Public Enemy Number Two Page 3

  Without a second thought I climbed up the back of the Land Rover and crawled through. There were a whole lot of sacks on the roof, filled with some sort of grain. Either the driver was a farmer or a health-food fanatic. There was just enough space for me. I lay there in the darkness, listening to my heart thumping. I’d just made it in time. I heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel.

  “You see him?” somebody asked.

  “No.”

  “Thirteen years old. Scruffy. And dangerous.”

  “Try over there . . .”

  About two minutes later there were more footsteps and the sound of a man and a woman talking in low voices. I heard the Land Rover doors open and close. There was a rattle as the engine started and the whole vehicle shook. Then I felt myself pressed against the sacks as the Land Rover jerked forward. We were away!

  Given more time, the police might have set up a roadblock and searched every car as it left the abbey. But we weren’t stopped as we trundled out, traveling at about ten miles an hour. I couldn’t see anything under the tarpaulin and I didn’t dare look. I just hoped that wherever the Land Rover was heading it was somewhere a long way away—preferably New Zealand. I imagined we’d hit the M1 pretty soon. After that I’d be safe, at least for the time being.

  But we didn’t go anywhere near the highway. The driver seemed to be in no hurry. Ten minutes later we were still moving along at a snail’s pace. It was getting hot under the tarpaulin with the sun beating down. I could hardly breathe. Carefully I reached out, lifted up the loose flap, and looked out.

  We were in a traffic jam—just what I needed. There were at least six cars behind us. I couldn’t see how many more in front. The road was following a tall silver fence with a second, lower fence behind it. Otherwise all I could see were fields and trees.

  Stop and start, stop and start. We didn’t seem to be going anywhere and we were taking an awful long time getting there. I peeked out again, just in time to read a notice on a wooden board beside the road. PLEASE PUT YOUR RADIO ANTENNAS DOWN, it said. Put your antennas down? Where was the road leading? Under a low bridge?

  The Land Rover stopped again. I didn’t dare look out, but I heard voices.

  “Have you got any pets in the car?” a woman asked.

  “No.” That was the driver.

  “Here you are . . .”

  “Thank you.”

  So we weren’t carrying any pets. That was really nice to know. But what had that got to do with anything? Where were we? I was almost suffocating. We were still crawling along and the sun was hotter than ever. By now I’d decided to clear off at the first opportunity. Getting onto the Land Rover had been a mistake in the first place. I’d just have to leg it cross-country.

  About another fifteen minutes passed before I’d had enough. We’d stopped and started more times than I could count and I had no idea where I was. But at least I was out of the abbey. Throwing caution to the wind, I shifted on the roof and slithered out from under the tarpaulin. Without looking around, I dropped to the grass. My ankle screamed at me. Ignoring it, I ran.

  Only when I was sixty feet from the Land Rover did I stop and take my bearings.

  I was in a field, penned in. A fence ran the whole length, boarded at the top, like something in a prison. The Land Rover was standing in line with about a dozen cars on either side. A picnic area. That was my first thought. But why should anyone want to have a picnic here? It was a rough, uneven field with knotted grass and bumpy hillocks. A few trees twisted upward here and there. The road we’d been following zigzagged all the way from the fence. I looked at the cars. Despite the weather, all the windows were rolled up. The people inside were waving at me and pointing. They didn’t look like they were inviting me to a picnic.

  Then a loudspeaker crackled into life and a voice echoed across the grass.

  “Get back into the car!” it commanded. “Get back into the car!”

  And at the same time I heard a low, angry growling that sent my heart scuttling into my mouth and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like a pincushion. I turned around. A full-size lion was padding slowly toward me.

  I still don’t know how I managed to avoid wetting myself. I couldn’t believe what I’d just done. I’d sat on top of a Land Rover and let it drive me straight into the middle of the safari park. Where else do you go after you’ve visited Woburn Abbey? And then, when we were nicely settled in the lion compound, I’d gotten off. Couldn’t I at least have waited for the giraffes? Giraffes are vegetarians. The lion obviously wasn’t.

