Public Enemy Number Two db-2 Page 5

I reached the corridor and slipped behind the first of the partitions, next to the taps. From here I could get a better view. With my cheek pressed against the cold metal, I peered around. What I saw was even worse than I had expected. And at Strangeday Hall expectations were always pretty bad.

  Johnny Powers was there, slumped against the far wall. It was difficult to see in the half-light, but I could tell he’d taken a beating. He was sitting like a broken doll. Nobody had scratched their initials into him yet, but his nose was bleeding and for once his hair was ruffled. There were three guys with him.

  I recognized them at once, even with their backs to me, and my mouth went dry.

  The tallest of them was Mark White—three years for armed robbery. He was the most crooked con in the joint: crooked shoulders, crooked hips, and a crooked smile. With him was a Scottish guy, McNeil. He was small with greasy hair and a pronounced stomach . . . which he pronounced “stumma.” Half the time you couldn’t understand what he was saying. Most of the time you didn’t want to. I didn’t know what the third guy was in for. His name was Blondie, and it was true he had blond hair. But you could have also called him Ugly and you’d have been right there, too. Somebody once told me he’d murdered his dentist. If I’d had teeth like his, I’d have probably murdered mine.

  “Aren’t you going to call for help, Johnny?” White was saying. I could hear them all now. “Maybe one of the screws will hear you.”

  “I don’t need help from no one.” Powers spat blood.

  “Let him have it,” Blondie hissed. “Do it now.”

  “Yeah—do it now.” Powers giggled. “Whassa matter, White? Mebbe ya’re a bit yellow, too. White and yellow—like an egg.”

  White moved to one side. That was when I saw what he was carrying. I couldn’t believe it. Just about every prisoner at Strangeday Hall had a weapon of some sort, usually homemade daggers or “shanks,” as they were called. But White had gone one better. Somehow he’d gotten hold of a gun. And he was pointing it at Powers.

  “You’re going to get it, Johnny,” he said. “But not yet.” He glanced upward. “I reckon you’ve got another couple of minutes . . .”

  Another couple of minutes. My mind was racing. What would happen in another couple of minutes? Then I realized. The prison was on the flight path to Heathrow. They were waiting for a plane to drown out the sound of the gunshot. It was the perfect cover. Johnny Powers would be drowned and shot at the same time.

  If it had been anybody else, I might have just backed out then and there. It was none of my business who was shooting who or why. But this was Powers. I had no choice. I had to get him out of there—and in one piece.

  I looked around me. I don’t know what I expected to find. An automatic rifle accidentally left there by one of the guards? If so, I was out of luck. All I could see was a broken shoelace and an old towel lying in a puddle of water.

  “Two minutes, Johnny,” White said. “You got any last-minute requests?”

  “Yeah. Drop dead.”

  That was typical Powers. If he’d made a request on the radio it would have been for “The Funeral March.”

  But looking at the towel had given me an idea. Moving as quietly as I could, I went over and examined the Victorian plumbing system. There were three taps—one for hot water, one for cold. The third controlled the pressure. There was also a gauge with pipes snaking in and out, a circular clock-face with a big slice of red. I guessed the system had never been turned to full pressure. The whole thing would probably explode.

  Well, there was always a first time . . .

  I gripped the tap. The metal was cool and damp against the palm of my hand. Hoping it wouldn’t squeak, I gave it a quarter turn to the right. There was a loud shudder. The pipes coughed and water gurgled like a man with indigestion.

  “Whassat?” McNeil asked. He’d heard it, too. He’d have had to be deaf to miss it.

  “It’s nothing,” White replied, and I breathed again. “Just the pipes.”

  I turned the tap again. It made two complete revolutions before it tightened, fully open. All the pipes were bubbling and groaning now. I looked at the pressure gauge. The needle had jerked up like a conductor’s baton. Already it was vertical, and even as I watched, it began to shiver toward the right.

  “You sure?” McNeil asked again. He had a sulking, unhappy voice.

  “Go check it out if you’re so worried,” White replied.

