Public Enemy Number Two db-2 Page 4

  “Now you take a shower,” he said.

  “But I’ve already had a shower.”

  “Just do as you’re told.”

  I took a shower. A medical examination followed. I was poked, prodded, and injected. My hair was cut. Finally, I was allowed to dress. The shirt was too small and the boots were too big, but somehow I didn’t think the prison authorities were interested in the latest fashion. After that, a second guard appeared. There was a chain looping down the side of his trousers all the way to his knee.

  “This way, 95446,” he said.

  95446—that was the number stenciled on the front of my new jacket. That was me.

  I was taken down a corridor lined with doors—all locked. The last door was mine. The guard took out a key and opened it.

  “In,” he said. He wasn’t the talkative sort.

  The cell was about six by twelve feet—bare bricks, a tiny window, two chairs, a table, a washbasin, a bucket, and a pair of bunk beds. A figure rolled off the lower bunk and gave me a crooked smile.

  “Welcome to Strangeday Hall, kid,” he said. “I’m Johnny Powers.”

  JOHNNY POWERS

  “Welcome to Strangeday Hall. I’m Johnny Powers.”

  The words hadn’t been spoken in a friendly way. The voice was cold, mocking—with a twist of Irish in the accent. My cell mate perched on the edge of the bunk, chewing a stick of licorice. I looked at him and my mouth went dry. I’d seen some nasties in my time, but this guy was something else again.

  He was about the same height as me although he was two years older, thickset and fleshy. He had small, ugly eyes, a small, upturned nose, and a narrow mouth set in a permanent sneer. He wore his hair greased back, the hairline snaking across his brow. His skin was pale and lifeless. Maybe he’d spent too much time out of the sun. Or maybe he was already dead but people had been too afraid to mention it to him.

  That was the most frightening thing about him—his agelessness. I knew he was fifteen, but he had the face of a baby. Chubby cheeks and perfect teeth. His eyelashes could have been painted on with a brush. Yet when he smiled (he was smiling at me now) there was suddenly an old man sitting there, an old man who liked killing people. I wondered how many people had left this world with that smile fading in their eyes.

  This was Johnny Powers. Public Enemy Number One. He had hitchhiked his way out of somebody’s nightmare.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Nick Diamond.”

  “Diamond—huh?” He took a bite out of the licorice. “What are you in for?”

  “A jewel robbery,” I said. I was in no mood to explain. “The Woburn Carbuncles.”

  “Is that so?” His eyes twinkled and he looked genuinely pleased. “Now ya mention it, I remember reading something about it.” The face hardened. “But just don’t get any bright ideas while you’re here, kid. I’m number one in this joint. Ya do things my way. Or ya never do nothing again.”

  “Sure. Absolutely.”

  Well, what else could I say to him? Johnny Powers was obviously so far around the bend that he was coming back around the other side.

  I threw my few possessions onto the top bunk.

  “What happened to your last cell mate?” I asked.

  Powers smiled his crooked smile. “He and I didn’t get along so good,” he said. “So one night he jumped out of the window.”

  I glanced at the window. “But it’s barred,” I said.

  “Yeah. He jumped out one piece at a time.” Powers screwed the licorice into his mouth. “Maybe I gave him a little help. Know what I mean?” He giggled. “Ya need any help, just ask.”

  “I’ll let you know,” I said.

  A bell rang then and the cell door opened. I looked at my watch, remembered it wasn’t there, and followed Powers out. There were kids streaming out of the cells on both sides of the corridor and above me, too. They were all in identical uniforms, the same uniform that I was wearing. None of them were over sixteen. None of them were smiling. There must have been three hundred of them. Three hundred of us. I kept on having to remind myself that I was one of them . . . would be for the next year and a half.

  We marched through a door and into a large hall with long tables set in two rows and a balcony at one end where an armed guard stood watching us. A notice hung on one wall: PRISONERS ARE FORBIDDEN TO TALK DURING MEALTIME.