  It was snarling at me, its mouth open. I could see all the way down the back of its throat. Any minute now I’d be getting an inside view. The lion was huge. You could have made twenty furry hot-water bottles out of its mane alone. But that wasn’t what I was looking at. I was looking at its teeth: horrible, sharp teeth glistening in the sunlight. And the lion was looking at me. Its ugly brown eyes were burning with anger. And hunger.

  It can’t be much fun being a lion in a safari park. All day long you sit there watching your lunch drive past in little metal boxes. Canned food. Well, this food had just gotten out of the can.

  There was an orange-and-black Jeep tearing across the grass toward me. But by the time it arrived it would be too late. I wanted to run for it, but there was no chance. The other cars were too far away and my legs had turned to jelly ... jelly that hadn’t even set. The lion growled again, about to leap. I was alone, unarmed.

  Unarmed . . .

  Suddenly I remembered the slingshot that I’d found on the coach. My hand fumbled its way into my pocket and pulled it out. All I needed was a stone, some sort of missile. But there were no stones. Just grass and a few twigs. The lion edged forward. There was nothing in sight. Not even a pebble.

  And then I remembered the Woburn Carbuncle.

  I’d pulled it out before I even realized what I was doing. It glittered, a brilliant red, about the size of a Ping-Pong ball. The lion’s snarl became a roar. My hand was shaking like a leaf but somehow I managed to load the slingshot, pulled on the rubber band. The lion leaped. I fired.

  It was still roaring, its mouth open, as the carbuncle flashed through the air. At the same time I threw myself to one side.

  The carbuncle disappeared down the lion’s throat.

  I rolled over and looked around. The lion had missed me by about half a yard. It was lying on its back and for a crazy moment I was reminded of Sington in the bus with the chewing gum. The carbuncle had lodged itself in the creature’s windpipe. It was kicking its legs feebly in the air, choking and whimpering like a stray cat. Weakly, I got to my feet.

  I just had time to see another three lions come strolling over the hill to find out what was happening when the Jeep arrived. A warden was standing up in the passenger seat, aiming a rifle with an anesthetic dart. He fired and missed. There was a sharp pain in my thigh and the world began to spin.

  I blacked out. But before I went, I realized that the warden hadn’t missed after all. He’d been aiming at me all the time! He must have decided that I was more dangerous than the lion.

  TRIAL AND ERROR

  In the end I was accused of theft, assault, trespassing, criminal damage, and cruelty to animals. The lion survived, by the way. It was on the operating table for six hours to remove the carbuncle. The bad news for the surgeon was that it woke up after five.

  I was sent to the Old Bailey to be tried—number three court. I still remember it. It was far smaller than I’d imagined it would be, walled in with wooden panels but with clear glass windows in the roof. It was like standing in a cross between a chapel and a squash court. The jury sat along one side—twelve men just and true. They may have been true but half the time they were only just awake. And in the middle there was a whole cluster of barristers and court officials in their black robes and white bows, looking like the sort of gift-wrapped packages you might take to a funeral.

  I was in the dock, of course, with two burly policemen close behind me. C
ounsel for the prosecution couldn’t even glance at me without grinding his teeth. The judge was too old to have any teeth but looked like he’d have been glad to grind someone else’s. As for my counsel for the defense, he kept on sighing and mopping his face with a handkerchief. He knew a hopeless case when he saw one.

  To be honest, I found the whole thing a bit of a trial. Which is to say it was about as interesting as a double period of algebra on a wet afternoon. These legal people seemed to take an hour to say what you and I could manage in a minute. They couldn’t even say good morning without written evidence from the weather office.

  Things livened up, though, when the witnesses arrived. First on was the old lady from Woburn Abbey—now in tweed neck brace and matching splints. She described how I’d attacked her and thrown her along the dinner table only somehow she forgot to mention that she’d been the one with the knitting needles.

  “What happened after you hit the table?” counsel for the defense asked.