  “I wanna ask ya something,” Powers said suddenly.

  “What is it?” White said.

  “Who put ya up to this?” Powers demanded. “Who sent ya the gun? I’d just like to know.”

  “Who do you think?” White asked. There was a pause. “Big Ed.”

  “Big Ed?”

  “Yeah. He figured it’s time you kinda left the scene. Permanently. Know what I mean?”

  “Well, whaddya know?” Powers muttered. “Big Ed . . .” But then he stopped. I could hear another sound now, even louder than the pipes. It was a distant whine getting louder and closer by the second.

  A plane was coming in to land. And time had just run out for Johnny Powers.

  “Here it comes,” White said. “Say your prayers, Johnny.”

  I reached for the towel, picked it up, slapped it against the hot tap. Even with the wet material, I could feel the metal burning underneath. The showers might have been lukewarm for us, but right now they were white-hot.

  I glanced at the pressure gauge. The needle had passed right through the red section and was trying to find a way out on the other side. The whine of the plane had become a roar. Clutching the tap through the towel, I turned it as fast as I could.

  Then everything happened at once.

  There was a great hiss as the water rushed through the taps. All the showers sprang into life at once, boiling water spraying out in all directions. The pipes rattled and shook like they were trying to tear themselves out of the wall. Steam filled the room, a sudden impenetrable fog.

  “What the . . . ?” White began.

  Then one of the showers exploded, the head shooting across the room like a bullet. Steam and water bellowed out in a jet.

  The plane was right overhead now. The whole building was vibrating. There was a gunshot. Even at that close range I hardly heard it. Then a second shower blew itself apart, unable to bear the pressure. Blondie screamed, his face disappearing in a blast of white heat.

  I’d wrapped the towel around my face and I was on my knees, crawling underneath the swirling clouds. I couldn’t see anything. I could hardly hear anything. The pipes were slamming against the wall in a frenzy. Three more showers exploded. Burning water cascaded onto my back.

  “Johnny!” I called out. My voice was muffled by the towel. Then there was a splat of fist against flesh and a figure flew through the mist, crashed into a cubicle, and slumped beside me. It was White. He was out cold—about the only thing in the building that was cold. He no longer had the gun.

  Then somebody else lurched out of the steam on all fours. This time it was Powers. Miraculously, he didn’t seem to have been burned.

  “Good work, kid,” he said. There was a glimmer in his eyes and he was smiling. I couldn’t think of anything to say. He was actually enjoying all this.

  It was over as quickly as it had begun.

  The plane flew past. The pipes buckled, broke, then fell silent as the pressure went down. Water, suddenly cold, splashed down on the concrete floor. Somewhere in all the steam, McNeil groaned. White and Blondie lay still, their bodies vague outlines in the haze. Powers and I crawled back to the door and stood up. Somehow I found the presence of mind to pick up the mop and bucket. I gave Powers the mop. Together we walked back across the yard. The guards didn’t try to stop us.

  That night, back in the cell, Powers asked me why I’d saved him.

  “I told you.” I shrugged, trying to make nothing of it. “I admire you. I wasn’t going to let those creeps put a bullet in you.”

  Powers stood up, holding ou
t a hand. I shook it. “Ya’re all right, kid,” he said. “Ya’re okay.”

  That was as close as he could get to saying thank you. But I was satisfied as I went to sleep. I’d become his friend, just the way Snape wanted. Surely it could only be a matter of time before I was out of Strangeday Hall.

  It was only a matter of time—although things didn’t happen quite the way I’d expected. But then, when did they ever?

  OUT!

  The day after the attack in the shower room, Powers got a letter. We received letters twice a week, but only after the prison warden had censored them. If he didn’t like a sentence, he simply took a pair of scissors and cut it out. I got one letter from Tim that more or less fell apart in my hands. It began Dear Nick, and ended Your big brother, Tim. The rest was just holes apart from the single word “peacock,” which I found screwed up at the bottom of the envelope. Well, at least that told me he was still looking for the lost Ming vase. Unless, of course, by some miracle he’d already found it.