  A few minutes later I got my first taste of prison food. Taste is the wrong word. It didn’t have any. We lined up at a hatch where we were served watery stew, mashed potatoes and cabbage, prunes and custard. Shut your eyes and you wouldn’t know which was which. I didn’t like to think what animal had ended its days in the stew. All I can say is that it had a lot of fat, not a lot of meat, and some sort of disease.

  Nobody talked and for ten minutes the only sound was the clatter of spoons and forks against tin trays. I didn’t eat anything. I’d left my appetite in the number three court of the Old Bailey. It was probably still sitting in the dock, dreaming of a Big Mac. Another bell rang and we carried the trays back to the hatch.

  I’d just handed mine over when there was a crackle from a loudspeaker and a voice called out. “Nine-five-four-four-six Simple to the visitor’s room.”

  Powers was right behind me. “Well, whaddya know,” he whispered. “Only been here five minutes and ya got callers.”

  A guard appeared and led me back through the door, down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, and into another room.

  “So you finally ended up where you belong,” Chief Inspector Snape said.

  Of course I’d expected to see him sooner or later. Snape had set it all up from the start. He’d asked me to share a cell with Johnny Powers, and when I’d refused he’d gone ahead and arranged it anyway. He must have found out about the trip to Woburn Abbey. Somehow he’d held the other tourists back so that I’d be alone in the room with the carbuncles. One of his men had already slipped the jewel into my jacket pocket. Another had smashed the cabinet. After that I more or less played into his hands—or at least, his handcuffs.

  And here he was, sitting at a table, smoking. Boyle stood behind him, grinning at me like he’d just heard some great joke. Only I was the joke. Well, they hadn’t heard anything yet. Did they really expect me to take all this sitting down?

  “Sit down,” Snape said.

  “Snape—” I began.

  “Take a seat, laddie,” he interrupted. “I can understand you’re a bit cut up, but—”

  “Cut up?” I almost screamed at him. “What do you mean ‘cut up’? I’ve been sent to a detention center. I’ve got eighteen months. Eighteen months! I’ll be lucky if I manage eighteen minutes! I’m sharing a cell with a loony. And you know what happened to his last cell mate? Yeah—he was ‘cut up’ all right. Into lots of pieces!”

  He waited until I’d finished, then gestured at the chair. Boyle nodded, the smile still on his face. Wearily I sat down.

  “I need a job done,” Snape said.

  “A job,” Boyle muttered.

  “Powers could be the only chance I have of getting to the Fence. I told you I have to find him.”

  “And I told you—no!” I sighed. “You could have found someone else to do it for you.”

  Snape shook his head. “There was nobody else. It had to be you, laddie. You’re thirteen, and you’re smart. And the trouble is, we don’t have much time.”

  “Time?” I almost laughed. “Well, I’ve got plenty of time. Eighteen months . . .”

  Snape shook his head again. “I’m afraid not. You see I’ve just got the latest psychiatric reports on Powers.”

  “And what do the psychiatrists say?”

  “They don’t say anything. They’re too frightened to be in the same room as him. They won’t go anywhere near him. He’s violent. Homicidal—”

  “I noticed.”

  “—and he’s getting worse. Any day he could crack up altogether. After that he’ll be useless to me. A vegetable . . .”

  “I don’t get the problem,” I s
aid. “It’s never stopped you working with Boyle.”

  At least that finally wiped the smile off Boyle’s face. He lumbered toward me, his hands outstretched.

  “No, Boyle,” Snape sighed.

  “I’ll kill him . . .”

  “No!”

  “I’ll say it was an accident,” Boyle pleaded. “I’ll say he was resisting arrest.”

  “How can he be resisting arrest when he’s already in prison?” Snape demanded.

  Boyle had no answer to that. He went off to sulk in the corner.

  “What was that you were saying about violent and homicidal?” I asked.

  Snape glanced at his deputy then turned back to me. “You have to get the name out of Powers while he can still talk,” he said. “One name. That’s all we want.”

  “And what if I refuse?”

  He shrugged. “Then you’re here for another seventeen months and thirty days.”

  “Wait a minute . . . !”