  “An old master fell on me.”

  “Are you referring to the Marquess of Tavistock?”

  “No,” she sniffed. “It was a painting.”

  That brought a titter of laughter from the public gallery. The judge banged his gavel and not for the first time I was tempted to shout out, Sold to the lady with the neck brace and knitting needles. But I kept my mouth shut.

  “No further questions,” defense muttered miserably.

  The prosecution called two more security guards and the ranger from the safari park. They all told much the same story. I’d been caught red-handed with the carbuncle. I’d fought my way out. I’d half killed a lion. I’d finally been arrested. I was just grateful they didn’t call the lion.

  Then it was the turn of the defense.

  My counsel was a thin, gray-haired man called Wilson. We’d met before the trial and I’d asked him how he was going to get me off the hook. He’d laughed at that. He didn’t laugh often. You almost expected to see cobwebs at the corners of his mouth.

  “Get you off?” he asked. “I can’t get you off. The evidence against you is overwhelming. It’s rock solid. It’s massive!”

  “But I was framed.”

  “So was the old lady you attacked. A picture fell on her.” He mopped himself with the handkerchief. “All I can do is persuade the judge that, at heart, you’re a nice boy,” he said. He looked at me and wrinkled his nose. “Of course, that won’t be easy. But this is a first offense. Perhaps he’ll go easy on you.”

  “How easy?” I asked.

  Wilson shrugged. “Six months . . . ?”

  “Prison!” I stared at him. “I can’t go to prison! I’m innocent!”

  “Of course.” He sighed. “Until you’re proven guilty.”

  So Wilson set out to prove that, despite appearances, I was a nice boy. Unfortunately for me, he’d chosen the wrong witnesses. I knew this the moment I saw the first of them. It was my brother Tim.

  He’d dressed up in a suit for the occasion and I noticed he was wearing a black tie. Had he put it on by accident, or did he know something I didn’t? I could see that he was trembling like a leaf. Anyone would think he was on trial.

  The court bailiff handed him a Bible. Tim took it, nodded, and tried to put it in his pocket. The bailiff snatched it back. I thought there was going to be another fight, but then the judge explained that Tim was meant to use the Bible to take the oath. Tim blushed.

  “Sorry, Your Highness,” he muttered.

  The judge frowned. “You can address me as ‘Your Worship. ’”

  “Oh yes . . .” Tim was going to pieces and he hadn’t exactly been together to start with. “Sorry, Your Highship.”

  The bailiff moved forward and tried again.

  “I swear to tell the truth,” he said.

  “Do you?” Tim asked.

  “No—you do!” The bailiff closed his eyes.

  “Just repeat the words, Mr. Diamond.” The judge sighed.

  At last the oath was taken. Wilson got up and walked over to the witness box, moving like an old man. Tim smiled at him.

  “You are Herbert Timothy Diamond?” Wilson asked.

  “Am I?” Tim sounded astonished.

  “Are you Herbert Timothy Diamond?” the judge demanded.

  “Yes . . . yes, of course I am, Your Parsnip,” Tim said.

  Wilson took a deep breath. “Could you describe your brother for us?” he asked.

  “Well, he’s about five-foot-two, dark hair, quite thin . . .”

  Counsel for the defense shuddered and I thought he was going to have some sort of attack. His cheeks were pinched and his wig was crooked. “We know what he looks like, Mr. Diamond,” he whimpered. “We just want to know what sort of person he is.”

  Tim thought for a minute.

  “Answer the question,” the judge muttered.

  “Certainly, Your Cowslip,” Tim said. “Nick’s all right. I mean . . . for a kid brother. The one trouble is, he’s really untidy. He’s always leaving his books in the kitchen and—”

  “We are not interested in your kitchen!” Wilson groaned. He was fighting to keep his patience. But it was a losing battle. “What we want to know is, looking at him now, would you say he had it in him to brutally assault an old lady and steal a priceless jewel?”

  Tim gave me a big smile and nodded. “Oh yes. Absolutely!”