  The letter Powers got had come through uncut. He read it three times, concentrating on every word. Then he paced up and down the cell for an hour. By now I knew enough not to ask any questions. If Powers wanted me to know something, he would tell me. At last he turned around and walked over to the table. “I’m getting outta here,” he said.

  “Out, Johnny?” I didn’t know what to say. “How come?”

  “Read this.” He pushed the letter into my hands. I read it.

  Johnny,

  Bad news, I’m afraid. Grandpa’s in emergency care, dear. They’re talking of another operation. Kingston Hospital is ready now, but Grandpa’s last operation wasn’t very successful. Everyone is really upset.

  Caroline and Oliver got married in Edinburgh yesterday. He’s an optician, and marvelous with eyes. We’ll all miss them.

  No other important news.

  Take care.

  Yours ever, Ma

  I finished the letter and glanced up. Powers was staring at me, waiting for me to speak. “That’s bad,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean you must be worried about your granddad, but I don’t see—”

  “My granddad died ten years ago.” He snatched the letter back and spread it out on the table. “Ya don’t understand,” he went on. “Ma and me have this secret code.”

  I read the letter again, but still couldn’t see it.

  Powers jerked a thumb toward the page. “Ya take the first letter of every other word. That way ya get the real message.”

  I read the letter for a third time, starting with the B of “bad.” And at last it made sense.

  BIG ED TAKING OVER.

  COME HOME AT ONCE.

  “Big Ed,” I muttered. I’d heard that name only the day before. He’d been the one who’d sent White and the others to deal with Powers.

  “Ya can cut London into four slices,” Powers explained. “North, south, east, and west. There’s a gang for each slice . . . like, ya know, we got a gentleman’s agreement. The east was my territory until I got slammed up here. Since then, my ma’s been looking after it. She’s an ace, my ma. Top of the world. Now, Big Ed handles the south. That’s fine by me. Until he gets greedy. With me outta the way, he thinks maybe he can muscle in on my territory. Only it would be better for him if I was outta the way more permanent like. So he sends White and the others after me. And then he goes gunning after Ma.”

  Powers paused and I was amazed to see a tear trickle down one of his pale, choirboy cheeks.

  “Ya don’t know my ma,” he said. “She’s as tough as old nails. She’s a real killer. And her cooking! Nobody makes a moussaka like her—all hot and bubbling with the cheese melted on top. She sent me one here, back in February.”

  “The St. Valentine’s Day moussaka?” I asked.

  “That’s right. But she can’t stand up to Big Ed on her own. She needs me. That’s why she sent me the letter.”

  He got up again and went over to the door. For a minute he listened carefully. When he was satisfied that there was no one there, he came back to the table.

  “I’m busting outta here,” he said in a low voice. “And ya’re coming with me.”

  “That’s terrific!” I said. This is terrible! I thought.

  “We’ll go together.”

  “When? How?”

  “Ya leave the thinking to me, kid.”

  And that was all he would say.

  Another week passed. I cleaned plates, washed floors, marched around the yard, and fell asleep in class. Powers barely said a word during all this time, but he got two visits from his lawyer. He came back from each visit with a sly, secretive smile and an ugly light in his eyes. Somehow I didn’t think they’d been discussing legal niceties. Illegal, more likely, and probably not-very-niceties either.

  It all came together one Friday morning, six weeks to the day since my arrival at Strangeday Hall. There were two visiting sessions on Fridays and that morning Powers got a visit—he said it was his cousin. But when he came back into the cell, his face was flushed with excitement.

  He waited until he was sure nobody was listening. Then he came over and whispered to me. “It’s on,” he said. “We go tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “That’s right, kid. But there’s a problem.” He pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. “Nails Nathan,” he hissed.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s my getaway driver. Only he’s sick. He’s got food poisoning.” Powers kicked the wall. “I’ll poison him all right . . .”

  “Can’t we wait until he gets better?” I asked.

