, kid,” he said. I went over and looked out. The narrow corridor seemed to stretch into infinity, the dull yellow bulbs throwing sticky pools of light onto the floor.

“It’s clear, Johnny,” I said.

“Let’s go!” Powers pushed Walsh toward me. “Ya try anything Walsh and it’s pop goes the weasel.”

We stepped into the corridor. It’s a strange thing about prison. After a while you get used to being locked up. To me it felt all wrong being outside the cell in the middle of the night. The shadows seemed to reach out as if to grab me. Everything was somehow too big. I could hear my heart pulsing in my ears and the hair on my forehead was damp with sweat. I wanted to go back. I wanted to hear the cell door slam shut behind me. Now I knew what our hamster must have felt like when it went AWOL one Christmas.

Four doors stood between us and the main gate. Walsh had opened the first three without any problem. But as he turned the key in the fourth, the sirens screamed and the whole world went crazy.

We’d climbed a flight of stairs and we were high up. We were also outside. The cold night air came at me in a rush. The sirens were everywhere, ripping into the night. Somebody switched on a spotlight. I saw a perfect circle of light glide across the courtyard far below us then ripple along the wall, counting the bricks. Then it hit us. For a horrible moment I was completely blind. It was a brilliant, exploding blindness. I thought I was going to fall, but Powers must have reached out and grabbed me because I felt myself pulled back, my shoulders slamming into the wall behind me.

The fourth door led nowhere. We were on a small platform, about thirty feet above the ground, the same height as the wall. The platform was directly opposite one of the watchtowers. I could just make out the shape of two guards behind the curtain of light. They were pointing something at us—something long and thin. Somehow I didn’t think it was a telescope. Sitting ducks. I waited for the crackle of gunfire that would bring it all to an end.

But it didn’t come. Instead the sirens ended, abruptly fading into silence. Now I could hear people shouting. About half a dozen guards ran into the yard, making for the shadows. I looked at Powers. Did he have any idea how he was going to get us out of here? He’d told me to tell Tim to go to Heathrow. I gazed up at the sky almost expecting to see a helicopter—but that was insane. Powers wanted a driver, not a pilot. So what happened next?

“Listen to me!” Powers shouted. “Do what I tell ya and nobody gets hurt.”

“Put down the gun and give yourself up, Powers.” I don’t know who said that. It was just a voice out of the darkness.

“I got nothing to lose,” Powers called back. “If I don’t get some action, Walsh here takes a dive.” He pushed Walsh to the very edge of the platform. I had to admit, he knew what he was doing. If anybody took a potshot at him now, the guard would fall. “Lower the drawbridge,” Powers yelled. “Do it now!”