  “No. You wait a minute, laddie.” Snape leaned across the table. “Only two people in the world know that you didn’t really steal the Woburn Carbuncle. Boyle and me.”

  “What about the security guards?”

  “You’ll never find them. We got you in here. Only we can get you out. But if you refuse to cooperate . . .” He left the sentence hanging in the air. Right then I’d have liked to have seen him hanging in the air beside it.

  I stood up.

  “The Fence,” I said.

  “Get close to Powers . . .”

  “Close?” I cried. “If I got any closer we’d be sharing the same bed.” I took a deep breath. Snape had beaten me and he knew it. “All right,” I said. “You win. I’ll find out what you want to know. But if you don’t get me out of here . . .”

  “Relax.” Suddenly Snape was all smiles again. He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled something out. He threw it down on the table. “Have a bar of chocolate on us, laddie,” he said. “Boyle bought it for you. Thick and nutty.”

  “Yeah.” I gazed at the two of them and sighed. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  Powers was waiting for me when I got back to the cell. He was rolling a cigarette. A chocolate one.

  “So who was it?” he asked.

  “The police,” I said. I’d been practicing my answer on the way. “They just wanted to ask me more questions.”

  It was the first time I’d lied to Johnny Powers and he almost seemed to sense it like a dog scenting blood. He looked at me curiously, the skin under his eyes tightening. But he didn’t say anything. Not yet. Sometime later the lights went out. There were no good-nights. Nobody came to tuck me in. The darkness just cut in without argument. And that was all.

  My first night in Strangeday Hall. I undressed and climbed onto the top bunk, pulling the rough blankets and even rougher sheet over me. The pillow was as soft as cardboard. There was a full moon that night, spilling in through the window. A perfect square of light perched on the wall, cut into sections by the black shadows of the bars. In the distance, a plane screamed through the sky.

  I lay there for an hour. I couldn’t sleep. There was only one way out of this mess, and the sooner it started, the better. Cursing Snape, I opened my eyes.

  “Powers?” I said.

  “Yeah?” He sounded wide-awake, too.

  “I just want you to know . . . I really admire you. I read about you in all the papers. I always hoped I could join up with you.”

  “Is that so?” I couldn’t tell if he believed me. His voice was cold, empty.

  I swallowed and went on. “When I stole that jewel . . . I had a slingshot in my pocket. Like your gang—the Slingshot Kids.”

  “We never had no slingshots.”

  “Sure, Powers. But I couldn’t afford a shotgun. That’s why I was stealing the jewel.” There was no answer. “I’d have gotten away if you’d been there. And then we could have sold the jewel. It was worth thousands. The only thing is, I didn’t know who to sell it to. What would you have done, Powers?”

  There was a long silence. I didn’t even hear him get out of bed. But a second later he was standing up with his head close to mine, the moon dancing in his eyes.

  “Listen, Diamond,” he said. “I don’t know ya and what I don’t know I don’t trust. Maybe you’re on the level. If not, ya’ll end buried underneath it. Know what I mean?”

  He stared at me. There was still something of the choirboy in his face. But it was a choirboy who would burn down the church sooner than sing in it.

  “Ya want some advice?” he said. “Act like a shirt.”

  “Like a shirt?”

  “Yeah. Button it.”

  Then he was gone. I turned over and shut my eyes. But the sun was already rising before I got any sleep.

  INSIDE

  Three weeks after I’d arrived at Strangeday Hall, Tim sent me a cake. He’d made it himself with eggs, flour, sugar, a hint of ginger, and a Black & Decker electric drill. The drill was buried in the middle. I guess it was his idea of the Great Escape. He needn’t have bothered. Hiding a drill in a cake wasn’t such a bad thought, but he could have put it in there after he’d baked it. By the time it came out of the oven there was as much cake in the drill as there was drill in the cake. And he forgot to enclose a bit.

  Mind you, it was about the only good joke in the first month. There I was, surrounded by some of the toughest thugs and heavies in the country—people who would break your arms as soon as look at you. And that was just the guards. Most of the inmates were okay, although I did have an unfortunate run-in with a pickpocket. I didn’t have any money, of course. But he stole my pockets.

