The police cap, curiously enough, was easier to make than the tunic, but more difficult to hide, so he left it till last. He prepared the materials without assembling them. Strips of checkered paper reinforced with cardboard were to form the rim. The flat top would be of dyed cotton stretched over a cardboard disc and the peak would be cut from the shiny black lid of a box of Conquerer typing paper filched from the Assistant Governor’s wastebin.
There remained the cap badge and the silver buttons and numbers on the epaulettes. As basic material for these he used a tin-foil freezer pack discarded in the kitchen. The resulting badge was a minor masterpiece of forgery, accurately molded into the insignia of the Hampshire Constabulary, copied from a sheet of notepaper also scavenged from the Assistant Governor’s wastebin.
Compared to that, the shirt and tie were child’s play.
Obviously he had to keep his escape kit hidden. Cell searches generally take place in the evening during association, so he removed anything liable to cause suspicion and wore it under his prison grays. Some items the screws tolerate. They wouldn’t report you for possessing pieces of cloth or a needle and thread. They’re more interested in finding drugs.
With everything organized except the date, Mountjoy cultivated patience. His escape could not be hurried. Outside factors would dictate the timing. Eight months passed without a whisper to encourage him. That is, three years and eight months since he started his enforced residence in Albany. Then a new prisoner was admitted to D Hail. Manny Stokesay was a murderer, which is not unusual; he was said to have snapped a man’s spine with the edge of his hand, which is. Impressive. Stokesay was a bodybuilder, six foot three and sixteen stone in weight. And he had an evil temper.
Within a week of Stokesay’s admission, Mountjoy prepared to leave. He had seen large, dangerous prisoners before, watched them systematically ground down by the screws. This one, he reckoned, was unlikely to submit without a fight. The outcome would be bloody, if not fatal. A major disturbance inside D Hall was essential to his plan and now the chance of its happening increased day by day. He finished sewing up his black trousers. He put his police cap together. So he was committed. A cell search now would scupper him.
But he was confident of action. The new inmate was creating tension among the prisoners. Loyalties were threatened and new alliances being formed. There are no ties of friendship in prison, only of fear. Some of the old hands decided that Stokesay was too dangerous to cross and made it known that they supported him. Others who survived by their wits set themselves up as power brokers. The prison hierarchy was shaken to its foundations by so much uncertainty.
Mountjoy was a loner. He had always resisted attempts to recruit him to one group or another. He crossed nobody and unobtrusively went about his duties. In three years, eight months and twenty-three days he had managed to avoid physical contact with inmates and screws alike. Except in combat situations.
A series of small flare-ups over several days paved the way for the big one. Three times a day in Albany the toilets are heavily in use, the last at eight-thirty P.M., just before bang-up. Precisely what was said that evening Mountjoy never discovered, because he had already washed and returned to his cell, but from the shouting carried along the landing it seemed Stokesay took offense and struck a man called Harragin. This happened in the recess, where the toilets, sinks and dustbins are housed. Harragin was no match physically for Stokesay, but he was a tough specimen, a West Indian ex-boxer with a history of violence. And he had a strong following. Two of his sidekicks were in there and went to his aid. The big newcomer thrust one of them so hard against a washbasin that he cracked his skull. Mountjoy could hear the crunch of bone from where he was. A Caribbean voice yelled, “You’ve topped him, you honkie bastard!”
Mountjoy stepped out on the landing. Someone in the recess picked up a dustbin and hurled it and bedlam ensued. The two screws meant to be supervising were bundled outside by Harragin’s people. At least a dozen prisoners dashed from their cells to join in; failure to assist might have been punished later.
He told himself, this is it.
His cue.
The alarms were triggered, a horrible sound that stops anyone being heard. More screws came running to assist, but their way was barred by a heap of dustbins crushed into the space between the walls. The lads in the alcove wanted to settle their dispute without interruption. If Mountjoy had learned anything about prisoners, after a bloody maul they would join forces to keep out the screws. This had all the makings of a riot.
Mountjoy didn’t have long. The screws would bang up everyone not already behind the barricade. They would come in from every section of the prison. If necessary reinforcements would be summoned from Parkhurst, the neighboring prison.
He stepped back into his cell when the alarm went, removed his police uniform from its various hiding places and tucked it into his prison-issue washbowl. He closed the cell door behind him. No going back. But he had hardly started along the landing when a screw downstairs shouted up to him, “Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?”
“Back to my cell.”
Mountjoy thanked Christ that the screw didn’t usually work in D Hall. He hadn’t seen where Mountjoy came from and he didn’t know which cell he occupied. He shouted, “Get in there fast, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Of course Mountjoy didn’t. He moved toward the end of the opening farthest from the disturbance. The last door was open. It was the screws’ office and no one was going to be in there while there was trouble along the landing.
After looking over his shoulder to check that he hadn’t been watched, he stepped inside the changing room. There was a table with two mugs of coffee still steaming. A girlie magazine open on a chair. A row of lockers. A notice board covered with prison bumf. A portable TV set in the corner with a repeat of Inspector Morse under way.
This will be one hell of a test, he thought. I dare not come out until the police are admitted to the block-as they must be if there is reason to believe a man has been killed by a prisoner. I reckon I must wait at least twenty minutes hoping that the thugs in the recess hold out that long. The most unbearable stretch of my sentence. I dare not change my clothes yet.
He could count on exclusive use of this room for as long as the disturbance lasted. Riots occur so regularly in our prisons that there is a standard procedure for dealing with them. A high priority is to make sure that there is no chance of prison officers being taken hostage, so these days there are no heroics. They don’t charge the barricade at once. They bang up all the cells they can reach with safety and report downstairs to the principal officer. Some of them put on MUFTI, Minimum Use of Force Tactical Intervention gear, and get issued with crash helmets, brown overalls, Perspex shields and batons and supplies of tear gas. This was probably happening right now, Mountjoy calculated.
In his pocket was a false mustache made from his own hair, attached to Sellotape he took from a letter. You learn to scavenge everything inside. To preserve its adhesive qualities, he hadn’t once tried the tash on. If it didn’t feel secure, he would abandon it, which would be a pity, because it was beautifully made, a neat strip of dark whiskers of the kind favored by the plod. Sadly, one side wouldn’t adhere. He cursed and stuffed it back in his pocket.
A rhythmic banging started up. In a moment of panic Mountjoy thought it must be the riot shields already, much sooner than he expected. Then he got a grip on his nerves and decided the noise was coming from the far end of the landing. It had to be the mob in the recess. They must have had their punch-up and now, united against authority, they were doing their best to work up some courage. They’d have ripped out most of the plumbing and armed themselves with mop handles.
He tried the mustache again. More pathetic than ever, a giveaway. At least he could cut off his sideboards. Anything that would alter his appearance was a bonus. He got to work with the toothbrush blade. It felt as if he was tugging out more hairs than he was cutting, but it was worth persevering, and it filled some time.
After fifteen minutes in the screws’ room he put on the clothes. They were tailored to fit over his regular shirt and jeans. They had no lining of their own. He drew them on gently, fearful of ripping a seam. They felt strange. He reminded himself that they had to look convincing on a control monitor, that was all. He’d got to have confidence in them, or he would be sunk. Last, he put on the cap. It fitted snugly and felt right. No one in Albany had ever seen him in a hat. He stood up straight, shouldets back. PC 121.
Ten more minutes passed. Ten empty, dispiriting minutes. He wished he could stop the ape-men drumming. It was impossible to tell what the screws were doing. He dared not step outside until he was reasonably sure there