  “We can’t wait. Everything’s been set up. We gotta go tonight.” He thought for a minute. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Didn’t ya say ya brother was visiting ya this afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can he drive?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “That’s perfect, then.” Powers blew on the palm of his hand. “Tell him he’s gotta be at Terminal Two—departures, Heathrow, at eleven o’clock tonight.”

  “Heathrow?” I stared at him. “Are we flying out of here?”

  “Ya’ll see.” Powers gave me another sly smile.

  “Just make sure he’s there.”

  “But, Johnny,” I stammered. “Tim isn’t—”

  That was as far as I got. Suddenly the smile was gone and the madness was back in his eyes. “He’s ya brother and he can drive. That’s all that matters. Don’t let me down, kid. I’m counting on ya.”

  I could have told him that Tim was completely incompetent. I could have told him that he’d only passed his driving test after six attempts and that on the fifth attempt he’d run over the driving instructor. I could have added that Tim was too scared to park on a yellow line, let alone drive a carload of gangsters out of a maximum-security prison. But Johnny Powers was counting on me. If I argued, my number would be up.

  “I’ll ask him,” I said at last.

  “Sure, kid. Ask him nicely. And tell him, if he says no”—Powers smiled—“the next drive he’ll take will be in a hearse.”

  The main prison visiting room was long and narrow, divided in half like two mirror reflections. A row of tables ran down the center. Two doors led into the room: one for inmates, one for visitors. The inmates sat at one end of the tables, the visitors at the other. Two guards stood in the room the whole time, listening to every word that was said.

  My problem was that I had to tell Tim to be at Heathrow Airport later that night without telling him why. I knew he’d argue—and probably at the top of his voice. And if the guards overheard anything, that would be that.

  He was already sitting there, waiting for me, as I came in. He gaped at me like he’d never seen me before. I guessed it was the uniform, the blue denim and stenciled number, that had taken him by surprise. But what had he expected me to be wearing? Top hat and tails? I sat down and for a long time neither of us said anything. Tim loosened his tie and collar.

 
“It’s like a prison in here,” he said at last.

  “It is a prison, Tim,” I reminded him.

  “Oh yes. Yes, of course.” He smiled aimlessly. “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m all right.”

  “Well—there’s only seventeen months to go. And maybe they’ll give you time off for good behavior. How is your behavior?”

  “It’s good,” I said.

  “Good.”

  There was a long pause. Tim was obviously lost for words. He’d never had a jailbird for a brother before and of course he still didn’t know that I was innocent. He took out a pack of chewing gum and offered it to me.

  “No passing food over the table,” one of the guards snapped.

  “Can I pass it under the table?” Tim asked.

  “No food,” the guard said.

  Tim shrugged, rolled up a piece for himself, and flicked it toward his mouth. It missed and hit him in the eye.

  I sighed. “How are Mum and Dad?” I asked.

  “I called them in Australia,” Tim said. “They didn’t take the news very well, I’m afraid. Mum had hysterics. Dad disowned you.” There was another long silence. So much for family loyalty.

  Tim looked at his watch. “I haven’t got long,” he said.

  “How’s the plane spotting going, Tim?” I blurted out.

  “The plane spotting?” He looked at me as if I’d gone mad.

  “Sure.” One of the guards was listening, obviously puzzled. I smiled at him. “Some people spot trains,” I said. “My big brother spots planes.”

  “But—” Tim began.

  “Seen any good jumbos lately?” I was smiling frantically now. The guard looked the other way. I winked at Tim. “Didn’t you say you were going to Heathrow at eleven o’clock tonight? To the departure lounge in Terminal Two?”

  I was still winking furiously. “Have you got something in your eye?” Tim asked.

  “That’s right.” I laughed. “Maybe when you get to Terminal Two at eleven o’clock tonight you can get me some ointment.”

  “But, Nick . . .”

  There was nothing else to do. I stretched under the table and kicked him as hard as I could. Too hard. Tim screamed. Both the guards hurried over to us.