  Wilson was about to ask another question but now he stopped, his mouth wide open. “You can’t say that!” he squeaked. “He’s your brother!”

  “But you told me to tell the truth,” Tim protested. “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  There was another uproar in the court. The judge banged his gavel. Tim had cooked my goose all right—feathers and all. After his testimony, the judge would throw the book at me. But that was nothing compared with what I planned to throw at Tim.

  Wilson sank back into his seat. “No more questions,” he said.

  “Does that mean I can leave the witless box?” Tim asked.

  Nobody stopped him. The trial was more or less over.

  The jury took forty-five seconds to reach its verdict. Guilty, of course. Then it was time for the sentence. The policemen made me stand up. The judge glared at me.

  “Nicholas Martin Simple,” he began. “You have been found guilty on all five charges. It is now my duty to sentence you.

  “Your crime was a particularly unpleasant one. You are, if I may say, a particularly unpleasant criminal. You stole a priceless object, part of the national heritage. You viciously assaulted an old lady and a lion. You caused thousands of dollars’ worth of damage. And for what? Doubtless you would have squandered your profits on pop music, on violent video-cassettes, on glue, which you would then sniff.”

  He sniffed himself. Then he bent his fingers until the bones clicked.

  “Society must be protected from the likes of you,” he went on. “If you were older, the sentence would be more severe. As it is, it is the sentence of this court that you will go to a young offenders’ institution, for eighteen months.” He banged his hammer. “Court adjourned.”

  Things happened very quickly after that.

  The two policemen dragged me out of the courtroom, down a flight of stairs. My hands were cuffed in front of me and I was led along a passage to a door. Outside, in an underground parking garage, a van was waiting.

  “In you go,” one of the policemen said.

  On my way up—before I’d been tried—I’d been “son” or “Nick.” Now I didn’t have a name. A hand pushed me in the small of my back. And my back had never felt smaller. It was like I’d somehow shrunk.

  “But I’m innocent,” I mumbled.

  The policemen ignored me.

  Two of them got in after me. The doors were locked and the van drove away. There was one small window in the back, heavily barred. The frosted glass broke the whole world up into teardrops. We reached the surface. The Old Bailey, Holborn ... London slipped away behind me. The policemen
didn’t speak. One of them was reading a newspaper. My own face smiled at me from the front page.

  But I wasn’t smiling now. It had begun to rain. The water was pattering down on the tin roof like somebody had dropped a bag of marbles. The policeman yawned and turned a page. I shifted in my seat and the handcuffs clinked.

  We drove for almost an hour, heading west. Then we slowed down. I saw a gate slide shut behind us. The van stopped. We had arrived.

  The prison was an ugly Victorian building: rust-colored bricks and a gray slate roof. It was shaped like a square with a wall running all the way around and a watchtower at each corner. The watchtowers were connected to the main building by metal drawbridges, which could be raised or lowered automatically. A glass-fronted guardhouse stood beside the central control gate.

  I was led in through a door in the side of the prison. And suddenly it was as if I’d stepped off the planet. All the street sounds, even the whisper of the wind, had been cut out. The air smelled of sweat and machine oil. The door clicked shut.

  The policemen led me to a counter where a man in guard’s uniform was waiting for me.

  “Simple?” the guard asked.

  “That’s him,” the policeman said.

  “All right.”

  The two policemen left.

  I was told to empty my pockets. Everything I owned—even my watch—was taken from me and put in a cardboard box marked with my name. The guard wrote it all down on a sheet of paper.

  “Two dollars in loose change. One pen. One lucky rabbit’s foot”—he smiled mirthlessly—“obviously not working. One bag of salt and vinegar chips, half eaten. A rubber band . . .” He made me sign for them, then told me to strip. My clothes went into the box and he handed me a pile of blue denim and white cotton with a pair of boots balanced on the top.

  “Now you take a shower,” he said.

  “But I’ve already had a shower.”

  “Just do as you’re told.”