were police in the building. He opened the door a fraction and listened.
Someone was using a loud-hailer.
The mob didn’t stop to listen.
Mountjoy strained to hear what was being said.
“… in need of medical attention. If you refuse to let the doctor see him, the consequences could be extremely serious for you all.”
That kind of talk wouldn’t impress a bunch of lifers.
He pushed the door outward just a little more and his T-shirt felt cold against his skin. He could see a raiding party in riot gear moving along the landing toward the barricade. He pulled the door shut. This was a quicker move than he had expected. Surely they wouldn’t go in? Maybe they were just assessing the situation.
Some metal object clattered along the landing. Presumably the raiding party had been spotted. A chorus of swearing followed. And the sound of more missiles hitting the iron railings.
He needed to know what was happening downstairs. Twenty-five minutes must have passed since the incident began- time enough, surely? He was going to have to make his move PDQ, or the landing would be swarming with screws. The nearest staircase was about four strides from the door. He was counting on getting down without drawing attention to himself.
He took another look. The screws had retreated apparently. The Assistant Governor-it was his voice Mountjoy heard-was issuing another warning.
“… reason to believe a man was seriously injured, possibly killed. I have no option but to bring this disturbance to a quick end. The prison staff have been joined by a number of police officers…”
That was all Mountjoy wanted to hear. He took one more look and stepped outside, moving rapidly to the staircase. It was a double flight with a small landing halfway. Eight steps down, about-turn and eight steps to the ground. Then it would be time to say his prayers.
The first flight was partly sheltered from view. The second offered no protection. He remembered a clip from a film called The Last Emperor. That little kid stepping outside the Imperial Palace and facing a mass of people. That’s how I’m going to feel any minute, he thought. Conspicuous.
As he descended, his confidence drained. What am I doing for Christ’s sake, dressed in dyed rags and cardboard, masquerading as a policeman? How did I ever persuade myself that this was a feasible plan?
He reached the landing and turned. Keep going, he told himself. Whoever is ahead, keep going.
There were scores of dark blue uniforms down there. Fortunately most of them weren’t looking his way. The landing where the barricade was built was the focus of attention. A spotlight beam moved along the ironwork. Mountjoy started going down the stairs. To his left, at the edge of his vision, someone in a suit was issuing instructions to more of the riot squad. He looked straight ahead, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone at all, fully expecting to be challenged any second.
He reached ground level and hoped to merge with the crowd. Some of the lights had been switched off down there, he supposed to confuse the rioters, which ought to be to his advantage. He estimated fifteen paces to the first security door, but the floor was too crowded to take a straight line. It was the proverbial minefield. God, he thought, will I come face to face with a screw who knows me?
Stiff back, he told himself. Walk like a copper. What I could do with now is a personal radio to thrust in front of my face and talk into if anyone approaches me. A bit bloody late to think of it.
He was in a stupor of fear. Things were registering in slow motion as if he were just an observer. He supposed it was the stage before screaming panic sets in. Although the place was seething with screws, he hadn’t spotted a single one of the fuzz yet. He didn’t want to meet any, but it would be useful to know that they were there.
He was sidling around a group when the loud-hailer spoke and he reacted with such a jerk that he almost lost his cardboard cap.
“Move back under the landing,” the Assistant Governor announced. “We need more space here.”
He wasn’t speaking just to Mountjoy. The attention shifted from upstairs. A general movement began. Someone at Mountjoy’s side asked him, “Was anyone killed up there?”
“Nobody can tell yet,” he muttered, trying to move against the tide and being forced off course. He was starting to feel like a drowning man. He hated the proximity of people, and these were screws. He was shoulder to shoulder with them, unable to move.
He could do nothing except shake with fear.
Behind him someone said, “They’re going in again.”
It seemed that the riot squad had taken up a position on the very staircase that Mount joy had just come down. There was a general movement forward to get a sight of them. The congestion eased slightly and he edged to his right. He was still less than halfway across the floor to the door. So eager was he to make progress that he barged into someone and practically knocked him over.
The screw turned and stared at Mountjoy. It was Grindley, one of the SOs he saw every day. There was a petrifying moment when Grindley’s eyes narrowed and he appeared to have recognized him. Mountjoy was ready to surrender. Then Grindley blinked twice. It was obvious from his face that he wasn’t quite sure. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing and cold reason was telling him he must be mistaken. He actually said, “Sorry, mate.”
Mountjoy dared not speak. He nodded and moved on.
He was so close to the first door now. God help me, he said to himself-a group of police were standing beside it.
He couldn’t halt in his tracks. He was on camera so he would have to act the part he was supposed to be playing.
A couple of the rozzers turned his way and looked surprised, and no wonder.
They expected him to speak, to supply some explanation for his presence. He said with all the credibility he could dredge up, “A man is dead up there. The Governor wants us to stand by.” Then he approached the door and raised a hand to signal to the screw in the control room.
Quaking in his shoes, he waited.
One of the police said, “You from Cowes, mate?”
He answered, “Shanklin,” and added, “on detachment.”
“Thought I didn’t recognize you. How did you get in before us? We’re just down the road.”
“A tip-off,” Mountjoy answered, and then-Praise the Lord-the door swung open. He stepped inside.
This moment over which he had lost sleep every night for years seemed like an anticlimax. He had to stand there for those seven seconds and be vetted by the team in the control room. But this place was a refuge after the ordeal he had just been through.
Nothing happened.
He waited.
He counted mentally, staring ahead.
Seven seconds had passed. Must have passed, he thought. He’s having a long look at me.
Then the second door opened and he felt the cooler air of the central corridor on his face. He stepped forward.
He could be observed all the way now if they suspected him. He walked briskly, head erect, past the entrance to C Hall on his right and the hospital on his left. He was familiar with the route because it was the way to the classrooms and the library-always under escort, of course. The main entrance was beyond the classrooms and to the left.
B Hall was coming up. The door opened and a party of screws came out just as he was reaching there. They ran toward Mountjoy and for a sickening moment he thought they must have had instructions to stop him. But they dashed straight past, heading for the hall he’d left. He moved on and turned the corner.
The main entrance to the prison complex is controlled by a triple system of sliding doors. The lighting here is brilliant and Mountjoy felt certain that every stitch in the rags he was wearing must show up on the monitors. There was a bell to press, quite superfluous, he was sure.
He stood to wait, trying to achieve a compromise between confident informality and the upright bearing of your typical English bobby.
Then there was the rustle of static and a voice addressed him. “Leaving already, officer?”
He supplied the answer he’d had ready in case he met anyone. “Hasn’t the support arrived? I’m supposed to