  What can I say about life on the inside? Perhaps you’ve heard that phrase “a short, sharp shock.” Well, Strangeday Hall was more of a long-drawn-out surprise. It was the only juvenile prison in England like it. And I can tell you now, I didn’t like it at all.

  Up at six in the morning. Lukewarm showers—or stone-cold if Luke had forgotten to turn them on. Breakfast: a mug of tea, two slices of bread, and one slice of porridge. Then work until lunchtime—in the library, in the laundry, or in the classroom.

  Lunch was at twelve. Stomachaches were at half past. After that we were allowed two hours’ exercise. Sports were encouraged at Strangeday Hall. But not all sports. Cross-country running, for example, had been crossed off the agenda after the junior team made it to Scandinavia during the interprison finals.

  We were locked in our cells until dinner . . . and that was where I’d come in. Dinner finished at six-thirty and then we were locked up again until the lights went out at ten. One day—any day—in the life of a jailbird. Because all of them were always the same.

  But I was still working on Johnny Powers, my express ticket out. You’d have thought I’d have been able to get somewhere with him after four weeks in the same cell. But you’d be wrong. He was about as suspicious as a snake in a handbag factory and twice as poisonous. I was playing the tough kid, anxious to learn from him. All I wanted was one name—the Fence. All I got was monosyllables and sneers.

  Worse still, he was cracking up fast. He got these headaches. One minute he’d be sitting there vandalizing a good book. The next he’d be curled up with his head in his hands, groaning and sweating. I tried offering him aspirin but he didn’t even hear me. That was when I found out about his mother. He might have sold his granny to the salt mines, but he still loved his mother. He’d call out for her. And hours later, when the headache had gone but she hadn’t come, he would sit there, hunched up, sucking his thumb. I could see what Snape meant. Powers needed a new jacket. The sort with the sleeves that button up behind the back. Another few weeks and he’d be swapping his cell for one with padded walls. And where would that leave me?

  Everything changed one afternoon. I was on cleaning duty. I’d cleaned the kitchen, the dining hall, and two corridors and they were still pretty filthy. At Strangeday Hall you could never get rid of the dirt. You could just rearrange it. It was late in th
e afternoon and I thought I’d finished, but then one of the screws came up to me. His name was Walsh.

  We called him “Weasel” on account of his thin face, his pointed nose, and his little mustache. He didn’t like me. He didn’t much like anyone.

  “Finished, 95446?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Walsh.” I smiled at him. “Why don’t you call me 954 for short?” I said. “It’s more friendly.”

  He stared at me, his left eye twitching. “Are you trying to be funny, 95446?” he asked.

  “No, Mr. Walsh.”

  “Now the showers. I want them spotless.”

  “But, Mr. Walsh—”

  “Are you arguing, 95446?”

  “No, Mr. Walsh.”

  Prison officers and teachers have a lot in common.

  It must have been about half past four when I set out across the yard to the showers, which were in a low building on the other side. All the other inmates were either in the classrooms or locked up in their cells. High above me, the guards looked down from their metal watchtowers, fingering their automatic rifles like I was a duck in a fairground. Scratch one Diamond and win a goldfish. I looked up at them and waved. Somebody telephoned the central-control guardhouse and a moment later the door to the shower cubicles clicked open.

  The door led into a white-tiled room with hooks and benches where we undressed. From here a long corridor stretched down to the far wall with metal cubicles on both sides. The showers were regulated by three huge taps in a maze of pipes, valves, and gauges close to the changing room. The whole system must have been out-of-date the day it was built. And that day must have been sometime before the Victorians.

  I’d thought I’d be alone there, but I hadn’t taken two steps before I heard voices, low and threatening, behind the drip of the water. Carefully, I put down my bucket and mop, then edged toward the corridor. There was something about the voices that I didn’t like, and I couldn’t even hear what they were saying yet. But nobody was meant to be in the showers. If they’d sneaked in in the middle of the afternoon, it wasn’t because they fancied a wash.