Public Enemy Number Two

I’d forgotten the drawbridge. Each watchtower was connected to the prison by a strip of metal that could be lowered or raised automatically. That was why Powers had taken us up and not down into the yard. But would they lower it for him? I’d no sooner asked myself that than there was a low hum and a rectangular shape pushed through the spotlight toward me. So long as Powers held Walsh, he held all the cards.

The drawbridge connected with the platform and the way ahead was clear. I looked at Powers. He was grinning from ear to ear like a kid at a carnival.

“All right,” he shouted at the two guards in the watchtower. “Drop ya weapons and come over here. But slowly. And no tricks.”

The guards did as they were told, and half a minute later there were five of us up there, crowded together in the narrow space.

“You’ll never get away with this, Powers,” one of them said.

“No? Just watch me. Come on, kid . . .”

Well, I suppose it was nice that somebody had remembered me. Up to now it had been as if nobody had noticed that I was escaping, too. Holding Walsh between us, Powers and I shuffled over to the watchtower and went inside.

“Raise it!” Powers hissed.

Walsh reached out and flicked a switch. The drawbridge swung up again.

So there we now were, cut off in the watchtower with the wall right beside us and a window leading out. But we were still in the prison. If we jumped from the window we’d be lucky to escape with just a broken leg. We wouldn’t escape at all. It was a thirty-foot drop and the road running alongside the prison was one hundred percent concrete.

“You can’t get down from here, Powers,” Walsh said, echoing my thoughts exactly.

“Ya think so?” Powers glanced in my direction. “See anything, kid?”

I looked back out of the window. And there was something. I’d never seen anything like it. It wasn’t a car. It wasn’t a truck. It was a long rectangular box, riding some twelve feet above the ground. It was held up on hydraulic arms, the wheels far below. Four mattresses had been strapped to the roof. It was driving down the road at about fifteen miles an hour. And it was coming toward us.

“It’s coming, Johnny,” I said—even though I didn’t know what “it” was.

“Here’s something to remember me by, Weasel,” Powers snarled. He’d turned the gun around in his hand, and before either of us could react he brought it crashing down. Walsh crumpled. I was relieved to see that he was still breathing. I’d never liked him much, but he was just an ordinary man doing his job. I went back to the window. The platform was getting closer.

“We jump?” I asked.

We climbed out of the window and hung there awkwardly. There was no sound from inside the prison. Nobody could see us. Perhaps they didn’t realize what we were about to do. The truck or whatever it was veered toward us without slowing down. Close up, it seemed to be going much faster than I’d thought and whoever was driving it clearly wasn’t too sure of himself. It was wobbling all over the place, the tires thumping into the curb. At one point it swerved away and I was afraid it was going to miss us altogether. But then it veered back again.

“Now!” Powers shouted.

We dropped.

It was still a long way to fall. It felt like I was in midair forever, like Alice on her way to Wonderland. I heard the engine roaring in my ears. Then I hit the mattress, rolled over, scrabbled for a handhold, somehow managed to cling on. It was a heavy landing. I didn’t break any bones, but I must have broken a few springs.

Powers was beside me. “Move inside,” he said.

The platform was still zigzagging down the road. Not exactly breakneck speed, unless, that is, you fell off. It was still a long way to fall. With the wind blowing in my hair, I crawled along the roof to the back end. There was a square opening beneath me and I could see lights inside. The wheels hit the curb again, sending a garbage can flying. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed hold of the edge and heaved myself into space. Now I was hanging there with the road sweeping away behind me. I tried to swing into the box. Then a strong pair of hands reached out and took hold of me. I was pulled inside, dropping the last couple of feet onto the floor. I stood up and blinked. And only then did I realize what kind of getaway vehicle we were getting away in.

If you’ve ever been to an airport you may have seen them. They’re called “people movers” or something like that. Imagine an ordinary airport bus, only with more seats and bright neon lights. Then put metal arms between the wheels and the undercarriage. When you step out of the plane, you’re about twelve feet off the ground. But you don’t need steps. The driver simply parks the people mover beside the plane, presses a button, and the whole thing rises into the air until it’s level with the door. You step inside. The bus sinks back down onto the wheels. And you speed away to the arrival lounge, where, provided your driver isn’t Tim Diamond, you finally arrive.

But our driver was Tim. I could see him at the far end of the bus, sitting in a sort of miniature cubicle, surrounded by switches and levers. He was making the most peculiar noises, whimpering and squeaking with every turn of the wheel.

“Johnny boy!” a voice said behind me.

I turned around. Powers had followed me into the people mover and now he was gazing at the man who had pulled us in. Only it wasn’t a man. It was a woman. And I didn’t need to ask her name to know who she was.

Ma Powers. Johnny’s mother.

On first sight she was like any other mother. She was about fifty, wearing a severe black skirt, a matching jacket, and a flowery shirt buttoned at the neck. Her hair was gray, mainly hidden by a black velvet hat. Her only makeup was a dash of red lipstick across her tight-lipped mouth. For jewelry she wore plain gold earrings and a cameo brooch in the shape of a rose.

But unlike any other mother, she was carrying a sub-machine gun, the barrel slanting across her chest. The more I looked at her, the less I liked her. Her eyes—like Johnny’s—were two bullet holes in a refrigerator door. She had a tough, weathered face, and when I say weathered I’m talking storms and blizzards. Her skin was as tough as leather. Her teeth when she smiled, which wasn’t often, were yellow and crammed together uncomfortably like being in a subway during rush hour.

“How ya doing, Johnny?” she asked. She spoke just like him, only her voice was deeper.

“I’m okay, Ma,” Powers said. “All the better for seeing you.”

“That ya friend?” She nodded at me.

“That’s right, Ma. Nick . . . come and meet my ma.”

“Not now, Johnny boy. We gotta move.”

Even as she spoke, I heard the scream of approaching police cars. Looking through the open end of the bus, I could see the flash of blue lights in the distance. Tim groaned. We were still only doing twenty miles an hour. At that speed, they’d catch up with us in seconds.

“Go and check with ya brother,” Ma Powers commanded. “I’ll hold ’em off.” She cocked the machine gun and moved to the back.

“Has Nails fixed the bus?” Powers asked.

“Sure, Johnny boy. Bulletproof windows. Sawed-off back. And a souped-up engine.” She glared at me. “Shame we ain’t got a souped-up driver. Tell him to put his foot down.”

Powers and I ran up to the front of the bus. Tim was white-faced, his eyes staring, his hands clutching the steering wheel like he was trying to pull it apart.

“Nick . . . !” he began when he saw me.

“Not now, Tim,” I said.

“Can’t ya lower this thing?” Powers rasped. We were still twelve feet off the ground, higher than the top deck of a London bus. Only there was no bottom deck.

“I don’t know how it works,” Tim whimpered.

“Didn’t Ma show ya?”

“Yes. But I’ve forgotten.”

“Take the next turn on the left!” Ma Powers called out.

Tim put his foot down and swung the wheel to the left. The people mover surged forward with fresh power, skidding around the corner. For a horrible moment we were driving on two wheels and I thought the whole thing would topple over. But then it somehow managed to right itself.